Chapter 1 #2
“How to handle your heart differently next time.” Arnie turned and ascended the stairs.
“It didn’t escape me that you carried your journal down here and yet you’re not returning with it.
I assume you want me to keep it a secret from the books upstairs that you tossed one of their brethren to the flames. ”
Stella followed him up and switched off the basement light. A flickering glow quivered across the darkened concrete floor
and caught her attention. Words formed in the cavorting shadows. Goodbye. Forget. Next time. There would be no next time for how to handle her heart; as far as she was concerned, her heart was a dead, useless thing taking up space in her chest.
She closed and locked the basement door.
Stella had opened the Blue Sky Valley Public Library that morning, having no idea that she’d sneak away that afternoon to
burn her journal. Just after lunch, a visitor had wandered in.
The older woman, probably in her mid-sixties, had approached Stella at the circulation desk. She was looking for a self-help
book, specifically one covering the topic of releasing the past. When they arrived at the section, Stella pointed out a few
books that might be of interest, but the woman didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Stella asked, sensing the woman’s hesitation.
Her tears surprised Stella, but not as much as her words. “Don’t do what I did.”
Such a broad declaration that included a world of options. The woman could be encouraging Stella not to wear orange lipstick
as much as she could mean don’t rob the local bank.
She continued, “Don’t spend your life re-creating the past. He ran out on me twenty years ago for ‘the love of his life,’ and do you know how I’ve spent those same twenty years?
” Stella shook her head. “Angry, bitter, you name it. Now look at me!” Her voice rose above an acceptable library level. “Shriveled, that’s what I am.”
She wiped at her tears and forced a smile that looked more pained than natural. She pulled one of the self-help books from
the shelf and smoothed her hand across its cover. “I’m on a road trip to find myself. I didn’t realize until an hour ago that
I had been taking him with me everywhere, holding what he did to me inside my body like a terrible disease. Reliving my past
over and over again. He’s been riding in the passenger seat this whole time. Metaphorically, of course.”
The woman patted Stella’s arm. “Listen to me, going on like I’ve lost it. Well, I plan to lose him, which is why I’m here and why I’m going to start with this book.” She held out the choice to Stella. “Don’t do what I did.
Don’t hold on to things that hurt you.”
The woman’s words echoed through Stella’s mind long after she’d checked out the book and left the library. It wasn’t until
late afternoon that Stella consciously realized she had the journal in her purse, which forced her to admit that she’d been
carrying the memory of Wade around with her for months. Like an albatross around her neck.
Would she still be hung up on Wade twenty years from now? That question fueled her to burn the journal and attempt to burn
Wade’s memory along with it. She’d only half succeeded and was left with a growing sense of remorse.
There was no reason to stay until the library closed tonight. Arnie tried to send her home early. Only two people had come
in during the late afternoon, and each stayed less than an hour. With no special activities happening that evening, Arnie
could have handled the closing routine alone, but Stella wasn’t in the mood to go home and sit.
Because she wouldn’t just sit; she’d fret about why she hadn’t been able to incinerate Wade’s memory from her heart.
Next the guilt, possibly coupled with regret, would creep in about the burned journal.
No, she’d rather go home after staying at the library as long as possible and then face-plant on her bed without thinking at all.
She’d worked alongside Arnie as his library assistant for the past four years, so the few nighttime procedures went quickly.
At nine p.m. Stella said good night to Arnie, grabbed an armful of books she planned to read during the next two weeks, and
carried them to the rear parking lot. A creature of habit, Stella parked her car in the same spot every day. First row, fourth
space, to the right of the library’s exit.
Thanks to a hundred-year-old oak tree, this spot was covered in afternoon shade that kept her leather car seats from feeling
like molten lava after sitting outside all day in the Southern heat. Years ago, the local Lions Club championed for the mature
tree not to be harmed when the city paved the library’s parking lot. The grand oak now grew out of an open circle in the black
asphalt, and over time its enormous roots had buckled and cracked the pavement like an overcooked hot dog, creating natural
speed bumps throughout the lot.
As she walked to her car, Stella hopped over words that slipped out of the pavement’s cracks. Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque. She glanced at the book on top of her stack, an English–Italian dictionary. Her newest quest was to learn enough Italian
that she could read Michelangelo’s Rime in its original language. So far, she could count to ten, say a few casual greetings, and order gelato al pistacchio. Basically a vocabulary far outmatched by an Italian preschooler.
She placed the books in the passenger seat and drove in silence through downtown.
Not much had changed in Blue Sky Valley since she was a kid, and tonight, its predictable routine comforted her.
Many of the town’s lights winked out one by one as she drove.
Some shop owners put their businesses to bed for the night, flipping around Closed signs and switching off interior lamps.
Other businesses turned on lights, calling forth those interested in the nightlife, which was far from wild in a small town like this.
There wasn’t much to do in the historic downtown area other than find consolation in the corner pub or dine at Bruno’s Café.
Just on the edge of the town center was the theater that had room enough to show two movies only. Currently it was playing
flashbacks—Grease and Jaws—and selling double feature tickets for those who wanted to enjoy the summer nights with romance followed up with a dose of
terror at the thought of swimming in the ocean.
Stella pulled into the shadowed driveway of her childhood home and pressed a button on the garage door opener attached to
the visor. The aluminum door groaned as it lifted and revealed the almost-empty interior meant for two cars. She parked in
the middle and then shuffled to the mailbox. All of today’s mail was junk, but three different Realtor postcards were part
of the stack. One had a note scribbled on it in blue ink. Stella, Percy said you were ready to sell. Call me! Anita.
