As I leave the aquarium, my legs are wobbly. I can’t shake that man’s brown eyes from my mind. So dark and intense but warm and inviting all the same. His voice was smooth and confident. His suit looked expensive. Why he came to my rescue with his handkerchief, I don’t know. He certainly didn’t look like a tourist or a teacher with a school group.

I could still smell his scent from his handkerchief from when I blotted my face with it. It was the most intoxicating I have ever smelled. I wish I had kept the hanky, but my memory will have to suffice.

I am slightly kicking myself that I didn’t get to see the rest of the aquarium. I don’t know why I let him run me out of there. Well, he didn’t run me out, but… I have no idea. I’m so confused. Being near him, I couldn’t think straight to string more than a few syllables together.

I know what I need. The library. I head west until I get to State Street, turn right and soon find myself in front of the immense, red brick building topped with its aged and intricate copper roof at State and Van Buren. Chicago’s largest library.

Stepping in through the massive front doors, the scent of old paper fills my senses, and I’m both calmed and excited at the same time. I stand in the central lobby and smile at one of the librarians I saw the other day at the circulation desk. I glance to the right and see a sign that says ‘YouMedia’ where I see teens working on computers and listening to music with headphones. To the left I see… the stacks.

Walking through the tall shelves, I relax into the familiarity. I love how every library is similar. That books are laid out all the same like here in the fiction section, everything is alphabetical by author name… and over in the non-fiction area with numerals, thanks to the Dewey Decimal System. Best of all, the books are free—once you have a library card. And even if you don’t—you can sit in the quiet and read. No one to holler at you or embarrass you. No one needing help getting cleaned up or talking too loudly. Basically, my mother wasn’t here. I seriously doubt she’d ever stepped foot in a library. The library was the ultimate hiding place.

I locate one of my favorite books, one I have yet to add to my modest collection, and carefully take it off the shelf. I carry the book, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, to a quiet corner.

As much as I try to lose myself in Norland Park and the lives of the Dashwoods along with their financial woes and get lost in the loves of Elinor and Marianne, I can’t shake the image of the man from the aquarium—his brown eyes and sandy blond hair. I wonder what he was doing at a museum, an aquarium, in the middle of a work day. I don’t recall seeing other businessmen there. Maybe he works at the aquarium, I surmise. I plan on visiting the aquarium again in hopes of seeing him hoping that I won’t look too obvious.

I can’t believe my eyes as I walk into my most favorite place in Chicago. Yes, I love the museums, but I love the library even more. I have always enjoyed the peace of the space. When I was at the all-boys boarding school I attended for sixth through twelfth grade, I spent more hours in the library than my dorm room. At first, I started to go to the library to get away from my annoying-as-hell roommate, but once I started reading the Harry Potter books, I loved the space even more—its high ornate ceilings, elaborate windows, and intricate chandeliers made the building feel like something right out of Hogwarts. Sure, my classmates called me a nerd for spending so much time there, but I didn’t care. I devoured those books, then turned to others, discovering Lord of the Rings, then King Arthur, and I didn’t slow down. I was a fast reader and the librarians at the school always had a book waiting for me.

Turning the corner, I see her. She absolutely takes my breath away. My mystery redhead.

It seems she really is a reader, not just a diner who reads while she eats, and that makes me smile. To find her in one of my favorite museums is one thing—it’s touristy. The library is something… different. It is like fate is throwing us together. I see her sitting in the oversized chair in the corner of the fiction section here at the Harold Washington Library reading a book. She has such a simple, unassuming character. An Audrey Hepburn quality.

I can’t see the cover, but I can see that she isn’t reading a new book. It looks to be one of the classics. I want to go up to her and ask her what she’s reading, but after she practically ran from me at the aquarium, I am afraid she would think I stalked her and followed her here. So, I grab a best seller that is sitting out begging for attention and find a space out of the way where I pretend to read, but secretly I am watching her. I watch as she holds a lock of her beautiful, reddish-blonde hair in her fingers and drags it back and forth over her lower lip as she reads. Occasionally, I see that she is distracted, and I wonder why.

She shifts in her chair, and I see her pull a phone out of her back pocket. She starts to head toward the lobby placing the book she’s reading in the re-shelving cart as she leaves. I get up to follow her, stopping only to quickly see what book she’d been reading. Sense and Sensibility. One I have not read. I did try once, but the Victorian era left me flat. I much preferred the action of a King Arthur and Medieval era novels. I decide that maybe I will give it another go and race to the front door to catch her. I can’t let her get away again.

This is the fourth time I’m crossing paths with her. So much for ‘third time’s the charm.’ I’m banking on the fourth time. Not letting this one pass me by!

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out and glance at the screen. My heart drops when I see it’s my mother. It’s been almost a full week since I’ve messaged her. Guilt courses through me that I’ve not been checking in with her. I’ve been so busy with my new friends, and she seemed to be doing well. Is that still the case?

“Hi, Mom,” I answer, whispering until I can make my way out of the building, although no one seems to notice that I’m talking on a phone. Mrs. Tinley, the librarian from my Harton library, would be having a fit. Not only because I was talking, but she also viewed cell phones as one of the Devil’s tools.

