Chapter 7
Fable
“Are you kidding me?” I stare at the newly broken step, my tailbone throbbing.
The board slipped forward as I stepped down, then the railing swayed under my weight, and my poor tailbone took the brunt of the fall.
This makes two unusable steps in the last two weeks, and if it keeps happening at this rate, soon I won’t be able to reach my bed upstairs.
I’m not giving up. I remind myself of my words from last night in the garden. This is fine. A minor setback. I simply have two boards to replace now. Okay, well, maybe I should replace all of them, really? But I’m trying to stay positive, so let’s not focus on that.
I take extra precautions on the rest of the way down, trying to stay on the inside edge.
At the kitchen counter, I blink at the red notification bubbles on my phone.
I missed twelve calls and forty-three texts yesterday, and honestly, the thought of catching up on all that—especially when most of it is probably about Gramps’s birthday or the photo with Theo—sounds rather exhausting, so I tuck it into my pocket.
Maybe I shouldn’t have stolen a cord from my parents after all.
With a warm mug of tea in my grip and Knocks on my heels, I head to check on the bathroom pipe I fixed last night.
Without the list at work, I had tried my best to remember what I needed, and although I was missing one piece, I think I made it work.
When I turned the water back on after, I didn’t see any leaks, so third time might be the charm.
I’m one step into the hallway when I come to sudden halt. There’s a puddle filling the space—soaking into my socks—and the faint sound of trickling water coming from the bathroom.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I shout, my body bursting into action.
I throw open the bathroom door to find a stream pouring from the cabinet beneath the sink, pooling on the floor and running into the hallway.
With a slew of incoherent curses, I set my mug roughly on the counter and run outside to shut off the water to the house.
On the way back in, I grab an armful of towels from the dryer, tossing them over the puddle in the hallway as I make my way to the bathroom.
“Dammit. Really?” I groan when I find Knocks ears-deep in my abandoned mug.
He prances away, tail whipping sassily as I yank off my wet socks, almost falling on my ass in the process.
Thankfully, the water has stopped flowing, so I spread the rest of the towels across the bathroom floor, then lean against the door to catch my breath.
I’m staring at the damp towels in the hallway when I suddenly realize the water is reaching all the way under the spare bedroom door.
My knees go weak. With a soft cry, I open the door and cross the threshold into the room.
The entire space is flooded with about half an inch of water, but as I maneuver around Gramps’s boxes, it gets even deeper.
The house must be more unlevel than I thought, because it’s already seeping into the drywall in the back corner of the room.
Pulse skyrocketing, I turn to the left and scan the nearby boxes. BOOKS is written across each one, in Millie’s handwriting. There are five stacks, three or four boxes high, and every bottom one is soaked on the edges, cardboard swollen with water.
Panic races through me. Not the books. Anything but the books.
“Please, no,” I cry out, reaching for a box at the top of the nearest stack. My throat tightens as I traipse through the water to take it to the dry living room, my tailbone aching the whole way.
The towels in the hallway are soaked, so I hurry upstairs (carefully avoiding the broken steps) and grab everything I can find in the upstairs bathroom. It’s still not nearly enough, but hopefully it’ll make the path safer while I move boxes.
One at a time, I heave them into the living room, lining the wall.
I’ll never judge Gramps for his love of books.
He gave me the same obsession—right down to my name, which he recommended to my parents.
I was fated from birth to love stories. But as my arms start to feel wobbly from exertion, I at least wish I had an assistant.
Knocks sure isn’t helping as he leaps from box to box like I’m building him a playground.
Every time I reach a bottom box, I lift it onto Gramps’s table in the spare room and move to the next stack, until I have all five damp boxes safe from the water. With a steak knife from the kitchen, I cut the tape on the first one and open it.
Armful by armful, I pull out the dry books and carry them to the living room. The first box has swollen woodworking magazines at the bottom, which in the grand scheme of things, is all right. My attachment to them is pretty small.
But when I find his favorite sci-fi trilogy at the bottom of the next box, with water damage on all the corners, my throat tightens with sadness. “I’m sorry, Gramps,” I whisper, setting them aside.
