Emerson Page and Where the Light Enters

by Christa Avampato

  As she watched them, Emerson noticed that the woman had a fire to her that made her seem larger than she was. The deep lines in her face showed she was thoughtful and curious while her wispy, cropped gray hair conveyed her experience.

  At the top of the steps that led down into the rare books section like a sunken living room, Emerson let her eyes sweep across the shelves from left to right. They cradled an elegant hodgepodge of books as they climbed the walls like tangled vines on a trellis. Emerson was certain those bookcases would take her into the clouds if not for the stained-glass skylight of the galaxy that capped the entire store. The shelves were dotted with metal plaques of inspirational quotes about the power of books:

  “We get to know a book the way we get to know a person: one page, one secret at a time.”

  “Hold a book with great care; remember that’s a piece of someone’s soul is in your hands.”

  “We don’t choose the books we love; they choose us.”

  Emerson took in these words like other people take in air. The whole place had a soothing glow about it that transported people into a new world where anything was possible. Stargrass was Oz for book lovers. For Emerson, it was home.

  Emerson and Friday wound their way through the maze of books, letting their eyes roam freely up and down the heavily stacked shelves. She ran her hands over their covers and felt them breathe. Like old friends who fear they may never see each other again, books conveyed a sense of urgency to her. She felt they needed her to know the truths and dreams they held. Though Emerson was only thirteen-years-old, long-dead authors rolled out the red carpet for her. She was the audience of one they needed, the one they had been waiting for.

  One small volume with a jewel-encrusted spine made Emerson stop short. She adjusted the thick frame of her glasses to get a closer look. She couldn’t remember ever seeing this book before. It was just below one of her favorite quotes: “Books can be a light in the darkness.”

  She lifted the book from the shelf and used her index finger to trace the intricate filigree pattern imprinted into the cerulean cover. Strumming its gold-tipped pages, she caught a flutter of a musty scent that could only come from a book closed for a very long time. Her smile beamed, her eyes widened, and her mind opened to its possibilities.

  “Hello, friend,” she whispered.

  “Your mother loved that one, too, when she was your age,” said Jasper as he reshelved another book nearby.

  Emerson jumped, startled as much by Jasper’s deep voice as she was by the mention of her mother. When she turned to face him, she saw the levitating lady beside him. Standing next to her, Emerson realized that they were almost the same size. Friday protectively positioned himself between the woman and Emerson. The woman arched her eyebrow, staring directly at Friday, and he didn’t budge. She extended her open hand under his snout for him to sniff. He did, and then relaxed. The woman smiled.

  “Emerson, this is an old friend of mine,” said Jasper. “Emerson Page, please meet Irene Dorchester.”

  Irene cocked her head to one side as if inspecting a specimen. Her squat eyeglasses had a handle that she used to hold them to her eyes. Emerson thought she saw the handle briefly turn from black to red.

  “Jasper was right,” said Irene. “You are so like your mother.”

  “You knew her?” asked Emerson.

  “From the time she was born,” said Irene. “Your mother is a remarkable woman.”

  Emerson looked down at the ground. “Was,” she said. “My mother died five years ago.”

  “She just crossed over, Emerson,” said Irene. “I’m certain you’ll see her again.”

  Emerson half-smiled, painfully familiar with every kind of sympathy line that could be offered to someone who had lost her mother too soon.

  “Where did you get those glasses?” asked Emerson, trying to change the subject.

  “Truman made these for me. One of his many inventions.”

  Now Emerson tilted her head to one side, confused and surprised. Truman was a friend of Skylar, Jasper’s eighteen-year-old granddaughter and Emerson’s best friend. He worked at the Crooked Willow Café down the street. He made a perfect cup of hot chocolate, but she had no idea he was an inventor.

  “So intriguing,” Irene said peering more intently at Emerson through her glasses as the handle now pulsed red. “What a lucky combination to have your mother’s heart and your father’s mind.”

  “How do you know my father?” asked Emerson.

  “We’ve worked together for a long time,” said Irene. “He’s one of the most brilliant detectives I know.”

  “He’s not a real detective. He just finds books and pieces of art that have been stolen.”

  “Well, what better things to recover than books and art?”

  “Irene,” said Jasper, “I’ll let you know what my contacts discover. It may take us some time to find what you need, but we’ll get it.”

  “Time is not promised to anyone,” Irene said to Jasper. “You know that. The faster you can find that text, the better.”

  Irene turned her attention to Emerson. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “I’ve been a great admirer of your parents for some time. And if I were you, I’d commit that book in your hands to memory. The world needs more people who understand its message. Especially now.”

  Irene smiled again before she glided effortlessly up the stairs and out through the front door.

  “How do you know her?” Emerson asked Jasper.

  “Irene and I went to school together, so you can just imagine how long we’ve been friends,” he said. “She’s a gifted doctor and a voracious collector of ancient medical books.”

  “You find those kinds of books for her?”

