Mad Love, Page 2

  Tom went upstairs to work the cash register. While the two authors signed books, I handed out the copies with the forged signatures. “This book doesn’t have sex in it, does it?” a woman with a sunburned nose asked. “I don’t like the ones with all that sex.”

  Hello? It’s a romance novel. “Actually, there is some sex,” I said, having long gotten over being embarrassed by my mother’s sex scenes. Her finger ran along his thigh. His tongue searched for hers. Her breasts heaved with passion. Stuff like that.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “Hmmm.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Well, I suppose I could make an exception.” She grabbed Hunger of the Heart and hurried from the room.

  It was the last copy. I pushed back my chair, but as I stood to leave, something landed on the table. The other authors turned to look. The something was a big manila envelope. A strange odor filled the air—salty and muddy.

  “My notes are inside,” the guy from the audience said. He stood on the other side of the table. His hood still covered his head but I now had a clear view of his face. He was my age, maybe a bit older, with a square jaw and full lips. It was that James Bond kind of handsome. Greek God kind of handsome. Not cute. Cute did not apply to this guy. And he was unusually pale, which is saying a lot because I live in a very pale part of the world. But that’s all I noticed because my gaze was pulled toward his dark eyes. My mother would describe them as “smoldering.” Her leading men often had smoldering eyes. The word that came to my mind was “intense.” He stared at me as if he knew me, or wanted to know me. Kind of creepy. I looked away.

  Nessa and Cookie, forgetting they had books to sign, stared up at him.

  “Read my notes and then we’ll talk about the first chapter.” He started to leave. Nessa Van Nuys grabbed my arm.

  “I don’t care how handsome he is, don’t let him leave his notes,” she whispered. “You don’t want to get stuck with them. Believe me.”

  “Hey, wait,” I called. The guy turned back. “You can’t leave this with me.” I pushed the envelope to the edge of the table.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t write your story. I’m not a writer. I’m just here to answer questions.”

  “You’re here because your destiny is to write my story.” He spoke quietly but with absolute confidence. “And we’re on a tight schedule so the sooner you read my notes, the better.” Then he walked out of the basement room. Just like that. Like he had given me an order and expected me to follow it.

  “Hey!” I called.

  “Those good-looking ones are always the most demanding,” Nessa Van Nuys said, shaking her head.

  “If I had a dollar for every crappy story I’ve been asked to read, I could wallpaper my house with them,” Cookie Sparrow said.

  “Hey!” I called again. I grabbed the envelope and ran out of the room, through the coffee shop, and up the stairs to the bookstore’s main floor. A line of women stood at the cash register, their arms filled with copies of The Greek Tycoon’s Wild Bride, On Holiday with a Swarthy Scoundrel, and Hunger of the Heart. I searched for the black hoodie, even ran out onto the scorching sidewalk, but no luck.

  “I had a reader try to give me a puppy once,” Cookie said when I’d gone back downstairs to get my purse. “It didn’t smell half as bad as that thing. What’s inside?”

  She was right. The strange odor came from the manila envelope. Nervous about what it might contain, I dumped its contents onto the table. A bunch of papers fell out—lined notebook paper, plain white paper, note cards, stationery, even a paper napkin. Each piece was covered with handwriting. I picked up a note card and read a few lines that described a woman’s long hair and the way it glowed when the sun shone through it. And how it was the same color as the honey she drizzled on her bread. I stopped reading because a dark feeling crept over me, like maybe the line would be followed by, “And then I chopped her into a million pieces,” or something equally disturbing.

  “What a mess,” Nessa Van Nuys said, poking a finger through the paper pile. “Well, this explains the smell.” She’d found a flattened can of Craig’s Clam Juice. “Yuck.”

  I turned the envelope over. “There’s no name or return address. What should I do?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t throw the notes away,” Cookie said. “They’re handwritten. They’re originals. You’ll get sued if you throw them away.”

  I glared at the pile. Great. Just great. The last thing my life needed was a lawsuit. But surely the can of clam juice could go, so I tossed it into a wastebasket. Then I slipped the notes back into the envelope, opened the shopping bag, and dumped the envelope inside. The scent of clams lingered in the air.

