by Hillary Avis
What would happen if she did? She’d lose guardianship of the library, somehow? If it worked, maybe it would be worth it. But if it didn’t, she’d lose her chance to delve deeper into the history recorded in the books. She’d lose her chance to read all Paul’s memories herself. That was too much to risk. The books had to stay in the library.
Or did they?
She sank down onto the bench next to the dog food. Myra brought the Guardians book out here on the porch to show her. That meant that, even though guardians weren’t supposed to remove books from the library, they could. Allison might not be able to take a book to Golden Gardens or the gazebo, but she could definitely take them out to the porch. It was some kind of gray area. Not inside the library but not out of it, either. What if she brought Paul here and showed him one of his old memories? Would that stick? Would he believe it?
Pogo pawed at the front door and whined, pulling her out of her daydream. She nodded to him. “Yes, let’s go inside. I have some work to do.”
She unlocked the door and dragged the dog food to the kitchen, where she fed Pogo his dinner a little early and scarfed down a peanut butter and huckleberry jam sandwich as fast as she could. Her diet of canned fruit cocktails and emergency sandwiches left something to be desired from a nutritional standpoint, but she figured there were worse things to eat than a PBJ. She’d hit the grocery store after her walk with Paul tomorrow and fill the fridge with more virtuous offerings.
Licking the last of the jam from her fingers and brushing the crumbs from the counter, Allison eyed the books in the pantry. She needed to find one of Paul’s memories, and baking seemed like an obvious choice. Nobody in Remembrance had baked more than him, so the books in the pantry would be full of him. She scanned the titles as she ran her fingers lightly over the spines. Baking Bread. Baking with Grandma. Baking Pies. Baking Christmas Treats. Baking Disasters. She paused, giggling. That one might be fun to browse if she ever had some time and needed a laugh.
She slid Baking Bread off the shelf. It was a heavy book, inches thick, bound in soft, tan leather that looked a lot like a perfectly browned loaf of bread. She cracked it open to peruse the table of contents, looking for Paul’s name, but it was organized by type of brad. The chapter headings were things like “Challah” and “Honey Wheat.” She sighed and flipped through the pages, looking for his name.
A passage in the “Pumpernickel Rye” chapter caught her eye.
“Paul slid a baking sheet halfway out of the top oven to show her. She could see how the ‘X’ he’d cut in the top had pulled open...” The scent of baking rye hit Allison’s nostrils, sending a wave of nostalgia through her body.
“See? The cornstarch glaze you brushed on is what gives it that beautiful glossy crust,” Paul said. He deftly flipped one of the loaves over on the sheet and flicked it with his forefinger. The bread gave a hollow thump. “Hear that? Perfectly done. If it sounds muted, it needs a few more minutes. Make sense?” He glanced over at her, his eyebrows raised.
She nodded, unable to look away from his bright blue eyes. They were like little pieces of sky. He flipped the other loaf on the tray, holding the tray lower so she could reach.
She awkwardly flicked the bread, mimicking his movements, and was gratified to hear the bread’s hollow sound. “It’s done!”
“Good. You’ve got it.” He moved the tray to the cooling rack and then smiled at her. “Now test the rest of them!”
She quickly got to work, pulling baking sheets, flipping the bread, and thumping the bottom of each loaf. Only a couple of them needed more time. The rest she pulled to the cooling racks. She stood back to view them as a group—twenty loaves, the first batch she’d made herself from start to finish since she began working at the Ryes & Shine. She’d picked pumpernickel rye because she knew it was Paul’s favorite and she wanted to impress him.
He clapped her on the shoulder and she jumped in surprise, letting out a giggle-shriek. “Well done, Al! You’re a natural.”
He grabbed a loaf and cut off a warm, fragrant slice. He slathered it with salted butter and took a bite, his eyes closing as he chewed. After he swallowed, he opened them again and he stared at her. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
She knew he meant more than just the bread.
