Between the Pages

It was nearly three a.m. when Edith decided that sleep wasn’t coming, and there was no point in staying in bed. She had hardly slept at all in the past week and was starting to wonder if the ability to fall asleep was a skill a body could simply forget. It was the sort of silly notion that made perfect sense when she was alone in bed, staring at the ceiling in a house that was far too quiet, and that seemed to get smaller with every passing day, as if her breath by itself was not enough to keep it from collapsing.

She threw off the quilt and planted her feet on the floor, rubbing her arms against the sudden chill. At the moment, the few dollars she saved by turning down the thermostat at night hardly seemed worth it. She hated the cold. 

Carl hated it even more.  

“South,” he had said when she asked where he was going. As if he was only leaving because of the weather. That wasn’t it, of course. And turning the whole of it over in her mind, examining every bump and stumble of their lives together, was another reason not to lie sleepless in their bed. There were too many questions to ponder, too many regrets to review.

For Carl, the bookstore had been the final straw. 

He wanted to spend her inheritance on a fast boat and a condo overlooking a tropical beach somewhere. Now he had gone without her. But she couldn’t leave the bookstore. It had been hers for just a few months, but it fed her soul like nothing else ever had. Not her forty years in the billing department at the hospital. Certainly not her marriage.

Fifteen minutes later, bundled up against the wintry night, she pulled her little car out of the garage and onto the winding road into town. A full moon bathed the world in silvery light. A mug of tea steamed in the console beside her. 

The road was deserted, but Edith found that it still required the utmost concentration, as it curved this way and that through the woods, up and down hills, as if the road crew had gotten turned around while laying down asphalt. Going around a bend, the car’s headlights caught a buck directly in her path, his head held high under a massive set of antlers. Edith stomped on the brake pedal, sending the car into a skid that left her facing the wrong way on the opposite shoulder. The buck’s tail flashed white as he bounded away into the trees.

She took a breath and then another, slowly easing her grip on the steering wheel. Her heart pounded against her ribs. If she had hit that buck, if it had crashed through the windshield of her little car, who would find her this time of night? She rummaged in her purse to reassure herself that she could call for help, but then she remembered. Her phone, plugged into its charger, was still on the kitchen counter. 

A wave of loneliness washed over Edith. Despite everything, she missed Carl. She missed her mother and father. She even missed the billing department to the extent that it had provided her with work friends, who were always too busy now when she called. She considered returning to the warmth of her bed, but couldn’t bear the thought of waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come. 

There was nothing to do but go on. Hands shaking, she took a sip of tea, turned the car around, and drove the last mile into town without seeing another soul. 

The artificial wreaths that hung from lamp posts along Main Street ruffled in the wind, and strings of white lights swayed in the trees around the old courthouse. Pretty, Edith thought, but such a waste of money to keep them lit through the night. She parked in front of the bookstore and grasped the frame of the car to heave herself out into the frosty air. Moonlight glinted off the intricate pattern of beveled glass in the door as she pushed the key into the lock.

The security alarm, high and piercing, prompted her to punch in the 4-digit code as quickly as she could. Then silence, punctuated only by occasional thumps from the ancient furnace in the basement. She didn’t dare tempt fate by fiddling with the thermostat here. But she only flicked on half the lights. No point in wasting electricity when it was just for her. 

She inhaled deeply, savoring the air. The aroma of books welcomed her. Calmed her. Edith stood for a moment, as she always did, still in awe that this was all hers. She took in the neat shelves, carefully stacked displays, and spinning racks. So many stories. So much possibility. 

Before the grand opening of Between the Pages, contractors had refinished the wide plank floor, repainted the lofty, hammered tin ceiling, and torn away some of the drywall, exposing brick laid nearly two hundred years ago. Then the shelves went up and the boxes arrived. Stacks and piles of boxes, filled with crisp, new books. She organized and reorganized until it all made sense, until each treasure was in its proper place. This was her creation, her obsession. Carl didn’t understand.

She headed toward the back of the store, the floor creaking with every step. The contractor had offered to fix the creaks. Edith politely declined. The old planks had earned the right to complain a bit.

