The bookshop had multiple doors. There was a huge wooden door, painted beige, so heavy it took one’s entire bodyweight to heft open, with a generously sized brass lock at eye level. Then, inside the vestibule, the thin glass door with vinyl lettering swung easily open to welcome visitors with its pleasant bell.
Last year, and many years before that, the counter at the front of the bookshop had served made-to-order crepes. We loved stopping before a day of sightseeing. Just one train stop from our usual hotel, we’d fuel up with crepes and buy a book to read on the train. Of course, all the businesses in the city had fallen on hard times. The row of formerly lively shops now featured dark, cavernous spaces. Thank goodness the bookstore was still open, though its paint was chipped and its inventory dusty. Crepes were sold pre-packaged, now, wrapped in plastic film and a bit clammy to the touch even after being heated.
Dad asked me to order him a crepe (the usual, ham and cheese) while he browsed. I approached the counter with a cheerful, “Bonjour!” “Bonjour,” the clerk replied grouchily. “Do you want a crepe?” I was embarrassed by his quick switch to English. I’d forgotten that this was an enclave of English amid the French spoken in the rest of town. I hoped I hadn’t offended him. After I placed the order, he grunted, “It’ll be a few minutes. Cash or card?”
I handed him my card, and he passed back the handwritten credit card register. It was like a library due-date card, a written record of who had used the service and when. At this shop, international credit card usage required that extra step. There hadn’t been many entries in the past year, further evidence of how difficult it had been. I could still see my name near the top of the page, dated last summer. I was startled to see, a few spaces below mine, the distinctive name of a girl I’d gone to high school with. How odd to think that she had been here, too. We hadn’t seen each other in 15 years, but our paths had silently crossed, a world away from where we’d started.
While I waited for the crepes, I joined Mom in the stacks of crumbling old books. I noticed she was crying as she paged through a thick book. I hate to see her cry. Yet it happens fairly often. I wondered what chord the book had struck with her, which loss it caused her to re-experience. I softened my face and moved next to her silently, ready to console.
I wanted to cry, too, when I realized the treasure she held in her hands, but I was too overcome with amazement. I recognized the spidery handwriting instantly, captioning the photos with names, dates, and editorial interjections. Grandpa. He had made a scrapbook. It must have been after Grandma died, in those last few lonely years before he followed her. Each turn of the page caused a gentle crackle of old glue. Smiling out of the photos were people I knew and loved, including my own younger self. Also tucked into the pages were book recommendations, playbills, brochures from travel adventures, and handwritten fragments of memory and advice.
I was hungry to soak in all the poignant details, but I tore my eyes away to share an astonished look with Mom. “Did you know this existed?” I asked softly, as if a loud volume would make the book disintegrate in her hands. She shook her head no. She tried to speak, but her throat caught, and she had to gently clear it. “He made this for us. He knew we’d find it here.”
[Prompt from TeachWrite: Write a piece of flash fiction that begins and/or ends with a book. 750 word limit.]
Photo by Eli Francis on Unsplash.