I Find Myself Lost in a Good Book

Christine looks at the bookstore in front of her. The space it occupies in the mini mall looks barely bigger than her apartment’s closet. She didn’t expect to find herself at a shop like this when she set out for work earlier in the day. Then again, she’s been experiencing a lot of life events lately that haven’t ended up like she planned. Burning out at work, feeling distant from her friends, her days are becoming progressively more depressing. And there’s nothing I’ve found that stops the pitiful feeling I seem to be internally developing. 

Grabbing the handle, she opens the door inside and steps over the threshold. Once inside, aromas of bound papers and printed ink tickle her nose. Christine also feels her heart swell at the familiar, joyous scents. The warm glimmer of positivity intrigues her and pulls her through her walk past the shelves. The wooden structures are jammed with books in double and sometimes triple lines. As she glances over them, she can’t seem to figure out a pattern to their arrangement. Such a detail intrigues her and she wants to explore each one in detail to find out the design. I didn’t see the hour this place closes though, who knows if I’ll have enough time to do that? 

Christine pulls one of the tightly packed books off the shelf, an action that makes two more fall to the floor in successive thumps. The loudness of the sudden sound echoes through what she wonders is an empty store. She scrambles to put the materials back. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a petite girl with wispy blond pigtails running in the opposite direction. Jogging after her, Christine wonders who would allow a girl so young to explore a bookstore alone. 

The younger female leads her to another room in the store that is packed with even more books than the one she entered into at first. Inside the new location is a plush red chair where the girl is now sitting. She’s got her legs curled under her with a book on her lap, oblivious to the world around her. 

“Excuse me sweetie, are you hear alone or do you maybe have a mommy or daddy around that I can help you find?” 

The girl looks up with a semi toothless grin and bright eyes, “No, I’m with Chris,” she pauses. “You kind of look like her.”

“Is she your mommy?” Christine asks.

The girl shrugs and goes back to reading the book, the title of which Christine sees is The Boxcar Children. 

“I loved those when I was your age,” Christine tells her and taps the paperback cover.

“So did Chris!” She’s who helped me find them here.”

“Maybe we should go find her. I would hate to cause her to worry where you are,” Christine says and offers her hand.

The girl looks her over and hesitates before she grabs Christine’s hand. Together, they walk into another, even farther back room. While they walk, she shares her name and the younger girl says in a squeaky voice that her name is Chrissy. Hearing this, Christine pauses momentarily. Both of the names she’s heard about the other people in the store are forms of her own. And this younger girl wears her hair like I did when I first read about the Alden family. She shudders but tries not to make her action obvious to Chrissy. It’s just a coincidence, my name has become more popular in recent years. 

The hallway that Chrissy leads Christine through is longer than she predicts given her earlier assessment of the building’s overall size. All along their path, there are shelves and tables full of books. Her heart aches to grab ones she recognizes from her middle school years. When they pass by a particular favorite from her freshman year of high school, she stops to glide her fingers over the cover. Its silky lettering and thick ink feel the same as they did almost fifteen years prior. 

“Come on Christine,” the younger girl pleads, saying her name without the ‘r.’

From another well-worn chair, a leather one this time, another female greets Christine. Her voice is calmer than Chrissy’s but has a cadence that resonates through her entire body. She stands and walks toward them. Her shirt is a homemade tie-dye design with blues, purples, and red. Her pants are baggy jeans. 

Christine can’t help but gasp. It’s like gazing into my past. I never really thought I’d see those clothes again after I starrted college. 

“It’s nice to meet you, I’m Chris and I’m guessing Chrissy brought you here,” the teen says. She offers her hand to shake Christine’s, making the one set of nails with paint on them visible. 

“I,” she gulps and internally shoves down her anxiety, “I’m Christine. I like your ankh.” 

“Yes, thank you! It’s so rare that someone knows what this is,” she gestures to the necklace, “I bought it on a school trip.

Don’t ask which trip. Don’t ask which trip. Christine’s thoughts erupt into a nervous repeat.

“Chris! I want to show this lady around, she’s never been here before,” the younger girl pleads. Christine breathes a happy sigh of relief when the child speaks instead. 

Chris smiles and Christine can see she’s trying to not turn red with embarrassment, “I was going to do that Chrissy. I just thought we should introduce ourselves first. Impatience always was a struggle for m—you.”

Was she about to say me? Why was she about to say that?

