The Ghost of Us, Chapter 1
Excerpt From my Novel
Chapter 1
Old books smell like sweet nostalgia and possibilities, just like money. Paper money, that is. The sound of the pages is like bills shuffling together, a calling card for adventures ahead, security, complicated emotions, regardless of your fortune’s outcome. A used book store was a place that Jane always found welcoming, comforting. It reminded her of the love and security that was and the sunny future that could be. It was complicated.
This day was drizzly and temperate, coastal weather that felt more Seattle than Spokane. She welcomed even the faint suggestion of the sea this far inland. She’d never liked being this far from the coast but her life had planted itself here and she found that the inland Pacific Northwest had its own kind of charm if one allowed it to manifest itself. It hadn’t been her choice to move here so many years ago, but she pushed the bud of a memory from her mind before it blossomed and bled down her face.
Today grey skies and a free afternoon brought her here, to one of the few remaining used book stores in the area. Most people read books on phones, tablets, Kindles these days but Jane preferred the visceral experience of holding a book, the weight of the tome, the turning of the pages, the anticipation as the right side of the book shrinks, and the emotional evaluation following the last page, the last words. She didn’t care if it was quaint, antediluvian, old-fashioned, cheugy, uncool, whatever. She knew what she liked and she knew that there were others who preferred a physical book to the digital version, too. Not that she didn’t ever read digital books. They had their own convenience and advantages, but nothing whisked her into a story faster than holding the written words in her hands, and that was what she was after today.
Three years. Three years today. It had been three years. In some ways it felt like seconds and in other ways exponential eternities. Today was about caring for herself, loving herself in a way that no one did any more. She had come to the realization after the tragedy that no one was going to be there to make her tea, have her snow tires put on, make sure that she ate breakfast, buy her small little surprise gifts any more. She had to do those things for herself now. There was a sadness to the realization, but also a certain power. Today that power led her to the bookstore.
Twice Read Tales, the sign read. Cute. She’d been here once or twice before, but the bookstore was in an area far enough from her neighborhood that she didn’t make it out this way often. She found herself in the South Hill area, which locals considered the “rich” part of town. Having come from a much larger city, Jane didn’t really get that impression. It wasn’t as if it was a Bellevue or a Redmond, but it did house some darling restaurants, coffee shops, and stores (most of which were in strip malls, which Jane silently judged, but also appreciated for the ample parking).
Jane’s house was about a thirty minute drive east in a southern neighborhood called Ponderosa, home to gigantic Ponderosa pines, world-class public schools, and some truly exquisite homes. Jane’s home itself had a small swimming pool with a water fountain, a tennis court, six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and his and hers walk in closets with skylights. Jane had to admit to herself that it sounded idyllic without the context of living there alone. Her youngest had just left for college three weeks earlier. Three years since Dan died. Three weeks since her daughter's matriculation. Three, three, and then Twice Read Tales. Things happen in threes, and it bothered Jane that her bookstore didn’t mete out the cliche as serendipitously as it could have. Could they not have called it Thrice Read Tales? Jane laughed inwardly to herself at the dorkiness of her inner monologue.
She pulled her sensible SUV into a parking spot just a few feet from the front door (something, she admitted, that would rarely have happened in Seattle) and turned the motor off. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. Since Dan’s accident her anxiety had taken a turn for the worse and she found herself having to actively manage it even for routine tasks like walking into a bookstore, but manage it she did. After the third breath (three again!) she got out of the vehicle, not rushing from the light early fall rain, but relishing the sensation as it gently tapped onto her face, her hands, her hair, her right eyelash. Rain always felt so cleansing and freeing to her. She walked the few steps to the front door, her black leather ballet flats not making a sound on the sidewalk. She was wearing her favorite bright red knee length trench coat which was perfect for the weather and always made her feel put together even though her outfit underneath was just plain jeans and a white v-neck sweater accented with simple gold earrings and necklace. Simple, understated elegance was what she was going for, but she feared that it came across plain and boring, not that anyone was looking anyway. It had been so long since she had really given any notice or extra care to her appearance these past few years.