  “We never find the books we need, Emerson,” said Jasper. “They

  find us.”

  “Why does she collect ancient medical books and not new ones? Don’t you want the latest information when it comes to medicine?”

  “She treats very rare diseases, ones that are best served by ancient methods rather than modern ones. I’ve never heard of an ailment she can’t fix. Once when I was very ill a number of years back, she gave me this ring.”

  Jasper adjusted the black onyx ring on his finger. The stone was so large that Emerson could clearly see her entire face reflected in it. She couldn’t remember him ever being without it. Now that she looked at it more closely, she could see a red flame continuously swirling deep

  inside it.

  “I don’t think a ring can keep you from getting sick,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just something you wear,” said Emerson. “It doesn’t actually do anything. I mean, it’s beautiful, but it’s just a ring.”

  “Maybe the work it does just can’t be seen,” said Jasper. “I can’t see love or friendship or kindness, but I know they exist because I can feel them. And what I can feel is more real than anything.”

  Emerson smiled at that.

  “How did Irene know my mother?” she asked.

  “Your mother was known and loved by so many people,” said Jasper.

  “Because of her work?”

  “Because of who she was. She had a terribly difficult life, but she never gave up on love, even when she had every reason to. She believed in love more than she believed in anything. It takes courage to love in a world that tries its best to make you do anything but.”

  “Why does Irene think I should memorize this book?” asked Emerson.

  “Books have taken Irene and me all over the world,” said Jasper. “Books will take you anywhere if you let them.”

  “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to have real adventures like you and Irene.”

  “You don’t have to wait, Emerson,” said Jasper. “Adventure is everywhere.”

  “But how do I kno
w where to find adventure?”

  “If you want life to be an adventure,” said Jasper, “you have to be willing to open the doors you think you can’t open.”

  “Someday,” Emerson told herself. “Someday.”

  The church bells at St. Michael’s chimed loud and clear. Friday pushed his head against Jasper’s hand.

  “Well, Friday, we know what those bells mean, don’t we?” said Jasper as he checked his pocket watch. “4:30 on the dot. My five-minute warning. Better get to my perch before Skylar arrives. I wouldn’t want her to think something was amiss. Take that book with you, Emerson. It’s been in need of a new home for a long time.”

  Jasper made his way up one of the ladders that lined the Stargrass walls. Those ladders led to multiple landings that dotted the walls and provided a place to rest, read, and get lost in the words of the books and the worlds created by them. Those landings were connected by a walkway system that meandered through the highest shelves and allowed customers to get close to the mountains of books out of their natural reach. Emerson found them especially useful because most everything was out of her natural reach.

  Every day at 4:35 p.m. sharp, Skylar strolled through the door of Stargrass. With her wavy hair tumbling over her shoulders and her fedora set back on the crown of her head, she usually hummed as she stared intently at her phone as though trying to decode something. Jasper always greeted her with a booming voice from above as the top of his head grazed the stained-glass ceiling.

  “Grandpa, you’re going to give someone a heart attack if you keep doing that!” Skylar would yell. Then Jasper would clap his hands together, float down the ladder, and give Skylar a big bear hug. Skylar would smile, easily forgiving her grandfather’s playful antics.

  Then Emerson and Skylar would walk to the Crooked Willow Café for a snack. Emerson always got hot chocolate. Skylar always got a coffee, expertly made by Truman in a giant glass vessel that looked like it belonged in a laboratory. Then they’d go to Emerson’s apartment, where they’d both start their homework. Skylar would stay until Emerson’s dad, Oliver, got home from work. It was the routine that helped Emerson adjust to life without her mother.

  But today at 4:32, Skylar stormed through the door. She wasn’t looking at her phone. Instead, her eyes were frantic. As if on cue, Friday jumped to his feet and led the way to the back of the store. Skylar seized Emerson’s arm and followed Friday. Emerson clutched her new book in her hands as they ran.

  “Where are we going?” Emerson yelled.

  Skylar didn’t respond. Emerson panicked. She felt an intense burning in her stomach that spread through her body. Jasper flew down the ladder and made his way to his desk. When he was halfway through the store, the front door flew open, and a gust of violent wind shoved Emerson and Skylar to the floor. Emerson gasped. The fine hairs on her arms stood at attention as she, Skylar, and Friday scrambled behind a high set of shelves.

  “Shh,” Skylar said as she covered Emerson’s mouth with her hand.

  Emerson’s heart pounded so hard she could see it move under her shirt. Her whole body began to shake. Skylar held her tight to try to soothe her. It helped. They cowered behind the shelves as if they were playing a game of high-stakes hide-and-seek. Even Friday seemed to hold his breath. Emerson could see Jasper through a gap between the books. He settled into his chair and held his face close to an open book the width of the desk.

  The door to Stargrass slammed shut and a slow, deliberate set of footsteps made its way toward Jasper’s desk. The shadow of a willowy figure grew taller on the opposite wall. As it rounded the corner, Emerson could see the back of a person come into view in front of Jasper.

