Page 15 of The Missing Pages
My mother remained somewhat unconvinced, as she gazed passively at the incredible sight.
I became even more determined. So I gave it one more little push.
I beseeched the birds one last request, which they unanimously obliged.
I asked them all to fill the garden with song.
They chirped. They squawked. They drummed their bills and trilled their wings.
My mother knew after that I was there in the ether. That I might be invisible, but I was still part of the air.
She gripped the silk curtain to keep herself from collapsing. The evidence that I was not completely gone, almost brought her to knees.
As the duration of her mourning stretched from days to months, my mother came to understand that fact more and more. Sometimes when she was in the privacy of her sitting room savoring a new book, she would even find herself readingpassages aloud. And while the servants thought she did this out of loneliness, I knew better. My mother was really reading to me.
As Violet walked across Mount Auburn Street into the Yard, she was of course oblivious to the fact that I was accompanying her.
But as the lilac-colored scarf rippled in the breeze and her eyes focused on the nature around her instead of falling into the abyss of mourning for Hugo, I felt I had taken a first step in getting this young woman to know that life, as fragile as it was, was still beautiful.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Theweek’s flowers for the Memorial Room were delivered to Widener’s main office, waiting there for Violet to pick them up.
“Looks nice and cheery,” the guard commented on the brightly colored arrangement as Violet flashed her student card in one hand and gripped the vase against her chest with the other. “And they go with your scarf,” he added, a grin spreading across his face.
As Violet walked up the stairs and approached the threshold of the Memorial Room, she scanned its interior. One of the librarians must have taken away the flowers from last week, knowing new ones would be arriving this morning, as Harry’s desk was bare.
She moved the brass pole and rope and ventured inside. Violet knew that it was a privilege to be able to enter this sacred room. It wasn’t just the 3,200 rare volumes nestled behind sixteen hand-blown glass casings, there was also so much beauty and history steeped within. From the deep-red Persian carpet beneath her feet to the milky blue skylight with the zodiac frieze high above, it had been created and furnished with great care.
Violet sat down the floral arrangement on the corner of Harry’s desk and noticed how the room’s atmosphere immediately changed once the bouquet was put in place. Mrs. Widener had been right in her request. The space needed life within it to feel like Harry’s spirit had not ended with his death. Without it, everything would feel somber, like a mausoleum for a dusty old book collector. Glancing at the oak desk, the chair behind it, and the blue and green Tiffany lamp positionedin one corner, it was undeniable that the fresh flowers breathed life into the room and made it feel as though its rightful owner had only momentarily stepped away. One could easily imagine Harry returning and standing by the old wooden card catalog, pulling out a piece of paper with the call number corresponding to one of the books on his shelves. It all felt very strangely alive.
Violet looked up toward the portrait. Why was it that the few times she had entered the room, she felt as though Harry was smiling down at her?
She felt crazy even thinking it was possible, but she always had the same sensation whenever she walked toward the oil painting. Was it the light hitting the glossy veneer that added a shimmer to his darkly painted eyes? Was it the angle from which she looked up at the painting? Violet didn’t know.
She walked closer toward the portrait and focused on the subject. The soft expression, his tapered fingers, and even the book on his lap. Countless Harvard students had probably stood outside the threshold to this room and gazed inside. Were any of them as obsessed as she was about the story behind this young man in the painting? The namesake of the library itself?
Violet didn’t think so. She felt as though she had been lassoed by some magical rope, and someone who knew exactly what she needed had used it to lead her inside.
She closed her eyes for a moment and let the sense of calm wash over her. Madeline had shared with her that when Harry was alive, his study in Philadelphia had not only the desk and chair that Eleanor Elkins had donated, but also a daybed where he could lounge and read whenever the urge overtook him. How wonderful, Violet thought, to be able to have a room in one’s home where you nestle yourself all day reading.
At home, her bedroom had been cramped and overflowing with books. She could never part with a single paperback, even the oneswhose covers were torn or whose pages had rippled from falling into the bathtub while she’d been reading them. Her mother had given up on telling her that she needed to get rid of at least some of them, that anyone who had entered the small space would have thought she was a hoarder. Only Grandma Helen seemed to understand the importance of having your books all around you. It made it feel as though you were surrounded by friends.
Exiting the Memorial Room, Violet almost collided with Madeline. Neither of them had been looking where they were going.
“Oh, I’m glad we ran into each other,” Madeline teased. “How are things going so far? Are you enjoying being a page?”
“Yes, a lot!” she replied. “No requests yet for the Memorial Collection, though. Mostly, I’m getting asked for books in Pusey or Lamont.”
“Well, you know where to find me if you need anything.”
Madeline’s eyes lifted over her spectacles. She peered past the doorway and into the Memorial Room, smiling at this morning’s delivery of fresh blooms.
“I like the flowers you chose, Violet.”
“I’m now on good terms with Lottie. I have to give her all the credit.”
“Still, good work. You’ve succeeded in ingratiating yourself amongst the innermost circle of Harry’s caretakers.”
