Books for Travellers

The pain of her death isn't gone. It never will be. But it's gotten easier to fade the pain into the background noise of a life that goes on without her.

"Does that make me a bad mother?" I ask aloud as I glance into the parked SUV's rear view mirror. 

I see the top corner of one of the five plastic storage bins that I keep stacked in the trunk. They're filled with Eva's heart: her book collection. 

Eva had read each book in those containers at least twice. There was hardly a moment that she didn't have her nose buried in a novel.

I finally peel myself out of my car. I've been sitting in there for the past hour; dreading my walk through the local park, but dreading returning to an empty house even more. 

My therapist said I should "get more fresh air". Is that even an actual thing? Or is it just something people say instead of admitting that they don't know how to help you?

The first thing I notice when I reach the park's foot path are a pair of rather unkempt individuals. They seem to be doing nothing of importance, just loitering under the pavilion. They can't be up to anything good.

They must be homeless, but they look so young. 

That's what drugs will do to you.

That's what killed my baby. The drugatics and alcoholics who she mercifully reached out to and befriended. They killed her. They drove under the influence, with my girl in the vehicle. They murdered her.

I clench and unclench my fists and jaw as I walk past the homeless man and woman, my chest tightening. I feel myself starting to blame these strangers.

Suddenly, I hear the woman let out a hearty belly laugh, pulling me out of my thoughts. I can't stop myself from looking in their direction.

My breath catches in my throat; the woman has the same long brown hair that Eva always refused to cut. She even has a splash of freckles on her nose, just like Eva.

I freeze in my tracks when I spot the object in her right hand. It's a book that I recognize all too well. It's the third book in a series of five about modern day gods and the children they sired with mortals.

Eva never cared that she was an adult reading fantasy novels intended for preteens. It was a series that she had absolutely adored.

I walk over to the couple, my legs acting with a sense of urgency before I can think. 

Their tan dog, tethered to one of the picnic tables, barks at my intrusion several times. Then the young man with knotted strands of dirty dirty blonde hair shushes it. They're staring at me now, expectedly, all three of them.

What was I thinking? There isn't anything I could possibly gain from these people, unless I'm looking to buy drugs. Which, I am not.

"You guys know where to get dope?" My question is accusatory, bitter. What else could people like them possibly be useful for?

They both raise an eyebrow, annoyance clearly written on their faces. Especially the woman; one side of her lips are parted in a snarl, disgust.

"We're not from here," the man informs me. "And I don't do that garbage anymore, been clean for four years," he holds his arms out on either side of him. "And I'm still homeless!" He exclaims with a broad toothy smile. "My only addictions are freight trains and cigarettes."

"I can do without the trains," the young woman chimes in, her expression more cold and guarded as her eyes stay glued to a spot on the ground. "I have a book addiction," she tilts her head. "They ARE pretty pricey, and I can't help but buy one when I've got the money."

It occurs to me that these two are probably often bombarded with accusations of substance abuse. The sensation that's beginning to bloom in my chest must be embarrassment.

I don't care. The woman's remarks on books only seems to anger me. She's not Eva, she is nothing like my daughter.

"So, neither of you do any drugs or drink at all?" The interrogation is likely far from necessary. But I can't stop; I'm looking for trouble.

"I mean, I enjoy the occasional beer," the man offers. "But there's not a goddamn thing wrong with that, and it's my business."

"I don't care for alcohol," the woman crinkles her nose. "I've never dared to try anything harder than weed," she finally meets my eyes, a defiant glare. "But even if we did, that's our concern, so long as no one else is harmed. Nor would it determine our value." She's mouthy, so like my daughter, but so unlike her too. 

Eva would never hesitate to be cheeky with me. With a stranger, however, she would be too timid to speak boldly.

I chew the inside of my cheek. I'm a nurse, for God's sake. Why am I being so needlessly cruel and judgemental?

"You like freight trains?" I change the subject, trying to save face.

"I guess," the man is the first to speak again. I suspect he usually does most of the talking. "I mean, we ride them."

"You- What, like you jump on them?" I turn my attention to the bulky hiking packs, guitar case, and bucket at their feet. "With all that?"