  “Don’t worry too much about that strange boy,” Cookie Sparrow said. “Your mother will know what to do with his notes. I’m sure you can rely on her.”

  If only.

  I slid my arms through my backpack purse straps and walked back upstairs, the basement’s coolness disappearing with each step. A girl was taking down the window display, peeling the hearts and cupids off the glass. “Thanks for coming,” Tom called as he plugged in an oscillating fan. “Be sure to say hi to your mom for me.”

  “Okay,” I said, watching as one of the paper cupids slipped from the girl’s fingers. Caught in the fan’s breeze, it lifted into the air, flew over the sales counter, and, for a brief moment, hovered in front of me like it was checking me out. Then, as the front door opened, it flew out of sight.

  Sweat tickled the back of my neck as I walked up First Avenue. Except for getting stuck with the stinky envelope, things had gone well at Elliott Bay Books. No one seemed to suspect the truth. Everyone got a signed book and a promise that the next one was on the way. “Keep the readers happy,” my mother always said. “Without the readers, where would we be?”

  Reader or not, that guy in the hoodie had sure been weird. I should have been more forceful, should have shoved the envelope back into his hands—shouldn’t have been so nice. My mother is always nice, which is one of the reasons why the Queen of Romance lives in an old four-unit apartment building and not on a country estate as her readers imagine. You’d like to invest in a seaweed farm in Vermont? Certainly. You’re raising money for orphaned bison? How much do you need? If you caught my mother during one of her spells, you could convince her that anything was a good idea.

  The sun beat upon my feet as I waited for the crosswalk light to turn. The shopping bag’s handle pressed against my fingers. A group of tourists on the Seattle Underground Tour passed by. A cluster of homeless men sat on blankets, mangy dogs at their sides. I needed to stop by the post office before going home. And I hadn’t done any grocery shopping in a week. The light changed. With a sudden craving for an iced mocha, I eyed the nearest espresso stand and headed straight for it. A UPS deliveryman almost tripped me as he charged down the sidewalk. Pushing a handcart stacked with brown boxes, he wove between a couple of chatting old ladies. Then, as he darted around a corner, a small box fell off his cart.

  The little box lay in the middle of the sidewalk. No one grabbed it, no one even looked at it. I could have ignored it, could have bought my mocha and continued on my way. But little boxes can contain wonderful surprises and someone was probably waiting for it. The deliveryman had disappeared, so I picked up the box. Turning it over, I read the label and found, halfway up the block, its destination—Lee’s Antiquities.

  I hate antique stores. The mere sight of one nauseates me. It’s a Pavlovian kind of thing. Why this reaction? Because whenever my mother said, “Come on, we’re going antiquing,” I knew she was heading into one of her spells.

  That’s what bipolar disorder is all about, these spells of super hyperactivity or disruptive depression. Often, just before she got all wound up and took on a speed-of-light intensity, she’d get this urge to collect. So she’d drag me to dusty, creepy antique stores to rummage for things to add to her assorted collections. I’d crawl beneath a sagging dining table
and read from a crate of moldy Life magazines while she searched for the latest item she desperately “needed.” Then I’d follow her home, carrying a box of china cups or a bag of costume jewelry or one of those stupid garden gnomes, knowing that over the next few days she’d be lost to me, her mind caught like a writhing fish in a net.

  And then, one night, she forgot me, left me behind in the antique store as she rushed off to find the final blue teacup that would make her collection complete. Too ashamed to tell the clerk, I stayed hidden under the dining table until the shop closed. Once the owner left, I used the shop’s phone and called Mrs. Bobot. After climbing out the back window, I waited in the dark for Mrs. Bobot’s headlights to appear like rescue beacons.

  That wasn’t the only time my mother forgot about me. I try not to dwell on this fact but certain images cling to my memories, like long waits on the school steps, a locked door with no key left behind, an empty apartment with no note. A night all alone, not knowing where she was.

