A Message From the Past

While meandering through her favorite secondhand bookstore, she suddenly felt a chill. It stopped her in her tracks. Looking around she spotted a woman leaning against some shelves, staring at her. 

The woman was old, with wrinkled leathery skin. Her eyes were a cloudy faded blue, and her clothes, equally faded, were a strange shade somewhere between rust and black. She averted her eyes, but the woman mumbled something, and she turned back to see her holding out her trembling hand, clearly beckoning her.

She hesitated but felt her legs starting to move toward the woman. As she grew close, she was hit by a strong odor, a mix of lavender and camphor. The woman stared at her for a moment, then said, “Let me buy you some books…my eyes don’t let me read but I like to encourage those who do.”

Samantha hesitated, then feeling compelled to accept, said to escape, “It’s not necessary, I’ve enough money...”

“No, that won’t do. I want you to read a few books I remember from the…my…past. I’d like to think of them in the hands of someone new, someone I can bring new adventures to.”

Uncomfortable, feeling that chill again, Samantha, just wanting to escape said, “Tell me what book it is, and I promise to buy it.” Then she added a lie, “I’m in a hurry, I’m meeting someone in a few minutes and don’t want to be late.”

“Fine, the old woman said, reaching out to the shelf behind her and lifting a small package up and placing it in Samantha’s hands, which she’d pulled toward her.

Samantha didn’t protest because in the moment she’d closed her eyes to think of a way to refuse politely, the woman seemed to have disappeared. Puzzled and a little nervous she went to the counter, where the owner of the store was seated, and handed her the package.

The owner smiled at her, and said, “I see Mrs. Marshall has chosen you. She comes in every few months, picks out some books, pays for them, then hands them to a customer. It seems strange, but no one she’s given them to has ever complained. So, go and spend what you were planning to spend here or at a coffee shop—and relax and enjoy.”

Still feeling strange, uncomfortable, and for some reason frightened, Samantha walked a few blocks, trying to clear her head. While waiting for the light to change at the corner of 10th street, she spotted a Starbucks and wandered in. She treated herself to a pumpkin latte and settled down at a tiny table in the corner.

She found herself sitting and staring at the package, not really wanting to open it, and sipping the latte, something she’d never tried before because of its high calorie count. Finally, she decided to see what was inside the neatly tied bundle of books. And books it was, old science fiction books. 

She never read science fiction, a favorite of her brother Ralph who kept nagging her to try. He kept saying he was going to write a famous book one day as he spent hours trying to find words. But words were something he had problems with, unlike her.

Suddenly, a picture of Ralph, in his hospital bed flew into her mind. He was fourteen, dying from leukemia, and she knew he knew the end was near. But there he was, propped up by pillows, IV drip attached, and smiling at her. “Sammy, he whispered hoarsely, it’s all okay, Sis, I’m not scared. The books, they help. People need good places to escape to, I’ll be seeing those places soon.”

 And he held up a book, 100 Short Stories by Ray Bradbury. Next thing she remembered of that awful day was the book falling to the floor, bells ringing, someone pushing her away, and her mother screaming, “No. No.”

Samantha pulled herself back from that memory, shaking and spilling her latte. As she began to see the world around her again, she felt something cool being placed on her forehead, and took a deep, shuddering breath. 

A man was supporting her back, mumbling soothing words, explaining he’d heard the package on the table fall, and seeing how white she’d turned, managed to grab her before she could fall.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “What happened.”

“I’m not sure, but yes, I am feeling better,” she answered. “Thank you so much…”

“Ralph Bradburn,” he said.

She stared at him for a long minute, then trying not to feel sick again, she managed to respond, "Samantha Lewes.”

Ralph…Ralph, she couldn’t believe it. Then pulled herself together, reminding herself that coincidences were not uncommon, like the fact that in a group of seventy-five people, two were bound to have the same birthday.

Her breathing slowed, she calmed down, and said to her rescuer that she was probably dehydrated, that that was why she’d stopped for a drink.

He smiled and left her side, saying, “If the drink doesn’t do the trick, I’ll be here for a while, just let me know. Oh, I’m at the table to your left.”

