The Bookstore Women
When I open the door, the bell rings and two women turn to face me from behind the counter. Both wear dresses with masks that match: blue with blue and blue with yellow. This is the kind of routine we’ve grown accustomed to; my own mask, aqua and patterned with chickens, was picked specifically to complement my best black tee. The women call out a haphazard greeting, and as I step closer I see that they’re both dark haired and similar in stature. I think they’re Sandy and Kelli, but I can’t tell everyone apart just yet. It’s not easy when half of our faces are obscured.
If I had to put money on it, I’d be willing to bet they didn’t recognize me at first either. They’ve not yet memorized the exact shape of my eyes and the way my hair looks from the back, as they can with the others. I’m new, young, and still in training.
Three months ago, I applied for a job at a bookshop the size of my basement, at most. In the midst of this nightmare from which we haven’t yet woken, I decided that I had too much time on my hands. That, and a diploma. All the community engagements and activities that I held close slipped right through my fingers, so I read more than ever. Then, with a tired brain and feeble eyes, I found another way to get lost in books.
Now, three months into my first job, I’m looking back on the early days, on all the small moments I’ve shared with the seven women at the shop, each a delight in their own way. There’s Katie, the closest to my age and the most similar to me. She is unashamed to enjoy Twilight and let me visit her Animal Crossing island after work one day. Then there’s Kelli, a woman with an accent I can’t quite place, maybe New York. She calls me honey and once stapled a bag of homemade cookies to the bulletin board. My name was written in Sharpie on the front.
Next is Julie, with whom I’ve worked the fewest hours. Even so, she remembers my love for biology and asks after my college plans with a smile I don’t doubt for a second. Then Sandy, who brought me a plastic bag full of old french books. She knows I’m collecting as many vocabulary words as I can before my classes start. And Maria, who wears the same Birkenstocks as I do. There’s also Susan, who let me take time during a shift to browse the shelves of advanced copies in the small staff room. To me, this seemed like a significant gesture; by going to the back I was leaving her to fend for herself when two customers had just walked through the door. But Susan’s been here the longest; she wouldn’t have needed my help anyway.
I’m not sure I should be saying so, but she’s my favorite.
Last is Kathy, our boss. Anyone, with working eyes or not, could see how much Kathy loved her store.
As my time in the bookshop grew longer and the number of books I shelved larger, I got to know these women, most old enough to be my mother. The stories they’ve told me have not escaped my ears. I know that Sandy’s son is currently at Penn State and Katie studied creative writing at Kenyon College. I know that Susan’s grandchildren like the Magic Tree House books best.
What I didn’t expect was that in as little as three months these women would know me too. Usually, I’m a tough nut to crack; I ask too much but offer too little. It makes me feel better to hoard secrets, but these seven women got under my skin and dragged them out. Due to the global circumstances, my hours with them made up the only genuinely warm interactions I had all spring and for most of summer. That mattered; with every casual conversation made at the counter, I was given a reminder of what it’s like to be enveloped by others. While at first I was startled at their small kindnesses, like the cookies and the french books, I settled into them. By now, I’ve relearned that I deserve and can accept things that are good, even and especially in hard times.
On one of my last days before halting work in favor of school, I worked with Susan. Because the total hours I’d spent with Susan were the longest and the most enjoyable, I knew this was a nice way to end things at the bookshop, for the time being. What I got was more than nice.
Halfway through our shift, she pulled a book out of her grey purse. There was a green piece of paper folded as a bookmark, and I could tell from the cover that it was an advanced copy. From the title I could tell that it was simply an arc of a new book that just recently hit the bestseller list. It was Migrations by Charlotte McConaghy, the same book I’d been staring at during my shifts all week with tentative interest. Some books have a pull, and I know when I see them.
Susan, gesturing to her makeshift bookmark, explained, “I’ve only just started it, but it reminded me of you.” When I stared at her blankly, she urged me to read the back and the first few pages, sliding me the book as if it were a shuffleboard piece. I obliged.
The book was perfect. We talked some about the writing, about how lyrical and interesting it was, before Susan disappeared into the staff room without another word. Though I was a little curious as to what she needed all the way back there, the phone rang and I was sufficiently occupied with orders.
By the time I hung up, Susan was on her way back to the counter with a book in her hands, a small smile on her face. I should’ve known, even before she held the copy up: it was another arc of Migrations.
“Want it?” she asked offhandedly, and I began to smile too. I did. I wanted it very much.
“A book about wanderers for a wanderer” I joked, but I felt transparent.
Often, I’m the kind of person who runs away from things. Mistrust is an instinct, one I’ve been trying hard to unlearn. On some days, it feels like I would be much more at ease if I moved somewhere nobody knew me, a fresh start in a new space where no one relied on me. In simpler terms, I have a mind that wanders places my feet can’t. Yes, I am fascinated by birds, by flight and migration. I was a little uneasy about the fact that Susan picked up on my flightiness before I willingly let her, but I was also grateful. It is nicer than I thought, feeling understood or at least seen. Besides, Migrations gave me something to recognize and love, with no boundaries.
All of my days at the bookshop were more than I expected or asked for. That said, I was always excited to see who’d be working by my side, and doubly excited to rearrange the books on the staff picks shelves, their covers overlapping into a strange mosaic of voices my women loved. The Bookshop Women, of which I am now one, brought me into their family when I was only looking for extra cash; they gave me a warmth I didn’t know I needed, much less wanted.