Page 24 of What You Wish For

“I’m no expert on love,” I said. “But I don’t think that’s how it works.”

It was preposterous. I hadn’t dated anyone since the seizures came back. Partly, yes, because the pickings on the island were slim. But also, I liked stability. More than that, Ineededstability. Especially now. Stasis. Routine. Even if it were possible to “fall in love with somebody real quick,” this particular moment of emotional chaos would be the worst possible time to choose. Plus—and I had never admitted this to anyone, maybe not even to myself—I’d already given up.

Because there was a persistent, unanswered question at the center of my life. One that had come back into my head when the seizures returned. One I didn’t even fully realize I kept asking. One I wasn’t sure I even wanted to answer.

Who could love me now?

I’d never even thought it in words, much less said it out loud.

And I wasn’t going to start today.

four

I did not have a seizure that night—or the next night, or the next.

Sometimes they threaten but never come.

But they sure can sharpen your focus. In the wake of it, I just tried to settle, and adjust, andnot have a seizure.

So much easier said than done. Especially when you start stressing about the fact that you aren’t managing to de-stress.

The truth was, I had more to do than it was possible to get done. I hadn’t worked in the library all summer. Not since Max died, for sure—but even before that, when I’d been so happily planning his party, thinking I’d get to my cataloguing later. Then, after the funeral, I’d fussed over Babette: organizing the service, doing her laundry, baking her blueberry muffins that she never ate, watering her garden, and stacking the unread condolence cards in alphabetical order.

Summer was my time to get organized: to catch up and to plan ahead. But this summer, I hadn’t done either. And now summer was almost over.

So: No more messing around. It was time to handle it all—the shock,the grief, the dread, the anticipation, the anxiety—the old-fashioned way: like a workaholic.

Convenient. Because I really did have a ton of work.

It takes long hours and late nights to gear up for the start of a school year, even in a normal year—cataloging all our new books, stamping them (I’m a title-page and edge-of-the-pages stamper), bar-coding them, wrapping the jackets in plastic covers, and getting them all on the shelves. Plus: decorating, organizing, lesson planning, Marie Kondo-ing my cabinets, checking in on teachers’ upcoming lesson plans, and stocking books to tie in with study units and book reports. It’s a lot of planning, but it’s also a lot of physical work, and it can only go so fast.

I’m always astonished at the number of people who think I just “hang out” in the library all day. Not to mention the number who think all I do is read. Plus, of course, the kids—who literally think I live there.

Like, they think it’s my actual home.

I do read—constantly—but not during the workday. During the workday, I’m helping kids find the books they need and then teaching them self-checkout. I’m teaching classes on how to find books, and how to be good library citizens, and why stories are important. I’m reading books to every grade level, even the big kids. I’m training volunteers to help restock the shelves, and poring over catalogs to find new books for the library, and weeding old books from the stacks. Plus: lunch duty, faculty meetings, author visits, planning classes, and let’s not forget, in the spring, countless hours of inventory.

It’s more work than people think it is.

It’s more work than even I think it is.

Plus, this year, I’d bought—with my own money—a multicolored hanging sculpture made up of brightly painted recycled bicycle parts. It had looked so soothing on the website where I’d found it, and I’d gotten mesmerized by a video of it gently spinning… but when the box arrived, and I saw the random bags of at least a hundred pieces to assemble—I’d closed it again right away.

Nope. Never mind.

It was going to take me a million hours to put together, at minimum.As far as my to-do list went, assembling that sculpture would have to be dead last.

Workaholism worked and it didn’t work at the same time.

In the abstract, when I think of “de-stressing,” I think of bubble baths, and page-turning novels, and naps under fuzzy blankets—and the truth was, I didn’t have time for any of that. But chipping away at all my piled-up work did have a stress-reducing effect, and not only because I felt a little less panicked with each to-do item I scratched off: it kept me from looking at the big picture. It kept me from thinking about the past, and it kept me from trying to imagine the future, and it let me stay focused on whatever tiny next step was right in front of me.

There is something comforting about tunneling down your focus like that. It was kind of a can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees effect. And in certain moments of relief, I forgot about the forest entirely.

Which is how, the night before our first scheduled faculty meeting with Duncan, Alice was able to shock me like she did. I knew it was Sunday—but I’d just kind of lost track for a little bit of which Sunday it was.

I was walking over to the grocery store to stock up for the week, when I got this pretty standard text from Alice: “Great news!”

“What???” I texted back.

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