She lived with books. She found them to be much better company than people. At first, she kept then neatly shelved and made lists of their titles and authors. As time went on, however, she just started stacking them, thinking she'd get to sorting them later. But later never came. She was too busy reading, to worry about any lists.
She had three cats and a few plants. But eventually some of the plants were edged out by more books. But she did her best to keep everyone happy. The cats certainly were. They climbed the shelves, slept on the books, instead of in their many soft beds, chewed on the spines and pages, without being scolded, since eating a book could have been the same as reading it in a cat's world, she wasn't exactly sure. Besides, what did it matter? The books didn't care, in fact, she thought they rather enjoyed the attention.
Every now and then, she dreamed of turning her home into a bookstore, opened only on Thursday, from eleven to four. But if she did that, it would mean constantly being interrupted by strangers, and she might actually have to part with some of the books she loved so very much. So she pushed the thought away, realizing that a bookstore was definitely not for her.
She also realized that if she died, no one might notice. So, she made arrangements with an old friend, who agreed to take care of Tippy, Sally and Daisy, in case she was no longer here to do it herself. She checked in that friend once a week and left a message saying that she was still breathing.
Other than grocery shopping, she had completely dropped out of society. And the longer she was gone, the more real the characters in the books became. She often stopped by Pride and Prejudice, to say hello to Elizabeth Darcy, which is how she wanted to be addressed, now that she was a married woman. Though they had little in common, they enjoyed each other's company and spent many happy afternoons together.
She spoke to Miss Marple quite often, and learned how to look for clues and how to really listen to what another person was saying. "It's the little things," said Miss Marple. "People slip up all the time, giving themselves away."
She memorized her favorite poems and recited them as she walked through the stacks. She thought about The Time Traveler's Wife, and wondered what it would be like to suddenly be transported from where you were, to someplace else. So many wonderful and strange stories, she thought, as she went about her day.
It was Christmas time and she had a pile of holiday books stacked on her kitchen table. She filled her tea kettle and plugged in the holiday lights. The cat's jumped onto the chairs and table, and waited for her to prepare their food. I'll be Home for Christmas, was playing on the radio, and she wondered how many people were already making their way to other places.
She fed the girls, prepared her tea, and cut a slice of lemon pound cake for herself. Then she sat down and slid the first book off the pile. A Christmas Carol. She sighed, and thought about putting it aside. She just hated it when the ghosts came to visit. The cat's didn't seem to mind as much as she did, but she'd much rather read something a bit more fun. Still, it was on the top, so she took another deep breath and opened the book.
The first ghost sat across from her, asking tiresome questions about what she had done all year, if she had made any friends and other nonsensical things. She tried to be polite. He refused her offer of pound cake and continued to question her. He told her she was the only one he could not remove from her dwelling. She was so firmly rooted among the books, there was no taking her away. She asked if Tiny Tim was well and wondered if Scrooge had maintained his more enlightened attitude. The ghost said yes to both questions.
"You don't like me, do you?" asked the Ghost.
"Not really," she answered, taking a sip of tea. "I don't enjoy your intrusion into my life. Don't like your questions, or your comments. Truthfully, I don't like any of the people in your book."
"Then why are you reading us?" he asked.
"Habit, tradition, I guess."
"You can close the book, you know."
"I know."
"Have you fallen in love?"
"With?" she asked, looking out the kitchen window, at the lightly falling snow.
"No idea."
"Love isn't real. Nothing is. Not out there," she said, slamming the cover shut.
She put the book on the seat of the chair next to her and grabbed the next one.
"Oh," she said excitedly. "Best Christmas Cookies Ever."
She turned on the oven. The next few hours went by quickly. She ate a few of the cookies and pulled the third book off the pile.
"Dorian Gray? Really?" she said to the cats. "How did he sneak in there?" The book went on top of The Christmas Carol and she could have sworn she heard him shouting, "NOOOOO!"
She tore through Poems of Christmas, Dogs in Holiday Hats, The End of the Christmas Trees, written by, I AM A Cat, as well as a few other short, colorful books.
She brought in the mail. Ads, for toys and ten envelopes all dedicated to asking for donations. She ate more cookies and stared at the wall for a few minutes. She felt sleepy in the warm kitchen. Then she heard footsteps, a lot of them, and knew everyone was out of their books. They would bring food and decorations. They would be ready to dance and make merry. She smiled and turned to welcome them. They waved, as they came toward her, smiling and laughing, carrying steaming pots and plates of one thing or another. Tiny Tim came out of his book, which was still on the chair next to her.
"You know the surgery worked," he said. "I tell you every year and you still ask the first Ghost how I am."
"I worry about you," she said, handing him a cookie.
"You don't have to," he said, biting into warm peanut butter.
"Okay, I'll try harder," she said, smiling. "How are your sisters?"
"Everyone's fine. We don't age, and the story doesn't change, which is making them angry, since they now have career goals."
"Someone needs to write a second book and set them free."
He stared at her. "Would that work?"
"Sure."
"Can I have a dog in the next one?"
"I don't see why not," she said, giving him more cookies.
"Will you write it?"
"Me?"
"Who else?"
"I don't...know. I've never written a book before."
"You know us better than anyone."
"I seriously doubt that," she said.
"Please!!!!"
"I suppose I could try," she whispered, looking at all the people dancing, playing fiddles and oboes. They were rosy cheeked, and happy. The new characters, wizards, female hitwomen and detectives, were fitting in quite well, she noticed.
A wizard held out his hand to her. "May I have this dance?"
"Uh. Yes. I guess," she said, getting to her feet.
"Whatever you said, you made that little boy very happy. He can't stop smiling."
She turned toward Tim and nodded.
"I'll do it," she said, shouting above the music.
And that's how Tiny Time got his dog Toby, his sisters went to medical school, became Europe's top surgeons...and Judy Storm became a best selling author.
In spite of all of that, nothing much changed. She lives in the same place, continues to talk to the people in her books, and has a great Christmas party every year. She definitely has more money, which means more books. She continues to call her friend and tell her that she's still breathing. She doesn't venture into society, except to do the grocery shopping, and she spends all her time reading and playing with her cats. Oh, wait. One thing has changed. She has lunch with that wizard from Chicago every Tuesday and Friday. The wizard who asked her to dance. Every once in awhile he brings his dog along and the cats fall asleep all around him. She thinks he's incredibly good looking and she can feel his magic all around him. If asked, she would say that...life is good.
Photo: Guiherme Rossi
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