Story Sunday #4
An old short story, a new piece, a new release, and a current read glimpse
Dear reader,
Welcome to a brand-new month of The Storyteller. While sitting down to write this issue, I realised that my last Story Sunday was at the start of the year, so it was about time I shared another.
But before we get to the story, there’s a new piece, a new release, and some quotes to talk about.
Meet Cutes: yay or nay?
Link (pages 4-5): https://epaper.hindustantimes.com/mumbai?eddate=08/06/2024&pageid=741372
Past Present Future by Rachel Lynn Solomon (released June 4, 2024)
PPF is the sequel to Today Tonight Tomorrow, a book I’ve reviewed here. From high-school seniors to college freshmen at different universities in a long-distance relationship with their own personal baggage and everything this multi-new phase can bring.
Past Present Future is a great example of there being enough organic story left over to be told after the end of one book to warrant a sequel—and the author pulling it off. PPF poses the question of what happens at the end of a happily-ever-after or even a happy-for-now as in the case of TTT. What happens to love? Especially a young love?
This time we get a dual POV, being in Neil's perspective for the first time, and it's a great decision because both him and Rowan are in different cities for college (New York for him and Boston for her) and we get to spend time in their heads together and apart. This is as much a coming-of-age new(ish) adult story with much heavier themes than TTT as it is a continuing ode to romance books and movies and stories. And in place of the character of the city of Seattle, which played such a vivid role in the first book, we have two equally vivid new cities that our characters get to explore for the first time.
Both Neil and Rowan have enough individual issues to overcome along with the challenges that come with navigating a long-distance relationship during the first year of college even as they move across the country for it. They're such wonderfully real characters very easy to root for. This was sensitive and layered and realistic and as with every RLS book ever, there was nuanced portrayals of mental health issues.
Today Tonight Tomorrow is my favourite book by this author, so I both couldn't wait for this sequel and was also apprehensive that it wouldn't live up to the previous book. Turns out I didn't have anything to fear! Special thanks to Rachel’s publisher for my early access to this story.
Rowan Roth and Neil McNair have my heart, and I hope you’ll give them a chance 😊.
Currently Reading: Essays on Elsewhere
I recently (finally) read André Aciman, of Call Me By Your Name fame (seen the movie, not keen on reading the book for reasons you’ll have to ask me about sometime, if you’re interested, of course), in the form of an essay in Letters of Transit: Reflections on Exile, Identity, Language, and Loss titled “Shadow Cities”. It prompted me to (again, finally) pick up his themed essay collection, Alibis: Essays on Elsewhere which I’d picked up at the Harvard Bookstore years ago but not read. I’ve been savouring the essays in it since mid April, and am currently about halfway through. They are the kind of slow, ruminative narratives that demand your full concentration, spark ideas, memories, and leave a lot to think about.
Today I want to share three of the many quotes I’ve so far underlined:
“I was after something intimate and I learned to spot it in the first alley, in the first verse of a poem, on the first glance of a stranger. Great books, like great cities, always let us find things we think are only in us and couldn’t possibly belong elsewhere but that turn out to be broadcast everywhere we look. Great artists are those who give us what we think was already ours.”
“…he liked [painting] this town more than he loved the town itself, because what he loved was more in him than in the town itself, though he needed the town to draw it out of him.”
“Sometimes the clothes and scents we wear have more of us in them than we do ourselves. The search for ideal lavender was like the search for that part of me that needed nothing more than a fragrance to emerge from the sleep of thousands. I searched for it the way I searched for my personal color, or for a brand of cigarettes, or for my favorite composer. Finding the right lavender would finally allow me to say "Yes, this is me. Where was I all this time?”
Story Sunday
Reiterating what I shared along with my debut story on Story Sunday #1 last February:
I don’t know what it’s like for other writers, but I almost always experience some level of cringe when reading writing of mine from more than a couple of years ago. This one is no different! Every story I’ve ever worked on is special to me, and that includes this one, which was the very first one I worked on during my first master’s. But, if you’ve read any of my more recent work, you’ll notice how different my work and style is now. I guess that’s the beauty and the discomfort of working in a state of near-constant evolution!
I hope you’ll enjoy “Blue” and later want to reread it with an accompanying Joni Mitchell soundtrack 😊.
BLUE
(Originally published on CommuterLit, June 2013)
Celia’s swollen eyes watch the sun’s slow rise. She closes them and feels the heat even on the insides of her eyelids. Red spots and dancing patterns. One of them looks like a lily.
