And the one when he shoved her off the cliff—and out of his life.
I have to let you go.
She didn’t need to read more; she had the letter memorized. Stella replaced it in its envelope, then slid it back in the book.
What’s wrong with me? Why do I do this to myself? She only re-opened old wounds which were barely starting to heal. She had lost count of how many times her family and friends encouraged her to move on. With little to no success. David still held her heart hostage.
What would it take to free herself from his hold on her heart and soul?
How much longer would she torture herself with what-ifs and whys? And when would she accept that not every story had a happy ending?
There was only one thing she regretted. She should’ve demanded an explanation.
Stella caressed the cover with her fingertips. The way she used to caress his body...
She jumped out of the chair. Enough! It was time to move forward. There had to be a way for her to be happy without David.
Determined to start a new phase of her life, her first step should be letting go of the book. Maybe the smart thing would be to throw it away. Or ritually burn it in the fireplace.
No. Burning it would amount to sacrilege. Books had always been an important part of her life. Even as a little girl, she had cherished the feeling of them and loved the sound of flipping through the pages.
Her mother used to take her to the library every week, and Stella never tired of the musty smell of hundreds of books. While her brother, Luca, usually asked for a new baseball bat or a fancier skateboard, her birthday and Christmas wish lists were for new books. While her friends were trying on clothes or costume jewelry at tag sales, she was hunting for book treasures.
Old books tell more than one story.
She liked to imagine the previous owner’s life, and whether the book had played a special role in it. Did other children sit in a corner of their closet as she did, hoping to go on adventures with Pippi Longstocking or fight the evil White Witch?
Stella paced up and down the living room.
“What am I going to do with you if I can’t throw you out?” she said, her nose still stuffy thanks to her cryfest, and tapped her fingers on the dark red cover. Yes!
Taking two steps at a time, she ran to the bedrooms on the second floor. Yanking open the closet doors in the smaller of the two rooms, she reached for the plastic bin hiding in the corner and pulled it out.
Before she could change her mind, she opened the lid, put the book at the bottom, rearranged the rest of the items on top, and replaced the lid with a resolute click.
There. It could rest with everything else she didn’t have the heart to part with—yet. Maybe someday everything would be consigned to a ceremonial fire.
Her eyes fell on the silver and gold bracelet on her left wrist, the tiny crystals sparkling in the star charms. Stella reached for the clasp, then dropped her hand.
No, I’m not parting with you as well. One step at a time.
The ticking of the wall clock in the hall reminded her to check the time. Oops!
Today was Storytime-with-Stella at the Family Center, where she volunteered every Wednesday afternoon. The children would be the perfect distraction after her trip down memory lane and pity party.
After splashing water on her blotchy face in the bathroom, she hurried down the stairs and picked up the book she planned to read to the four- and five-year-old kids. She couldn’t wait to see their reaction to the book about a pigeon who wants a puppy.
Stella silenced her cell phone and tossed it in her purse. The world wouldn’t come to an end if she couldn’t be reached for a few hours.
She grabbed her keys and was on her way to the Family Center.
The next two hours went by in a blur. While she read to the kids and afterward kept them busy with coloring a picture or doing a simple craft project, the exhausted-looking moms were enjoying free coffee or tea, getting advice from the counselors if needed, or sometimes just putting their feet up for a moment.
As expected, most of the children shared their hopes for a puppy or a new toy in not-so-hushed voices while they doodled inside and outside the lines with earnest expressions.
Manny, a serious five-year-old, showed her his drawing and said, “Look, Miss Stella, I remembered the book you read last week. About the boy with a monster under his bed.”
She saw he had not only colored the pigeon and drawn a puppy, he also added a pair of eyes in a corner of the page. She pointed to them. “You must’ve liked the book if you’re still thinking about it. Do you think he only imagined the monster?”
“Maybe… I don’t know.” He thought for a moment, wrinkled his forehead, and puffed out his chest. “I’m not afraid of monsters and ghosts, Miss Stella. They aren’t real. Nobody believes in them!” He paused and scrunched his face again. “But it would be fun to have one to play with when I’m supposed to sleep. That’s why I added the eyes.”
Moments like this reminded her why she enjoyed this age group so much. The way they still got lost in the imaginary world of books warmed her heart.
On her way home, she enjoyed the summer afternoon while she walked past the old cemetery of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church.
She paused a moment to gaze at the Osage orange trees in the churchyard. They were said to have grown here since 1804, after Lewis and Clark sent the first seeds to Thomas Jefferson. The original trees were long gone, but a lot of time and effort went into taking saplings