Stella ripped the postcard in half and then dumped all the mail into the outside trash bin. She was tempted to call Percy
and tell him to back off, but that would require a conversation she didn’t have the energy for. She lowered the garage door
behind her. Leaning into her open car door, she wrangled the stack of books from the passenger seat.
As she unlocked the house-to-garage door, she wondered for the umpteenth time why she bothered to lock a door that was secured behind a garage door no human could manually open from the outside.
She knew this to be true because during a power outage last month, her car had been trapped in the garage.
Not even YouTube how-to videos could help her figure out how to lift the metal door when the pull cord was stuck.
She hadn’t been strong enough to tug it free, and since she lived alone, there was no one to help her.
A peal of loneliness echoed through her now.
Stella dropped the books on the kitchen counter. “Hello, house,” she said as she flipped on the hallway light. Her cell phone
dinged, alerting her to a message from her best friend, Ariel. She grabbed a pencil from the kitchen counter, twirled her
dark curls into a messy bun, and stabbed the pencil into her hair to hold it in place.
Ariel had moved to Blue Sky Valley, just down the street from Stella on Magnolia Drive, when they were in fourth grade. Ariel
introduced herself that very first day, and Stella knew they’d be fast friends. With airy words like hope, enchantment, and stardust floating around Ariel like confetti, how could anyone not gravitate toward her? Stella certainly had.
She grabbed the library books and carried them into the living room and debated whether she should tell Ariel about burning
the journal. Just thinking about it caused her stomach to ache. But if anyone would understand, it was Ariel, who’d been by
Stella’s side through every celebration and every heartache since they were nine years old.
Stella opened Ariel’s text: The first customer of the morning asked if I could dye her poodle red and cut her to look like Elmo. How do you cut a poodle
to look like Elmo, I ask. She shows me a YouTube video that I can’t unsee. How was your day? What’s on the schedule tomorrow?
Stella smiled for the first time in hours, then texted: Tell me you said yes. Send photos. I’m about a solid 6 today on the scale of life. What would it be like to be a ten on life’s enjoyment scale? What would she give to be free of the heaviness, to find her
way to real love and joy? She continued: Tomorrow’s library events include adventure club and maybe the knitting club. What’s on tomorrow’s agenda for you? Dogs groomed like dromedary camels?
Ariel replied: I did not agree to Elmo. That would have been a total dog-tastrophe. Nor would I agree to camels, although I could be bribed
with the right gift. When are you gonna learn to knit so I can sell dog sweaters on the side? Breakfast tomorrow? I can pick
you up in my sweet ride.
Stella laughed. The veterinary hospital had invested in a mobile dog grooming unit, and Ariel, the local dog groomer, drove
it all over town and the surrounding towns six days a week. It put smiles on faces to see the neon-pink Fur Real Dog Grooming
van drive by. The horn even sounded like a dog bark. Stella texted that she’d love to have breakfast, and they set a time
for Ariel to swing by the library and pick her up.
Stella placed her phone on the counter, but it dinged again. Ariel again. Want to talk about why you’re a 6 today? I’ve been told I’m THE BEST listener.
Just knowing Ariel cared and wanted to listen eased the ache inside Stella, but she didn’t know how to articulate what she
was feeling, so she replied: Thanks, but we can chat tomorrow.
Stella opened the refrigerator, which was shockingly bare, and what little it did have wasn’t snack-worthy. Suddenly, a burning
sensation started in her heart, like a sparkler shoved straight through her chest. She released the refrigerator door and
sidestepped, pressing a hand to her heart and leaning over in pain. Was this horrendous heartburn? A heart attack? A vision
of the burning journal flared to life in her mind. In a panic, she thought, Is this because I burned the words? Am I being punished? The intensity scalded her insides and pushed “Dear Lord” from her lips.
In a moment that could have been ripped from a Ghostbusters movie, what looked like violet fluid struggled to rise from a kitchen tile, but once it fully emerged, it formed a group of words.
Pulsating letters, dark plum in the center and pale lavender toward the edges.
Undulating tendrils, like the roots of a plant, hung from the letters as if they’d been dug out of a magical garden.
The words trembled across the floor near her feet.
“‘I fell in,’” she muttered, and instantly the burning in her chest subsided. Stella inhaled a deep breath and stood straight.
The words rushed across the floor, up the bottom row of kitchen cabinets, and over the countertop until they wrapped around
a purple pen near one of her half-used journals and then disappeared.
Stunned and slightly frightened, Stella stared at the pen and massaged her fingers into her chest. The words had never been
so demanding, never so forceful. She’d also never seen words appear that way before. These were different, more alive, more
substantial than they’d ever been.
Stella walked to the purple pen and opened the journal to a blank page. She didn’t need to question what the words wanted.
They wanted to be written down. But why? What did the words mean? At the top of a clean page, she wrote, I fell in.
Fell in what? Stella thought of a dozen things she’d fallen into over the past year. Despair, hopelessness, faux love. She’d
also fallen into books, into fits of laughter with Ariel, and into silence at the sight of a sunset.
She stared at the purple words on the page, a crease forming between her brows. A shiver ran up her arms as she closed the
journal. Part of her wanted to shrug off this new experience with her beloved words, to say it was no big deal. But she placed
a hand over her heart and knew they were no ordinary words. They had an agenda . . . one that might burn a hole right through
her.