She pulls herself away from the window and leaves the room. Her eyes still carry the imprint of the red spots, and the kitchen seems a lot darker. She bumps her foot against a large cardboard box lying near the door. As she gently massages her foot, she wishes she had unpacked it immediately as she normally does. It has been there since Susan brought it over a week ago. Her best friend takes care of all the finance and management side of things at their stationery shop, while Celia is more than happy to search for, pick out and sort through new stock. She’s even started designing her own these past few months.
Her foot still hurts where it squished against the box. She squints and blinks her eyes until they re-adjust. The first thing she sees is the kitchen counter. Dust particles swirling around in the unspoilt early sunlight. The vase near the window glows as its cold surface absorbs this gentle heat. Intricately patterned blue and white china. They had found it in an antique store in town soon after Peter had asked her to move in with him.
Blue and white things are all around the house, on the mantelpiece in the living room, on the coffee table next to the sofa, on her dresser, even in the bathroom! She smiles at the vision of the plastic Smurfette plastic cup she keeps her toothbrush in. Peter had bought it to cheer her up when she was ill with a bad bout of the flu a few years ago. It had been the inspiration for their Halloween outfits that year. A framed photo from that night stands on the table in Peter's study. Something about remembering to laugh when blue.
Celia can’t find her favourite mug. Black with tiny white polka dots. She has been using it since she was a teenager, and even though it has a tiny chip on the rim, she prefers it to any other. Her eyes travel across from one end of the room to the other, before going back and pausing at the corner table. It is half-hidden under the scattered spreadsheets and work-papers. You could tell that Peter had been there. He just picked up his precious laptop, invariably forgetting about everything else. Hints didn’t always work. The last time was two weeks ago. But now the urge to want things tidy overpowers the urge to leave it untouched.
She had sat at that table yesterday, taking slow sips of her coffee until it went cold, eventually falling asleep among the scattered sheets. Celia can imagine Peter still sitting there, his fingers tapping against the table surface as he studied and analysed data, his laptop squashing half of the papers. She just wants to blink and have that image wiped out. Instead, she picks up the mug and walks over to the sink to rinse it out.
Celia steps out onto the porch with the steaming, freshly brewed coffee. The sun has not done much for the nip in the air and she wraps the dressing gown tightly around her. She loves sunrise. The specific solitude in its hope and promise of fresh starts. Peter was a later riser and this time has always been hers. It is like just another day, many before and many to come. The comforting constancy of early mornings is better than everything else she has tried since the phone call ten days ago.
~
She cannot believe that she ended up at Crescent Road again, her mind running through, for the hundredth time, something that she wasn’t there for but can never forget. Every single time she hopes her feet will lead her far away. She wonders why she keeps inviting the dull pain, why she craves it, when the only thing she wants to do is to forget, feel better, belong to the living once again. She is about to put the key into the lock when she hears her name. It is her neighbour, Mrs. Cooper, standing against the fence that separates their two houses, a bouquet of lilies in her arms.
‘These came for you...’
The smile that follows is too brief to hide the look in Mrs. Cooper's pale blue eyes behind her glasses. Celia’s heart stops for a millisecond before she can feel its renewed beat thump against the inside of her chest. She accepts the flowers and flashes the old lady a half-smile, murmuring thanks, but Mrs. Cooper's slightly hunched form is already halfway to her own house.
Celia wiggles her shoulders to ease the sudden tension. Cobalt streaks have slowly started to appear in the amethyst sky, hazy enough to seem hesitant. She feels so unsure at that moment, holding in her arms yet another reminder of what today should really have been like.
She goes inside and puts the lilies on the kitchen counter. The recipe books are scattered all over the living room table; a misguided post-lunch attempt at feeling better. By this time, she should have already been halfway through preparing the three-course meal she’d planned. A bright, warm kitchen, mingling smells and flavours, the lilies in the Chinese vase set on the counter. Peter's favourite tomato and feta cheese salad, chicken lasagne made from scratch, and dark chocolate pudding with his preferred blackcurrant ice-cream. The lilies seem to be staring at her now. A delicate beauty that makes her eyes water and her vision blurry, the pain travelling through the rest of her body. She clenches her fists and looks away, at anywhere else but them.
That’s when she notices the answering machine, its red light blinking in a steady rhythm. She looks at it in a daze, before going over and pressing the button. You have five new messages. The metallic voice grates against her eardrums. They are all from Susan: Are you okay? Please call me back. I'm worried about you. Might be good for you to come back and be around everyone... Celia erases all of them. A sharp beep. Her fingers linger over the Replay button next to Erase, eventually giving in and pressing the hard, round button.
Instant warmth spreads through her as Peter’s voice recites a message from a month ago, a message she has now committed to memory, even the small gaps of silence.
