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Her car is… well, saying her car is shitty wouldn’t be too far-fetched, if she’s completely honest with herself. Truth is, she’d change it, she would, but she’s grown attached to its little oddities. Like the dent at the front that looks a bit like a heart, because one time when she was parking she saw a pigeon and she swerved to avoid hitting it, and instead she bumped into a wooden bench, and now there’s a heart-shaped dent at the front of her car.
Also, she can’t afford to buy a new one.
So every morning when she drives to work, she does the same routine : she sits, pulls on her seat belt, finds it’s stuck, again , so she tugs sharply, one, two, three times, and it’s only when she remembers to delicately slide the seat belt on that she can finally manage to make it work. It’s a whole thing, but she’s used to it, her little morning ritual, like saying bye to her cat before she leaves, and checking to see if her computer is turned off instead of burning battery.
This morning as she left she had the strangest feeling in her throat - it closed off suddenly (damn allergies), and her eyes latched on the first thing she could see : a black raven perched on a lamp post right outside of her house, Corvus corax, a beautiful plumage, really, so how could she not stop and take a few pictures of it ? Which means that on top of her whole schtick with the seat belt, this delay - of the utmost importance, mind you - has made her late for work. It sucks, but also does it really matter ? It’s not like they get customers lining up at the door as soon as the bookshop opens, and they could just as well set everything up a tad later, no one would be the wiser. Well apparently her boss thinks differently.
“It’s a matter of principle,” Wren says while she pushes up her glasses to the top of her nose, in a swift gesture. “If we can’t even open on time, what’s next ? Putting new fiction releases next to Death of a Salesman on the shelves ? Plus, I’ll have you know, today we have a signing event. It’d be great if we could retain at least a tiny bit of credibility for a bookshop in the middle of nowhere.”
“Crap, sorry, I forgot that was today.” Swann tries her most apologetic look in an effort to appease Wren, who she’s not totally sure doesn’t hate her guts. Or that might just be her tendency to second-guess herself and assume most people can’t stand her. Jury’s still out on this one. “That’s the niche poetry you’ve told me about, right ?”
“You really should read it, Swann. Not only is it polite to know what you’re talking about when you meet her, I also think you’d enjoy it. Seems up your alley.”
And with that, Wren turns back to arrange the table and chairs. They usually pull them out of storage when some unknown writer Wren discovers and falls in love with visits their corner of the world to sign some books and chat with mostly appreciative customers - unless they have a dedicated fanbase following them around, which is pretty rare, or Barty, the retired bartender with an obsession for conspiracy theories, is here to spark up a debate about whatever he’s been reading lately, and involving the poor unsuspecting author to try and get them on his side.
Swann decides to try and make herself useful - better not rile Wren up more than necessary - and grabs the pile of books from behind the counter, where they keep a stock of the works of the author coming to their shop. It’s usually good for business - not than Swann is particularly good at gauging what is good for business - when authors come around. There’s not a lot going on here usually, unless you count the Knit/Gossip/Tea circle that takes place every Wednesday afternoon in the townhall, so many people come just so they have something to do on the weekends ; that means they mostly don’t already own the book and are more likely to buy it directly. Wren often says that if they can’t be trusted to have a reliable stock, they’d all turn to Amazon, and they’d be finished. Swann secretly thinks that not a single soul in the town would dare let an Amazon package with books in it appear in Wren’s sight, since they’re all so terrified of what her reaction could be. Most of their loyal customers remain loyal entirely out of fear.
When she stands up after crouching on their carpeted floor, Swann almost loses her balance. Today is really not her day. She places a pile of the books on the counter. It seems to be a decently sized poetry collection. The cover is pretty. Apparently the author is self-published ; Swann wonders if they’re the one to have designed it. It happens sometimes, when authors are polyvalent and can’t afford to hire a cover artist. It’s almost hypnotic, swirls of blue turning into birds and butterfly. The title reads, simply, Tales from the Abyss , by Céline.
“Is she French ? Or like, from Québec ? The author, I mean ?” Swann calls out.
