August 2011
Jane thought about Dean for the first time that day at 11am. That time, exactly — she checked on the reference desk computer the second after he sprang into her brain, as if she were in a competition with herself, which of course she was. Today she had gone almost the whole morning without remembering him, her ex-husband and their former life in New York City. But still, she was losing.
Jane turned to her co-worker Martha and politely tapped her on the shoulder. Martha was a little hard of hearing, at this point. “Martha, do you mind if I run to the restroom quickly?” She nodded and waved Jane off, not unkindly. Martha could probably see right through her, Jane thought, as she stepped out from behind the desk and walked to the bathroom as quickly as she could while still trying to look natural. She locked the door. Thank god for a single stall. Jane sat on the floor, let the last ten years of her life wash over her, and started to cry.
Someone knocked on the door. Occupational hazard of working in your hometown library — half the librarians had watched her grow up, and all were way too curious about what the hell a divorced 28 year-old was doing with her life. “Honey?” Jane uncrumpled the paper towel she hadn’t even realized she was holding. Louisa, her favorite, because she never asked Jane anything except what book she was reading. “I need you to cover me at checkout, I’m starting reading hour soon.”
Jane stood up and collected herself. Just a moment, she thought. Just a moment in my life, and now another one.
****
The unlikely sight of twenty 5-7 year olds sitting quietly during storytime usually caught Jane’s eye. But today, the little boy coming down the stairs, struggling to carry what looked like fifteen books — that was hard to ignore. Jane was so enthralled, she didn’t realize what had happened until he had already hit the ground.
She ran over instantly, mentally kicking herself, as the worst crack in her brain grew — maybe Dean was right about me and children — and then closed back up. She had used up all her angst for the day, she had.
Jane bent down. “Are you okay?” The kid had one of those little-boy haircuts, long and floppy and hanging past his eyes, but Jane could still see how blue they were as he made direct eye contact with her and nodded. “I’m fine,” he said in a clear voice. “This was bound to happen, at some point.”
Bound to happen? How old was this child?
“Sam, why don’t you ever let me help you?” A well-dressed elderly woman swept down the stairs. The boy rolled his eyes. “Grandma, I’m fineeeee, I did this all the time at our old library.” The woman crouched down next to him and immediately started picking up books. “That doesn’t mean you should attempt to carry thirteen books by yourself down a substantial amount of stairs. I swear, your eyes are bigger than your stomach in this place.” She stood up and noticed Jane for the first time. “Jane Quinn!”
Oh God, Jane thought. Occupational hazard of moving back home, in general — you only remembered about half of the adults who recognized you.
But something about this woman’s tone, of genuine warmth, despite her admonishing words, was solidifying in Jane’s brain. It was—
“Barbara Kirkwood! I was your fourth grade English teacher. And I now sit on the board of the Historical Society with your mother. She told me you were back in town.”
Jane appreciated how normally Mrs. Kirkwood– for that was how she couldn’t help but think of her– phrased it, as if there was nothing odd about moving back into your childhood house at age 28.
“Yes, I am, um… not sure how long. Still figuring that out. As I’m sure my mother has shared with you! But…” and she spread her hands vaguely, awkwardly at the library. “Here I am.”
Jane noticed Sam looking at her intently. “Well, no mother wants to pass up time with her children at this age. Unless they never left!” Mrs. Kirkwood laughed at her joke. “I mean this genuinely, Jane. My son just moved back—you two wouldn’t have met, he’s about ten years older—and I’m simply overjoyed to be able to spend more time with him. And with my wonderful grandson!” At that, she ruffled Sam’s hair, as he again rolled his eyes, almost imperceptibly. He started to carry his books to the checkout desk.
“Sam has been struggling with their move, so I’ve been taking him on some dates with Grandma, getting him out of the house before he starts second grade,” she whispered.
Sam stopped. “Grandma, I heard that.”
Jane knew the feeling– everyone talking about you, not to you, but you heard it all anyway. She picked up the remaining books on the floor and walked back behind the desk.
“I’m Jane. What’s your name?,” she said to Sam, as she began to check out his thirteen books.
“Sam.”
Jane already knew that, of course, but it was important to let kids assert themselves.
“Well, Sam, I’m new here too. Can I tell you a secret?” Jane leaned forward, almost on top of the desk, making Sam giggle.