Christine feels her own face growing hot with fear instead of her previous worry. 

“I don’t have to see it right away, I mean…”

“No no, it’s fine. We have some time actually before you meet the last of us,” Chris assures her.

Christine wants to ask what that means, but feels Chrissy jerk her forward to the bookshelves. She and Chris look at each other with grins that mirror each other in sheepishness. The three girls all move together with Chris and Chrissy pointing out different titles they love. Chrissy tends to only talk about funny characters or little details she remembers. Chris’s details are more about the books’ writing styles or memories she has in reading them for the first time.

She points to a cover with flames covering a sheet of pages, “This is the first science fiction book I remember reading. It’s spectacularly timeless. I think it’s what I judge all titles in that genre from.”

Christine gazes at the title and the realization that she’s used that description before about the same book hits her brain and heart with a thud. I’m sure other people have reviewed Fahrenheit 451 the same way. It’s got to be a coincidence.

“This is my favorite memoir, my best friend recommended it and I love that she turned me on to non-fiction,” Chris speaks again, breaking Christine’s thought with smack of déjà vu.

Goosebumps prick over Christine’s upper left arm and she shivers to try and get rid of the cold feeling. The smell of the books is starting to remind her of the incense she burned when she was what she guesses to be Chris’s age. It’s glorious but overwhelmingly melancholy at the same time. She uses her free hand to wipe her eyes to keep tears from growing too large that they fall. 

The ladies finish their tour and wind up back in the first room where Christine found Chrissy in the plush chair. She sits down in and feels herself sink into its soft, aged microfiber. She closes her eyes and tries to think of how this girl can be so similar to her in looks and personal literary tastes.

“Will you read this to me?”

Christine reads the title of the book Chrissy brought her and feels her confused thoughts turn to nervous terror. Buck-Buck the Chicken. This has been out of print for years. The last copy I ever saw was the one my mother put into storage when I moved to college.

Christine swallows her nerves, which she can taste her mouth, a weird mix of metal and salt, “I have to know first, what kind of place is this?”

“A bookstore silly!” The youngest girl exclaims.

“Oh, now Chrissy, don’t be cheeky. She’s right, this is a bookstore. It’s also more of a place that people can find themselves or their paths in life,” Chris says from a corner where she is organizing books.

Christine feels her eyebrows perk up, “What does that mean?”

“That’s all she let me prepare to tell you. Christine’s the person in charge and she knew you were coming. I don’t know if she predicted today but she knew enough of a timeframe to let Chrissy and I get ready for this week at least.

Hearing Chris’s words curdles Christine’s insides and she feels her heart pound in behind her eyes. I’ve been listening to literary memories from young women who look like two younger versions of myself. I randomly found a bookstore that I was destined to visit somehow? Am I in a parallel universe? Could The Twilight Zone be real after all? She feels her stomach start to flip onto itself and worries she’s going to be sick with fear. 

“How? When? What?”

“Breathe. Relax. From what Christine has said, this visit was a long time coming.” She replies, trying to offer calmness and relief. “She should be here any time now. Let’s talk about something you might like more. What was the last book you read?”

Christine looks at the two others in the room and closes her eyes one more time. I did read a great short story collection last week.

“It was a book of Victorian era fiction written by women…” she begins and feels her face relax first. 

Soon they all three are discussing books and Christine feels more of her body’s tension ease up. The emotional distress she felt in the drive that led her to the shop start to lessen as she hears about Chrissy’s playground friends and Chris’s latest volunteerism project. Her troubles don’t complete dissipate though. She can feel the thread of their power on her body tick like a metronome. It’ll only be a matter of time before I can’t hold in my worries anymore. She opens her mouth, not knowing if another book discussion or an expression of fear will come out.

The door to the shop opens before she says a word and a fourth woman walks inside. She’s dressed in a style of what Christine estimates to be about five years old. Her hair falls past her shoulders and she’s wearing a wishbone necklace.

“You’re…” she stops mid-sentence. 

“I’m the literary version of you from four years ago. May I say though, I’m glad we all still look so heathy when we’re almost thirty,” her slightly younger twin says. 

“What do you mean ‘we’re healthy’ ?” She asks hesitantly.

“Didn’t they tell you?” I guess they thought I could explain best. We’re you, you’re us.”

“But how? Who? Huh?” She sputters. Her terror from before reaches a fevered pitch.