“No, as far as I know she’s American. Pretty sure that’s her nom de plume , if you will. But to be honest, your guess is as good as mine, she seems like a pretty private person. She didn’t sound French on the phone, anyhow.”
If anyone understands the urge to remove yourself from the public’s eye, it’s Swann. She does live in the middle of nowhere in Canada, instead of Toronto, or Vancouver, like a “normal person” (whatever that means), far enough from the rest of the civilization and her mom that the tension in her chest she’s carried out for as long as she can remember eases out, little. It’s never truly gone, though. She always feels like there’s something that she’s missing.
Wren is right. She’d better read a couple poem before she gets here, if only out of politeness. She’d hate to look like she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She really hates to look like she doesn’t know what she’s doing. The pages are crisp when she opens the book at a random part ; she hopes she’s not fucking up a potential line-up that was overthought for a long time, but she’s on a tight schedule here.
Page 22 seems like a safe bet : far enough from the beginning to feel like she’s read it entirely, but not too close from the end, which would make it seem like nothing else was good enough until then. Maybe she’s overthinking this.
It’s untitled : only a number, 134. It makes her think, weirdly, of Emily Dickinson; the way numbers are attributed to her poems, or the first line used as a title, because the poet herself apparently hadn’t written one ; or something like that, she’s a bit rusty on the life of Emily Dickinson. Which is odd for her. She remember faintly being in love with her poetry when she was a teenager. It spoke to her, the feeling of being an outsider looking in.
The words on the page are disposed simply. No drawings or embellishments, unlike a current trend Swann has noticed in the modern-day poetry. Free verse. It’s…
if i blink, the stars are still falling down
in a shower to wash away the hair in between my skin and bones
and familiar hands don’t pass through me, i am sturdy, true –
but i am not here ; neither real nor memory
a shadow for those to see
only i know, which makes me no one
which make me nothing
stars snuffed out
…sad.
“Shit. Er. Hello ?”
Swann abruptly looks up from the pages. In front of her, on the other side of the counter, is a woman. Who… well, obviously she’s beautiful, with her short blond hair, and bright blue eyes, but that’s not quite what… there’s something about her, and Swann can’t quite put her finger on it, it’s on the tip of her tongue…
“Sorry, I know I’m a bit…” sheepishly, the woman adds, “early. The timing is not… right .”
Shaking off whatever’s gotten into her, Swann switches back into her customer service mode.
“No worries at all ! You must be Céline. I’m Swann, it’s nice meeting you.”
“Yeah, I know. I mean, Wren told me. Yeah. Oh, and Kat’s fine, by the way. That’s my name. Usually.” She shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m not like this, normally. I’m a bit… taken aback.”
“I hope you’re not talking about the state of the shop, because I think Wren would kill me.”
She laughs, and there’s something in Swann, the part that’s usually far away and cut off, that finds that laugh familiar. She wants to hear it again.
“No, it’s great. Cosy. I just… You know when, sometimes, you’re not sure if you’re dreaming or not ? Like if what you’re seeing has already happened, or, like, like it’s not supposed to happen yet.”
Kat is looking at her intently. There’s something searching in her eyes, something pleading. Suddenly Swann feels the urge to tell her about what she felt this morning, and the crow, and how she always feels like she has a hole in her chest, and it wasn’t supposed to be like that , and if it was then why is she so lonely —
That’s ridiculous. They’ve only just met ; only…
“Ah, here is our very own celebrity of the day. You’re early, we weren’t expecting you so soon !”
Kat turns to Wren, a half smile tugging at her lips, no lingering traces of what opened just now, what Swann was maybe imagining.
“The road was easier than what I expected. I hate driving, so I always plan ahead to have some time to spare, in case there’s trouble. I hope that’s not an issue.”
“Of course not, we’re glad to have you. I was just about to brew some coffee, can I tempt you with a cup ?”
“Sure, why not. Thanks.”
