Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
They sat on a brown velvet couch, and Agatha Tark lowered herself gracefully into the matching armchair across from them.
“I didn’t comprehend a single word you said before,” Tark said, “but I gather you are living in the house on Erskine Road?”
Truman nodded and geared up to try and explain about the house swap again.
“See, we have this mutual friend, Ramona, and she—”
“I don’t care at all,” Tark said. It was final and quelling, but it lacked any malice. She was simply stating a fact. “What I would like to know is how you know Julia Sundahl.”
“You remember her?” Ash chimed in.
“Yes. She was a very good friend to me at a time when I needed one.”
“She’s my mom,” Ash said.
Tark’s eyes widened slightly, then she nodded.
“How is Julia doing?” she asked, and the first hint of warmth crept into her voice.
“She has dementia,” he said. “Or early-onset Alzheimer’s. They’re not sure which. Some days, she’s okay. Other days, she gets really confused. Thinks she’s sixteen or thinks I’m my dad.”
Ash swallowed hard. Truman knew those were the most difficult days for him—seeing the woman he’d once turned to for strength and support as helpless.
“I’m truly sorry to hear that,” Tark said. And Truman thought that perhaps if she’d been a different person, she’d have reached out and squeezed Ash’s hand.
“She remembered you, though.”
Tark smiled, revealing sharp canines and crooked front teeth. It was a truly mischievous smile. “I should hope so.” She leaned back in her seat and fixed Truman with her lupine gaze. “So. You wanted to tell me about my books.”
And so he did.
Haltingly at first and then with genuine pleasure at sharing with her the pieces of himself that he’d once shared only with her work.
He knew this was strange. Knew it was awkward. Too personal and too presumptuous, and probably she would laugh at him when he left or call a friend and roll her eyes. You’ll never guess what happened to me today! And usually, such a thought would’ve stopped him in his tracks, his ideations of what others might think stronger than his own actual desires.
But here, now, with Ash by his side, whom he knew would not laugh at him, would not roll his eyes at him, would instead celebrate him for doing something hard and awkward and personal, his desire to place in Agatha Tark’s hand his once-strangled heart won out.
When he fell silent, once-strangled heart galloping, she clasped her hands together and said, “Thank you.”
And it was all she needed to say. Her gratitude and amusement and satisfaction were all apparent in those two words and in the quiet peace that had descended over them.
Truman felt like the moment might stretch in all directions for eternity—a beautiful, iridescent slide on the inside of a bubble.
Wanting to blow more bubbles, to give a moment like this one to every fan of the Dead of Zagørjič, he said, “In celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the series being published, I’ve arranged an event at the bookstore on Owl Island—the Queen Bee? And we’d love it so much if you wanted to come do a signing. Or a reading? Oh god, that would be magnificent!”
Agatha Tark said, “No.”
“But, so, it’s going to be great. We’ve made it the book of the island, really, and book clubs at libraries are going to—”
“No.”
“Maybe you could, like, record yourself reading if you don’t want to make the trip, and we could project—”
“No.”
Ash squeezed his knee.
“Right. Okay. Of course. Sorry.”
Truman studied his shoes. His first instinct was to feel like a failure. But lately he’d tried to ask better questions—less I suck! and more What did I gain all those years from doing this thing, and why might I not need to anymore? So instead of thinking I’m a failure, he asked her why. Why she’d always been so private.
“Because I have never wanted people showing up at my house trying to talk to me.”
Truman flinched before he saw the hint of humor in her eyes.
Then her expression turned serious. “Creating something is very different from talking about it or interacting with people who consume it. Once it’s out of my hands, it’s no longer mine. I’ve never had any interest in seeing other people’s interpretations of my work or answering their questions about what my characters eat for breakfast. The work is what’s on the page, and anything else is in the imagination of the reader. It doesn’t have anything to do with me.” She cracked her knuckles. “Besides, I hate people. And they’ve never been terribly fond of me. Why do you think I created my own to play with?”
Then she smiled, a genuine, toothy smile, and stood up. It was clearly time to leave.
“Can I ask you one more thing?” Truman ventured.
“One more.”
“Will you ever write anything else?”