She sat still, sipping the latte, then remembered the books. One look at the one on top, she realized what had unnerved her. It was Bradbury’s 100 Short Stories.

She hesitated, then found herself picking it up. Slowly, she began to skip around in it, glancing at a title here and there, then stopping at one that caught her eye, “Any Friend of Nicholas Nickleby’s Is a Friend of Mine.” Hmm, sci-fi and Dickens. A great fan of Dickens, she began to read. It didn’t seem interesting at first, then on the second page, the words jumped out, “Inside me, Ralph Spaulding, a boy of some twelve years, standing still as an iron Civil War statute…” 

She jumped up, grabbed the books and her purse, and ran out into the street. She was crying, shaking and started to cross the street without thinking.

Suddenly, an arm was around her waist, pulling her back as a car came barreling past her. A voice was saying, “It’s me again, Ralph Bradburn. Clearly, we need to talk, you’re scaring me. Are you trying to kill yourself. What is going on? What has you so frightened???”

She looked at him and decided she owed him some sort of explanation. “Can we find a quiet place to talk? Outdoors?"

“There’s a small park a couple of blocks down, it never seems to be crowded. Will that do?” he asked.

She nodded her agreement, and his arm around her they walked slowly to the park, which was a small cull-de-sac between two large buildings, a New York City feature used by builders to increase the numbers of floors of their buildings by providing public places.

They found a bench and sat down. The walk had done her good. Her head had cleared enough to know she needed to find out more about him before opening up.

“First,” she said, “how come your name is Ralph, isn’t it old fashioned?”

“Strange question, but simple answer, I’m Ralph Bradburn the Third. Family from Pennsylvania, and I’m here teaching at NYU.”

“What do you teach,” she asked, now curious, realizing he was young.

“Psychology.”

Oh, great. If I tell him why I’m so upset, he’ll probably think I need to be committed, but I need to discuss this, or I really will go nuts. So, she began, “I had a brother named Ralph. He died some ten years ago, cancer.”

“But you were upset before you heard my name, right?”

“Oh, I’m screwing this up. You see I was in a bookstore and this strange old woman gave me a small package of books. Said it was a gift, then seemed to disappear. The woman who owns the store said the woman came in every couple of months and always gave someone such a package. She said, just enjoy.”

I went on explaining, “I stopped in at the Starbucks because I really wanted to see what was in the package. But when I opened it I almost fainted because the book on top was the book my brother was reading when he died.”

“Good lord. That is strange. But you calmed down and stared flipping through the book. Sorry, I was keeping an eye on you. I could tell it was more than dehydration. But what happened next?”

“I saw a title that caught my eye and started reading. The name Ralph jumped out and, I guess, made me lose it.”

“That was the first story that you began to read?”

“Yes,” I replied, afraid of what he’d say.

“My God, have you ever heard of synchronicity?”

“Is it like coincidences,” I asked.

“Samantha, that’s the perfect question. Let me explain the difference between the two. A coincidence is just an unexpected convergence of events with no particular significance. Synchronicity, on the other hand, feels like a personalized message. It seems as if the universe has tailored these occurrences specifically for us, even though they are rooted in chance.”

I stared at him, then said, “So there might be a reason of some kind.”

“Given the mysterious woman who gave you those books, I think there may be something more going on. By the way, what do you do?”

“Do? Oh, you mean job. I’m a copywriter. Words always come easy to me, unlike poor Ralph. I got my degree in marketing because it seemed a good idea. I'm afraid I find it boring, but it pays the rent.”

“Boring? What do you want to do instead?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but something keeps telling me it’s time for a change. Funny all this Ralph stuff, he used to tell me that I should be the writer in the family, not him.”

“What do you think about that idea?” Ralph asked.

“It’s frightening. I don’t know where I would even start.”

“Maybe start a story about this, what just happened,” he said.

A few months later, Ralph and I celebrated my first publication, in a, of all things, science fiction magazine. 

Coincidence, synchronicity, a message from my brother? Who cares. It was a wonderful beginning to a new life. But I will dedicate my first novel to my two Ralphs.