Picking Stones Chapter 30
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3 & 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6 & 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11; Chapter 12 & 13; Chapter 14, 15, & 16; Chapter 17 & 18; Chapter 19; Chapter 20; Chapter 21; Chapter 22; Chapter 23 & 24; Chapter 25 & 26; Chapter 27; Chapter 28; Chapter 29; Chapter 30; Chapter 31 (Final Chapter)
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Your dreams are your purpose. The things you want are the things you were put on this planet to achieve. They’re real. They’re waiting for you to bring them out into existence for the rest of us so we can all reap the benefits. That is your purpose.
I read the Graham Gordon book on the bus ride home, front to back again. It made me feel better. A light in the black, even after everything I had ever wanted crumbled between my fingertips. Was I everything she said I was? A liar? A fraud? Or was I the dreamer she had sworn I was before it all faded away?
All could have been returned to normal. Beth and I could have been together again. We would have continued to build toward a miserable future that was based on unshared interests, lying to each other that we were happy. I saved Beth from that future, reassuring that this was what she wanted. It would all work out in the end. I knew that was true for her, but I wasn’t so sure about myself.
I never imagined leaving Maine behind with such a heavy heart. I called Ramona that morning, but she didn’t answer. After the second call, it went straight to voicemail. None of my messages were getting delivered. She blocked my number.
While I checked out of a crappy motel that morning, I wondered if she was already having fun with her parents. Was she putting on a good show? Maybe she had already forgotten me. I was on a bus barreling through Connecticut, cramped and miserable. She was with people she loved, wiping away the shameful time she had spent with me off her mind, replacing them with new memories. Was it that easy for her?
I never got to go back to Portland. Seeing it from the window along the highway was tough. The bus left Bangor at ten in the morning, I was set to plant my feet in Manhattan by dinner. Where would I go? The bus terminal wasn’t too far from my office. Maybe I could go there. No, there was still a week before I had to go back. I needed the time for myself. How was I going to fill it? I couldn’t think of a single thing; I’d be a stranger in my own city.
I held Graham Gordon’s book for a second. Thanking God for letting me find it, praying to him for hope, and for help. It wasn’t too late to make amends.
Nim buzzed inside my pocket. I took the card out and couldn’t help but chuckle when I saw the blood red letters looking up at me. Was our game still on, or had he taken his final pick? My mind tried to put the game together, to see him across from me with the matches between us. I was tired, feeling nothing except the pain.
“I thought you were still in Maine?”
The moon was high in the dark sky, giving the brick porch I stood on an orange hue. Mom squinted at me through the glass of the barred door before opening Home to me. Once I got off the bus, I knew there was only one place in the entire city I wanted to go.
“Get in here, it’s freezing.”
The perfect weather had gone the night I left her, and a frigid November was setting up for an early winter. I kissed my mother hello and wrapped her in a cold hug.
“So, when do we get to meet your new girlfriend?”
Why had I told Mom about her? I cursed myself. Ramona had known better than to tell such a ridiculous tale to her parents. I found Dad reclined on the couch watching a hockey game. We shook hands and I made a conscious effort to not get irritated at him for asking the same questions he had just heard my mother ask. He was just trying to make conversation.
Looking around the room, I found my parents’ whole lives inside of it. They were born and raised in that little neighborhood in the city. They never wondered if things were better anywhere else. They had their family and their lives, and it was all they needed. It was actually nice.
I’d always been so bitter for the world they brought me into. The life I felt forced to live. It wasn’t their fault. They brought me up the best way they thought they could. They wanted to protect me; they tried their best. And instead, I resented them because of the world they were born into, just the same as me. Still, they chose to be as happy as they could be, even with all the bills and debt and all the meaningless slog of made-up nonsense that made up the physical world.
We ate dinner together for the first time in a long time. We laughed, teared up, and made promises that an effort would be made on both sides. I missed them so much while I was away. They did their best to act the part of supportive parents. But I could see the light in their eyes when I smiled and talked to them about happy things. I saw, for the first time, that my parents were just as young as me. Even when they played the part of old and mature, they were in my shoes once, too. They had hopes, dreams, fears, and regrets. Just like me.
“What’s so funny?” Dad asked after I laughed out of nowhere.
“Nothing, I don’t know.”
A few questions were asked about the girl I had spent time with up there. To their relief, I told them it was just a little fun. I was home now, and that’s all that mattered. I’d never seen them happier.