Allison closed the book, and the memory vanished. Her memory. Not Paul’s. She opened the book again and thumbed through chapter after chapter. But every time she saw Paul’s name and scanned the lines around it, it was her own memory she read, not his. Of course, she’d baked bread with him a million times. But where were his memories of baking bread with her?
Her eyes filled with tears, half-blinding her, and she dropped the book on the counter, sagging against the cabinets while she waited for the swell of emotion to subside. She brushed away the tears and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
Maybe Paul’s memories just weren’t recorded in the baking books, much as Theo’s weren’t filed in Important Deliveries. Baking was Paul’s all-encompassing work, not just a memorable activity. And when he baked, he was probably thinking of a million other things at the same time. Maybe his memory of showing her how to make pumpernickel rye loaves was in a book called Falling in Love. Or just Wednesday Afternoons.
She gave a half-hearted smile at her own joke and stood up to shelve Baking Bread in the pantry. Anyway, what good would it do for Paul to remember baking? He could forget that forever as far as she was concerned. The only real reason to recover his memories was so they could have their life back, their family back, their marriage back. What memory would bring all that back?
Of course, their wedding. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Their wedding was the perfect thing to show him on their silver anniversary. Maybe it would unlock a cascade of memories...or at least convince him that Allison was still his wife. Even if he didn’t love her now, he’d know that at one time, he did.
She blazed through the house, on a mission to locate any books about weddings. She finally found them above the headboard in the back bedroom. Outdoor Weddings. Rained-Out Weddings. Church Weddings. Beach Weddings. Barn Weddings. Where was the book for “bakery weddings”? They’d married inside the Ryes & Shine and then walked across the street to Founders Square for the picnic reception.
Maybe it was in Small Weddings. They’d only had about forty people at the ceremony, just their families and a few friends. It seemed like the whole world was there in the room with them, but she supposed it was small by wedding standards. She pulled the volume down off the shelf and opened it, holding her breath as she ran down the list of names. There it was—“Rye, Paul & Evenson, Allison, page 111.”
Her hands shook as she found the right place and began reading.
“Paul took Allison’s hand and repeated the vows as he slid the ring onto her finger. Joyful tears poured down Allison’s face as she stared into his eyes...” Allison shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair as she watched the ceremony. Paul was too old for little Allie, of course, but maybe he’d help her grow up. She’d always been a little flighty, the kind of kid who you’d find asleep in the hayrick with a litter of puppies when she was supposed to be pulling weeds in the vegetable patch.
“...husband and wife!” Pastor Cal said gleefully, closing his bible. “You may kiss the bride.”
She watched the couple have their first kiss as married people, grateful for the chance to stand and applaud them as they stood there, blushing and grinning like fools, and rub the kink out of her lower back. Fools in love. Everyone was a fool in love. These two would have their hard times, but of course they didn’t know that now. At least—she glanced around at the bakery’s well-stocked shelves—they’d never go hungry.
“The picnic will start at noon, across the street,” Pastor Cal announced over the buzzing guests.
Allison’s stomach growled and she checked the clock. A little over an hour until they’d get to eat, while Allie and Paul took photographs. Why it was going to take a full hour to photograph two people
who didn’t even have a wedding party, she didn’t know. Click, click, done. Let’s eat.
Back in the day, guests at least got a cocktail hour while they waited. They weren’t stuck just standing around, pretending that it took an hour to walk across the street and chatting with relatives they’d rather not, while the weeds took over the garden and the dust piled up on the furniture. Maybe she could hide in the bathroom and avoid talking to people that way—
Allison snapped the book shut to end the memory—her Aunt Marjorie’s memory, she now realized. Marjorie always was a little bit anti-social, but it was still jarring to see her own wedding from someone else’s point of view. Paul, too old for her? He was only seven years older, hardly a May-December relationship. And there were snacks and lemonade while the guests waited for the proper picnic, even if there wasn’t a full bar.