Walking into the bookstore she was hit by a wall of warm air, soft warm light, and that smell. The smell instantly tingled her brain, relaxed her body, and a small smile found itself softening her face. She felt at home here, right, as not much had in a long, long time.
As if having floated into a dream her feet seemed to propel themselves forward at a leisurely pace past the first few displays of brand new books, bestsellers, bookmarks, journals, literature related gifts and tchotchkes. The majority of the store consisted of used books, her favorite. Stories that had been experienced by others in the past, loved or hated, pored over or ignored. She imagined that she could sense the past readers as she handled the books, wondered what they thought of as they read, speculated as to the station and situation of their lives.
Jane languidly gravitated toward the large fiction section with its wide aisles and tall, darkly weathered wooden shelves. She marveled at the neat rows of books, lovingly alphabetized by author’s last night and then subcategorized by title. Her fingers drifted to their spines, gently reaching out to touch the realness of them. Today she was seeking a specific author’s work, books she’d already read but that had impacted her worldview, shifted her heart when she was younger. She sought them out now like searching through a crowd for an old friend, like tearing the scab off of an old wound when it had just started to heal, like going back to your childhood home as an adult.
Even though the bookstore she found herself in was huge and well stocked, she doubted the books would be there. They were not popular titles, even when they’d been written back in the 1970’s. It wasn’t like she was there to pick up a Stephen King title or Danielle Steele; She was sure the place was lousy with those trade paperbacks that everyone seemed to have owned at one time and somehow always seemed to be in circulation. She made her way to the B’s and scanned the shelves just above her eye line. Bronte, Bradbury, Brown, Burgess… There they were. Just at the level of her eyes, a veritable treasure trove of literature. Butler.
Octavia Butler. Such a collection of her work! Jane felt a jolt of excitement jump from her stomach to her throat and surprised herself by letting out a small noise that came out something between a sigh and a yelp. She clamped her hand to her mouth and looked quickly around, noticing no one else in her aisle, but finding that she didn’t really care all that much if someone had heard her. They were here, all of her old friends, her escape hatches, her teachers, lined up in a row ready to welcome her back into their folds.
Adulthood Rights, Clay’s Ark, Dawn, Fledgeling, Imago…and then there it was. Kindred. The sparse prose that had moved her to feel in such a deliciously cathartic, human way. She picked the book out of the shelf and held it reverently in her hand, admiring the illustration of the beautiful Black woman on the cover, venerating the strong Black woman who had written it. Jane felt a familiar pang thinking of the author’s passing and such a sense of loss washed over her knowing that she had read everything that Butler had ever published, and that there would be no more of her stories ever to consume in this lifetime. It made her small body of work even more precious, and she smiled a moment to herself holding Kindred looking forward to revisiting the story again after all these years.
“Excuse me,” she heard a deep voice ask from about five feet down the aisle on her right side. She’d been so enamored with finding her book that she hadn’t even noticed that she was no longer alone in the book-lined aisle. She lightly gasped and looked up, startled and slightly embarrassed by her oblivion. The first thing she noticed were a set of deeply set, intensely dark brown eyes attached to a man about her age. She didn’t notice individual details about him right away, it was all impressions. He was a few inches taller than her and had thick, wavy dark hair that was slightly unruly, breaking the rules of those potent eyes and strong chin. He was medium build but gave the impression of a solid form under his jeans and white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The last thing she noticed before she realized that she was absolutely gawking was his high-quality leather shoes. Her mother had always told her that you could tell a lot about a man by his shoes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you-”, he started.
“No, no, nonono,” she waved her hands slightly in front of her, clearing the air of her embarrassment and trying to regain her composition. “I…” she stammered, “Sorry, I just found exactly the book I was looking for and got engulfed for a second.” She giggled at herself, certain that she sounded like a fool, and felt her cheeks flush to add insult to injury. There was something about the man’s presence that had her befuddled.
The man looked down at the book in her hand (which she had completely forgotten was there) and pointed to it, asking “Can I ask you a question?”
“Um, yes, sure. Okay.”
“That book you have there, is that Octavia Butler by any chance?” he asked, cocking his head down and to one side with a slightly raised eyebrow.