“How’s Chicago, baby? How’s the job going? Are you makin’ good money? How expensive is it up there? Are you eating okay? Please tell me you’re not in some rat and roach infested apartment.”

Guilt floods every fiber of my being. I hate myself for having lied to her. But I can’t deny feeling loved by her concern. “The job, yeah,” I mutter, stalling. “It’s great,” I fib again. “The place I’m living in is pretty nice,” I add as I walk toward my apartment on Van Buren Street. Wanting the discussion off my lies, I ask her, “How are things with you?” I hold my breath and hope she’s going to tell me that things are good, that she’s sober, that she’s got a plan to get the bills paid, and that she’s ready for Jude to come home.

She’s silent for a few moments. Then she sighs and says, “I miss you. I screwed up so bad. I’m sorry.”

I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say. It’s the first genuine apology I’ve heard from her in a long while. There’s something in her tone that is so authentic. Then my old thoughts kick in. I’ve heard apologies I thought were heartfelt in the past. I start to worry-slash-panic that she’s about to tell me that she’s in trouble, needs help with paying the bills, or that she blew all the money on booze because not enough guys bought her drinks at the bar lately.

“The electric bill came in the mail yesterday, and I already wrote the check. It’s all ready to be mailed on Wednesday. I went grocery shopping. I can’t believe how expensive milk is these days.”

“Wow,” I say, completely impressed, real tears pricking my eyes. I also note that she sounds completely sober and not at all hungover. “That’s great, Mom.”

“And thanks for setting up the mortgage payment. Are you able to afford it? I mean, with living in the big city and all? I know you say you had some savings and this grant thing, but…”

“Yeah, I’m good, Mom,” I assure her. “Don’t worry about me. I know your money is tighter than mine. I’ve got the payment covered. It’s okay.”

“I’ve been going to the AA meetings,” she confesses quietly. “I went to my first one Sunday afternoon, and I’ve been to one every day since. I’m gonna get better, Crystal-baby. I promise.” My heart swells with this bit of news. “I got a new job myself this week, too. It ain’t much, but it keeps me focused. You remember Carla Schmidt?” she asks, bringing up my old classmate. Before I can reply, she continues, “Well, her mother, Candy, has agreed to be my sponsor. Someone who’s been through the twelve steps and can help me through. Did you know she runs a cleaning business? Well, she’s in the AA group, and she gave me a job. I’m going to help her clean houses and a few small businesses in town. It’s honest work. I started Tuesday. She picks me up in the morning, we clean all day, then she drives me home.”

“Mom, I’m so proud of you,” I say, all choked up when I recover from her barrage of information. I don’t think she’s ever strung so many thoughts together when talking to me before. So many salient thoughts.

“Thanks, baby. I feel good.” She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Jude comes home in two weeks. Nick from the group says that his brother might hire Jude to work his lawn business. You know, cuttin’ grass for them rich people up on Vine and stuff. And then leaf cleanin’ in the fall. He says that the company hangs Christmas lights and shit—erm, I mean stuff, too, in the winter,” Um, did Mom just sensor a curse from her speech? “and that if Jude can prove himself, then maybe he’ll be kept on through the season to hang lights then take ‘em down after the holidays.”

“Wow. I… I’m so… proud,” I repeat, feeling like a broken record as I try to process all of this, once again feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. My mother is actually turning her life around! And she’s helping Jude.

“Me, too, baby. An’ maybe you can come home one day? An' we can be a family again.” My heart aches. As lovely as her dream is, I know that I’m an adult, and this past couple of weeks, even though it’s only been two weeks, has shown me that I like being out on my own. I’ve enjoyed my independence and being self-sufficient. “Or maybe Jude and I can take a vacation and come visit you.”

“That sounds nice. We’ll see, Mom. Hey, I gotta go, but it was great talking to you. I’ll call you next week?” I offer.

“I’d like that a lot,” she says quietly. “And really, baby. I’m so sorry. You had to put up with a lot with me. This is step eight of the recovery process, and I’m still kinda working on steps one through seven, but I heard someone talking about how they apologized, and well, yeah, I am sorry.”

“Mom, we’re fine,” I interrupt, my stomach growing uneasy with her apology. I don’t want her to get down on herself and then turn to her crutch.

“Okay, baby, but still, I wasn’t a very good mother. I didn’t make a good family.” She’s quiet, and so am I. What can I say? “We will be. I promise. I’m going to work hard. You’ll see,” she adds and falls quiet for another moment. “So, this program… AA… It’s God based. We talk a lot about God. Candy says she goes to a non-dominant church.” Dominant? “Where they’re not really Catholic or Methodist or anything, but they teach the Bible and lessons and stuff. I was thinking I would go with her this weekend. What do you think?”

Oh, non-denominational.

“I think it sounds like a really positive direction, Mom. It’s all up and up from here, right?” I say, trying to sound encouraging. It’s a lot to take in. My mom acting like an adult, and a parent, and finding God…

“That’s right, baby doll. Up and up.”

We say our goodbyes, and I make a silent prayer to a God I’ve never really known saying thank you and asking Him to continue to watch over my mom.