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When the driver pulls up to the curb, I grab my overflowing duffle bag of things out of the backseat and walk quickly to the front door. I know as soon as I’m inside, surrounded by all of my books, I’ll feel better. Going through my usual daily routine of work, walking through the aisles and running my hands over the spines, will ground me and help me forget about everything that happened today.
I grab the door handle to pull it open, and it doesn’t budge. Setting my bag on the ground, I reach into the front pocket of my dress and pull out my keys, sliding them into the lock, but they won’t turn. Pulling the key back out, I flip through the other ones on the keyring, wondering if I picked the wrong key, when something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye.
Looking up, I see a piece of paper taped to the inside of the door that I didn’t notice when I came up. In big, bold letters are the words Closed Indefinitely.
“No, no, no . . . ,” I mutter, shoving my key back into the lock and trying again.
I turn the key as hard as I can, until my fingers start to hurt.
Just when I think I have no more tears left, they start pouring from my eyes again as again and again try to turn the lock and yank on the door handle. After a few minutes, I finally realize what this means: The board closed the library. They came in and closed the library and changed the locks, even though I left them a message and told them I was starting to make money to help keep it open. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t have called me back. I don’t understand why they’d do this earlier than they said they would. I’ll never walk between the aisles again, running my hands over those books. I’ll never open up a box of deliveries, sticking my head inside and breathing in the scent of new books. I’ll never sit on the floor surrounded by children, watching their eyes light up and listening to their laughter as I read them a story. I’ll never see the excitement on a child’s face the first time they get their very own library card. I knew all of this was a possibility, but I never thought it would actually happen. I never prepared myself to say good-bye to my home for the last nine years because I believed and I had hope that this library would get a happy ending.
Just like with Vincent, I was a fool to believe in something so stupid.
My knees give out and I drop to the ground, crying so hard I can’t breathe. Grabbing my duffle bag and pulling it closer, I reach down inside, feeling around for my phone. When I finally find it, I see that I have five missed calls from Mrs. Potter and three from Vincent.
I already know what Mrs. Potter will say, since she was supposed to open the library for me earlier and must have seen the note on the door. And right now, there’s nothing else I care to hear from Vincent. Swiping my arm across my cheeks, I call the only person I can deal with right now.
* * *
“Wow. You have . . . a lot of stuff,” I tell Ariel as I stand in her living room, looking around at everything.
I always thought it was weird that we’ve never been to her home considering she lives right down the street from Cindy, but now I see why. A lot of stuff was a polite way of saying she could be on an episode of that TV show Hoarders. I knew she used to own an antique store and when she lost the business after her divorce, she had to move everything here. But I thought she’d gotten rid of a lot of her things in the last few months to pay her bills. But she’s got items covering every surface of the room, from the fireplace to the end tables to the floor. She’s also got several pieces of antique furniture, from chests of drawers to Victorian chairs, also all piled with more stuff. There are gilded frames of every shape and size hanging on the walls, and even sitting on the floor and leaning up against the walls. Some of them have old oil paintings in them, and some are just empty frames. There are vases and figurines, typewriters and jewelry boxes, pocket watches and cuckoo clocks. There’s even an old glass-front armoire filled to the brim with old, creepy, porcelain dolls.
I walk over to an old pedestal table shoved into a corner. It’s covered in nothing but teacups of every size, shape, and color, aside from one item that stands out amongst the pretty cups.