Aunt Marjorie was right, though—it hadn’t taken an hour for the photographs. She and Paul spent the rest of the time in the apartment upstairs, sitting on the sofa with their arms around each other, just staring into each other’s eyes.
“Is this real?” Paul had asked her, and she’d just nodded, too breathless to answer as she tried to memorize every line and pore of his face.
Allison swallowed, remembering how she’d thrilled at his touch through the thin lace of her wedding gown’s sleeves when he ran his hands down her arms. Where was that memory of their wedding day? Instead she was stuck with the crabby aunt’s version.
She couldn’t show Paul a memory that wasn’t his. Marjorie’s strange take on the wedding would just confuse him. Even Allison felt disoriented when she read the magical books and saw other people’s perspectives, even though she fully understood what was happening. She had to keep looking for his memories—she had to find one that was strong and distinctive, one that he wouldn’t be able to deny came from his own mind. He didn’t have to know why or how the memory came to life before his eyes. He just had to see it. Live it.
She racked her brain for where Paul’s memory of the wedding might be, sorting out the wedding books into two piles on the bed, one pile for “definitely not,” one for “possible.” Then she dove in, checking each “possible” book for one of their surnames or the bakery’s name or any possible connection to their wedding day.
She found more memories of that day: Paul’s cousin Fred Norris’s memory of the picnic in Outdoor Weddings, even though the wedding ceremony had been held indoors. Her friend Ivy’s memory of helping her with her makeup was in Bridesmaids, even though Ivy wasn’t officially in the wedding party. But none of her memories, and none of Paul’s.
She went through the “definitely not” pile, too, the ones about ceremonies on the beach and Catholic weddings and things like that, just in case the library somehow glitched and stored their wedding in the wrong place, but didn’t find it there, either. Sadly, she put away the books, kneeling on the bedspread as she replaced them on the shelf above.
Pogo jumped up on the bed next to her from where he’d been resting on the floor and she stroked him, smiling as she remembered Aunt Marjorie’s characterization of her as a little girl, hiding in a pile of hay with a litter of puppies to get out of the garden chores. It wasn’t far from the truth—it wasn’t that she hated gardening as much as that she loved animals. It was all a matter of perspective, though, and Aunt Marjorie’s perspective was that the weeds wouldn’t wait.
“Why can’t I find my own memory?” she asked Pogo as she sank back down on her heels. “It’s not like I’d forget the best day of my life.”
She laughed out loud. Of course, she had answered her own question—she’d never thought of it as her wedding day. She always remembered it as the best day of her life. They’d joked about it, actually. She’d say it was the best day of their lives and Paul would correct her, saying it was the second-best day. The best day was when Emily was born.
She picked up the dog and gave him an impulsive squeeze before joyfully restarting her search for the right book, now that she knew what she was looking for. Pogo followed her from room-to-room as she pulled books out of nightstands, dresser drawers, desks, bookshelves, and linen closets. She opened boxes, bags, cupboards, and cabinets. She looked under beds, chairs, sinks, tables, and footstools...and on top of tables, counters, plate rails, and the mantel. She even pulled furniture out from the wall and looked behind it, but it was no use.
Dusty, exhausted, and frustrated, she abandoned her search to let Pogo out to do his business in the back yard. It was just after eight thirty, the sun barely set, and she watched the dog run around the yard, enjoying the bright evening as he marked his new territory by peeing about a hundred times. Well, he’d watched her look through a hundred books, so it was a fair turn.
A mosquito landed on her upper arm and she slapped it, leaving a streak of blood. “Come on in! I’m getting eaten up!” she called to Pogo, who was inspecting the back fence line. He lifted his head to look at her, seemed to debate whether to obey, and then went back to his important nosework.
