8. Chloe
“You’re to keep the phone next to you at all times, got it?”
I handed Noodle my cell phone, which I’d programmed with all the numbers a twelve-year-old kid stuck at home with a broken tibia and a badly bruised rib cage might need.
The library, obviously. Our family physician. That nice Dr. Underhill from yesterday. The local pizza place, which promised to deliver to the house on credit.
And after careful and agonizing deliberation, the number from my wallet.
“That last one is only in case the whole world starts burning around you,” I warned him. Noodle nodded solemnly and tucked the phone into his pocket. “I mean it. For emergencies with a capital E—as in full apocalypse, Theo and Trixie turned into zombies, me trapped inside the library holding back the second wave of the undead, and Gummy Bear foaming at the mouth.”
I hesitated a moment before adding, “And even then, don’t expect her to pick up on the first ring.”
“Or at all,” Trixie said as she slid her feet into her shoes and slipped her backpack over her shoulders. I’d warned her ahead of time about the phone number I’d found—confessed my crime, as it were—but she hadn’t reacted as I’d expected. I assumed she’d be furious at me for keeping our mom’s contact information a secret from her for so long, but so far, she was only upset that I’d uncovered it at all.
She was careful not to look at me as she spoke. “Sorry, Chloe, but I’ve got five bucks of lunch money left that says the number doesn’t even belong to Mom. It probably goes to some automated government survey or one of those places that’ll tell you sloth facts for three ninety-nine a minute.”
“Sloths can lock their hands onto a branch so hard that they sometimes stay attached even after they die,” Theo said without looking up from his giant bowl of cereal.
Noodle winced as he settled more comfortably on the couch, where I’d arranged him on top of about twelve pillows with enough graphic novels from the library to keep him entertained for a full month. He was particularly into the Nightwave series, a gory but surprisingly upbeat collection of books that we had a hard time keeping on the shelves.
“Don’t worry, Chloe,” Noodle said with a pained smile. “I’ll be fine.”
Theo scooped another bite of soggy cereal into his mouth. “Sloths only poop once a week, and when they do, it’s a giant pile that weighs one-third their body mass.”
“You’re better off giving Noodle the number to the White House,” Trixie warned. She was still avoiding my gaze, still speaking with a bitterness that caused my heart to clench. “Or even a phone without a battery in it. A dead carrier pigeon would reach her faster than one of her kids calling for help.”
“The oldest sloth in the world lives at a zoo in Germany,” Theo announced as he started slurping the milk from his bowl. “His name is Jan, and he’s over fifty years old.”
I closed my eyes and did the same thing I did every morning when trying to corral this herd out the door—I addressed their issues one at a time. Sometimes I moved in order of age. Other times I opted for the old librarian standby, alphabetical order.
Today, I started with the easiest and worked my way up from there.
“Theo, those had better be facts you read about on the internet and not the result of a hundred-dollar sloth hotline bill I’m going to be hit with next month.”
Theo giggled and tossed his breakfast things in the sink. “I guess you won’t know until next month, will you?” he asked.
I assumed—and hoped—the question was rhetorical, so I moved on to the next task. Pressing a kiss on Noodle’s forehead, I said, “Please call me as many times as you need today, okay? Don’t feel like you have to hold back because I’m at work. Gunderson won’t like it, but he will understand. If you need anything—anything at all—I can drop what I’m doing and come running.”
Noodle nodded solemnly. “I will. I promise.”
Drawing a deep breath, I turned to Trixie next. She was already halfway out the door, but she stopped long enough to fling up a hand. “Don’t say it. I was just blowing off steam. I didn’t mean it.”
“Trix,” I said.
“I can’t have this conversation right now. We’re already running late. If I get too many tardies, they’ll kick me off the debate team.”
“She did the best she could with a bad situation,” I said, unwilling to accept my sister’s attempt to wriggle out. For once in our lives, we were actually running ahead of schedule. The adrenaline that had been running a nonstop course through me since yesterday was doing wonders for my time-management skills. “I know you haven’t forgiven her, and I’m not asking you to, but—”
Trixie turned toward me in full-tilt Trixie fashion, every one of her hackles up. “I will never forgive her. Not in a million years. Not if she showed up on the doorstep with a million dollars.”
The tight feeling in my chest clamped harder. I was a long way from forgiving our mother myself, but it had been a while since I shared the sharp edge of anger that Trixie held clenched in both hands. I’d learned the hard way that responsibility would do that. All the things that used to fire me up a few years ago—a passion for justice, the absolute certainty of right versus wrong, a desire to go out and follow my dreams to the bright, brilliant future that awaited me—had grown dull and weathered. I’d grown old before my time, and not in the fun way that some women did, turning into eccentric aunts who may or may not be secret witches on the side. Most days, all I wanted was a nap.