“What?”
“It kinda sucks, doesn’t it?” She whispered to him, hands around her mouth like the information was top secret.
“Yeah,” Sam said, suddenly serious. “Yeah, it does.”
“But do you want to know another secret?” He nodded, and Jane didn’t even know what words would come out of her mouth, until she spoke. “I think we’re gonna be okay.” Sam twisted his lips, like he was trying to fight off a smile.
“What are you two talking about?” Mrs. Kirkwood had rejoined them, caught up in conversation with another librarian.
“Oh, nothing, Mrs. Kirkwood. Just welcoming Sam to the neighborhood.”
“Honey, you can call me Barbara at this point. And I’m happy you’re starting to settle back in, at least.” Jane lifted two cloth bags of books across the desk, and Sam resolutely placed one on each arm. He took one book out and started paging through it.
“Well, thank you, Barbara. It’s nice to see you again. And it was good to meet you, Sam.” He looked up from his book and smiled.
Jane watched this funny pair, an elderly woman and small boy, leave the library hand in hand. She thought about how being 27, not even a year ago, felt further away than being just like that little boy, seven years old in this same library. And she smiled to herself, and wrote a reminder on a Post-It to cook something nice for her mother tonight.
November 2016
Jane thought that “the air felt charged” was a cliche expression for books. It was on page 57 of the manuscript of her novel, and it probably shouldn’t have been, one of the hundreds of phrases Jane overanalyzed after each rejection letter. But as of two in the morning, Donald Trump had won the election, and walking into work seven hours later felt exactly like walking through static electricity.
Jane squeezed by Eileen as she put her purse down in the back room. Though she was nearing 85, Eileen brought more exuberance into the library than any of the other librarians. Today she wore all black, an undoubtedly pointed decision.
“Good morning, Jane,” she said solemnly.
“Morning, Eileen. How are you?” Eileen took that as grounds to launch in.
“How is anyone today?” She huffed. “You know, I was awake at two a.m., watching those people call the election on the TV. Two a.m.! The last time I stayed up until that hour, well, it had to be at least 20 years ago. But I said to myself, I said, Eileen. Eileen, America is about to elect the first female president, and you had better keep yourself awake for such a momentous occasion. And here I stand today, with five hours of sleep, mourning the future of our country. Though I’m at a loss for words,” truly, a loss for words, Jane thought, “I knew I had to come to work today. It’s instrumental that we do something about this.”
Jane couldn’t help it, she laughed, a little incredulously. “Eileen, what do you think ‘we’ can do? Overturn the election? Take a hit out on Trump?”
Eileen looked at Jane cuttingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know that you’re aware of what just happened at the middle school. Don’t you think that’s exactly the kind of behavior this horrible man will only encourage? Banning a book in this town… of course, I knew Principal Adams would quash that, but still. Never, in all my years here, has that been brought up. Not once.” She took a piece of paper out of her purse and unfolded it.
“What are you suggesting, then?” Jane asked. She agreed with Eileen. The fact that a coalition of “concerned” middle school parents had taken it upon themselves to “seek readjustment of the sixth grade curriculum” terrified her. It did. But Jane didn’t have Eileen’s verve. She didn’t feel like she had any verve at all, truthfully. Yes, she didn’t live in her parents’ house anymore, but had anything changed since she moved back home? Finishing her novel—yes, but only after two years, and what did she have to show for it besides 12 rejection letters?
They walked out to the checkout desk. “I thought we might switch up the display cases to include more books about social justice issues. I want to make sure such books are accessible and visible to all, especially the younger children. I’ve written possible themes and titles on this sheet of paper.” A woman approached with five books, and Eileen started to check her out.
Jane studied the list. Eileen had written down a host of important issues, but nothing concerning other cultures, and nothing that would in any way draw in anyone under 18. But she was right—the library’s displays were mostly centered around a genre or seasonally appropriate topic.
“Eileen, I think what you’re saying is a great idea, but I’m not sure what would be best to start with,” Jane said diplomatically. “Maybe on our lunch breaks we can brainstorm some more? God knows I shouldn’t spend it sitting on my phone checking the news.”
