I think I have read every book at the library. Every novel, that is. Every novel that I want to read. Or might be willing to give a try. If someone had told me that this was possible ten years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it. Books are unlimited.
I spin the rack with the sign “New Acquisitions” in bold letters. The air conditioning is too cool and I have goose bumps. My mother is home again. My father is at work. The Fourth of July is tomorrow.
The rack is not new; it creaks as it spins. In two days, we are going to visit a university, all of us—Mother, Aunt Angelina, Finny, and I. I have to find something to read or I will go crazy sitting next to him for four hours with his scent and his profile looking out the window. Perhaps I already am crazy. Jamie says so all the time, and he only knows half of it.
I reach out and take a book that I’ve already looked at twice. Maybe there is something here, something that I can hold on to, that can take me away for a little while.
I had another appointment with Dr. Singh yesterday. He nodded at everything I said and refilled my prescription. I think of my fantasy home where the furniture—tables, chairs, and bed frames—are all piles of books. I wonder if he would nod thoughtfully at that too. Perhaps he would ask me what books mean to me. I would tell him that it means living another life; that I am in love with both my lost best friend and my boyfriend and I need to believe in another life. He would write something down after that.
On the ride back from his office, I asked my mother if she ever thought I would need to go to the hospital, and she started crying. She didn’t pull over or even slow down. She just stared down the road and cried.
“Sorry,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She wasn’t apologizing for crying, but for something bigger, something she had given to me, done to me, withheld from me.
“It’s okay,” I said. It wasn’t her fault.
At the bottom of the rack is a small collection of Japanese haiku. Poetry collections might be good. Poems can be read over again and studied.
Jamie comes up behind me. His chest brushes my back.
“Are you done yet?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, and I can feel my love for him, a small warm place wedged between my stomach and lungs; it flutters and settles again.
“Soon though,” I say. I haven’t turned to look at him yet.
“We have time,” he says. We’re going to a movie. We’ll eat hamburgers in the mall’s food court and Jamie will make fun of me for the way I eat my fries.
Jamie is going to apply to different schools from me. He isn’t even considering the school we’re going to the day after tomorrow. This school is the only one I can afford that has a creative writing program. Jamie has faith that it doesn’t matter at all; he’ll marry me as soon as college is over. We’ve picked out a house a few blocks from mine. It has a yellow front door; that’s why I like it. He likes it because I like it.
I pick up The Bell Jar. I’ve been too afraid to read it, and partly too annoyed by the cliché to overcome that fear.
“I’m done,” I say.
“Cool,” Jamie says. I turn around. He’s smiling at me. His dark hair is hanging in his blue eyes. I remember seeing him on the steps the first time, how I stared at him as if I couldn’t believe that his face could exist.
“What?” I say.
“You’re pretty today,” he says.
“I wish you would consider going to Springfield,” I say.
“We’ll make it,” Jamie says. “I’ll call you every night before I go to sleep.”
“I’ll miss you,” I say.
“Good, then you won’t leave me for a poet.”
Outside, the hot air surrounds us like a membrane, so thick it seems palpable. My goose bumps vanish.
“And you know, you don’t have to go there,” Jamie says.
“No, I have to,” I say. Jamie still wants me to teach. He wants me to at least get a minor in education. He does not say anything. The car is stifling inside, and Jamie rolls down the windows before starting the engine. Jamie can’t understand my need to major in writing. Or even my need to write. Acceptance is what he has given me, and I know I’m lucky to have that. And I think that’s enough.