“You can’t hold on to your anger forever,” I said.
“Watch me.”
I gave up the fight. I knew, from a handful of conversations with Trixie over the years, that she’d done everything in her power to keep the household going after Mom had run out. Even at age eleven, she’d known enough about the system to recognize that the safest route was to pretend that all was well. As long as the kids showed up to school at their regular times, moderately bathed and fed, the state wouldn’t intervene.
For more than a week, she’d kept up the pretense—feeding the boys whatever she could find and walking them the bus stop, making sure they looked the part of happy, healthy children whose mother was just at home sleeping off too many drinks at the bar the night before. I had no idea how she managed it for as long as she did, but I suspected it was the boundless certainty that characterized all her actions.
“You should throw that stupid phone number away,” she muttered now. “We’re doing fine without her.”
“Of course we are,” I agreed blandly. The lie rolled easily off my tongue. “But it’s a good fallback plan. No matter what happens, she’s still technically our mother.”
Trixie’s look of derision spoke loudly, but I pretended not to hear it and ushered her and Theo out the door instead. Nothing about this situation was ideal, but as I clicked the lock behind me, I refused to let myself dwell on the quiet of the house or the way Noodle’s mouth was set in a firm line against it all: the pain, the boredom, the loneliness of the day stretching out ahead of him.
And, underscoring everything, the realization that there was very little any of us could do about it.
Gunderson took pity on me and put me on shelving duty for the day. There’d been talk of lending me to the parks and recreation janitorial staff for a few months, since they were short of workers and my government paycheck kept me at the mercy of any and all municipal offices in need of labor, but he must have sensed that I was nearing the end of my rope.
The library, with its hushed interior and quiet efficiency, the books laid out in neat, organized rows, was the only kind of order I had in my life right now. Sure, I might have to check the bathrooms every fifteen minutes to make sure the kids weren’t indulging in the new TikTok trend of covering the seats with clear plastic wrap. And, yes, I was the one who had to answer the phones and listen to irate patrons complaining about late fees, but I still appreciated the gesture. Gunderson didn’t even hold it against me that Noodle turned down the offer of his wife’s company.
I pushed my cart down the nonfiction aisle and groaned to discover that someone had moved all the dystopian fiction to current events.
“This was cute the first time it happened,” I muttered as I pulled out a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale and stacked it on the cart alongside 1984, Battle Royale, and Parable of the Sower. At least whoever was responsible for the prank had good taste. “People need to start coming up with better ways of participating in civil government.”
“Psst.”
The sound of a very obvious, very indiscreet whisper assailed me from behind.
“Psst,” it sounded again, this time accompanied by a low male voice. “Come here. I have something I want to show you. It’s a library emergency.”
I was careful not to turn around.
“Sorry, buddy, but that only works on librarians one time. Then they wise up and call security.” I pointed at a black semicircle embedded in the perforated ceiling panel above my head. “And you should probably tuck it away before you get caught on camera. That’s the kind of public embarrassment that stays on the internet forever.”
Instead of the hastened sounds of retreat, the man laughed.
“It’s not that kind of library emergency,” he said, the chuckle so ingrained in his voice that I suspected he always carried it. “And do men really try that? Surely there are more creative ways to flash poor unsuspecting women who are just trying to do their jobs.”
With a comment like that, I felt it was safe enough to turn around. Imagine my surprise to find myself staring up into the face of Noodle’s rescuer from yesterday—Zach of survival school fame, once again both looking and smelling as if he’d spent the night on a bed of pine needles, though he was much cleaner this time.
“That sort of thing happens more than you’d think,” I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them. “The first porn director who decided to make ‘sexy librarians’ a thing ended up ruining community services for everyone.”
A handsome smile lit his face. I only noted its attractive quality because he accompanied it with a flutter of his long dark eyelashes and a casual lean against the bookshelves. That kind of move was so nonchalant and cool that it had to be on purpose.
“I don’t think you can blame the porn directors too much,” he said, still fluttering those eyelashes at me. “You’re very cute when you’re muttering to yourself in the library aisles.”
Now I knew he was purposely provoking me. I’d been so preoccupied this morning that I’d thrown on the first clean item of clothing I could find. My tiered linen dress fit more like a potato sack than a tailored garment, and my hair was in a sloppy pile on top of my head. I looked like something the cat dragged in, forgot about, and then decided to drag back out a few days later.
