Chapter 11
Wren
When I was younger, all my classmates had grand dreams of becoming doctors, astronauts, or firefighters.
But I never knew what I wanted to do. I wish I could say that I had always wanted to be a writer, that I had dreamed of becoming a writer since I was a small child.
But the truth was, I wanted to be many things before I wanted to be a writer.
I wanted to be a chef, a veterinarian, a pilot, or Piper Halliwell from Charmed.
In fact, I vividly remember telling my mother I was going to be a pirate when I was five years old.
That dream ended when I threw up on a cruise we took to Hawaii.
I wasn’t a grade-A student, either, but my English teacher had high hopes for me.
When we’re young, we’re told to find what it is that we are passionate about. They say if you love what you do, then you never work a day in your life. This seemed to be the case for me when I found writing. But what if the thing you love doing is the reason you lose the person you love the most?
Everston Library was fast becoming a regular feature in my day.
Its large arched windows were currently decorated with posters and artwork relating to popular kids’ books like Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Charlotte’s Web, and The Cat in the Hat, in honor of Book Week this month (something Henry apparently looked forward to every year).
There were armchairs and sofas decorated in vintage cushions, inviting reading nooks; the subtle fragrance of aged paper hung in the air.
“What are in these?” I asked, as I lifted a box onto the counter.
“Books, of course,” Henry replied. “I’ve ordered in a rather large shipment this quarter.” He looked at me quizzically. “I’ve been struggling with those boxes all morning and you just lifted that one up like it was filled with marshmallows.”
I laughed. “Yes, well, fixing up Gill’s place has made me a little tougher I suppose.”
“What would I do without you?” Henry replied.
I smiled, pretending to ponder his question. “Probably hire a forklift, I suppose.”
“When can you start?” he replied. “I am down three staff members, and I have at least another five boxes of new shipments to catalog.” He leaned over the counter toward the printer and collected some documents, filing them into a drawer.
“I’m happy to lend my help, but only if I am paid in those cinnamon rolls Winnie keeps insisting I try.”
Henry laughed. “From Lou’s?”
“Yes, those ones.”
“They are a treat,” he confirmed. His expression grew more thoughtful. “Jacob loved cinnamon rolls too,” he said. “He’d insist on a weekend hike, followed by a cinnamon roll.”
“It’s always the little things,” I replied, “that I miss the most. Lucy’s love of knitted sweaters, or how she always needed to have a peppermint cookie with her tea.”
“Jacob always had odd socks on,” Henry said. “I’d always find mismatched socks strewn throughout the house, it used to drive me crazy.”
“Isn’t it funny how we’d give anything for those little quirks now?”
Henry nodded. “It’s a strange thing, missing someone—I could cry over mismatched socks, and in the same breath smile remembering weekend hikes and cinnamon rolls.”
There was something about Henry’s gentle nature and his curious smile that made it so easy to open up to him. I felt as though we’d been friends for years, even though we’d only really known each other a few weeks.
“It’s the guilt I struggle with most,” I said. “I blame myself for what happened to Lucy.”
Henry looked at me thoughtfully. “But you weren’t driving, Wren.”
“No,” I agreed. “But I was reading something to her in the car, and then we crashed. She was distracted. It was my fault.”
He was quiet for a moment, as he leaned against the counter. “It’s easier to blame ourselves,” he said. “I blamed myself for Jacob’s death too. If only I had noticed earlier. We were twins. I should have known that he was sick.”
“How could you have possibly known?” I asked.
“Yes, exactly,” Henry replied, opening a box. “How could you have possibly known Lucy would lose control of the car?”
I wished I could tell Henry that after the accident I had a sudden zest for life.
And maybe, at first, I could convince myself I was shaken but grateful to have survived.
But that gratitude was quickly overpowered by survivor’s guilt, and the debilitating pain of losing Lucy.
The car was totaled, a squashed piece of metal.
The wreckage alone was enough to make passersby gasp and wonder how anyone had survived it.
Maybe one day I’d see the wonder in that myself.
But for now, I was haunted by the question I couldn’t stop asking: Why did I survive, and Lucy didn’t?
Henry eventually broke the silence. “So,” he asked, “do you think the poetry evening is good idea?”
I curled my finger around a strand of hair, nervous suddenly.
“The others seemed to think so,” I replied tentatively.