There was no need to tell them about what had happened. How I had decided to stay there before she kicked me out. Ramona had seemed so perfect until that moment. Maybe she was just a figment of my imagination. My time with her was now just as real as the man who stalked us in the woods.
I told them about the Graham Gordon book. Neither seemed to be too interested in what sounded like a self-help book, so I dropped it. I had some work to do on those two, but I felt confident that I’d be able to help them find themselves one day. It’s never too late.
That pain surging in my chest since leaving Maine had gone almost completely away. Being home with my parents seemed to be the cure I was looking for. I knew it would be back, though. I would have to live with it. All that pain, and everything else I had experienced, was like the last bits of fire clinging to a burning log, waiting to be fed to spring back to life.
“I think I’m going to start writing again.”
I was in the doorway when I blurted it out, halfway between the warm house and the cold night. I had been terrified to mention it earlier, not wanting to ruin dinner. But I was done hiding, there was a new dawn approaching.
“That’s great!” Mom said. I saw light in their eyes—two children who couldn’t be happier to see their son doing well.
“You were always so good at that,” Dad said. “I don’t know why you ever stopped.”
“Me either.”
The subway car screeched to a stop. Lost in the pages of Graham Gordon’s book, I almost missed the exit. Book snapped shut. I got off the train and climbed the stairs out of the station to get to the mall. The book had been read four times and counting. It gave me hope, the push I needed to make that next step.
After a long search to get it right, I chose a black laptop, sleek and pleasing to the eye. I needed to make sure this new tool would make me happy. The cashier rang it up and congratulated me on the purchase.
That night would be the first night I took writing seriously again. Maybe I would start writing a book, or maybe just a blog that no one reads. The rush of excitement in my chest told me that I was doing something right. When the cashier handed me the laptop the card buzzed, maybe with excitement. I had played my hand right. Nim was pleased with my pick. How many more until the game was through?
It was Thursday. I was going back to work Monday morning. For some reason, I wasn’t dreading returning to the office. I’d have all weekend to reconnect with an old hobby. I checked my phone and saw Ramona still hadn’t answered my messages, the last of which was sent earlier that morning. I shifted to the right of the register and unhooked the backpack from my arms, unzipping its pouch to slide the laptop box securely into place.
My heart dropped. The inside of the backpack was empty. My book, Graham Gordon’s book, was gone. Devastation. How had it happened? I unzipped every pocket the backpack had and then resorted to a pat down of my jacket pockets to no avail.
“You idiot,” I muttered to myself. Eyes squeezed shut and forehead felt tight. I rubbed my head to ward off the stress headache and cursed myself for losing it, realizing that I must have set it down on the seat next to me in the subway when I ran for the exit.
Was that how it ended? It would have been nearly perfect. I was still in the store and could easily return the laptop I couldn’t afford and forget it all.
“Na, let’s go.”
My surroundings were fuzzy, breaths light and faint. I made a pick, the laptop, and Nim followed immediately with a pick of his own. Would I be tormented by my mogwai for the rest of my life? Unless it was a challenge, a test. That could have been it. Life has changed drastically in the past few weeks. How would I respond to adversity?
Light bulb.
Feet trotted down stairs into subway. The damp and cold air slapped me in the face. I ignored it and hopped onto the R before it pulled off to Grand. From there it was only one transfer to get to the G.
When I emerged, I found a different sense of life in the daylight. There was the same mix of Polish and English words across storefronts. I saw the bar where my boots had been ruined, the same ones I was wearing. It hit me that I hadn’t had a drink in over two weeks. Somehow my sobriety hadn’t registered till then. It was like a weight lifting off my shoulders. Ramona had given so much to me, even as she continued to ignore my messages.
Black puddle at the corner. It was pooling with sludge and sleet from the previous night’s slushy shower. Boot splashed purposely into it with a smile across my face. I laughed to myself. I heard a car screeching, but it was only a memory. My body crossed McGuiness with the walking man shining across. He even had a head this time.
Above my head was a wooden sign that gently swayed and patted the building it hung to. The sign was painted black, a hollowed shape of a book in its middle. Under the gray sky you could barely make out the book covers, new and old, that stood in the store’s windows. My reflection was clear in the glass; I could barely recognize it. That was good.
Someone, something, told me to go in. So, I did.