I scowled at him. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, actually.” He wasn’t the least bit discomposed by either my tone or my frown as he reached into a rucksack slung casually over one shoulder and extracted a book. “I came to return this, but I wanted to make sure you knew that I wasn’t the one who damaged it. The writing was already inside.”
I knew, in an instant, what he was talking about.
It’s them. Jasper Holmes and the mysterious C. The Hemingway title we couldn’t find on the shelves.
“Is it A Farewell to Arms or The Torrents of Spring?” I asked, reaching greedily for the book. In my eagerness to discover the title, I gave too much of myself away. Zach yanked the book up out of my reach and tsked.
“Nuh-uh. Not so fast. I want something from you first.”
Since this was accompanied by another of those too attractive, too obvious smiles, I dropped my hand.
“Unless that something is directions to the reference section or my opinion on how they choose which books to put on the New York Times bestseller list, I’m not sure I can help you,” I said coldly.
The ice in my voice didn’t faze him. “I know where the reference section is, and I’d love to hear your opinion on lots of different things, but that’s not what I meant,” he said. Playful lines of amusement crinkled around the edges of his eyes. “I was hoping you could tell me how the little guy is getting on. He was trying to put a good face on it yesterday, but I could tell he was rattled.”
“Noodle?” I asked blankly.
“I know it’s none of my business, but I always get emotionally attached to the kids I rescue from peril. It’s a personal failing of mine.” The eye crinkles deepened. “Well, that and my attraction to pretty librarians, but everyone has his faults.”
He spoke of Noodle with such sincerity that I was willing to overlook the rest. I also spoke a lot more honestly than I normally would have.
“He’s being brave about the whole thing, but I had to leave him home alone today. Physically, I think he’ll be fine, but emotionally…” I allowed my voice to trail off. The less said about his emotional state, the better. At least while I was at work. “Let’s just say he’s never gotten into a fight at school before. Or anywhere. He’s the sweetest, most peaceable person I know. He’s taking it really hard.”
Zach nodded along with so much friendly concern that I faltered even more.
“He didn’t tell you anything about what happened at school yesterday, did he?” I asked. “I tried talking to the principal, but she doesn’t know any more than I do. Just that Noodle snapped, punched a boy in one of the bathrooms, and immediately turned himself in.”
She’d also said that the other boy hadn’t wanted to lodge a complaint, and that if Noodle had simply kept quiet about the whole thing, it would’ve blown over without any follow-up, but that part wasn’t worth mentioning. Explaining Noodle’s strong moral compass and deep aversion to violence was too monumental a task, even for a man who seemed as understanding as this one.
“Sorry,” Zach said with a roll of one shoulder. “I didn’t press him for details. In my experience, anyone running through the forest to try and escape the things they’ve done has a very good reason for doing so.”
I blinked, startled by this piece of reasoning. “Even when they’re only twelve years old? And when they’re so upset they tumble down a ravine in the process?”
“He’s tougher than he looks, your brother. I think it’ll take a lot more than one fall to break him.” He looked at me a little strangely, a tilt to his head. “You, too, come to think of it.”
“But you don’t know anything about me,” I protested. For some reason, his easy air of assurance was starting to seriously unsettle me. “For all you know, I’m broken in a thousand different places.”
“‘If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them,’” he said as if reciting a quote. It only took me a second to realize that a quote was exactly right. “‘The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.’”
“A Farewell to Arms,” I said, my words coming out in a long breath. “I should’ve guessed it.”
He grinned and handed me the book that he’d been holding out of my reach. “I don’t normally memorize book quotes, but that’s what I was trying to tell you. Someone wrote a bunch of messages in the margins. That was one of the sections they highlighted.”
The moment he placed the blue book in my hands, I felt a tingle of electricity. Not—as Lonnie and Pepper and their hoard of Harlequins would tell you—because of the gentle brush of Zach’s fingers against mine, but because of what I knew I’d find when I opened the cover. The copy was definitely old enough to be part of my growing Jasper Holmes collection; the faded cloth cover and gilded lettering belonged to a much earlier era.
“You read the whole thing?” I asked as I flipped through the pages. I paused when I got to the end of the ninth chapter. Next to a line about coagulation, I found the writing that was starting to become as familiar to me as my own.
I didn’t mean to scare you. I hope there was no lasting damage.
I’ll live, which is more than I can say for the poor C in this book. I’ll never understand why all the literary greats insist on killing female characters off in order to redeem a man.
Because you terrify us.
I’ve never terrified anyone a day in my life.
That’s not true. You terrify me.
Is that why you ran away without saying anything when I saw you in the drugstore yesterday?
“You don’t look surprised,” Zach said, watching me as I eagerly devoured the lines. “Do you know these people?”
