Withstanding the Enemy

Three Emma

Emma…

I scan my room to make sure I didn’t forget anything. “Ok—books check— gym bag check—”

All right, ready!

Satisfied I had everything, I grab my phone and type out a text to Rick.

Going to the library, then pool.

Not expecting a response, I shove the phone in my back pocket just as it chimes.

Stay in the building, back to penthouse by 5:00 pm. Ready for supper at 6:00, no later. We will be going over some changes around here. I can’t have you being late. Then three dots appear showing he is typing. Have a nice swim.

I almost drop my phone. I grip on to it tightly reading the last line again. Rick never responds, let alone: Have a nice swim.

How do I respond to him? Is he testing me? And what changes is he talking about? Most of the time I know what he wants to hear, but when Rick is unpredictable, it’s a scary thing and it’s happening more often recently.

I make the decision to not respond and pray it was the right one as I put my phone back and pick up my gym bag.

The elevator opens and I step in as I think of what book I want to get lost in this time. I light up the number seven button to head to the library as my mind drifts to my conversation with Ms. May. What was she hinting at between me and Chance? I jump when the elevator signals a stop bringing me back to reality.

I step into the private hallway where shades of purple color the walls and extra-large burgundy chairs sit on either side of the elevator door. A hundred-year-old golden chandelier hangs low in the middle of the room. I admire its beautiful grace as I make my way down the hall.

I open the door to the public passageway, which is decorated in a more modern, sleek design with glass windows that show an unbelievable view of the hustle of New York City. I look out to the hazy streets and the memories of living on those streets haunts me.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts, and feeling more focused, I turn in the direction of the library. The library is the smallest of the businesses on this floor—the other shops include a coffee shop, bakery, and pizza shop. The library is tucked away in the farthest corner, as if it is being isolated from the world.

Once I reach the library, the smell of old books overtakes me immediately. As I enter, a feeling of safety washes over me. Books have that effect on me. It wasn’t like, I had a lot of books growing up, but the few that I did have were great treasures and sources of comfort to me.

I look around the disorganized library as books are thrown askew across the shelves and papers sit disheveled along the desk. Oh, Ms. Gale. I roll my eyes.

“Hello, Ms. Gale?” I shout, though I know you are supposed to whisper in a library.

“Yes, dear, I’m in the As—you know—the biographies.” Her old voice echoes against the walls.

“Okay,” I answer. “Be there in a minute.”

I walk behind the desk in the center of the room and set my books in the return pile so I can check them in later. Then I lay my bag under the desk and make my way to Ms. Gale.

I find the little, fragile old woman standing on a ladder, trying to reach a book on the top shelf. She is stretched as far as she can go.

“Oh, dear me, I must be shrinking in my old age.”

“Here, let me help you, so you don't fall.”

Ms. Gale chuckles as she climbs down slowly, “Well you can try, but you’re not much taller than me, dear.” She steps off the ladder and moves aside.

I laugh. “No, I’m not, but if I fall, I won’t break like you. Plus, I am tough and can handle it.”

She shakes her head, “Yes, sometimes too tough, I'm afraid.”

I ignore her and continue up the ladder. “Now, what book do you want down?” I ask when I reach the top.

“The Diary of a Young Girl. The one by Anne Frank,” she says with a sparkle in her eyes, pointing at the book on her tippy-toes. “Oh, how I love that one.”

I turn back to the books and reach up—also having to go onto my toes. I stretch as far as I can. “I … I … GOT IT!”

“Yaayy.” Ms. Gale jumps up and down before ripping it out of my hand as soon as I step off the ladder. I shake my head and laugh as I follow her back to the desk. Ms. Gale sits down in front of the register and gleams up at me.

“Child, the history I have with this book…” She pauses. “I lost the first one I owned years ago. I thought I would never see it again. Then, one day, someone donated a stack of books, and sure enough, there it was. You see here,” she points to her initials on the edge of the spine. “It made its way back to me.” She fanned her fingers over the worn cover. “My husband bought this book for me as a wedding gift. That’s when I discovered the love of reading…” She trails off and I notice moisture in her eyes.

I watch as her eyes change to a haze—clearly lost in her memories. The last time I interrupted her when she was like this, she acted as if she didn’t know where she was and who I was. Ms. Gale is at the beginning stages of dementia and her health leaves the library’s future in limbo. As I watch her get lost in her own mind, I feel another sense of urgency to convince Rick to let me work here.

I decide to leave Ms. Gale to her memories and walk over to the return pile, to help her get caught up. There are two piles, with eight to ten books in each stack. I pick up the first pile and walk over to the computer—fully equipped with a system that’s dated back to the early 90s. One by one, I go through the pile, logging in the books. I notice most of the books are ones I borrowed but I also see a few books on the early wars which are not mine. I also spot a book about poetry that immediately sparks my curiosity.

I look them all up in the dinosaur-aged system. There is no information associated with them. Of course! Ms. Gale probably just hands them out.

Only God knows who has books out that were never returned. As her dementia progresses, she clearly isn’t even checking books in or out and I can’t keep up with it all with what little time I am allowed to help.

I walk over to the second pile just as Ms. Gale comes back to reality. “Oh thank you, dear. You didn’t have to,” she says in a barely audible whisper.

I turn to her. “Anytime. Plus, most of these books are the ones I borrowed anyway. I might as well put them away for you.”

In a dreamy hen click, she says, “Maybe, but this week there was a young gentleman. He was quite dashing and had the dreamiest eyes. Reminded me of my Hank, when we first met. Oh, how handsome he was…”

I wait for her to elaborate but she falls silent and I know she was gone into her mind again.

I continue to log in books, almost on auto pilot, as my own mind drifts to a pair of my own dreamy eyes—Ocean Eyes. Those haunting eyes can easily suck you into another world.

I blink a few times and chuckle. It’s like I’m a kid with an imaginary friend … named Ocean Eyes…

Maybe I should pick a different genre to read this week, clearly those romance novels are causing my imagination to run wild.

I laugh at myself and get back to work.