  How’s a kid supposed to sort that out? Days of cuddling and cupcake making, of laughter and bedtime stories, then days of suffocating silence and absence. My mother had lived most of her life undiagnosed, so, until a few years ago, we didn’t have a name for what was wrong with her. Because there’d been no disease to blame when I was little, I came up with my own answer—I’d done something wrong. I hadn’t made the bed correctly. I hadn’t said the right things. I hadn’t been pretty enough or smart enough or nice enough. It was my fault that I’d been left at the antique store.

  Late that same night, after my mother had returned to the apartment, I crept to the doorway and watched as Mrs. Bobot gave her a scolding. “If the police had found Alice in that antique store, at such a late hour, they might have called Child Protective Services. For God’s sake, Belinda, Alice might have been taken away.”

  Alice might have been taken away.

  From that moment on, I told no one when my mother disappeared. “Mom’s in the bathtub, she can’t come to the phone,” I’d say. Or “My mom’s got a migraine. Can I take a message?” I told no one when my mother couldn’t manage to make dinner or couldn’t get out of bed. I learned to go grocery shopping. Learned to do the laundry. Learned how to protect us both.

  I learned how to hide the truth.

  So there I stood outside Lee’s Antiquities on that sweltering day in July, holding that little box and a shopping bag with a manila envelope that smelled like clam juice. From the sidewalk, Lee’s didn’t look like the antique stores of my childhood. The door was painted cherry red, with a golden pillar on each side. And the shop’s picture window held a colorful array of objects—a suit of armor, a laughing Buddha, a medieval tapestry. The sun prickled my shoulders as I tried to decide what to do—leave the box on the front step and avoid the store altogether, or brave it.

  And that’s when I noticed it. Peering through the window, beyond the Buddha’s stone head, a skateboard leaned against a counter.

  A yellow skateboard with a red dragon.

  My mother often uses the word “destiny” in her stories. Fate’s invisible hand unites her hero and heroine, who’ve been searching for each other their entire lives. Like in Hunger of the Heart, the book I’d signed her name to earlier that day, Rachel Morgan is a beautiful and heartbroken chocolatier, and Tyler Daringwood is a handsome and arrogant nut factory owner. They meet because Rachel has run out of walnuts for her fudge and Tyler’s delivery boy just happens to be sick, so Tyler has to deliver the walnuts himself. “They were destined to meet,” my mother wrote on page three. And by the end of the story we know it’s true, because Rachel and Tyler fit together like two pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. That’s how it works in the romance genre.

  Of course, that’s the stuff of fiction. But there I stood, holding that little box, thinking maybe it had fallen off the cart on purpose. Maybe Fate had given the box a push because Skateboard Guy and I were supposed to meet.

  Or maybe I’d read too many of my mother’s books.

  A feeling somewhere between nausea and thrill churned in my stomach. This was opportunity, no doubt about it. Would I seize the moment, walk into that shop, and meet the guy who was, in a clandestine way, already a part of my life? Or would I set the box in front of the door and go back to standing at my window every morning, daydreaming about my imaginary romance?

  The cherry red door opened. Pushing his empty cart, the UPS man stepped outside. “Hey,” he said, looking at the box in my hand. “You found it. Great.” He held out his hand.

  “Oh,” I said, hesitating. Handing over the box was the safe option. Skateboard Guy would never know I existed and I’d go on living behind the window, imagining our story. But I wondered, what did his voice sound like? What was his real name? A simple “Hello” didn’t mean we’d end up getting married. A simple “Hello” could be fun. I needed some fun. “I’m going into the store,” I told the UPS man. “I’ll deliver the box.”

  “Okay,” he said, holding the door open. “I really appreciate it. I’m forty minutes behind schedule.”

  I took a deep breath and stepped out of anonymity.

  There were no dark corners, ratty furniture, or piles of junk in Lee’s Antiquities. A crystal chandelier cast a sparkling glow. Shiny glass cabinets held jade and soapstone figurines. Colorful masks adorned a wall and a squadron of wooden dragons hung from the ceiling. The usual antique shop smell of mildew and dust was replaced by the scent of cinnamon trailing from a lighted candle. A flute’s melody floated above my head as if drifting in from a Peruvian mountaintop. I wandered through a forest of Roman statues, past an armless woman, a fig leaf–clad boy, and a thoughtful philosopher. Where’s a toga when you need one?