“I’m starting to,” I said as I traced the words with my fingertip. The bit about the “poor C in this book” stood out the most. Thanks to Jasper’s handwriting on the check, I’d already confirmed that the barely legible scrawls were his. But the other writing, the pretty writing, told a much more detailed story. Namely, that the C in A Farewell to Arms—the main character, Catherine—wasn’t the only C we were dealing with. In fact, it sounded to me like the two of them may have shared a name.
Catherine and Jasper. Jasper and Catherine.
“The quote you just recited,” I said hurriedly. “The one about breaking people—what page is it on?”
“I don’t remember,” he said. “Somewhere near the end. Why?”
I wanted nothing more than to take my treasure to a back room and pore over each of the lines in private, but I sensed that Zach was watching me more closely than I cared for.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” I said in my primmest librarian voice. “Vandalizing library books, even ones as old as this one, is highly frowned upon.”
Then, because it seemed odd that this level of vandalization would have gone unnoticed for the sixty-some odd years that this book had been sitting on the shelves, I flipped open the cover and looked for the barcode. It was there, but the edges were peeled up in a way that would cause Gunderson to prepare an hour-long lecture on maintaining standards.
“Wait,” I said, suspicious. “You checked out an ancient Hemingway from this library?”
He shrugged. “The nights can get pretty long out under the stars. Reading helps pass the time.”
“And you found it on the regular shelf?” I persisted, trying not to picture this man spread out in a makeshift bed of leaves and twigs, reading Hemingway under the light of a full moon. I wasn’t a woman given to romantic sentimentality—when would I have the time?—but there was something about the image that left me shaken. Pepper had been right about that part, for sure. “Not…hidden behind some rusted plumbing or anything?”
“What would you do if I said it was given to me by a fairy godmother who holds the secret to true love?” he asked, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.
I let my own mouth form a flat line. “That I don’t believe a word you say.”
“Fine.” He heaved a playful sigh. “Then I found it on an ordinary shelf on an ordinary day. You’re no fun.”
I didn’t dignify this with a response, which was my first mistake. My second, I soon realized, was letting this man trap me in a quiet corner of the library in the first place.
“Now me, on the other hand,” he added mischievously, “I’m tons of fun. If you let me take you out on Saturday night, I’d be happy to show you.”
A low cough interrupted our conversation before I could reply. This was good for a lot of reasons, most of which had to do with how quickly and vehemently the no rose to my lips. Dating was as out of the question for me as packing my family up for a whirlwind getaway to Disneyland. Especially dating a guy like this one, who probably asked out every personable woman he ran into in our small rustic town. But he had saved my brother’s life, and he had brought me this book, so I figured I should let him down gently. At the very least, I could give him a peek inside the hot mess of my life so he realized how much better off he was not touching it with a ten-foot tentpole.
“I’m sorry to interrupt what looks like an important literary discussion, but I need you to cover the reference desk for Daisy’s break,” Gunderson said. He leveled his sternest glare at Zach, though he needn’t have bothered. Zach was as impervious to him as he appeared to be to everything else. “Perhaps there’s something I can help you find, young man?”
“Actually, you can,” Zach said without batting an eyelash. Well, technically that wasn’t true—he winked at me, but only when he was sure Gunderson wasn’t looking. “I work over at the survival school, and I’ve been hoping to build up a reading list of survival stories for the men and women who pass through. Shackleton’s expedition, The Martian, Lord of the Flies, that sort of thing. Do you think you could help me come up with some titles I might not be familiar with?”
I had no idea how Zach knew exactly how to win Gunderson over to his side, but I suspected it was all part of the pickup-artist charm that practically oozed out of him. With a roll of my eyes, I turned to leave. As far as I was concerned, these two could have each other and welcome to it.
“Oh and, Chloe?” Gunderson asked. I clutched tighter at the copy of A Farewell to Arms, fearful that he might order me to damage it out or, worse, put it on hold for someone else. I had every intention of tucking this beauty away until I could properly pore over the pages.
“Yes, Gunderson?” I asked politely.
“Babs made a casserole for you. She figured you’d have more than enough on your hands taking care of your brother.” He smiled in a way that made me feel like a jerk for every time I’d been ungenerous to him. “It’s in the break-room fridge. She wanted me to tell you that we’re all rooting for him.”
Feeling like a villain of the worst degree, I thanked him and started to wheel my cart back to the reference section. I was so focused on this task that I didn’t even notice the piece of paper tucked into the Hemingway until Zach was long gone.
In a scrawl that reminded me a lot of Jasper’s illegible hand, I saw Zach’s name followed by a nine-digit phone number. And underneath that:
I also respond to the bat signal, but don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want my secret getting out.