“I can explain if you’ll give me some time. Chris, can you take Chrissy to where Christine found her.”

Chris nods and they exit the room, leaving the adult women alone. 

“What did you mean saying that you’re the literary version of me?” Christine asks immediately, her face and neck feeling warm with an angry fear. 

“I’m who you are four years ago as defined by your book tastes. I believe we liked a lot of psychological fiction at this time, no?” The calmer voice answers. 

Christine stops to think and eventually nods. “How did you know?”

“I told you, I’m you from that time. I’m glad you’re here too, did I say that already? I was told you would be here soon and I’m glad it was so quickly. It’s not that I’m unhappy it was so rapidly that you needed to find us, don’t think that please. I believe most things happen for a reason and people wind up where they’re supposed to because it’s right for them at the time.”

She definitely does a good imitation of my nervous energy when I’m trying to explain something. Christine shyly grins at her thought. What impresses her more about the other woman with her is her acceptance toward life events though. It’s a trait she hasn’t had or shown a lot in the last few years. I can’t blame my job for that, it’d be too easy to say it was something other than me that caused my change. She then remembers what her other self said about her arrival. 

“Who told you I’d be visiting? Why is it so good I came here?” Christine asks.

“I don’t know who told me exactly. I was told that I needed to be here to help my former self and I needed to be here by 5pm so I could meet you or rather meet me. The main details I can tell you about this place is that exists so that people can find ways to cope with certain struggles in their lives. It helps connect them to who they’ve been through literature since whoever made it knows how meaningful books are to them.”

Christine nods but still feels confused. 

“How do knowing my bookselves,” she hesitates on the last word, unsure if it’s the right one. “How do knowing you and them help though?”

The other version of herself shrugs. “I don’t know for sure, maybe it’s a way of processing the past to be ready for the future? I try to not get too existential about it.”

“So you’ve heard of others doing this?” Christine asks.

“Not directly, but it does seem like a great idea to me.” 

Christine agrees and thinks over what she wants to ask next. 

“How long do I have to stay here?” She asks.

“There’s no limit to that. You stay here until you feel the emotional struggle has lessened enough to give you an answer or a direction to move on.”

“Am I allowed to advise myself on anything?” Christine asks.

“We can help you process your current life questions, but you can’t guide us toward decisions, literary or otherwise. It’s a butterfly effect kind of thing.”

Christine smiles and remembers how much she loves the short story about that idea. Her curiosity is peaked, she nods in realizing this. She asks if she can talk more to her double and the other girls. They go find Chrissy and Chris. Together, all four women talk about a range of books and literary topics. 

When Christine hears Chrissy discuss Curious George and the latest Step into Reading books she’s read, her heart warms and the joy spreads to her whole body. Chris is just as passionate in her talks too. She describes themes she’s dissected from certain books and provides reasons for both classic and modern literature being worth people’s time. Her analysis of Tender is the Night is just as insightful over a decade after she first thought of it. The last woman in the conversations is not as vocal as her younger clones. When she does speak, her enthusiasm is obvious as she identifies the various categories she’s discovering in southern gothic novels and socially relevant memoirs. 

Hours pass as Christine lets herself get lost in the nostalgia of hearing herself (and versions of it) talk about books and passions she found thanks to topics she read. After a while, she nods to herself in knowing what she can do to find her own current drive again. Her own contributions to the conversations have stopped by then. The woman closest to her age notices this and gestures for her to walk with her again. 

“I’m fine, I promise,” she answers to the woman’s inquiry, “These last few hours have been really invigorating. 

A smile greets her in reply as the other woman opens the door to the outside, “Then the shop has done what it’s designed for.” 

“I’m not allowed to tell you any decisions I’ve made about my future am I?”

The other Christine shakes her head, “Nope. That’s more of that butterfly stuff again.  What I can do is remind you about today’s message. Remember how you grew to become who you are now. It’s always worth revisiting the past for advice on the present and future.”

The two women hug and Christine makes sure she hugs Chris and Chrissy too before she walks to her car. Her step is lighter than the drudging path she took into the building hours earlier. She feels the weight that was on her shoulders has lifted too. The new day and new life ahead of her is bright and she’s excited to go out and make her plans real. She’s in her vehicle and waving goodbye to her selves when she sees Chris’s lips move. The windows of her car muffle the sound of the younger woman’s wistful comment to her older self. 

“She’s leaving before we get to tell her that there are stores likes this for music too.”