Chapter 10 #2
We walk in silence for another block, enough time for me to notice how autumn has begun to settle in, and how Boston wears it well. The scattered trees in our neighborhood are capped with an array of yellow and orange leaves, while pumpkins have suddenly appeared on almost every doorstep.
“Do you want to walk or take the T?” Ben asks after another minute.
My eyebrows knit together. “The what?”
“The T is the subway.”
“Oh.” Have I taken the subway at some point over the last year? Maybe, but without the memory, it feels too overwhelming to even consider now. “I don’t mind the walk.”
Ben doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? It’s about a mile.”
I know what he’s really asking: Are you okay to walk a mile? Marnie Stephens, Malibu High School Cross Country Champion, now treated like she’s an invalid.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He nods and lets the topic drop.
The air is cooler than it was a couple of days ago, the slight bite feeling good against my cheeks as we turn down a road I’m pretty sure I haven’t been down before.
This one seems to lead out of the cramped streets of our neighborhood and into a long park that cuts right through the city, with tall buildings looming just beyond.
We follow the sidewalk straight ahead as the park stretches out on either side of the road. The smells of the city suddenly mix with freshly turned dirt and grass.
“What do you need from the bookstore?” Ben asks when we reach the next corner.
Of course he wants to know why I’m dragging him out of his apartment on a Wednesday morning.
I had just been so laser-focused on my assignment, I hadn’t considered that other people might ask me about it.
I had simply hoped that it would work out.
That the universe would cut me this one break, and the memories would simply come back.
I hadn’t anticipated needing help. I hadn’t anticipated Ben.
“It’s just this idea I had,” I say. “A way to trigger my memories so they come back.”
I’m almost impressed at how I’m able to leave it at that, but then I notice he’s still looking at me, waiting for me to continue.
It’s a subtle gesture but still jarring. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so long trying to tone myself down, convinced that my chronic chattiness is an annoyance. I’m so used to looking for cues that the other person is zoning out that I’m confused to find him genuinely listening.
I look away, as if something ahead is more interesting than the dark mix of browns and yellows in Ben’s eyes.
“Apparently there’s a chance that revisiting familiar places can trigger memories for people with retrograde amnesia.
The only issue is that I don’t even remember moving to Boston, let alone what in the city could be familiar.
But I know I must have memories from at least a few places, because I have all these random mementos scattered around my apartment, things that aren’t from my life before the move, so they must be from memories I made after. Memories I made here.”
“Like what?”
“A piece of string. A coffee shop napkin. A Monopoly dog.”
That line between his eyebrows is back as he stares down at me.
“You know, the little metal dog that comes with Monopoly?” I say. “You move it around—”
“I know what a Monopoly dog is.”
I throw my arms out at my sides. “Well, there was one on my windowsill. Except I have no idea where it came from, and trying to figure that one out is impossible, so I’m focusing on the mementos that are tied to specific places.”
Ben seems to think about it, distracted for a moment. Then he asks, “And did you get this idea from your doctor or Goldie Hawn?”
“I really wish I could say Goldie, but this one came from my doctor,” I reply wistfully.
His lip twitches again. “And how does the bookstore work into it?”
“There’s a receipt on my corkboard from there. For a copy of Jane Eyre, which doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“It’s my favorite book of all time. I borrowed it from the library when I was twelve and read it twice in one weekend and was so sad to have to give it back.
Then the next week, I was down on the beach and there in the middle of the sand was this beautiful hardcover copy of it.
Like… magic.” I slide my teeth over my bottom lip.
“That same book is on the bookshelf in my apartment right now. So why did I buy another copy? And where is it? I looked through my bookshelves and I can’t find it anywhere.
There’s no way I returned it, so where else could it be? ”
I’m lost in thought, playing out all the possibilities, so I almost don’t notice Ben’s expression, his concern bordering on shock, until we stop at the corner.
“What?” I ask.
“You read Jane Eyre at twelve?”
“Is that a problem?”
“The main love interest keeps his wife locked in the attic, Marnie.”
I frown. “Okay, let’s not—”
“And isn’t he also Jane’s boss?”
“Charlotte Bronte wrote it in 1847, Ben.” I wave my hand in the air between us, like that helps my argument. “It was a different time.”
His head tilts slightly. “A time when people kept their spouses in crawl spaces?”
The fact that his lips are barely curled up on one side is the only clue that he might be kidding. I’m annoyed that I can’t keep from smiling, too.
“Yes, Rochester shouldn’t have locked Bertha in the attic,” I say. “But that doesn’t negate the rest of the novel.”
One eyebrow is cocked high on his forehead as he stares at me, like he’s pretty sure it does.
“It’s called Jane Eyre, because it’s about Jane Eyre.
She’s one of the most complex heroines ever written,” I argue.
“Yes, she’s judgmental and an introvert and difficult to get to know.
But at the heart of it, she just wants to be loved.
Not by everyone, just one person who sees her for who she truly is. ”
Ben watches me, but the amused look in his eyes has faded. Now it’s like he’s trying to find something specific in my expression, studying me for some hint of what I’m really trying to say.
The silence grows and I can feel my cheeks warming. “Let’s just find the bookstore, okay?”
As we continue on, the buildings get taller, sending long shadows over the street so I can’t feel the sun anymore. I follow Ben around another corner, silently bemoaning the fact that I didn’t bring another layer, when I realize we’ve arrived.
The buildings surrounding us seem to miraculously part, leaving an empty lot between two of them.
Except it’s not empty. There’s row after row of bookshelves lined up across the pavement, each one almost overflowing with different titles.
It almost feels like a mistake, literature exposed to the elements and city traffic.
But no one walking by seems to find it odd.
There are even a few patrons roaming the outdoor shelves as if this is normal.
“Is this it?” I ask, gawking from where we’ve stopped on the sidewalk.
“Almost,” Ben says, and continues forward.
That’s when I notice the storefront just a few steps away, adjacent to the lot. There’s a long sign above the front window shaped like a giant pencil with brATTLE BOOK SHOP written across it.
Ben holds open the door for me, then follows me inside.
I’m met by the smell first—dust, paper, and something faintly sweet.
Then I see the books waiting on every surface, the motley collection of posters hanging on the walls.
In California, all the bookstores near me were modern and airy, with wide windows that spilled sunlight over clean, meticulous spaces.
This feels like an amalgamation of a dozen different elements that on their own wouldn’t equate to a bookstore, but here they somehow work.
The marble staircase with its antique iron-and-wood banister leading up from the linoleum tile on the first floor.
Piles and piles of books sitting on the long desk ahead of me, while rows of bookcases lie just beyond.
I’m tempted to start combing through them when a voice calls out.
“Can I help you with something?”