“I know you’ve only recently joined, Wren,” he said, “so I would understand if you didn’t want to contribute a poem. But I also think poetry could be healing for you.”
I stared down at the boxes filled with books, the spines neatly aligned, their bold, bright fonts calling out to me like forgotten memories.
Once upon a time, there were few things that brought me greater joy than writing—a dance between words, a way to untangle the chaos, a place to make sense of things, a home.
But now, even the thought of poetry gave me a sinking feeling.
How could I find healing in something that now only reminded me of pain?
“Perhaps I’ll just observe,” I said softly.
Who was I if I could never write again?
After a thoughtful pause, Henry said, “I am just glad you’re part of our little group, Wren, whether you write a poem or don’t.”
He looked at his watch. “I daresay we’ve earned a cinnamon roll. Should we wander over to Lou’s?”
“I think we should,” I replied.
“You know,” he said, fetching the sweater he’d draped over a chair earlier, “we may even be able to request some peppermint cookies.”
My eyes brightened at the thought. “I’d love that, Henry.”
Rita was trying to force-feed Gill her home-baked zucchini bread when I walked into the library later that evening.
I noticed Winnie sitting near Henry, bundled in one of her thick knitted shawls.
She looked a little paler than usual, her eyes slightly sunken.
Emerson was sitting on one side of her, and as I sat down on her other side I caught the way she pressed a tissue against her nose.
Emerson was wearing a bright-red sweater with Bert and Ernie stitched into the front.
She handed me half a granola bar as I crossed my legs.
“You look tired,” she observed.
“I was helping Henry this morning, and then I was on a ladder all afternoon,” I replied.
Emerson smirked. “You know, you could paint that whole house yellow, and Gill would think it’s great.” She considered for a moment. “You know, Wren, maybe you should paint the whole house yellow, just to see what he would do.”
Before I could respond, Olivia walked in. The soft lighting of the library caught the golden-blond waves of her hair as they waterfalled down her shoulders. I felt myself inhale sharply as she moved toward me. We hadn’t spoken since dinner at Winnie’s.
“Hi,” she said, sitting down in the spare seat next to me, draping her sweater over the back of the chair.
Her hand brushed the edge of my arm as she leaned past, and the contact was so slight it shouldn’t have registered.
But it did. I felt it everywhere. “I’m sorry about the other night,” she said.
“I pushed too hard about the car, and it’s just a car. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
How could I answer that? Yes, you did make me uncomfortable, but only because you don’t know who I really am.
I felt suddenly half inclined to tell her everything, to let her see every part of me, every truth I’d worked so hard to keep hidden.
But what then? What if she looked at me differently?
What if she didn’t understand? I’d wanted to disappear, and yet I wanted Olivia to see me.
Her eyes held mine, steady and unblinking, and for a breath I couldn’t decide what unsettled me more, the pull of her gaze or the way my own lips parted under it.
“I just find you interesting,” she added, at an almost whisper. “I’m sorry if I pressed too hard.”
“I did do more than odd jobs in New York,” I replied softly, “but I came to Everston to start again. Maybe we can just start again too?”
She smiled. “I’d like that.”
Max walked in and half of us gasped. He’d shaved his beard. He looked ten years younger.
He waved us all off, as we peppered him with compliments.
“Right,” he announced, sitting down. “Poetry evening!” he exclaimed. “Anyone started their poems?”
“I have,” Julian said. “Got a little something, at least.”
Emerson sat up in her chair. “Really?” she asked.
“Yeah, do you want to hear it?”
“Obviously,” she replied.
Henry clapped (predictably). “Read it for us, Julian!” He was grinning from ear to ear, so excited by all of this.
“What is a poem?” Julian recited, “but for a bit of my heart. What is a poem but for where my journey starts?”
He sat back down, looking at us all with anticipation.
“Like that?” he asked, hopeful.
“Yes, but you can probably do better,” Emerson replied.
“Emmy!” Olivia scolded. “It’s great, Julian,” she added. “Just, maybe you could add something more?”
“Well, it’s not finished,” he said. “How would you write it, Emerson?”
He asked this as more of an accusation than a question, but Emerson sat up a little straighter.
“Write a letter to your wife,” she replied, and Julian seemed shell-shocked for a moment.
“A letter?” he said slowly.