Edith set down her purse and tea, and draped her coat across an overstuffed green armchair. As she removed her knit cap, a tiny shuffling sound caught her attention. A mouse? The contractors had mentioned finding mouse droppings behind the walls. Edith hoped it wasn’t anything bigger. Please, not a rat or opossum, she thought. 

She heard the sound again and took one step toward it, then another. The floor creaked. She leaned forward to peer down the next aisle. 

And nearly lost her balance from the shock.

A girl with bright red braids and big gray eyes sat on the floor, her bare, knobby knees drawn up to her chest. Her dusty shoes gapped at the toes. Her dress was a yellowish shade of gray, and much too small. A battered straw hat lay on the floor beside her. 

“Oh my goodness,” Edith croaked, clapping a hand over her heart. She blinked, expecting this illusion to disappear, but the girl just wrapped her arms more tightly around her knees and kept her big eyes trained on Edith. 

“How did you get in? What are you doing out in the middle of the night? Where are your parents?” It occurred to Edith that she should ask one question at a time. Especially when the girl put her forehead on her knees. Was she crying? 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Edith said. “Please don’t cry.” She moved closer, and with great difficulty, lowered herself to the floor. Her hips didn’t like it one bit. But Edith ignored them and reached out to pat the girl’s shoulder.

The girl picked up her head and regarded Edith with dry eyes. “I’m not crying,” she said in a high, clear voice. “There’s no sense in crying, is there? I was just trying to think of the right answers to your questions.”

“The right answers?”

“Yes, because if they are the wrong answers, I will be sent back to the asylum and that would certainly be a tragical situation.”

Something tickled the back of Edith’s mind. Something familiar.

“I don’t know how I got here,” the girl continued. “That’s the honest truth. I was admiring the most beautiful blooming cherry tree near the train station, and then suddenly, it was gone. And I was surrounded by books.” She gazed at the shelves in awe. “I have never seen so many books in my life. Are they real?”

“Of course,” Edith said, and pulled a book from the shelf. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. She flipped through the pages, pausing at the illustrations.

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes shone with delight. “That is truly a beautiful book. There’s so much scope for the imagination when one reads a book like that.”

Then Edith knew who this girl was. Or rather, who she pretended to be. It had been a long time since she read Anne of Green Gables, but this girl had clearly studied it in great detail. Perhaps there was a costume party or a play, and she somehow wandered into the bookstore. But Edith always carefully checked every aisle and reading nook before locking up at night, and the alarm was clearly functioning as it should. It didn’t make sense. But still, she found herself playing along.

“My name is Edith,” she said. “You must be Anne. With an E.”

The girl stared at her. “How did you know that?”

“We’ve met before,” Edith said with a wink. She waited for the girl to break character, to burst into giggles.

But she didn’t. Her face was solemn. “I’m sorry I don’t remember.” 

“It was a long time ago,” Edith said. A happy memory took shape in her mind. Nestled in an armchair, her eleven-year-old self opened a book with a red-haired girl on the cover, and slipped into the world of Prince Edward Island with Anne Shirley. She felt Anne’s hopes and disappointments, her joy and sadness. When Edith finished the book, she started again at the beginning. For a long time, she wished and wished for a friend like Anne. 

And now, here she was.  

Edith shook her head to clear it. She wasn’t thinking straight.

But something kept her from demanding the truth. Not just yet.

“Do you suppose I’ll go back the same way I came? All of a sudden?” Anne tugged at the hem of her dress. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Matthew Cuthbert at the train station.”

“Well, I don’t really -” Edith began. But when she looked at those earnest eyes, which looked more green than gray this close up, she softened. “I don’t see why not.”

Anne nodded, seeming to take comfort from this small reassurance. “I hope so. And if I don’t get back in time, I will sleep in the cherry tree, among the blossoms in the moonlight. It will be lovely. Now that I’ve imagined it, I almost hope I don’t get back in time. Is that awful of me? I hope not. I’m sure Mr. Cuthbert would come back for me in the morning.” She touched the book Edith still held in her hands. “It would be wonderful to listen to a story while I wait to be whisked away.”

“Your parents…” Edith said, suddenly picturing a couple frantic with worry upon discovering that their daughter had vanished in the middle of the night. “Why don’t we let them know where you are and then we’ll read until they arrive to pick you up. How does that sound?” She gave the girl an encouraging smile. It was time to break the spell.

