The Launch

Fiona Law mopped her well-arched brow and glanced at the rows of empty, high-backed wooden chairs. She squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe if she paused for a moment before she looked again, an array of eager faces might appear and radiate an energy that calmed her.

When she fluttered her eyes open, the view remained. Fiona’s heart sank to her knees.

Laura, the bookstore’s assistant manager, bounced up to Fiona's table. Her tawny curls spilled over the collar of her crisp, sky blue polo.

“Everything OK, Miss Law?" She tipped her prodigious chin to Fiona’s mug beside her notes. "Need anything, or another tea?”

Fiona shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind another matcha. Thanks so much.” The comforting, tempting alchemy of butter and cinnamon wafted from the cafe and threatened to awaken her hunger, but she felt far too jittery to enjoy a croissant.

“Well, it’s only 7:15. Perhaps they're all stuck in traffic. Be right back with your drink, ma’am.” Laura winked and turned on her heel towards the cafe.

More than a shot of caffeine, Laura needed a good showing for her first book launch. The reviews had been decent, with many reassuring remarks about her short stories. One woman even posted her cell number, in case Fiona wanted to “reach out for a chat” one day, an offer she declined with regrets.

Fiona desired so much from this new career—recognition and admiration by a devoted readership. It was now or never, if Fiona would ever contribute to the world in a meaningful way as a successful author.

A check of her Timex showed 7:18. A jingle at the entrance turned her head. A couple in jeans and tees, red and white canvas backpacks slung on their shoulders appeared—likely undergrad students in need of a spot to study for exams.

A smile tugged at the corners of Fiona’s stress-bitten full lips. She had enjoyed her own college years—long evenings in the library, a few alcohol-fueled hookups after raucous house parties, deep talks with her senior year roommate. Her above average grades that led to an unfulfilling career at an insurance company. When she left her job a few years later, Fiona earned an MFA in creative writing and hoped that the last five years she’d spent on this anthology hadn’t been a waste of time.

At 7:21, Fiona sipped her matcha, grateful for the balm of cool creaminess. She turned at the sight of another arrival, a woman in a cream-colored suit, her slick bob framing delicate features. She paused, then slid a manicured hand onto the table with several towers of the book. When she took a seat in the last row, Fiona sighed and acknowledged her first attendee with a small wave.

At last. The woman scanned the jacket flap. Her editor tried to convince her to include a photo on the back flap, but Fiona wanted her readers to connect with the writing without being influenced or discouraged by her looks. When she smiled as she flipped a few pages, a tiny crack in the taut wall that lined Fiona’s chest shattered and allowed her to breathe a bit easier.

She’d heard the saying that time heals all wounds. Her mother echoed that sentiment as Fiona recovered, before grad school and after the attack, days spent wrapped in blankets in her childhood bedroom.

“One day, all of this will be a distant memory. You might never forget the pain, but you’ll feel grateful for this opportunity to heal.” The kiss on her forehead and a warm touch of her mother’s whisper-soft fingertips filled Fiona with a comfort beyond measure.

“I hope so, Mum.”

“Tell your story, my love. People need to hear about what you’ve overcome.”

Fiona blinked back tears and met her mother’s unflinching gaze. “You really believe that?”

“I do. You were only trying to help, do your job. It’s not your fault. You’re a victim, too.”

Her mother meant well, always encouraging and so caring, but a little condescending at times. Fiona wasn’t a vulture, as her attacker called her as she stood over her, a victim, or a survivor. All she wanted was a chance to remake herself in an era of shining peace and hard-earned fulfillment, in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable life.

“You’re a great writer, you know.” The dulcet tone of the sole attendee broke through Fiona’s inner monologue. “You write very well, Miss Law, even though I didn’t believe most of your stories.”

Fiona’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

The woman shifted in her seat. “Don’t get me wrong. I think you told some great stories, but I wonder if they’re really true. Were you really attacked by a customer with a machete?”

A pit formed in the deepest part of Fiona’s core. “Yes, when I was an insurance adjuster. It happened after a storm in Texas about ten years ago. I was severely injured.”

Her eyes widened. “Wow, I’m just glad you survived. But why write about it? It seems so sensationalistic, like you want people to feel sorry for you.”

Fiona slowed her breathing, the way the therapist taught her. “Well, that wasn’t my intent. Sometimes people survive terrible ordeals, and write to deal with their pain.”

“Maybe you should just talk to someone about it.” She shrugged and patted the cover of the book. Anyway, this copy is for a friend. Maybe I’ll read it when she’s done. I’m Judy, by the way.”

Fiona plastered on her best grin and spoke through gritted teeth. “Well, Judy. I appreciate all feedback. It’s how I get better. Excuse me for a moment, please.” She steadied herself on shaky legs and trudged toward the ladies’ room behind the True Crime section.

Judy surveyed the rows of vacant seats. “What time is it? Looks like you have a few minutes to spare, in any case, since no one is here yet.”

Fiona stamped the last few steps and swung the door with more force than necessary, then paused to make sure she hadn’t hit anyone in the face. Once she bent and looked under each stall, Fiona covered her mouth and screamed.

How dare she. Wasn’t all writing meant to challenge the reader? Was it hers to worry about what others really thought of her work, as long as they were buying it? She couldn’t control opinions, no more than she could halt the actions of the irate homeowner who paid 25 years worth of premiums, only to receive a lowball offer for his property damage. It was what she hated most about her job, and even if she hadn’t been nearly killed, Fiona would likely have quit when it all became too much.

Now, this stranger had the audacity to question her right to tell how a man’s rage injured her, changed her life?

Fiona jerked down a section of rough paper towel and blotted her face. Maybe the woman had a point. But it happened, and her lived experience was hers to share, for readers to enjoy or reject.

If no one else appeared for the launch, so be it.

She was far too old to react this way. When she looked presentable, Fiona adjusted the loose band on her skirt, squared her shoulders, and stepped into her future.

Fiona took her seat again. The chime above the door announced the arrival of more patrons. A pair of women in lacy tunics and jeans, likely a mother and her daughter, filed into a middle row where they piled a stack of books in a chair between them.

It was 7:28. And then there were three. Fiona shuffled her notes again and poised herself behind the podium. She blinked and saw her reflection after the surgery that saved her life, miles of bandages that marked her passage to recovery and into this next phase. She whispered a prayer of thanks for the days of PT, the afternoon walks when she was stronger, and the nights she spent writing and regaining her will to live.

When she looked again, Fiona gasped at the view. Every row was now filled with enthusiastic faces, books cradled in their laps. The 29 beside the seven on the clock morphed into the next moment, like the sudden flash of an obsolete camera. The crowd’s energy imbued her with appreciation—a tiny treasure more precious than any other moment of her life.

Laura peeked over the partition and smiled. “Ready?

”Fiona said, “I guess it’s time. I’m ready.”