Celia rushes into her room, their room, and the door closes behind her. The loud click echoes through the empty space. She finds herself lying on the bed, and then under the covers, but is careful to avoid the side next to the window. His tangy cologne lingers everywhere, growing fainter, but refusing to leave.
‘I’ve got to take this’ was a sentence she had dreaded him saying. It meant long conversations and complicated financial terms, and most certainly more silence and work when it was over. Yet, she always stayed around for the sound of his voice. She misses it. The silence presses around her now, and she fumbles inside the bedside drawer for her mp3 player. She keeps pressing rewind and the same song plays over and over.
“He’s my sunshine in the morning,
He’s my fireworks at the end of the day ...”
Celia absently hums along to the melody. If Peter were here, he'd surely have said something about how it was his life's mission to get her to sing a little less off-key.
“He’s the warmest chord I ever heard
Play that warm chord, play and stay baby
Keeping away my blues ...”
She can’t get the image of him strumming along to Joni Mitchell out of her head. How many times had they listened to this album?
“But when he’s gone
Me and them lonesome blues collide
The bed’s too big ...”
The ache she feels is that of a puzzle piece wedged in the wrong place. She closes her eyes, imagines that he is lying beside her, holding her and rubbing the inside of her palm with his thumb. Slow, circular movements that always sent her to sleep.
~
It is already nearing midnight when she finally wakes up. She swallows gingerly, her throat prickly. Her slippers make a muted sound on the floorboards as she walks out into the corridor. The sharp smell of the lilies drifts in through the kitchen door as she goes in and boils some water in the kettle. They are lying where she left them earlier. She hesitates for a moment. But her hands make the decision for her; she adds some water to the vase on the counter and gently unwraps the flowers from the shiny paper and foil.
There is a note attached to it, but she already knows what it's going to say. Peter changes it only slightly every year, his handwriting the same as it's always been—strong strokes and soft-rounded p's, b's and d's. The biggest change is usually the year. This is their tenth. He always places the order well in advance. She places the flowers in the vase and adds the lemon and honey to the hot water.
Celia walks over to the window and looks out. By now they were supposed to be having dessert with Nat King Cole playing softly in the background. The stars are clearer tonight than she's seen them in a long time. She fingers the tiny silver star in her earlobe and wonders whether it is futile to hold on to them.
Back in the bedroom, she places the mug on the dresser and looks in the mirror. Dark brown hair with tints of auburn hangs limply to her shoulders, her skin is paler than it normally is, her hazel eyes are tinged red, purple circles under them. She attempts a smile. It comes out more like a grimace.
The memories of ten days ago threaten to choke her. Memories that are soon replaced by other images which offer little solace. She wishes she had been there with him. The collision, the explosion, the heat, the pain. She keeps hoping that it was too quick for him to feel anything. It hurts to even begin to breath. Through her tears, she plays with the sapphire that fits into the white gold band on her finger. She even misses him leaving damp towels in their room after showers. She’d tolerate any amount of the musty smell they always left behind on the wood and on the bed, if only it brought him back.
Celia doesn’t remember how long she sits there, her head resting on her arms, her tears darkening the wood on the dresser. The first thing she sees when she lifts her head is the starfish paperweight to her left: blue and white crystal. She stares at it long enough for the edges to blur and merge with her surroundings. Her eyes re-focus on the light glinting off the surface of the delicate crystal. She picks up the starfish and holds it against the night-lamp.
For the next few minutes, Celia feels like someone has slowed down the time. She sees every single particle in the air, feels every single bit of the emotion floating around her for the last ten days. Everything magnified, sharpened. She sees a thin beam of light, tiny photons clumped together that move towards the sharp edge of the paperweight and dissolve in the crystal surface in one fluid movement. The briefest of moments where everything stands still, expectant, before the light rushes back out. A colourful explosion that softens the lines of everything around her. For a fraction of a second, she fears that she will drown in them, but they disappear as quickly as they come, leaving everything outlined in a shimmering white.
Please feel free send in recommendations—books, movie, TV shows, authors to interview, ideas of what you’d like me to write on. Let me know what you’re currently reading and watching, send me rants/ramblings/excited monologues, GIFs and memes (especially them) and more. Just drop me a line and turn this into a conversation, even if just to say hi and let me know what you thought of the latest issue. Or share this with someone you think might enjoy it. I always enjoy hearing from you 😊
Take care and I’ll see you next on June 23!
Anu
You can find me on Twitter at @AnuNande (follow for all the football chatter) and on Instagram at @booksinboston.
Uff, that was quite a gut-punch of a story on a Sunday afternoon. Lovely descriptions.