In the next box, I find history books that I never actually saw him read, and in the fourth box I discover a latched blue metal tin that appears to be fine.
But time slows when I see what’s at the bottom of the final box—his collector’s editions of Jurassic Park, The Count of Monte Cristo, and The Hobbit.
“Oh no,” I gasp, pulling them out.
Stepping over sopping towels, I carry the waterlogged books to the living room and lay them out on the couch, kneeling to examine them. My vision blurs. The corners are soft, the pages swollen and stuck together.
Six of his favorites, damaged because of my screwup.
He loved all of them, but it’s the sight of The Hobbit that makes tears finally fall past my lashes.
This is the book—the one that started my love of reading.
This exact copy, which he would read aloud to me, with characters’ voices and sound effects.
I’d been struggling to read for years, always feeling like my eyes were bouncing three words ahead.
“Let’s fall in love with stories first,” he’d said, opening to the first page. He always had something for me to do—a puzzle, colored pencils and a notebook, small wooden animals he’d whittled—anything to keep my hands busy while his calming voice transported me to faraway places.
Pulling The Hobbit into my lap, I lean back against the couch.
Carefully, I peel the pages apart to the middle of the book.
The printed words look okay, but Gramps’s handwritten notes are blurring on the edges.
He loved to keep commentary as he read, sometimes on pieces of paper, and sometimes right in the margins.
He’d mark spots where we laughed or scenes that were so enthralling that I wouldn’t let him stop reading.
I quickly swipe away a tear with the back of my hand.
It’s been a long time since I read a paperback—two years, to be exact.
I shoved all of mine into boxes after Gramps died.
Everything from the feel of the paper under my fingertips to the weight in my hands to the nostalgic smell of the pages .
. . it’s all so full of Gramps’s memory that I can’t touch them.
Now, all my books are sitting alone in Mom and Dad’s attic, waiting.
Something feels like it’s fracturing in my chest as I stare at the wet pages, and I don’t know how to prevent it.
I lift my watery gaze to the room around me.
This place is falling apart—the pipes, steps, railing, even the siding is peeling, and I feel helpless to stop it.
If I could keep this place going, keep this cabin alive, keep his books safe .
. . then the memory of him would be safe too.
But everything I touch ends up in failure.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. Knocks curls himself up at my ankles, apparently willing to take a break from mischief to comfort me. After a momentary pause, the vibrating starts again.
I let out a sharp breath and wipe my tears away before pulling out the phone.
Millie’s name illuminates the screen, and my shoulders loosen.
If it was our oldest sister, Tessa, I’d probably let it go to voicemail, because she’ll sniff out any difference in my voice and start questioning me.
But Millie is more likely to let me take my time with telling her things, and as I sit here, surrounded by sadness, I think borrowing a little of her warmth—even through the phone—might be nice.
Might help me feel less alone in this heartache.
“Hey, Mills.” I try to keep my tone steady.
“I knew it,” Tessa squeals. I pull the phone away to check the name, but it still says Millie. “You ignore my calls, but answer Millie’s? What the hell?”
“She was probably busy,” Millie replies, a smile in her voice.
Great. Both of them on the line. I don’t stand a chance.
“Five seconds before you called?” Tessa grumbles. “I’m not buying it.”
“Aaaanyway,” Millie says. “Hi, Fabes. Mom said your phone was dead yesterday—”
“Which is awfully convenient after that photo of you and Theo was making the rounds,” Tessa chimes in, and my heart tumbles over itself. “But Mom told us there was a bunch of confusion about it?”
Millie sighs and redirects. “We actually called to see how you’re doing. A little sister check-in.”
I swallow. Clear my throat. Sit up straighter in case any of that will hide the fact that I’ve been crying. But dammit, my words still wobble on the edges when I say, “I’m doing all right.”
Tessa immediately detects something’s off. “What’s wrong?”
I press my lips together, but my chin quivers anyway. “I’m just . . . not having a great morning.”
“What happened?” Millie’s voice is full of concern.