He chuckles. "You gotta wait for 'em to stop. Then just get on and ride. We ramble around the country, mostly by freight trains, but also Uber. I don't like hitch hiking. We find seasonal jobs here and there…" The man's gone onto a tangent about "hobo livin'".

The woman, I glimpse out the corner of my vision, has occupied herself with her book. No doubt bored of the conversation.

"What kind of books do you like?" I interrupt the man. My voice and expression soften as I question the woman.

"Mainly young adult fantasy, but ultimately, I like anything with an underlying theme that resonates with me."

She says it so perfectly, as though she's rehearsed her answer to that very question many times over. So like Eva.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek again in order to hold back the warm tears springing up in my eyes. Eva would've turned twenty-five this year.

"Why are you out here?"

She shifts uncomfortably in her place. "I can't function like a normal person due to health reasons."

I catch myself before I ask her to elaborate. Nobody is entitled to another's medical information; I should know that better than anyone.

The woman doesn't appear sickly. In fact, she looks far more well-groomed and healthier than her companion. But if my autistic daughter has taught me anything, it's that not all struggles are visibly apparent.

Perhaps, she truly is just like Eva. Maybe she struggles to make friends, or pass job interviews, or fit in at all in a society that deems her differences as a problem.

Maybe I was wrong; maybe I've been harshly judging people based on their differences as well.

"How does your mother feel about you being out here?"

"She's," the woman seems to consider her words."concerned," she smiles meekly through pressed lips. "I'm probably an awful daughter."

You are. How could you leave your own mother? We were best friends. You didn't need to make friends with those people. I could've given you everything; I would've taken care of you for your whole life. How could you leave me!?

My head is spinning, and ears are ringing. It's getting harder to breathe.

Without another word, I turn on my heels and briskly walk back to my car.

I go directly to the trunk, tearing off the lid of one of the storage bins. After four years of opening them and sifting through each one's contents, I've memorized exactly which container holds which book.

I pluck out the last two books of the series the woman was reading.

For one last time, I open the covers.

"Eva Cannalonga" is scrawled out in neat cursive with a permanent marker on the inside covers. Eva's handwriting used to be so terribly illegible. It had taken her years of dedicated practice to achieve such lovely penmanship.

"You can't stay cooped up in the trunk forever." I whisper.

Then, I tuck two one hundred dollar bills inside one of the books before clamping it shut in my hand.

I can spare the money. I don't know the last time I've even gone on a vacation; and aside from some debt, working in the medical field keeps the bills paid on time and the fridge well-stocked. They could use the cash more than I do.

The train riders are still at the pavilion. They're attentions are now held by cell phones. The phones are connected to cords, which are plugged into the pavilion's outlets.

So that's their reason for being here… Far more innocent than my initial suspicion.

I stride right up to the woman and hold out the two books to her.

"My daughter," I don't choke on the word anymore. It's been awhile. "She wants you to have these."

"Oh, wow," her tone and expression are tame, almost stoic; but I see that glimmer in her eyes, the same kind Eva would get when it came to her passions. She thanks me profusely and asks to thank my daughter as well. "I really love this series."

"Even though it's meant for preteens?"

She lifts and drops a shoulder. "Doesn't matter to me, the story is ageless."

I find myself smiling at the woman, a warmth starts prickling behind my eyes.

"If you can no longer hold onto the books, please, pass them on to someone else who will appreciate them," I pause, struck by another idea. "Are there more train riders?"

"Yup," the man answers. "And it's not just train riders. There're hitchhikers and rubber tramps too. There're a lotta travellers."

"Do other travellers have phones too?"

"Eh, for the most part, yeah."

"May I give you my number to give out to other travellers? If they're in the area they can message me and I'll give them a book or two and help them with anything they need."

"Sure," the woman agrees. "We'll be sure to give it out to trustworthy folks."

I don't bother arguing, even though I'm not really worried about trustworthiness. I wouldn't say that I quite trust these two strangers. Yet, I think Eva would be thrilled to be taken around the country, especially with someone just like her.

The pain still isn't gone, it hasn't even dulled. But I hope Eva can find peace in her new life.