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Empty Books
It’s Thursday morning here at Willow House. Tommy and I have been helping Mrs. H. plant flowers right outside the greenhouse entrance. Well . . . I’m helping. Tommy is just playing in the dirt. It mixes with his slobber and makes mud all over his bib and the shirt under it. It’s a good thing Mom always packs him a change of clothes.
Earlier this morning, Mrs. H. walked us down to the pond. Mostly because I wouldn’t leave her alone about it. She didn’t seem too happy to be taking us there, and kept Tommy snuggly on her hip, even when he started fussing to get down. She acted nervous and wouldn’t even let me put my feet in the water.
It sure was pretty though. The pond is about the size of a football field. The water was as still as could be, and it reflected all those weeping willows around its banks, like a mirror. I could just make out a barn, through a break in the tree branches on the opposite side. That must be where the horses live - the ones who pull the carriage when they don’t have other things to do. Who the heck takes care of those horses anyway? That nephew?
“I thought we might have a picnic again today,” Mrs. H. interrupts my thoughts. She’s not acting as nervous as she was earlier.
“At the pond?!” This really surprises me.
“No, Dear. Here. At the greenhouse.”
Seems like a waste not to lay down a blanket and have lunch with a view of that pond, but the greenhouse sounds like a good idea too. I nod my head.
“Good then. Let’s go and make something to eat. Maybe you’d like to pick out another book and bring it out here?”
“Yeah, thanks!” I had returned Anne to the study this morning but was afraid it would be rude to ask for another.
When we get back to the house, Mrs. H. takes Tommy to the kitchen and sends me off to the study.
Now that I’ve been here for a few days, I’m less nervous, and I’ve been checking out all the cool things Mrs. H. has in her house. This study, for example, has painted portraits on the walls that I never noticed before. I’m pretty sure one of them is Mrs. Hallovich as a girl, and there’s a portrait of two people who might be her parents when they were first married, and several more of people I don’t recognize, but they look like presidents, and queens. There’s two bright rectangles on the wall, next to the front window, where the wallpaper has faded around them. I wonder if Henry and Gertrude’s portraits used to hang there.
I turn to the bookshelves and head to the section with the kids’ books, but the ones behind the desk catch my eye.
You’ve probably heard the phrase don’t judge a book by its cover. I understand what it means, but does it really apply to books? There are some beautiful books here. Most are in colors that my mom calls jewel tones: emerald, and ruby, and sapphire, and topaz. They have designs on the spines in gold, and silver, and black, and I’m having trouble not touching the prettiest ones. I’m judging them.
One stands out to me. I reach up and pull it down. It’s midnight blue, with a design of silver stars. There’s no title on the spine or the front cover. I open it up to a blank page. I flip through and find that all the pages are blank. I was expecting the most magical story in the history of all stories. Then, I realize it’s true. You really can’t judge a book by its cover.
I reach for one that’s much less pretty; smaller, thinner, a brown leather cover with a few black stripes on the spine. These pages are also empty. None of the books in this area have titles on their spines. I pick them out and put them back randomly, looking for words. Some are small and would fit into my pocket. All of them are blank.
Mrs. H. clears her throat from behind me.
I turn with a medium-sized black book in my hand, feeling guilty, like I’ve been snooping or something.
She sets Tommy on the floor and walks closer to me. “Those were my father’s.”
I don’t know what to say, so I state the obvious. “They’re blank.”
“Yes. Father loved books, and his dream was to write his own.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“He actually did a lot of writing in simple notebooks. I think they’re upstairs in the attic somewhere.”
“Why didn’t he write in these?” I point to the books behind me.
“He was afraid to make mistakes, I think. He didn’t want to ruin those beautiful pages with anything less than perfect.”
“That’s sad,” I say.
“Yes, it is. Do you write?” she asks.
Well, first of all I’m going into fourth grade, so of course I write. It’s part of my job. But, I know what she means. She’s asking if I like to write.
“I don’t write stories,” I say. “But, I do write down secret stuff sometimes, in a diary under my bed.”
Mrs. H. takes the black journal from my hand and replaces it. So much for that, I think. Then she says, “choose one.”
“I think I’m going to go with Treasure Island,” I say.
“That’s fine, Dear,” she says, “but I mean, choose one of these. Choose a journal.”
Choose one?
“You mean I can have one of these?”
She nods.
I almost don’t know what to do. “Any one?” I ask.
She nods.
I point to the midnight blue one with the silver stars. She nods her head and takes it down from the shelf.
“You must promise me one thing, though,” she says.
Uh-oh. I was afraid there would be a catch.
“You must promise that you will write in it.”
I’m relieved for a moment. That’s not much of a catch. I’ll write the best story ever, I promise myself. It will be perfect. It will fill up the pages, and everyone will be amazed, and they will turn it into a movie. Yes! Of course I will write in it!
“And,” Mrs. Hallovich continues, “don’t wait for a perfect time. There is no perfect time. Everyone has a story to tell, and you must begin yours immediately.”
I nod my head. I can see how important this is to her.
“Because if you don’t make this book your own right away,” she points to the shelves, “you will collect a bunch of beautiful blank journals, just the way my father did.”
I was starting to feel sorry for her dad. I could understand how difficult it might have been to write in those pages. But, then I thought about how Mrs. H. said his stories were in notebooks upstairs, and I think, if only he had found the courage to use his beautiful journals, I would be able to sit right here and read them, instead of them just wasting away in an attic.
Mrs. Hallovich runs her fingers down the spine of a book. Tommy tugs at her shirt and pulls her out of the daydreaming she has started to do. She bends to pick him up and into a hug.
“Now then. Time for lunch!”
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