“A lot,” I admit hollowly.
There’s a moment of silence before Tessa says, “You’ve got to tell us so we can help.”
Resistance seems futile at this point. My sisters have a way of drawing information out of me like no one else, and my guard is crumbling by the second.
Taking a deep breath, I ignore the broken step incident and leaking pipe and focus on the worst part. “Some of Gramps’s books got wet.”
“Oh, no,” Millie groans. “How bad is it?”
“Six books, which I guess in the grand scheme of things isn’t that bad.” I scan the dry boxes in front of me. “Especially when you look at how many he had.”
“Okay, hold on,” Tessa interrupts. “This website says there are things you can do. I’m sending you a link. Do you have paper towels? And a fan? Like a big one?”
My phone buzzes with the text as I turn to the kitchen and spot my empty roll of paper towels. “No. But I can get everything at work today.”
Tessa sighs. “This says you need to get started on drying them as soon as possible. Be right back. I’m calling Dad.”
“No, it’s all right—” I start, but her line clicks.
“Give Tessa a task and she’ll figure it out from half a country away,” Millie says with a laugh.
I close my eyes, tipping my head back to the couch cushion. “How is everybody there?” I ask, needing a distraction.
A content hum. “We’re good. I’m having coffee with the girls while Finn makes scrambled eggs. Here, say hi.”
She puts me on speaker, and Eloise and Avery squeal, “Hi, Aunt Fabes!”
Despite my morning, their sweet voices make me smile. “Hi! I miss you!”
“Oh, Tessa’s already beeping in,” Millie interrupts.
“Bye, girls! I love you!” I call before she adds Tessa back in.
“Dad didn’t answer,” Tessa huffs.
“He and Mom are on their way to Wilhelmina,” I tell her.
She scoffs. “And they don’t even have same-day delivery services in Fern River . . .” She trails off, probably emailing the CEO of Instacart to tell them how frustrated she is.
“I’m fine.” I try to make myself sound as confident as possible. “I’ll get what I need from the store to see if I can save the books.”
“Are you sure?” Millie asks.
“Positive.” I might not be sure, but maybe I can fake it for them.
“Is everything else okay at the house?” Tessa probes. “How are the renovations going?”
I glance around the living room—the broken steps, the leaning railing, the smoke detectors in pieces on the kitchen counter, the pile of pipe-fixing supplies sitting in the hallway.
It’s a shit show. “Yep. Everything’s totally fine. Great, really.” I cross my fingers, hoping it worked.
There’s a long beat of silence before Tessa says, “I’ll call you back,” and her line clicks again.
Millie chuckles. “She’s either tracking Dad’s location or something came up at work.”
I roll my eyes. Sometimes, when I’m unsure about life, I like to think to myself, What would Tessa do?
or What would Millie do? My sisters have very different responses to most things in life.
Millie tends to quietly think—or overthink—and weigh all the options.
Meanwhile, Tessa is a doer—ready to act in a heartbeat and barely giving anyone time to catch up.
I’m almost positive Tessa is in the process of pushing her nose further into this situation, but I don’t even know how to prevent it. She’s been a fixer for everyone else her entire life. She can’t help it.
“Oh. Oops. It’s okay.” Millie says, a little muffled through the phone. “Fabes, I gotta go. We had a little milk spill.”
“Love you, Mills.”
On the other line, I hear Eloise giggling as she says, “It’s okay. Pepper’s cleaning it up . . .” before the call ends.
Suddenly exhausted, I curl my body into a ball, giving myself a few moments of stillness.
The urge to quit creeps into the corners of my mind.
I could run—pack up Baby Blue right now and hit the road.
Leave everything behind. Take the easy way out.
Let my parents sell the A-frame and all the memories that live here.
I’m really good at giving up. An expert, even.
A distant knocking sounds from the door a few minutes later. I reluctantly lift my head, and through the front window, my gaze lands on a lopsided smile and a pair of irritatingly charming dimples.
Theo lifts a package of paper towels and a large box fan into view, and I groan.
What would Tessa do?
Apparently call the last person on earth I want help from.