****
Jane ate her pasta salad outside. 50 degrees, but the sun was shining. This morning she had crackled with nervous energy and now she felt excited. Eileen’s suggestion seemed more and more important by the second. Of course they had a duty, as corny as it sounded, to educate their community! Jane thought about coming to this library in fourth, seventh, ninth grade; looking for what her parents wouldn’t talk about (religion), and what she couldn’t ask about (sex). How freeing it had felt to learn whatever you wanted on your own terms. But maybe it shouldn’t always be like that, she realized. An idea formed in her brain.
“Eileen, why don’t we have a middle school book club? Or a high school book club?” Eileen was half asleep in an armchair by the fireplace, how she usually spent her break. She cracked an eye open lazily. “What did you say, dear?”
“Oh, never mind. Have a good nap,” said Jane. She glanced around the floor. There was Louisa, reshelving in the adult contemporary section. Jane approached her.
“Louisa, do you mind covering for me at checkout? I want to go ask Miriam a question about programming.” Louisa nodded.
Jane walked upstairs. Miriam, the head children’s librarian, was involved in a conversation with a woman Jane could almost recognize. Jane gave it a moment, and then walked towards the back of the floor, exploring this section she didn’t know anymore but had, once upon a time.
Sam Kirkwood sat perched on one of the window seats. There looked to be at least five books stacked up next to him, with another folded over on his stomach as he stared out at the trees.
Jane had noticed Sam over the years, growing taller and smarter. Most of the librarians knew who he was– there were very few children who came in that regularly and left with the amount of books he did. Though they had never really spoken more beyond a few sentences at the checkout desk, Jane felt a kinship with this little boy who was wise beyond his years.
“Sam!” He turned around, exposing slightly red eyes and damp cheeks. Oh no, she thought. “How are you?” Jane said, and then instantly regretted it. She didn’t even know if he knew who she was.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Quinn. I’m fine… did my mom ask you to come check on me? Cause I’m fine.” The familiar-looking woman with Miriam—that must be her.
“Ah, no, honey, I’m just here looking for some things. We’re thinking of starting a middle grade book club, actually.” Well, Jane was now, she supposed. “But I came up to look for inspiration, because I don’t really know what seventh graders like! And I might want to include some nonfiction, as well.”
She paused and looked at Sam, his stack of books. Something about the Stonewall Riots, something about climate change. Heavy stuff– but Jane supposed that was the point she was trying to make, that kids could handle and wanted to handle more complex topics.
“What would you think about that? As my resident middle schooler? You are still in middle school, right?”
Sam nodded. He looked noticeably brighter. “I think that sounds really cool! All the activities and stuff here are either for little kids or adults. Yeah, that would be fun!”
Jane felt pleased. “You don’t think nonfiction is too boring?”
“Um, noooo,” he said. “Unless it’s like, an actual grownup book, if it’s about something I like, I’ll read it. We just have boring teachers in school. That’s when it’s not fun.”
“Wait—speaking of school, shouldn’t you be there? It’s a Wednesday.”
He shrunk down a little. “Well, yeah, I know, but my mom let me stay home today. I’m not sick or anything! It’s just, it’s my birthday actually. But I just… well… well, the election sucked,” he finished matter-of-factly, like he had decided to let Jane in on a secret, and sat up straight again. “I was sad. And everyone at school likes to be dramatic and make really dumb stuff up. I knew that was what everyone would be talking about today. I didn’t want that to be what my 13th birthday was all about. School already sucks enough with the drama about trying to ban The Absolutely True Diary of A Part-Time Indian.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. He could’ve been her at 13. “Well, I can’t think of any better place to spend a birthday. I’ll leave you alone now, but you know, when I get this book club off the ground, you should really join. And if you have any suggestions of books, I’d love to hear them. Have a good rest of your birthday, Sam!”
“I definitely will! Thanks Ms. Quinn!” Sam stood up and started to pull books off of various shelves, already taking her idea to heart.
Jane smiled and walked away, then paused and turned her head back, catching a snippet of Sam’s mother’s conversation with Miriam.
“You know, this is his favorite place. It has been since we moved here. You’ll never see him happier anywhere else in town, not even our house… for that reason, I think it’s my favorite place now too.”
****
9pm. Jane grabbed her purse and her keys, ready to go home. A long day—a long 24 hours, but she felt hopeful nonetheless.
