“I’m glad I could help. I just feel bad I never returned it.”
Books have a way of making themselves at home, Aunt Helen had once said. I smiled now, at Leonard, and said, “If she had wanted it before, she would have asked for it.”
When he walked away, I read the title:The Search for Eternity: A History of Juan Ponce de León.
“Who’s Ponce de León?” I asked.
Sam leaned over and read the title, and I swear he did the tiniest of double takes, the tiniest of deer-in-the-headlights, caught sort of looks. Then Abe glanced over and said, “You know, the explorer.”
“Ponce de who?” Em asked.
“Why would she want me to have a book about an explorer?” I wondered.
“He was famous,” Abe said. “You’ve really never heard of him? He found the Fountain of Youth!”
“Supposedly,” Sam said quickly and laughed, and then, as if on second thought, added, “It was probablyresearch. For her books.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “That makes sense.”
“Maybe there’s something written in it?” Abe asked.
I opened it and fanned through the pages, and sure enough, toward the beginning of the book, she had circled the phrase “Fountain of Youth” and drawn a line to the margins, where she’d writtenS.W.with three exclamation points next to it.
“S.W. Abe, that’s who she dedicated her last book to!” I said, pointing.
“Huh. I wonder who it was. Didn’t she have a friend named Susan?”
“Or Sarah?” I added. “I have no idea.”
Sam had wandered away again, inspecting the stage. After a moment he came back and said, “It’s about an explorer, so maybe she’s trying to send you a message? To find your own way. To never stop looking for... stuff.”
“That’s deep, Sam,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “What do you guys want to do next?”
“Give me a minute; I’ll meet you out front.”
I waited until the three of them had gone around the side of the building, and then I pulled the next letter from Aunt Helen out of my purse.
Lottie,
The first concert I ever went to was when I was in high school. The concert was in Boston; the band was Chicago. I went with your father; we snuck out of the house and drove the whole way and then drove back with our ears ringing (this is before they really knew about sound damage; sick now to think that ringing sound was irreparable damage to our eardrums, but you live and you learn and then you get earplugs). The concert itself was memorable, I think, only because it was our first. Because the venue was so massive and swallowed up more people than I had ever before imagined fitting into one place. Because we had done something incredibly devious, my brother and I, by sneaking out of the house, by driving all that way by ourselves, by parking in a parking spot that might possibly have been a tow-away zone (it ended up being fine, but we contemplated the possibility of hitchhiking home that night). The concert itself, the actual music and the words delivered to us, I honestly can’t recall. I just remember the overwhelmingness of it all: it was one of those massive moments in my life that you know you are going to remember forever, but not for any of the obvious reasons.
And then, afterward, your father stood up and patted his jeans pocket to check for his keys and realized they weren’t there. So in a very funny turn ofevents we got down on our hands and knees to search for them while the rest of the audience filed out. And then eventually the lights came on and finally the band themselves came out onto the stage and asked us if we needed help. And so imagine us, just kids, with the members of Chicago searching around the seats for the keys to a car that might not even be there, might be impounded or stolen or just vanished into the night. But it WAS there, and we found the keys, and everything ended up being just fine. Better than fine, obviously, because your father and I talked about that night many times over the course of our lives and almost constantly in the weeks that followed (it helped to remember it when we were both grounded for two months afterward).
It’s memories and nights like that one that I keep coming back to, over and over again. I think that is normal, to try to insert yourself back into old spaces, to try to trick your body into believing you’re actually there again. Except it never quite works the way I want it to—but almost. Some nights when I put the right music on and open the windows and light a candle or two—some nights I can imagine I am in high school again or living in your father’s garage or running after an immortal boy. Sometimes I can imagine I am anywhere or anyone I want to be.
It’s been a great comfort, these past few months:music. I want to share that with you, Lottie. Listen to music. I mean listen. Really, really listen. And see where it brings you.
My favorite song is called “Time in a Bottle.” Jim Croce. If you haven’t left Magic Grooves yet, go ahead and buy yourself a copy.
Love, H.
“Time in a Bottle”? I didn’t think I’d ever heard it.
I folded up her letter carefully and put it back into my purse. I walked around the side of the building and found the others by the car.
“Give me a second, okay? I think there’s something I want to get,” I said and headed back into Magic Grooves.