“Yes, actually it is,” she replied, coming to her senses, hoping that the intriguing man wouldn’t want to take ownership of the bookstore’s seemingly only copy of Kindred because as much as she wanted this book, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to say no to this handsome stranger if he asked her for it.
“Have you read any of her stuff?” he asked lightly.
“Oh, yes. I think I’ve read all of her books. She was an amazing author. You?”
“Not yet. I was picking up this trilogy by an…” he glanced at the spine of one of the books in his hands, “N.K. Jemisin and I got a suggestion that I should check Butler’s work, too.”
“You’ve got the Broken Sky trilogy! Nice choice. She weaves a great story, probably a little bit more traditionally sci-fi than Butler, though. Less near future dystopia and human-alien cross breeding.” She giggled again, and then felt her cheeks reddening even more as she realized that she was joking with a perfect stranger about humans having sex with aliens. His thick eyebrows shot up his forehead and a small laugh escaped his full mouth exposing straight, white teeth.
Still smiling, the man looked directly into her eyes and asked, “So which of Octavia Butler’s books would you recommend starting out with?”
“Well, her first published book is my favorite. Kindred,” she demonstrated the front cover of the book in her hands to him. He took a couple of steps toward her to take a closer look at the shelf that was now in front of both of them. His scent was shades of cedar and maybe lavender, a touch of mint, all man. She quietly inhaled the scent of him. It had been so long since a man other than her grown son or her husband had been this close to her. The moment felt indulgent and dangerous, something that she would think about later with a pleasant smile.
He looked back at her, his face just a few inches from hers, the small smile cocked slightly on one side as he reached past her. “It looks like you got the last copy. What’s your second favorite Butler book?”
“You know,” she said slowly, “I’ve read this one at least four times. Why don’t you take it? I think it would find a good home with you.”
He shook his head, “No, I couldn’t take your book. You found it first.”
“I insist,” she said with a small smile, shifting her head slightly to one side. “I love the idea of someone finding and enjoying her work as much as I have.”
“Wow, that’s really nice of you. What’s your name?”
“Jane.”
“Jane,” he shifted his books to his other arm and put his right hand out to shake hers. “I’m Rob.”
His hand was firm, smooth, and warm. She couldn’t help but linger her eyes over his strong forearms with dark brown hair sprinkled over them as she shook it.
“Jane, I have to tell you I really appreciate this. I’ve kind of been given a reading assignment,” he said, gesturing to the small stack of books in his hands. Her curiosity was piqued as to this reading assignment seeing as he appeared to be closer to her age than a traditional college student.
She laughed lightly, anticipating the conclusion of the enjoyable little interlude with the amusing man who had made her smile, and frankly, wasn’t hard to look at either. Sometimes the universe gives you a taste of dessert. “I can see that.”
“Hey, since you gave up the very last copy of Kindred in this shop, maybe in the whole town-” he gestured around the bookshop with a slightly wild look in his eyes before settling them back on hers, “-at least let me buy you coffee.”
She looked at him dumbfounded, completely taken aback by the suggestion. Had she heard him right? Was he asking to buy her coffee? Anxious thoughts formed a mosh pit in her brain in no distinct order; Why would this guy want to go to coffee with me? Does he want something from me? What if he tries to get me to sell weird multi-level marketing products? Does he just want to get information about the books? Is this man flirting with me? No, no, it couldn’t be. I wouldn’t even remember how to do this, I-
She realized that her mouth was slightly agape and moving without making any noises while this spectacular specimen of a man was just watching her waiting for an answer. She made a conscious decision to close her mouth and in a beat she asked herself what she wanted for once. She had decided earlier in the day to make today about showing herself some love, and if she was honest with herself, she really did want a coffee. And sharing one with an interesting, handsome man while talking over Black female sci-fi writers would be a fun diversion from her thoughts, even if he did try to get her to sell protein supplements in a pyramid scheme. At least she’d enjoy looking at that face over a steaming almond milk latte. At a crossroads, she made a snap decision then.
“Well, sure. Yeah. I’d love a coffee right about now.”
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