The door jingled as it swung open. My eyes jumped to the back of the store. Behind the register sat the same girl who had been there the last time, when I bought my copy of the I Ching. She looked up from her book and smiled at me before quickly digging her nose back into her book.
I browsed for a while. The McCarthy books weren’t on display anymore, someone had given them a home. The search started in fiction. Finding G, I saw there were no authors named Gordon. Next came self-help and professional growth and literary nonfiction. My quest for the book had proved fruitless. No books by Graham Gordon existed in the store.
“Excuse me?”
The girl behind the counter stopped her reading, looked up at me, and smiled. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for a book. I looked around and couldn’t find it, but I figured I’d ask anyway.” She closed her book and set it down on the counter. Her square glasses adjusted, and a hand ran through her dark curls.
“Definitely. Do you know the author’s name?”
Sitting on the counter, the book she had put down was the Graham Gordon book I had first picked up at Ramona’s coffee shop, Year of the Spartan. An image popped into my head; I remembered this same girl had been reading it the first time I went there.
“Actually, it’s by him.” I pointed to the book.
“Oh really? Which book?”
“Between Art and Death.”
“I’ve never heard of it, but that’s on me. This is the first book I’ve ever read by him. I think it was his first one. It’s incredible.”
“You’d love Between Art and Death,” I said. “It’s seriously life changing.”
“I’ll need to give it a shot,” she said as she clicked through a computer. “Doesn’t look like we have it in stock. I can always order it for you if you want.”
“Why not?”
“Okay, great. You should give Year of the Spartan a read, too. But,” she looked at the copy on the counter. “That’s mine, sorry. We don’t have that in stock either.” She laughed.
“Maybe next time. For now, I’ll stick with Between Art and Death. You should read that one, too.”
“I definitely will! Anyway, I’ll just need your information and I’ll give you a call when the book comes in. Our supplier is pretty quick with orders, so it could come in a day or two.” I gave her my information.
“Okay, great. Expect a call from me soon. I’m Whitney, by the way.” She stuck out her hand and we shook. “Thanks, Will. Talk to you soon.”
Two days later I found myself on page four of a short story I was working on. It was about a man who gets stalked by a ghost after letting it into his life—Peter’s shoemaker story. I figured writing my own version of it was a good place to start. Getting the words out on the page was euphoric, even if I felt dumb at times. I could have sat in my apartment forever with that laptop, just working.
Ramona still hadn’t answered my calls or texts. She was gone. I tried to channel that sadness into the character in my story; maybe it was even working. My mind floated up into the ceiling where I pictured me writing for a living, a book signing, a—
Baby steps, Will.
Phone rang. My body jerked away from the screen. Could it be her? Ripping the phone out of my pocket, the card fell out and onto the floor. Blood red letters glowed up at me from my feet. It was an unknown number. My heart was racing.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Will. This is Whitney from the bookstore. Your book came in.”
Heart collapsed. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course it wasn’t her. Why would it be, after how we left off. She was in a different world. We both were. She didn’t owe me anything. I needed to forget.
Call ended, phone put down. My eyes shot at the computer, but I felt nothing. A glaze came over my vision. Feeling faded, stomach lurched. I couldn’t do it. I needed a drink. Stupid.
“I need to get out of here.” I got up and closed the computer, forgetting to save the document. Showered and dressed. Going back to that bookstore would be good for me.
At the foot of the table was the card. I forgot that it dropped out of my pocket. There was a tear on the top right of the card, only a centimeter deep. Its corner was bent too, with little fuzzy paper microtears sprouting from it. The card, Nim, had its first blemish. I picked it up, shoved it in my pocket, and left the apartment.
The door jingled as it swung open. My eyes immediately jumped to the back of the store. Thankfully, behind the register sat the same girl who had called me. She looked up from her book, smiled at me, and held it. She wasn’t turning away. “Hey, Will.” She remembered me. I smiled and walked up to the counter, thanking God for the store being empty.
“So, the book came in?” It was the best I could do.
“Yep, here it is.” Whitney pulled the book out from a box behind the counter and handed it to me. My eye caught the same book sitting on the counter, and I realized it was the one she had just been reading.
“You got a copy too?” I asked
“I figured it was worth a shot. I really liked Gordon’s other book and since you talked so highly of it, I wanted to see it for myself.”
“Well, you’re going to love it.”
