The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(57)

“Are you afraid?” she asks.

Not of dying, he thinks, but a little of this part I’m in. Every day, there is less of me. Today I am thoughts without words. Tomorrow I will be a body without thoughts. And so it goes. But Maya, you are here right now and so I am glad to be here. Even without books and words. Even without my mind. How the hell do you say this? How do you even begin?

Maya is staring at him and now she is crying, too.

“Maya,” he says. “There is only one word that matters.” He looks at her to see if he has been understood. Her brow is furrowed. He can tell that he hasn’t made himself clear. Fuck. Most of what he says is gibberish these days. If he wants to be understood, it is best to limit himself to one word replies. But some things take longer than one word to explain.

He will try again. He will never stop trying. “Maya, we are what we love. We are that we love.”

Maya is shaking her head. “Dad, I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“We aren’t the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.”

She is still shaking her head. “I can’t understand you, Dad. I wish I could. Do you want me to get Amy? Or maybe you could try to type it?”

He is sweating. Conversing isn’t fun anymore. It used to be so easy. All right, he thinks. If it’s gotta be one word, it’s gotta be one word.

“Love?” he asks. He prays it has come out right.

She furrows her brow and tries to read his face. “Gloves?” she asks. “Are your hands cold, Dad?”

He nods, and she takes his hands in hers. His hands had been cold, and now they are warm, and he decides that he’s gotten close enough for today. Tomorrow, maybe, he will find the words.

AT THE BOOKSELLER’S funeral, the question on everyone’s mind is what will become of Island Books. People are attached to their bookstores, more attached than A. J. Fikry ever would have ever guessed. It matters who placed A Wrinkle in Time in your twelve-year-old daughter’s nail-bitten fingers or who sold you that Let’s Go travel guide to Hawaii or who insisted that your aunt with the very particular tastes would surely adore Cloud Atlas. Furthermore, they like Island Books. And even though they aren’t always perfectly faithful, even though they buy e-books sometimes and shop online, they like what it says about their town that Island Books is right in the center of the main strip, that it’s the second or third place you come to after you get off the ferry.

At the funeral, they approach Maya and Amelia, respectfully, of course, and whisper, “A.J. can’t ever be replaced but will you find someone else to run the store?”

Amelia doesn’t know what to do. She loves Alice. She loves Island Books. She has no experience running a bookstore. She has always worked on the publisher side of things and she needs her steady paycheck and health insurance even more now that she is responsible for Maya. She considers leaving the store open and letting someone else run it during the week, but the plan isn’t tenable. The commute is too great, and what it really makes sense to do is move off the island altogether. After a week of heartsickness and bad sleep and intellectual pacing, she makes the decision to close the store. The store—the building the store is housed in and the land it sits on, at least—is worth a lot of money. (Nic and A.J. had bought it outright all those years ago.) Amelia loves Island Books, but she can’t make it work. For a month or so, she makes attempts at selling the store, but no buyers come forward. She puts the building on the market. Island Books will close at the end of the summer.

“End of an era,” Lambiase says to Ismay over eggs at the local diner. He’s brokenhearted over the news, but he’s planning to leave Alice soon anyway. He will have twenty-five years on the police force next spring, and he’s got a fair amount of money saved up. He imagines himself buying a boat and living in the Florida Keys, like a retired cop character in an Elmore Leonard novel. He’s been trying to convince Ismay to come with him, and he thinks he’s starting to wear her down. Lately she’s been finding fewer and fewer reasons to object, although she is one of those odd New England creatures who actually like the winter.

“I hoped they’d find someone else to run the store. But the truth is, Island Books wouldn’t be the same without A.J., Maya, and Amelia anyway,” Lambiase says. “Wouldn’t have the same heart.”

“True,” Ismay says. “It’s gross, though. They’ll probably turn it into a Forever 21.”

“What’s a Forever 21?”

Ismay laughs at him. “How do you not know this? Wasn’t it ever referenced in one of those YA novels you’re always reading?”

“Young-adult fiction isn’t like that.”

“It’s a chain clothing store. Actually, we should be so lucky. They’ll probably turn it into a bank.” She sips at her coffee. “Or a drugstore.”

“Maybe a Jamba Juice?” Lambiase says. “I love Jamba Juice.”

Ismay starts to cry.

The waitress stops by the table, and Lambiase indicates that she should clear the plates. “I know how you feel,” Lambiase says. “I don’t like it either, Izzie. You know something funny about me? I never read much before I met A.J. and started going to Island. As a kid, the teachers thought I was a slow reader, so I never got the knack for it.”