Allison rolled her eyes and moved to scoop him up, but Pogo danced away from her, egging her on with an eruption of high-pitched yips. She fixed him with a stern look as he leaped and whirled on the grass. She did not have the energy for a game of chase, not after being sapped by the long and fruitless search.
Rather than running in circles after a tiny terrier, Allison located the moving box stuffed with dog treats and chew toys and tore open a packet of bone biscuits. If Pogo was anything like Tiny, he wouldn’t be able to resist a treat. Sure enough, when she shook the bag in the doorway, Pogo stopped in his tracks, kicked some dirt over his last potty spot, and galloped back to the house. She tossed him one and he caught it in midair, then crunched it noisily. Once he’d finished the biscuit, he snuffled around the dining room floor, vacuuming up any crumbs, visible or otherwise, that he’d left behind.
She scanned the kitchen for a place to store the rest of the dog biscuits so they’d be handy the next time she called him inside. She settled on the cookie jar—it rested on a kitchen shelf nearest the dining room, and what were dog biscuits but canine cookies, after all?
The moment she lifted the lid, she saw a book inside, glinting at her from the depths the jar. Immediately, she knew it was the one she’d been searching for. She pulled it out, marveling at the ornate, gold-leafed cover and the intricate letters that curled around each other, spelling out the title: Sweetest Days. She pressed the book between her palms like a prayer before opening it.
Please, let him be in here.
The table of contents didn’t let her down. She found “Rye, Allison” and “Rye, Paul” there, one after the other.
She eagerly turned to Paul’s chapter, her hands trembling and her heart quaking in her chest.
“He couldn’t believe his ears. The sound of her voice was like music...” Allison was suddenly cold. She rubbed her arms to warm up, conscious of people moving quickly past her, their terse comments to each other echoing around the room.
“BP good.”
“Weight forty-two sixty-two.”
“Apgar nine.”
A baby’s cry rose thinly over the bustle, and Allison’s heart swelled. Mine.
A woman wearing pale pink scrubs and blue nitrile gloves thrust a squirming bundle into her arms. “Here you go, Daddy.”
Perfect. The baby was perfect. Her eyes were squeezed shut, just folds of skin, and her pink lips were pursed as though she were considering whether or not she wanted to be born. Allison leaned and pressed her forehead against the baby’s. “Welcome, sweetheart. I’m so thankful you’re here.”
She looked over to the hospital bed, where—
White-hot pain seared through her eyes, forcing her out of the memory.
Chapter 23
Allison gasped and dropped the book where she stood, pressing her fingers against her stinging eyelids. As she waited for the residual sensation to subside, she wondered why the book had pushed her so roughly out of Paul’s memory. The
other memories she’d read had just faded when she reached the end. Something was different about this one.
When her vision returned to normal, she stooped to pick up the book and leafed through it to find her place, hoping to pick up where she’d left off. She knew that in the next line, she’d see herself, a new mother in a hospital bed, through Paul’s eyes. She found the place, near the end of the page, and started reading again.
“He looked over to the hospital bed, where—”
She stopped, unable to continue. The facing page was a new chapter, titled “Alexander Shubert.”
She peered closer at the gutter between the two pages. Nothing seemed amiss until she ran her finger along it. Faintly, she felt a ridge between the pages and then a sharp, delicate pain. She jerked her hand back and instinctively sucked her finger before pulling it out to examine the tip, now crossed by a shallow, stinging paper cut. A fat drop of blood welled and she put her finger back in her mouth as she stared at the book.
A page of Paul’s memory—the page that showed her face, her identity—had been removed. Cut out. Excised. And it had to have been deliberate. The page was cut so neatly and so close to the binding that no one would even notice it was gone unless they happened to read the memory.
She put the book on the table and ran back through the kitchen to the pantry, scrabbling through the books until she found Baking Bread. She turned to the pumpernickel rye chapter, found her own memory of learning how to make it, and then flipped past it, holding the book close to the window so she could look in the gutter between the end of her memory and the beginning of the next one.