I walked down the aisle, passing by the adult section completely. My steps were brisk, as they were every time I came here. Three more steps forward and I would enter the children’s section. It would be carpeted with a plush forest green, soft for the toddlers to lie down. The walls would be covered with jungle leaves, brightly colored parrots perched on brown branches. The ceiling would still be cracked, thin spider web lines snaking all the way across from one corner to the next. Just like the old days.
The children, most of them only seven or so, looked up, startled to see a ‘big person’ enter their sanctuary. However, these little ones had very short attention spans, and they were off, distracted by a wind chime hanging in front of a window. It was gaudy, one of the cheap ones you could make in a crafts workshop. The kids didn’t know that though; to them, the plastic jewels were real sapphires and amethyst, that yellow, shiny metallic handle really was gold. Ah, the joys of ignorance.
Shrugging it off, I walked over to the shelves. I had already returned Cinderella, which had always been one of her favorites. She loved the fairy godmother, the two little mice, the ethereal prince. I sighed. The days when I would read aloud to her were long gone now. Instead, I could read as much as I wanted, she wouldn’t be able to hear. Or maybe she could.
“Let’s see,” I said to myself, “Which one today?” I stepped up to a shelf, running my hand over the various titles. Alice in Wonderland, Aladdin, Winnie the Pooh… I had already borrowed them all in the past couple of weeks. Hm, maybe. Ah yes! There it was!
I removed the aged book from the bright oaken shelf. I ran a finger down its spine, remembering when Rebecca tore it there. This was one of the first books that we donated to the library, back when it was in its early years. Since then, many more books had found an alcove here. The Pied Piper of Hamelin, such an enchanting tale it was. I remembered Rebecca begging for me to read it to her just one more time.
I flipped through the yellowed pages, loving the feel of rough paper in my hands. I used to do this all the time with Rebecca. She loved the sound of the riffling pages. She didn’t like the character of the Piper though. I remember her exact words: “He’s a mean old man! He took the kids away from their mamas!”
I chuckled and started reading again. It catapulted me back to the old times, when it was just me and Rebecca in the secret hiding place of the garden, and when I would read to her. I flicked over the book’s first few pages.
Once, on a bright and sunny da-
The rest of the page was obscured by messy black writing. I blinked, and looked at it once more. Gasping as I recognized the handwriting, I nearly lost my hold on the book. Rebecca!
Grasping the book tighter, I read over the words. They were so familiar, so much like Rebecca. The ‘e’s were big and looping, ‘t’s short and leaning back. It could be considered chicken scratch to some, but I knew it as well as my own. Rebecca wrote this. I know she did.
Sorry Mama. You tald me not to rit in the booooks but I wanna play tresher hunt. The firs kloo is Sebastian.
I blinked back tears from my eyes. I knew Rebecca was a mischievous girl, but I never imagined something like this. I smiled and started to ponder what she meant. Rebecca had always loved treasure hunts. I would bury a small bracelet out in the backyard and set up clues. She would always find them eventually. Sometimes, she even had them in a matter of minutes.
“Sebastian… why does that name sound so familiar?” I asked myself. A young boy looked up at me with cerulean eyes, a questioning look on his face.
“Hey, miss?” I looked down at him once more, only half paying attention. “Sebastian is the crab people.”
“What?” I asked. “What did you say, kiddo?”
He scowled and crossed his arms. “Don’t call me kiddo. Only my mama calls me kiddo.” I smiled and nodded.
“Alright then. So, who’s Sebastian?”
“He’s the crab people who help Areel.” His face screwed up on the last word, trying to remember the name. He didn’t look much older than eight. I smiled again and ruffled his hair.
“Thanks.” The kid beamed at me and dawdled away. He was probably headed for this mother. I turned away from him and back to the book. I ran my hand over its worn spine, wondering what Rebecca was thinking. How long ago did she write this? What did she want me to find?
I made my way to the checkout counter. “Excuse me,” I began. “Do you have the copy of The Little Mermaid? I donated it here two years ago.”
The person behind the counter looked up dully, apparently not concerned. “Yeah, uh huh. Hold on a minute, lady.” He swiveled his chair around and stared into the computer screen. There was the tapping sound of a keyboard and I anxiously fidgeted with my purse. “Name?” His tone was flat and his eyes half-closed. He didn’t want to be here at all.
“Linda Cross.”
Some more typing.
“Ma’am, your book has been given to the Little Hearts Orphanage.”
The world stopped.
“Would you like another copy?”
“N-no. No thank you,” I forced out. The boy swiveled back again and I couldn’t see his face anymore. I found that I didn’t care either. Normally, such rudeness would bother me. It didn’t anymore. I didn’t feel anything anymore. Well, nothing except crushing despair. That was probably it.
“What are you trying to tell me Rebecca?” I murmured, trying not to cry.
”I love you, Mama.”