  Then I saw him. He sat behind a counter reading a newspaper. Mesmerized by the page, he hadn’t noticed me. His plain white shirt glowed against his tan skin. His straight black hair hung over the rims of a pair of black hipster glasses. Okay, so he wasn’t a lifeguard or a vampire, but he was real. Clutching the shopping bag and the little box, I stood next to the philosopher statue and stared. No pane of glass separated us. I’d become used to that pane of glass and I kind of missed it. Suddenly the situation felt too possible. He’d been a distraction, a fantasy. Did I really want to move beyond that to reality?

  Skateboard Guy furrowed his brow and sniffed the air. He sniffed again. I cringed. Clams, I realized. He’s smelling Craig’s freakin’ Clam Juice! I turned to leave but that’s when he looked up. “Oh. Hi. May I help you?”

  I set the shopping bag on the floor, straightened my tank top, then walked up to the counter. “I just bought some fish at the public market, so I left my bag over there, in case you’re wondering about the smell.”

  “Did you go to the stand where they throw the fish?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I watched them yesterday. How do they catch those things? They’re slippery, you know?” Chandelier light twinkled in the lenses of his glasses. We were having a conversation, just like that. It wasn’t so difficult. My stomach settled a bit.

  He scratched the side of his neck. “What kind of fish did you get?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I don’t really like fish.”

  His gaze swept over my body. Not in a rude way, but he was definitely checking me out. “You don’t like fish but you went to the fish market?”

  The tips of my ears started to burn. “I have a cat. She likes fish.” Lying had become so habitual that I lied even when I didn’t need to. And now my ears were turning red and that manila envelope was stinking up the nice antique shop.

  Why did I come in here? Oh, right. I held out the little box. “I found this outside. It fell off a UPS cart.”

  “Oh. Thanks. That was nice of you to bring it in.”

  “Well, I wasn’t really doing anything.” That sounded pathetic. “I mean, I have things to do. I’ve got to go to the post office. And then I have other errands. You know, stuff. But I’m not doing anything right now.”

 
He smiled. “You’re talking to me right now.”

  Yes, I was. And it was nice talking to him, far away from the apartment, far away from my life.

  Skateboard Guy held out his hand. Newspaper ink had stained his fingertips. I gave him the box. When he opened it, Styrofoam peanuts stuck to his sleeve. “Good. It didn’t break,” he said, pulling out a porcelain figurine of a chubby toddler holding a bow and arrow. He set the figurine on the counter, then brushed the peanuts away. “It’s the god of love.”

  “The god of love?”

  “You know. Cupid.” The guy leaned closer. Two freckles dotted his right cheek. I hadn’t noticed them from my window perch. “It’s a replica. The original sculpture’s in the British Museum. We get lots of figurine collectors in here. Do you collect anything?”

  The last thing I wanted to do was collect. If the urge to collect ever reared its ugly head, I’d throw myself in front of the nearest train. Okay, my reaction wouldn’t be that drastic but I’d definitely panic. You see, my mother’s collecting hadn’t been limited to blue china cups or costume jewelry or garden gnomes. She’d filled most of the kitchen drawers with old Baggies, rubber bands, and Tupperware “found” at potlucks. She’d filled pickle and mayo jars with pennies, candle nubs, and old lipstick tubes. “Jeez, Mom,” I’d complained. “It’s like we’re living in the Depression or something.”

  So I’d come to live by the rule of three. Three of something was acceptable. More than three was a collection. Collecting was risky behavior. Collecting meant I was turning into my mother.

  “I don’t collect anything,” I said.

  He nodded. Then he narrowed his brown eyes. “You look kind of familiar. Have we met before?”

  Familiar? I cringed. Oh God. Had he seen me watching him? Had he seen me standing in the window in my pajamas, chowing on a Pop-Tart? What about yesterday, when I’d been eating right out of the box of Cap’n Crunch? Had he seen me then? I imagined the worst, that he’d made up a story about me in his head. He called me Creepy Window Girl. My heartbeat doubled. “I don’t think we’ve met.”