“?‘In the great, green room.’?”
I gasp, as my early years flash before my eyes. “?‘There was a telephone, and a red balloon, and’…oh my gosh…Millie! The old lady, whispering hush!” I shake my head, remembering that old beloved book. “Goodnight Moon!”
“Yes. By Margaret Wise Brown.”
The lines were veritably cemented into my subconscious, and yet, in my grief I’d somehow struggled to access them until now. At once, I’m three years old, sitting on my mother’s lap as we linger in the old storybook’s pages, with the mouse, the bowl of mush, the dollhouse, and the old lady whispering hush—a mismatched combination of words and imagery that formed the perfect crescendo, at least to me.
I race to the children’s literature section, scanning the shelves until I see a single copy of Goodnight Moon. But when I flip through its pages, I find…nothing.
“Any luck?” Millie asks, peering around the corner.
“No,” I say, sinking into the threadbare chair to my right.
“You know, Valentina,” she begins. “One of your mother’s dear friends is a woman named May Weatherby. She lives three blocks from here, in the top corner flat of the pastel-blue building.”
I nod, recalling passing the building on my walk with Liza the other day. The flowers in the upper-floor window box had caught my eye.
“It might interest you to know that May’s late husband authored a biography on Margaret Wise Brown. He knew her very well, in fact.” She smiles. “I have a feeling she might point you in the right direction.”
The bells on the door jingle before I can say anything else, and in walks Eric, but this time he’s alone.
“Afternoon, Millie,” he says, adjusting the leather messenger bag on his shoulder. I notice his bike parked on the sidewalk outside.
“Eric!” she says, walking over to greet him. I wave blankly from my chair. “I think you’ll get a kick out of our latest arrivals. There’s something just for you.”
“I’m sure I will,” he replies. “But first, I wondered if you could give me some advice.”
“Try me,” Millie says.
He runs his hand through his hair, then looks back in my direction with a furrowed brow. I wonder if his girlfriend’s niece didn’t like the book. I wonder if—
“It’s Fiona,” he begins. “The problem is…she…isn’t really a reader. And…I just keep thinking that if I could get the right book in her hands, maybe it could open the floodgates, you know?” He looks at me. “Like when your mum gave me a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. There I was, a surly preteen from London, and suddenly, I was—in my mind, at least—hunting for treasure and sidestepping the scene of a murder on the banks of the Mississippi. It was…remarkable, really. The thing is, once you get lost in a story, you want to get lost in another. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy.”
Millie smiles at me. “Isn’t that your theory, Valentina, that reading leads to more reading?”
I nod, walking over to the counter, where Millie and Eric are talking.
“That’s just it,” he continues. “And it’s what I hope for Fiona. I want to find the book that turns her on to the world of books.”
When Millie has sufficiently absorbed Eric’s plight, she turns to me. “Valentina, why don’t you help our friend Eric find just the book for his dilemma?”
“Sure,” I say, reaching into my deep, professional librarian reserves. Millie has just tossed a bomb into my lap, which is about to ignite—and she knows it.
Eric follows me as I wind through a maze of bookshelves, waiting patiently for my clairvoyant literary pick, and yet, I am altogether baffled. What on earth am I supposed to suggest that his vapid girlfriend read? There’s no way she’d manage ten pages of Nora Ephron’s Heartburn, or care a thing about Maeve Binchy’s Tara Road. Forget the classics, forget the usual suspects. This assignment was a challenge—a big one.
I search high and low, hoping that something—anything—will jump out at me, and then it does. “Have you read The Time Traveler’s Wife?” I ask, turning to Eric, who nods quickly.
“Oh my gosh, yes. I couldn’t put it down. If I recall, I think I read it in a day.”
“Me too,” I say, cracking a smile. “My gut tells me Fiona might like this one. Maybe she’ll even be impressed that it was made into a movie?”
He shrugs. “Maybe, though—”
“Movies never compare to books,” we both say in unison.
“Ever,” I add, grinning.
He nods. “I’ll get it for her, then,” he says, pausing to glance back at Millie. “I’ll let you know if she takes the bait.”
“Good luck,” I say.
He pauses, scratching his head. “Fiona’s childhood was far from idyllic. Her dad left when she was young, and her mom lived off government assistance. She grew up with absolutely nothing.” The Gucci crossbody bag I recall her wearing the other day is a reminder that exteriors can be deceiving, and I instantly regret typecasting her. “She’d be mortified if she knew I told you that. I guess what I’m trying to say is that she didn’t have the opportunities you and I might have had, and there certainly wasn’t anyone who shared the love of reading with her.” He pauses for a long moment, then smiles. “Your mum was that person for me.”
“That’s…wonderful,” I say casually, shrouding the wave of emotion rising up inside of me. While I was motherless in California, she was here, doting on the neighborhood children. How could they possibly have needed her more than I did? Fiona and I obviously have one thing in common: hiding the pain of our pasts. “Well,” I continue, collecting myself. “I hope it goes well with…the book. Good luck. I…have to be going.”
“Of course,” Eric says. “I’m…sorry to keep you.”
“No trouble. I do love matching people to books.”
He smiles. “Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
* * *
—
It’s raining outside—large raindrops pelt my head from above—but I don’t turn around to grab an umbrella. May Weatherby’s house isn’t far, so I hasten my steps, walking two blocks ahead before turning the corner, where I see the light blue building in the distance. The rain blurs the scene, as if I’ve stepped into an Impressionist painting, which somehow puts me at ease.
I climb the steps to the stoop, where I find a placard that reads WEATHERBY beside a call button, which I press. A moment later, an old woman’s voice quietly comes through the little speaker beside me. “Hello?” She sounds frail, and a little taken aback, and I regret not calling first. Surely Millie had her phone number.
“Hello, yes, is this May Weatherby?”
“Yes.”
“This is…Valentina Baker—Eloise’s daughter.”
“Oh, what a nice surprise on this gloomy day,” the woman says. “You know, dear, I’ve been expecting you. Come up immediately and get out of this rain! I’m on the second floor.”