I glanced around, just in case. I could see the ocean from here, out to the east. Saw the adult section of the library, the computers where several teenagers sat, and the tables where an older man read the newspaper.
Was he looking at the tornado article? Was he wondering how a whole family could die at the same time? Or was he reading something others would think normal? Something not scary. Not sad.
One last glance told me Aunt Linda wasn’t here. That book smell made me miss her something awful. For the second time in fifteen minutes, tears stung my eyes.
I’m gonna cry, I thought with surprise. I squeezed my hands tight. Pressed my fists into my hip bones. I’m gonna cry.
“No you aren’t,” I whispered. “Oh, no you are not.” I don’t cry anymore, not even when I get hurt. It doesn’t help anything. Just plugs your nose and makes your face blotchy. Believe you me, I’ve seen that look too many times on Momma’s face to want it on my own. That’s why I was surprised at my own almost blubbering. Instead of boobing, though, I took in another breath, pulling in that Aunt Linda smell, and walked to where John sat behind the counter.
“Lacey,” he said. He smiled like he was happy to see me. “Glad you could make it. And on time. Just like Linda.”
I nodded. Again tears threatened. I hadn’t realized I missed her so much.
This stinking library. It wasn’t a Band-Aid. It was a jab at an old wound. The picking of a deep scab. I heard Aunt Linda’s voice in my head: “Baby, you can sit on my lap as long as your feet don’t touch the floor.” She told me that any time she read to me. I always made sure after I hit a growth spurt to tuck my knees up high so not even one of my toes touched the ground.
“You ready to work?” John said, he clapped his hands together with an airy pop.
“Ready,” I said. I could do this. “What are my duties?”
John gave me a funny look then said, “Your duties. Hmmm. First thing, empty those carts. You sure you know the Dewey decimal system?”
“Since I could walk.” Okay, an exaggeration, but not by much. Momma knows it too, thanks to Aunt Linda. Once, a long time ago, I helped Aunt Linda arrange all the books on her bedroom shelves just like Dewey Decimal would have done it. I couldn’t have been more than seven.
“I thought you’d want to do the kids’ section. So have at it.”
“All right.”
Three pale green carts waited. I grasped the cool metal handle of one and pulled it across the speckled carpet. The wheels squeaked out eep, eep, eep sounds. Toward the children’s section. Toward Aunt Linda’s old job. My heart thumped with excitement. The tears were gone, dried away.
In my head I heard Aunt Linda’s voice, soft like a night breeze. “Lacey-girl, books take you anywhere. Any place you want to go. You remember that always.”
And I have.
From the moment I watched Aunt Linda drive away in that old gold-colored Mazda of hers, I’ve been reading. When I can, I mean. When Momma doesn’t need me. Miss Docker, our school librarian, said I was her very best customer, and I bet I was.
Now, I’d be working where my aunt had worked. Surrounded by books of all kinds. As long as Momma allowed it. As long as Momma could work at the Winn-Dixie. As long as Momma was okay.
VI
Being in the library brought memories of Aunt Linda back heavy. There I was pulling that old cart around and it was like Aunt Linda sat on the big rocker in the corner. I mean, I didn’t really see her, like Momma sometimes sees Granddaddy, who’s been dead since my birth. It was like I remembered her being here.
Aunt Linda with kids around her at story time. Even the big kids would kneel at her feet as she read. Dressed up in a pioneer dress if she read something from the Little House series. Or with long fake red nails if she read Holes aloud. Or with a fat mane of golden mop hair when she read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.
I have a secret. It’s one that turns me cold, just at the remembering. It’s one that splits at my heart if I give it too much thought.
I know why Aunt Linda left.
Momma has no idea I listened in on their fights. Can’t imagine what she would say if she knew.
But I did. I listened in every night, sometimes with the feeling of Granddaddy looking over my shoulder listening, too. And I knew. Just like that I realized Momma wasn’t gonna change and Aunt Linda wasn’t gonna budge, though really, in a way she did. In the end, I mean. She left, after all.
“Angela, you know I can’t do this much longer.” Those were Aunt Linda’s words to Momma. In my memory I sat crouched in the hall, like a kid in the movies who listens in on people. “I’ve tried to get you help. I’ve taken you to the hospital when you’d let me. I’ve tried to keep you on your meds, but you just won’t take them. I can’t watch you kill yourself this slow way even a day more.”
When I heard Aunt Linda say that, I tell you, the blood grew thick in my veins. Was Momma … I couldn’t even think the word. But I sure could hear them fight about it.
And Momma’s reply: “Killing myself? Don’t you say that to me. You hear? Don’t you say I am killing myself, ever. You don’t know who I am.”
Peeking over the rail in the hall upstairs, I saw Aunt Linda lean toward Momma. My mother’s face was angry red. Her teeth clenched. Her whole self seemed to tremble.
“I know who you used to be, Angela. You change more and more every day.”
Momma’s hand went up in the
