Page 39 of The Book Swap

“Do you ever think about coming back?” I ask. Since reading Margins Girl’s comment about siblings, I’ve been wondering what it would be like if he was here too. How it might change things.

He looks directly into the camera and I try to read his expression.

“All the time,” he says. “But I’ve been gone so long it’s almost like I don’t know how to.”

“There’s this thing called an airplane...”

“Ha ha.”

I don’t want him to make this a joke, I realize. I want him to come home.

“You know you can always come visit us too?” he says. “I’m always here. I don’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah...” I bite my thumb, thinking again about the time that he wasn’t there.

He nods, glancing away from the camera and back. “I should. Listen, I...”

“No problem.”

“Bye, Jordan,” I shout, just as Elliot hangs up, silence ringing out louder than his voice for a moment before there’s no sound at all.

We’ve run out of words. It happens every time. Once we’ve covered my work, our parents and his life in New York, we’ve got nothing left. Or we’ve got everything left, but neither of us want to bring any of it up. I don’t because I’m too afraid of his reaction, and he doesn’t because he’s spent his whole life trying to separate himself from the atmosphere in our home. To move on.

Pulling on my Barbour jacket with the big pockets, I leave the flat. I’ve been trying to figure out when the latest pair of books might be returned to the library, and I’ve decided that it probably happened this morning. Saturday morning is the perfect time to wander along to Eileen’s library. Margins Girl probably had a coffee while she finished off her notes, then walked through the park—because that’s always the route I imagine—and put them on the shelves on her way to... pilates, or something. I’ve waited until three, just in case she needs more time, but I can’t wait any longer. I’ve sort of got my heart set on the books being there. If they’re not, I don’t know what I’ll do with my weekend. My plans focus around writing my book, and reading hers.

Leaving the park at the bottom exit, I throw my scarf back around my face and put my hands in my pockets. I imagine the two books sitting in the library, waiting for me. My heart’s pounding with anticipation, and I’m sure this can’t be normal. To be so excited to receive something from a stranger. Someone who could be anyone. That’s what’s driving me toward the library though. I’m hoping that these next books might give me some of the answers I need. If she’s replied, maybe I’ll get closer to finding out who she is.

Reaching the corner of Northway Road, I’m ready to cross over to the library when I see there’s already somebody there. Stumbling backward, I move behind the last parked car on the street, ducking slightly. There’s a woman crouched on the ground with her back to me. She’s got a rainbow tote bag on her shoulder and one book on the pavement to her left as she balances, bending over something on her lap.

I can’t seem to catch my breath, and I duck farther, resting my head against the boot of the car. This could be anyone. Just one of the many people who use the library. It doesn’t mean it’s her. Glancing back, the woman picks up the book on the ground and rests another in its place. I catch sight of the black cover with the image on the front as she puts it down before I turn away again. It’s her. That’s the book I chose. It’s Mansfield Park. Fuck! I’m meters away from Margins Girl and I don’t know what to do. I’d never considered that she could be sitting there waiting for me instead of the books. Do I introduce myself? I try to picture it. The woman turning around, pushing her long brown hair away from her face and looking straight at me. And at that point I say...what exactly? What if she doesn’t like the look of me? Or what if she’s been doing this without any actual desire to ever meet me? The second I show my face, our exchange is over. She might even take the books away with her, and then I’ll never know what she said back. If she’s even replied. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to gather my thoughts. All I’ve been able to think about since this started is meeting the woman behind these comments. Finding out who’s on the other end of the notes in the margin—but now she’s there, I don’t think I can. I’m not sure I’m ready. Edging back toward my viewing point, I look again at the library. Its doors are closed, and she’s gone.

I can hear the sound of footsteps—except they’re getting closer. Spinning left to right, I expect to see the owner of the rainbow tote bag, but instead it’s a man walking toward the bridge. He slows at the library and bends down. No fucking way. Straightening, I run across the road.

“Sorry, mate—something in there for me,” I say and he frowns, shaking his head, his wax jacket squeaking.

“What is it with this library? It makes people very weird.”

He walks off in the direction he came from, and I lean back on my feet, staring at the plaque.

“Hi, Eileen,” I whisper, opening the doors and reaching in for my books. Maybe I’m going mad but I’m sure I can still smell the scent of the woman’s perfume in the air. Something floral, like roses, and sweet.

I glance quickly toward the bridge, just in case she’s still nearby, but there’s no one to be seen.

I turn to the back of Mansfield Park, smiling as I scan the page. Meet me in The Great Gatsby? A book I’ve been meaning to read but never have, so of course that’s what she’s chosen. I can see handwriting pressed through the page from the other side. She’s replied to my questions.

Pulling out the Fitzgerald book I can’t help but flick through it quickly. My eyes are hungry for her words. For anything. There’s one note right at the end. After the last page. I stare at it.

Thank you for giving me the freedom to be myself.

A lump forms in my throat and I swallow it down. What was I thinking? I just got the chance to meet her, and in true James fashion, I blew it. I was so afraid it wouldn’t be perfect that I didn’t dare try, and now I might have lost my only chance. I close the doors, tapping the roof of the library, and then I look around in case I can see her somewhere, but she’s gone. At least I haven’t lost all of her, I think as I put the books in my coat pocket. The most important part of her is still with me, and now I know a bit more about her.

I know she wears a black Puffa jacket. That she’s got long brown hair, and a colorful bag, just like Eileen would have wanted. I know she worries about her comments. Takes time, in the freezing cold, to read through what she’s written before she puts the books back. Those things are more than enough, for now, until she responds again.

The sun comes out as I carry the books home, and I turn my face toward it, breathing in the air from the park and thinking of Bonnie, as I often do.

This time I see her across from me in the car, sun shining through the window and lighting her up, so she’s glowing. It was the third or fourth time I’d driven her to chemo.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, closing her eyes, and I knew, in that moment, that while Erin might never forgive me, Bonnie had. I nodded and looked away to hide the tears in my eyes, and I drove her home. Whenever I think of Bonnie now, she’s got the sunshine blazing down on her, lighting her up like an angel. She’d probably hate that. She wouldn’t want to be an angel.

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