“I’m an orphan,” Anne said. 

And Edith believed her. Of course Anne of Green Gables was an orphan. And because Edith had no idea of what she should say next, she opened The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and started to read.

This was another story Edith had savored as a child. There had been so many wonderful books to escape into, stories that sustained her through childhood and gave an awkward teenager hope that dreams were worth having. 

But when it was time to go to college, her father insisted she become an accountant. “You need to be practical,” he said, and claimed there was nothing practical to be gained by continuing to read stories that weren’t even true.

Edith lasted two years. It wasn’t long enough to earn a degree, but it was enough to land a job in the billing department. She married Carl, who thought she was pretty, at least at first. He kept a TV in the janitor’s closet at the hospital, then came home and watched another show during dinner and still more until bedtime. The years ticked by, faster and faster, with a comfortable sameness that smothered her like a fluffy cocoon. Her mother died, then her father. She and Carl retired. Then last week, Carl left. 

And now, here she was, sitting on the floor with a little girl leaning against her shoulder, immersed in the joy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz once again. As she read one chapter after another, she was certain she was exactly where she was supposed to be. 

Anne laughed out loud at the description of Toto’s twinkling black eyes, gasped when the cyclone carried the little house aloft, and clapped when the Wicked Witch of the West melted onto the kitchen floor.

Edith waited for Anne to slip, to protest that Dorothy’s shoes in the movie were ruby red, not silver. Or that the Good Witch of the North was not a little old woman, as it said in the book, but the beautiful Glinda. But Anne seemed spellbound, and Edith found it easy to believe that she had never heard this story before. 

“I should very much like to meet Dorothy sometime,” Anne said after the chapter about the winged monkeys. “She is so brave.” She let out a loud, sleepy yawn.

Edith thought she should remind her that Dorothy was a fictional character, but she recognized the conundrum in doing so. She felt a bit sleepy herself, and increasingly distracted, as the noises from the furnace in the basement had become louder and oddly regular. It was the last thing she needed, for the furnace to die the week before Christmas. 

She started reading Chapter 15, but the thumping made it impossible to concentrate. The thumps were organized into sets of five. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. A brief pause and another set. Over and over. 

Edith handed the book to Anne. “I need to go check on something,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” 

Anne nodded and took the book, cradling it in her arms and wrapping her fingers around the tops of the pages.

Edith rolled to the side and struggled to push herself to her feet. But when she pressed her palms against the plank floor, it was soft. What on earth? It didn’t feel like wood at all, but more like fabric. She poked at it. Blinked. And saw it was exactly like fabric. Upholstered green fabric. 

Edith sat up in the oversized armchair, and the coat that had covered her slid to the floor. 

She sat for a moment until she understood. It was a dream. Such a lovely dream. She wanted to hold on to every detail. 

But the thumping sound was still there. It wasn’t the furnace at all, she realized with relief. It came from the front door. She turned to see someone peering through the glass, a hand cupped over their eyes. 

Edith stood, a bit unsteadily, and made her way to the door. 

A young woman with a toddler in her arms stood outside. “Are you open? It says right here you open at ten, so I thought maybe you just forgot to unlock the door. And then I saw you in the chair and I couldn’t tell… I hoped you were alright. I thought I would try knocking before I called anyone. I’m very sorry if I disturbed you.” She paused and took a breath.

The poor thing looked so concerned, Edith felt guilty. “Not at all. I must have dozed off. I appreciate you waking me. Come in, come in. What can I do for you?”

The woman hesitated, then flashed a nervous little smile as she entered. She shifted her toddler to the other hip. “I’m looking for a board book,” she said. “For this little guy. It has to be totally indestructible.” 

Edith led the way to the display of board books. As she passed the classics aisle she glanced over. And stopped short. She pressed a hand to her heart. 

The woman behind her squeaked like a frightened bird. “What is it? Are you alright?”

Edith took a deep breath, her eyes on the floor between the shelves. She inhaled the aroma of books, of stories, of endless possibilities. “Never better,” she said. “Books are truly magical. Don’t you think?”

Then she bent down to pick up a straw hat and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, opened to Chapter 15. She hugged them both close and walked on, into the rest of her life.