And with that, Wren turns back again, to their - small - breakroom, where they tend to have their lunch. Swann is tempted to fill the silence installing itself in between them. It’s unnatural, like words are bubbling up under the surface and looking for a way out, but they’re all mushy and tangled up, so they don’t come out right.
“So…”
“I was just…”
A beat. Swann laughs with embarrassment and pinches the skin in between her thumb and her index, a habit she’s had ever since she can remember, when she feels out of place or nervous. Which, back when she was younger, was most of the time. Kat’s gaze follows the movement, and she frowns.
“Sorry Swann, you go.”
“I was just reading your poem, when you came in.” For some reason, lying seems unbearable, so she doesn’t. “I feel like a total fraud, though, because, to be honest with you, because I completely forgot to read your book until today.”
Kat smiles.
“That’s alright. Which one were you reading ?”
“Number 134.”
Kat snorts, and mumbles what sounds like “Figures.” under her breath. Then she sways a bit on her feet, avoiding her gaze. She looks unsure. Swann is struck by the odd thought that it doesn’t suit her.
“Did you… like it ?”
“I did. A lot, actually.” It doesn’t feel like enough. She scrambles for something else to add, to make the conversation last longer. “Is the number thing an Emily Dickinson reference, by the way ?”
“Good catch. But it’s also laziness, since most of the time I can’t be bothered to name my poems.”
Swann laughs, and Wren choses that moment to come back, cups in hand.
“I should’ve asked how you take it, but there should be sugar around here somewhere.”
“Black is fine, it’ll wake me up.”
Swann takes a sip and grimaces. She’s never particularly enjoyed coffee, but Wren really likes it. As in, she makes it very strong, with a French press, and has a lot of opinions about ground beans. Apparently she as one of these Italian coffee maker at home. Wren doesn’t play about her espresso. As for Swann, she only drinks coffee when it’s absolutely necessary. The thing is, on her first day here, desperate to make a good impression, she may have acted a little bit too enthusiastic when Wren offered her a cup, and now she sort of feels obligated to accept every time her boss hands her one. She’s none the wiser, as far as Swann knows. Kat, however, seems to have noticed that something is up. She raises her brows and checks behind her to see if Wren is watching them ; satisfied to find her turn around, she points at Swann’s cup, and whispers :
“Not a coffee person ?”
Swann winces, embarrassed.
“Not really. It makes me jittery. And it’s bitter. So…”
Kat, without a word, finishes her own cup with a big gulp - Swann can see the movement of her Adam’s apple as she swallows.
“Give it to me, I’ll drink it, I don’t mind.”
“Really ?”
“Sure. But, Swann, you should really stand up for yourself and just tell her you don’t, like, want her to make you coffee. There’s no point in forcing yourself to go through painful shit on purpose.”
Swann has to nod (she doesn’t disagree with the principle, but acting on it is the hard part, obviously) and they promptly swap their cups. She taps a rhythm on the mug, painted in shades of blue, and the noise of her fingernails softly echoes. She still has this feeling, and it’s so frustrating, because she can tell that she’s missing something. Whatever she’s forgetting is crucial, or it feels crucial, at least. What is it ? It’s right there , she can tell, if she could just concentrate a little, if she could just focus –
“Swann ?”
Wren’s face, next to her, is on the verge of concern. Whatever her own face was doing, it probably looked a little to close to the loopings of her brain for comfort. Kat’s laser eyes are fixed on her, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. The puzzle being… Swann ? She’s hardly an enigma. Out of the blue, her mind conjures up the image of a book she had in her childhood home, the kind you had to tilt to be able to see the distorted image, the optical illusion. A matter of seeing from the right angle.
“Sorry, I spaced out. What were you saying ?”
“We’re going to start the reading, there’s a decent crowd.”
