Dad was the one who took me to the bookstore every Sunday and to the library anytime I asked. Once a month he’d take me to the library at the university where he worked, and I’d wander the stacks, fingers trailing reverently over the spines of hundreds of old volumes.
It wasn’t until I was in high school that Dad let me check out the occasional book from the university library, but I was happy just to be there with him in the presence of all those tomes. We often tried to get Ella to come along, but she preferred to stay home playing by herself. Eventually Mom stepped in and decided to make Sundays Mom and Ella days, and she’d take my sister wherever she wanted to go, just the two of them.
I’d forgotten about that until now. The memory made me wonder yet again how Ella could think I was Mom’s favourite. We didn’t have special Mom and Charlotte days, but then a voice in my head—one that sounded an awful lot like Ella—said that was because every day was Mom and Charlotte day.
“They have a pretty good selection for a small island library,” Dad whispered to me, once again breaking into my thoughts. I hadn’t even realized we were inside the library. I must have followed along on autopilot, my mind so stuck in the past I hadn’t been aware of what I was doing. That was kind of a scary thought.
I cast a glance around, taking in the checkout desk to the left and the stacks of books straight ahead. I could hear the faint click-clack of fingers on a keyboard, and figured there must be an area with computers behind the stacks.
“Hi there!” a pleasant voice called. I hadn’t noticed the librarian behind the desk, but she scurried out now, offering a hand to my dad, then me. I was terrible at guessing adults’ ages, but I estimated her to be in her mid-forties; she was medium height with short curly hair, a summery dress, and flat shoes. “You must be the O’Dells. I’m Shelley, the head librarian. When I heard you were a professor, I didn’t think it’d be long before we’d be seeing you in here.”
Shelley and Dad fell into conversation about his job and what it was like to teach in the city. I excused myself, wandering over to the bulletin board by the desk. There was a flyer for the concert Kennedy and Miranda had mentioned last night, a notice about a block yard sale coming up in two weeks, and a small card with a hand-written advertisement for repairs, minor construction, and yard work with Ezra’s name and phone number. The number was easy, and I repeated it to myself several times before it was etched in my brain.
Just in case, I thought.
I was about to turn away when I noticed one more flyer. It had been turned over slightly, as if caught in a breeze from someone walking by. I flattened it out and read ‘Volunteers wanted at the library, please ask Shelley for information’.
“I don’t suppose you’re interested,” Shelley said from behind me. I jumped, nearly ripping the page from the board. “Sorry, dear,” she said with a light, tinkling laugh. “I’m a quiet walker. Occupational hazard.”
I smoothed out the paper. “What would a volunteer do?”
“Odd jobs mostly,” Shelley replied, slipping behind the desk and sitting in her swiveling chair. “Shelving books, unpacking boxes of new arrivals, that sort of thing. I’m hoping to get someone young and creative to maybe help me come up with a literacy campaign for the next school year. I’m also hoping to find a replacement for our story time reader who’s going on maternity leave in mid-July.” She cocked her head to the side and studied me. “Any of that interest you?”
As a matter of fact, it did. Maybe not the story telling part—I didn’t have much experience with kids—but I’d love to be around books, and I could probably come up with some ideas for the literacy campaign.
But …there was that annoying little voice in my head again. I wasn’t sure who it sounded like this time, and I tried to ignore
It wasn’t until I was in high school that Dad let me check out the occasional book from the university library, but I was happy just to be there with him in the presence of all those tomes. We often tried to get Ella to come along, but she preferred to stay home playing by herself. Eventually Mom stepped in and decided to make Sundays Mom and Ella days, and she’d take my sister wherever she wanted to go, just the two of them.
I’d forgotten about that until now. The memory made me wonder yet again how Ella could think I was Mom’s favourite. We didn’t have special Mom and Charlotte days, but then a voice in my head—one that sounded an awful lot like Ella—said that was because every day was Mom and Charlotte day.
“They have a pretty good selection for a small island library,” Dad whispered to me, once again breaking into my thoughts. I hadn’t even realized we were inside the library. I must have followed along on autopilot, my mind so stuck in the past I hadn’t been aware of what I was doing. That was kind of a scary thought.
I cast a glance around, taking in the checkout desk to the left and the stacks of books straight ahead. I could hear the faint click-clack of fingers on a keyboard, and figured there must be an area with computers behind the stacks.
“Hi there!” a pleasant voice called. I hadn’t noticed the librarian behind the desk, but she scurried out now, offering a hand to my dad, then me. I was terrible at guessing adults’ ages, but I estimated her to be in her mid-forties; she was medium height with short curly hair, a summery dress, and flat shoes. “You must be the O’Dells. I’m Shelley, the head librarian. When I heard you were a professor, I didn’t think it’d be long before we’d be seeing you in here.”
Shelley and Dad fell into conversation about his job and what it was like to teach in the city. I excused myself, wandering over to the bulletin board by the desk. There was a flyer for the concert Kennedy and Miranda had mentioned last night, a notice about a block yard sale coming up in two weeks, and a small card with a hand-written advertisement for repairs, minor construction, and yard work with Ezra’s name and phone number. The number was easy, and I repeated it to myself several times before it was etched in my brain.
Just in case, I thought.
I was about to turn away when I noticed one more flyer. It had been turned over slightly, as if caught in a breeze from someone walking by. I flattened it out and read ‘Volunteers wanted at the library, please ask Shelley for information’.
“I don’t suppose you’re interested,” Shelley said from behind me. I jumped, nearly ripping the page from the board. “Sorry, dear,” she said with a light, tinkling laugh. “I’m a quiet walker. Occupational hazard.”
I smoothed out the paper. “What would a volunteer do?”
“Odd jobs mostly,” Shelley replied, slipping behind the desk and sitting in her swiveling chair. “Shelving books, unpacking boxes of new arrivals, that sort of thing. I’m hoping to get someone young and creative to maybe help me come up with a literacy campaign for the next school year. I’m also hoping to find a replacement for our story time reader who’s going on maternity leave in mid-July.” She cocked her head to the side and studied me. “Any of that interest you?”
As a matter of fact, it did. Maybe not the story telling part—I didn’t have much experience with kids—but I’d love to be around books, and I could probably come up with some ideas for the literacy campaign.
But …there was that annoying little voice in my head again. I wasn’t sure who it sounded like this time, and I tried to ignore
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