Her phone dinged with the sound of an email notification. Like she had been conditioned, her heart sank. Jane took a deep breath and picked up the phone slowly. She read the subject line. “Response to Literary Query at William Morris Endeavor.” She took another breath and opened it.
“Ms. Quinn, I am pleased to inform you that…”
December 2021
“Thank you for signing up for the book club! We can’t wait to see you at our next meeting in January. Happy holidays!” Jane passed the preteen girl her free library tote bag. She had been the director of the library for almost six months now, but Jane still liked to be involved in programming, especially the ones she had created. The middle school and high school book clubs ran strong every month, with kids often running the meetings themselves. She could hear one of those star alumni in the main room now leading the children’s reading hour.
Sam Kirkwood checked out fewer books these past months than he had in ten years—college applications could do that to even the most voracious reader, it turned out. But he still found time to volunteer every week, and he pressed “Submit” on each application at the same table by the fireplace. She knew, because he ran over and told her every time.
Jane studied the display case across from her current seat at the YA desk. Having her book behind that glass still felt awkward, especially when a small picture with her name hung at its side, courtesy of one of the librarians (how strange, that she didn’t technically belong to that group anymore!). But she knew it was done out of love and let it slide.
Jane turned back to her computer, glanced over the drafted email to her editor one last time. This was the next hurdle, the next big arc in her life– could she balance a second book with a first pregnancy? Henry kept telling her she could, but her husband had this wild innate belief that she could do anything, ever. Well. There was only one way to find out, she supposed, and pressed send.
She closed her computer and made her way over to the checkout desk. Having her own office was great, undoubtedly, but she missed the chance to see the entire ecosystem of the library at once.
Like Sam, walking down the stairs to his bag, quickly squeezing the hand of a boy she had seen him with a few times. He opened his computer and started biting his nails. The other boy put his hands on Sam’s shoulders for a second, and then backed away, giving him space.
“Oh my god!” Sam yelled, then clapped his hand over his mouth and looked around guiltily. “Oh my god, oh my god, Charlie I got in!”
And the other boy squeezed him for a solid minute, and then gave him a quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kiss on the cheek.
“Oh my god. Ok, ok, I have to call my parents.” Sam grabbed his phone and made a beeline for the library door, but stopped when he noticed Jane.
“Wait, oh my god, Ms. Quinn! They just released the decisions for Columbia! I got in!!”
Jane had that rush behind her nose, and tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, honey, I am so proud of you. Oh, you’re going to have the most wonderful time. Can I ask? English major?”
Sam nodded vigorously. “Of course! What else would I be doing?”
“You know, that’s exactly what I studied at Columbia, once upon a time,” Jane said.
“That’s right, you told me once you used to live in New York! When did you move back here?”
“Ah… a little over ten years ago, at this point. Around the same time you and your family moved to town, I believe.” Jane looked at Sam and tried to remember what his seven year old self looked like.
“Why did you ever leave?” Sam asked.
“Well, some things happened, you know. Not to be too cliche about it. New York wasn’t where I was going to spend the rest of my life.”
“It’s here?” Sam looked so serious she had to laugh.
“I don’t know! I’m only 38, if you didn’t know that,” she teased. “I haven’t even hit my midlife crisis yet! I’ve got time for reinvention.”
“Yes, of course, that came out rude, I’m sorry. Can I ask you one thing, though?”
“Of course, Sam.”
He focused on her and dropped his voice slightly. “Do you ever regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Like, moving to New York, coming back here, any of it. I don’t mean to sound like I’m criticizing your life, specifically, if you know what I mean. It’s just like, even though this is my dream school, there’ve still been times where I’ve worried, ‘oh, what if I should go to that school instead, study this instead.’ You know?”
Oh yes, I know, Jane thought. 18 year olds everywhere, in every decade, all the same.
“The truth? I’ve thought about that question for years, Sam, about everything under the sun. And I don’t, I don’t regret any of it. That’s my honest answer, honey. You’re going to be okay.”
Sam looked at her, then reached out and gave her a lightning fast hug. “Thanks, Ms. Quinn.”
“Oh, you can call me Jane, Sam. Again—not that old!”
Sam smiled. “Okay. Thank you, Jane.” And he ran outside, already dialing a parent’s number. Jane watched him go. And then she turned back inside, towards her library.