She nods, and move to take a seat at the back of their installed area, one of the books in hand to follow along. If she wasn’t five hundred miles away, maybe Swann would notice that Kat makes an aborted movement towards her, then shakes her head. But she doesn’t. Instead, after sitting down, she opens the book again, this time, at the beginning. The first page isn’t a poem, it’s a dedication. It reads :
For my sister (you’re braver than you know)
For Bloom and Rage : thank you for saving my life (in more ways than one)
And for my iconoclast : I hope one day you’ll get to read these
Swann feels warm yet icy all over. Because Bloom and Rage, that was… her band . She hasn’t thought about them in years, weirdly, it’s almost as if she’s just remembering them as of now. As if her memory is just coming back. How is that possible ? She feels sick. Like her heart is going back in her oesophagus and if she moves the wrong way she’ll throw it up.
As Kat starts her reading, their eyes lock up ; Swann can tell that Kat has seen it, that flicker of recognition, because she almost falters, and blinks really fast, but she recovers in time so that only Swann can tell what happened. But she knows. She knows now. She remembers .
***
The reading is over in a blink. Swann stares at Kat the whole time, and sometimes their gaze meet. She would try and listen, to make sense of the words, but they all melt together, as the loudest sound in the shop becomes the beating of her heart.
Not everything makes sense, but it doesn’t stop Swann from thinking, as she watches Kat slipping away discreetly towards the parking lot, oh no you don’t . Immediately and without a second of hesitation she runs after her. When she calls out her name, Kat stops dead in her tracks. Her shoulders tense up for a moment, then she seems to be making a deliberate effort to relax. Swann can see the moment of release in the movement of her shirt. Kat doesn’t turn around though.
“You remember, don’t you.”
It’s not a question. Swann answers anyway.
“Yes.”
“You’re not supposed to. I should have left as soon as I saw your face, but I… I couldn’t make myself go through it. Finding you and leaving. Even if it would have been easier then dealing with… that.”
Swann struggles against the gravel in her mouth. Her eyes sting. Her head is pounding. It’s as if her entire body is rebelling against her mind. Kat’s answers are cryptic but she’s suspecting that maybe she’s being literal when saying that she’s not supposed to be remembering her.
“Why is my memory all… wrong ?”
“It’s the price. There’s always a… price, and trade, whatever. I keep my life, but I don’t exist to you guys. The Abyss took your memories of that summer.”
The Abyss.
Her head feels like it’s splitting in two.
Struggling against an invisible wall, she tries :
“You were… dying. And we made… a promise ?”
“Yes.”
Flashes come back. A hole deeper than anything she had ever known. Inviting. Something more. Feeling part of a group, feeling included like she had never felt before. Kat’s teenage eyes, burning into hers, a flash of amused teasing. Nora and Autumn’s banter. And then. Gone. All of it, ripped away from her, leaving only a loneliness burning a hole in her chest as vast as the Abyss that had given them so much and taken it all back in an instant.
“I have to go, Swann. I’m hurting you.”
“You can’t go ! I just got you back !”
Swann’s cry out breaks the spell and, finally, Kat turns back - Orpheus. Her eyes are misty - they mirror Swann’s, full of unshed tears.
“I couldn’t remember, but I… I felt it. I felt so lonely , Kat. I knew something was missing, but I couldn’t tell what, it was like there was this… this missing piece and…” She’s choking with it, the words are not coming out the way she wants them to, and Kat had always been the one gifted with words out of the four of them, but she had always been able to understand what Swann meant, so maybe she’ll get it. “It’s awful, Kat. It hurts, all the time, in the back of my mind - it’s dulled when I work, or, or when I read, or go outside, but it’s always there .”
Kat swallows.
“I know. I know Swann. I feel the same. Every day I wake up and…” She takes a step towards Swann, then another. She takes her hands in hers and presses them, hard. “It’s not forever. Do you hear me ? It won’t always be like that. I can feel it. It’s not our time, but the Abyss is not cruel. I can sense It. One day, It’ll open up and we’ll meet again. Just not today.”
Kat’s hands are warm. When Swann looks up, she seems to be enveloped in a purple glow. Her eyes are different as well - there’s a flash of lavender in the blue.
“I promise you Swann.”
Then she lets go of her hands.
And Swann is alone. Again.
On the lamp post at the end corner of the parking lot, a crow flies away.