  “On the trail of something, Jasper?” a throaty, feminine voice rumbled.

  “Always,” he said without looking up. “I didn’t hear you come in, Cassandra.”

  “Don’t mock me,” the woman said.

  Emerson caught a glimpse of her. A white mane of perfectly coifed hair framed her porcelain face. Her perfect posture and lanky build conveyed confidence and strength. Over one eye she wore a steel patch with a large multifaceted jewel in the center that captured the light of the room. Her other eye hungrily roved the bookshelves, and she sniffed the air as if on the hunt.

  “They say a man is what he hides, Jasper.”

  He arched an eyebrow and looked at Cassandra over the rim of his glasses.

  “We are what we seek,” he said.

  “Rumi?” Cassandra asked.

  “No, Peacock.”

  “How clever of you,” said Cassandra. “You’ve always used words to divert attention.”

  “Is there something I can help you with, Cassandra?”

  “That book doesn’t belong to you,” she said.

  “Which book is that?”

  “The one you stole,” said Cassandra. “From me. From my family. Give me that and the rest is yours.”

  Jasper locked his gaze on her. “It’s not mine to give,” he said.

  Cassandra unbuttoned her cape and tapped her chest. It made a clinking sound like metal on metal. She put her face close to Jasper’s and sneered. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even harden his gaze.

  “You know I’m not above destroying it,” said Cassandra. “All of it. You’ll give me that book or I’ll take everything else. Your choice. The next time I see you, you’ll have a decision for me. Or I’ll make one for you.”

  She rebuttoned her cape and backed away from Jasper. Then she retraced her steps to the front door at the same slow pace. The door opened and this time closed with a simple click of the latch.

  Skylar let out a deep sigh and put her head in her hands. Emerson had never seen her like this, and it scared her. Skylar was her anchor, the person she turned to for help when she felt herself drowning in anxiety and panic. It was Skylar who taught her how to breathe through her anxiety, to calm her mind when it spiraled out of control. Shortly after Emerson’s mother died, Skylar gave her a print of a simple rose that cuts a steamroller to shreds when the steamroller tries to crush it. She taught Emerson to use that image as a reminder that things that appear fragile have more strength than we realize.

  Emerson conjured that image now as she drew her breath deep into her belly with her eyes closed. Eventually, the shaking subsided and her heartbeat slowed. Her fever began to dissipate. After a few minutes, Skylar peeked around the corner. Jasper was staring at the door, his face expressionless.

  “Grandpa?” Skylar whispered.

  Jasper didn’t respond.

  “Who was that?” Emerson asked.

  “A very difficult customer,” said Jasper.

  “Time for us to go,” said Skylar. “Out the back door.”

  Emerson thought about asking why they should use the back door but her mind and body were too tired to question it. She picked up her backpack and clipped Friday’s leash to his collar.

  She and Skylar paused just outside the back door. Clouds hung low and heavy in the sky, and wind slapped their faces. Skylar scanned the street in all directions. Friday pulled Emerson to the right.

  “Friday’s right,” said Skylar. “Let’s head that way.”

  A strong gust of wind wailed. The sign above the Stargrass door smacked against the building. Skylar jumped at the sound. As the sign continued to swing on its creaky hinges, a chill ran down Emerson’s spine. In an instant, everything had shifted. Now this street felt like a foreign land.

  She gripped her new book to her chest. The storm danced toward the sunny shore of the Hudson River, consuming it not out of will but because it was called to do so. Suddenly there seemed to be a thousand zigzags of lightning from cloud to ground. It was artful in its destruction, if it’s possible to do something so terrible with grace. It was strange to face the river and the sun, and then turn around and see the advancing rage of the darkest swirling clouds. A few blocks from Stargras
s, Emerson realized they’d never make it home before the worst of the storm was on them. They had to take cover now.

  CHAPTER 2

  MISSED CONNECTIONS

  Oliver Page had failed his wife, Nora, when she needed him most. As he swiped, tapped, and repositioned images and pieces of text on his oversized touch screens like jagged pieces of a puzzle, he often felt her working through him. Or at least he felt her try her best to work through him. He was as stubborn now as he’d been when she was alive.

  In his twenty years as a forensic linguist, he’d never had this many dead-end leads. He’d started his career working on the relatively clean business of literary and artistic thefts and forgeries. As his reputation grew, he was contracted to take on analyzing ransom demands, hostage negotiations, and suicide notes. He had cracked the most gruesome cold cases and brought order to legal complications that had been held up in courts for years.

  So much for his education pedigree and the accolades that tiled the walls of his office. If he couldn’t vindicate Nora’s sacrifice now and give it meaning, he was a failure by any and every measure.

  “Why don’t you match?” he groaned through clenched teeth as he compared several scrawled notes side by side. The knot in his square jaw began to throb. The handwriting was the same; the cadence of the language was not. He pulled at two fistfuls of his thick black hair and pounded his forehead against the screen.