“I already did. The book’s short, I read it this morning. It really was incredible. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Of course.”
She rang me up and I paid for the book. Energy was surging in my chest. It seemed like the whole bookstore was spinning around the both of us.
“Well, thanks,” I said. I wasn’t brave enough. My stomach turned. The two of us smiled at each other for just a second too long. There was something there. She placed the book in a little brown bag and set it on the counter.
“See ya—” I went to grab the bag.
“Oh, wait. I finished Year of the Spartan yesterday. It’s not for sale, but after you recommended Between Art and Death to me, I felt like giving you my copy of Year of the Spartan was the least I could do.” She took the book out from her backpack and slid it into the brown bag on the counter.
“I can’t take that,” I said. “That’s so nice of you.”
“You can,” she smiled and brushed her hair back. Her eyes glanced up into mine and darted away. “And you will. I wanted to do it. Like I said, I read it twice, it’s time for someone else to.”
“Alright, thank you. I really appreciate it.” My hand slid over and grabbed the bag of books. I smiled at her. “See ya later.”
“Have a good day.”
When I left the store, I cursed myself for not asking for her number. The moment had been so perfect. Another blown opportunity.
I took the long way home—the really long way. There was a park near the bookstore. It was filled with giant trees and a statue of a man pulling a rope over waves. I took a seat next to the statue and grabbed my new copy of the Graham Gordon book. Its cover was shiny and new, so different than the old copy that got beat up on my trip. I promised to take better care of this new one and decided to read its first chapter there on the cold bench.
Book closed. I sucked in air and watched the steam flow out of my mouth. When it dissipated, I looked up at the green statue. The giant man’s muscles ripped as he pulled at the rope. He wouldn’t let go, even with the waves crashing over him.
Walking through the park, I noticed a few pigeons and was reminded of the heron I had seen in Acadia. I hoped to get back there one day, even if it meant without Ramona. Hope. I couldn’t help but send her a text at that moment. It went undelivered. The sun was beginning to set. It was already four o’clock and I hadn’t eaten anything yet. An idea came to me.
Train hissed into station. I boarded at Metropolitan Avenue and exited on the same street, three miles away from where I started. It was the M train’s last stop. I still had a forty-five-minute walk up to Forest Hills before I’d get to Imperial Szechuan. The walk would be good for me.
What would I say to Peter when I saw him? Tell him he was right? Thank him? Maybe I’d just act like nothing happened. There was a tiny notebook in my back pocket. Would it be weird to get some writing done alone in a restaurant? Not as weird as accusing the owner of following you home from said restaurant, I reminded myself. I laughed as I walked down a street cutting through a long cemetery.
Only a few more blocks. How did I not ask for Whitney’s number? The moment had been perfect. I wouldn’t get a second chance like that again. Didn’t matter. The opportunity had passed. Everything happened for a reason, right? Maybe I could message the number she had called me on to tell me the book was ready. No, that would be weird. I’d need to forget about her, like I needed to forget about Ramona.
In front of me was a storefront with a metal barricade down. I squinted through the slots in the metal to see a dark and empty space. No chairs, tables, or bar along the back. Even the sign above the restaurant, with the snarling dragon, had disappeared. Could it really have vanished? How long had it been since I was there? A little more than a month.
Did his wife die and the tragedy force him to close up shop? There was a pit in my throat. Maybe he wanted to give her a better life and left the city for somewhere better. Like Ramona had almost given me the chance to do. My hand reached out and felt the cold metal of the barricade. I held it there for a minute. “Goodbye, and… thanks.”
There was nothing else to do. I checked my phone one last time, praying for her to have answered. I found nothing waiting for me, and headed home, alone.
Inside the dark apartment I saw the closed laptop and opened it. The screen lit the room and loaded on, but I couldn’t get myself to sit down. I pulled the two books out of the bag and set them down next to the laptop.
The card, the torn and damaged card, buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and stared at its blood red letters for a while. What was it telling me? The card faded in and out of my vision before I set it down on top of the book Whitney had given me, Year of the Spartan. Something told me to grab it. I skimmed through the pages and felt the soft paper that she had held in her hands woosh across mine.
I stopped and closed the book. Then, curious to find the year it was written, I opened it to the first few pages. I noticed there was blue ink on the first page, under the title of the book. Thanks for the book, Will. Hope to hear from you soon. Under the words was a phone number.
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