Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

In the kitchen, Natalie tidied up, putting away as much as she could of the food people had dropped off, and packing up the rest to give to a food bank. She understood why people brought food to the grieving, but she and Grandy couldn’t possibly use it all.

The finality of her mother’s death was still sinking in, slowly and painfully. She wandered through the labyrinth of memories. The small apartment was filled with a pleasant sort of clutter—interesting objects and of course books, furniture that had been in the family for generations, little mending projects piled here and there. It was as if Blythe had just stepped out for a moment and would return shortly. Natalie noticed an unwashed teacup in the sink, a meandering grocery list, laundry waiting to be folded and put away.

The upper apartment featured graceful old-world details. There was an unusual high-peaked ceiling under the front gable, a spot where Natalie used to lie on the antique chaise, watching the sun rise over the park. The old arched windows, hardwood floors, Gothic flourishes, and marble fireplace harkened back to the building’s origins—a saloon downstairs, and a rather high-end brothel up, with a big old-fashioned bathroom at the end.

Natalie’s mother had always had a knack for putting together lovely fabrics and textures, giving the place a bohemian vibe. The imperfect charm of the apartment had been lost on Natalie when she was young, but now she appreciated her mother’s taste and flair. The clutter—maybe not so much. She tamped down a twinge of annoyance. She did not want to feel annoyed at her mother.

When she’d rushed to the city after getting the news of the plane crash, Natalie had slept in the room she’d occupied all through her childhood, a tiny space that used to feel cozy. Since she’d left home the room had become a repository of things her mother didn’t want to bother with. The twin bed was piled with luggage that never saw any use. Her high school collection of CDs and books still occupied a shelf just as she’d left it. She had pushed aside some of the clutter and slept—badly—in her old bed.

Last week, she had not dared to venture into her mother’s room. She’d kept the door shut, fearful of the emotional storm it would cause when opened. Tonight, though, she didn’t feel like wading through the effluvia stacked in her old room. Now she was Goldilocks choosing a bed. Grandy’s former room was cluttered with plastic hospital bins and file folders of paperwork. A framed photo of May Lin hung on the wall.

She stepped into her mother’s room and nearly drowned.

The entire space was a frieze of her mother’s world. Of a moment in time. A life interrupted. The room was waiting for its occupant to return, slip on her nightgown and scuffs, settle in with her crossword and her novel. Mom was so present here, from the family pictures on the wall to the china dish of mismatched earrings on the bureau. She was always losing earrings.

Her nightgown hung on a hook on the back of the door. The San Francisco Examiner , her lifelong favorite paper, lay on the nightstand, folded open to the crossword puzzle, which was only about half done.

Her mom’s nightly ritual was to do the puzzle, then read herself to sleep. When Natalie was little, Mom used to let her help. Now she immediately saw the answer to 23 across: carrion bird, four letters ending in s — ibis . And 39 down: graceful, three blanks followed by -some . Lissome. She almost reflexively filled them in.

A small stack of books and a pair of reading glasses were in their usual spot on the nightstand. Natalie picked up the top book. Acts of Light. Publisher’s Advance Reading Copy—Not for Sale. Mom loved her sneak preview books from publishers, and longtime sales reps had come to value her opinion. There was a handwritten note from the author on the title page, thanking Blythe for being a good steward of books and readers.

Natalie opened to the marked page. A shiver went through her. Was this the last thing her mother had read?

She started reading at the bookmarked page: “The first person through the wall always gets hurt,” said Finn . All right, who was Finn, and what did he know of walls? For a few blessed moments, she sank into the story and was able to recapture the vicarious pleasure of losing herself in a good book.

Then the inevitable wave of sadness crept in. Her mother would never finish reading this very good book, nor the others stacked around the room, waiting to be cracked open by an eager mind. Natalie set the volume aside, overcome by endless ripples of grief and nostalgia. Had her mother been happy, as Natalie had assured Dean she’d been? Had Natalie been part of that happiness?

She wanted to cry some more, but she was worn out from crying. It was late and she needed to sleep.

She got up and slipped into a nightgown from her suitcase, then went to wash her face and brush her teeth. The bathroom was another still life—big porcelain sink, enormous claw-footed tub. There was some dampness on the floor, which concerned her. As did the rusty hinges and rattling windowpanes, buzzing light fixtures, and probably a host of other undiscovered issues. The old building was in constant need of repair.

Not tonight, though.

Soaps and cosmetics littered the countertop, the scents evoking sweet and painful memories. Propped on the tub rack was a dog-eared book about dealing with dementia. The pages were steam curled, with highlighted passages. Oh, Mom. Why didn’t you tell me more about Grandy’s condition?

The medicine cabinet contained some surprises. Along with the face creams and lip balms, there were prescription bottles for antianxiety medication and another for a sleep aid. Zero refills remaining.

“Anxiety? Really? I wish you’d told me,” she said to her mom in the mirror. “You should’ve said something. I thought we told each other everything.”

She brushed her teeth and got into her mother’s bed. It still had the mom smell, familiar and evocative of the days of her childhood, when she used to skitter into the room in the morning and jump in bed for a snuggle. Then she reopened the novel on the nightstand. She and her mother used to play book games. “The first sentence on page seventy-two dictates your plan for the next day. Or your deepest secret.”

Page 72 of the current book said, The photographer’s darkroom was the only place she could clearly see, the place where she felt most competent and in control .

After reading for a couple of hours, Natalie set aside the book and went to the medicine cabinet. One tablet as needed for insomnia.

Thanks, Mom.

* * *

There were decisions to be made. That was Natalie’s first thought after dragging herself up from the depths of Ambien-induced slumber. Then, of course, fresh grief came rushing in like the morning tide, followed by the dangerous undertow of regret, sneaking in to snatch her out to sea and drown her. She wished she could rewind her life to the moment she’d asked her mother to come up to Archangel. Why, oh why had she invited her mom to the stupid company party?

She got up and took a bath, sinking into a raft of lavender-scented bubbles. She read bits of the dementia book, which made her feel frightened and overwhelmed. Then she dressed and went downstairs to check on her grandfather. He was sound asleep, his hearing aids in a cup on his nightstand. She tiptoed out and turned on the espresso machine in the shop’s coffee cubby. When she was little, that had been her job. To get dressed quickly and run downstairs and turn on the coffee machine so the water would heat up to 195°F, the optimal temperature for making a perfect morning shot. Regular customers had their own personalized mugs on a rack above the espresso machine.