The desk in my apartment overlooks Mount Vernon’s Main Street, quiet now after this morning’s parade crowd has returned home. When I’m not helping Brie with the store downstairs, I’m typically sitting here by the window, researching and writing posts on children’s authors like Felix Salten who use their life story as fodder for their writing.
More than ten thousand people follow the Magic Balloon blog—librarians, kids, parents, other bookstore owners. Readers, I’ve discovered, enjoy hearing about the successes of their favorite authors like J. R. R. Tolkien, J. K. Rowling, and Theodor Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss), but even more, they like to read about their failings.
The failures give hope to people both young and old. And the biography posts, along with our Lost & Found page, generate enough traffic to our site that Brie and I have managed to supplement our sales income with a bit of advertising.
I tap onto the bookmark for our website, and a colorful bouquet of balloons lifts off from the bottom of my screen, the balloons floating to the top of the page and then dividing neatly into six topics—About, Blog, Shop, Lost & Found, Events, and Contact. The site, with all its whimsical colors and moving pieces, is designed to appeal to kids, but Brie and I want people of all ages to be able to navigate it.
After logging in to the dashboard, I click on Lost & Found to update the page. Each item is listed with a bullet point—a Roger Clemens rookie card, a silver ring, an assortment of letters, photographs, and certificates. Visitors can click on each piece for a description of the used book, lost item, and sometimes a photo.
I don’t include photographs of the valuable items; if anyone emails me about being the potential owner, I can ask for specifics. Plenty of people have responded to my listings, but I’ve never matched anything with its original owner.
Under a new bullet point, I type, Unusual list found inside German edition of Bambi. Then I link the headline to a full description.
Early edition of Austrian book, Bambi: a Life in the Woods. Owner named Annika Knopf, dated 1932 by her mother. Unique list inscribed on the pages.
I leave off the info about the photograph and Schloss Schwansee—those will help me identify the original owner or her family if someone does inquire.
My online search for an Annika Knopf has revealed several contemporary women, but between the publication date of the book and the mother’s inscription along with the neatness of the script inside, I’m fairly certain Annika lived most, if not all, of her life pre-Internet. Back when people of all ages treasured their books and spent hours practicing their handwriting.
Perhaps Annika was a girl with a grand imagination. Or perhaps she was keeping a list of her family’s heirlooms or things she wanted to buy one day. If I could reunite her book with her family, that would be the happiest ending of all for me.
Rain begins channeling down my window, and when I glance outside, I see a family of five crossing the street, each of its members clutching an ice cream cone and smiling in spite of the weather. I turn quickly back to my iPad screen.
At the top of my inbox are two articles about Felix Salten from Sophie, the Vienna researcher I’ve connected with online. With the help of Google, I begin translating the first one.
Salten was born in Hungary, the grandson of an orthodox rabbi, but his family moved to Austria soon after his birth because the government in Vienna began granting full citizenship to Jewish immigrants in 1867. Salten wrote Bambi in 1923, and it was such a huge success that he sold the film rights a decade later to an American director for a thousand bucks. This director later sold it to the studio of Walt Disney, who released it in 1942—ironically, while Salten and his family were exiled from their home.
The second article says Salten fled Vienna soon after Hitler annexed Austria to Germany. Many Jewish people tried to leave Vienna during the following year. Salten and his wife attempted—and failed—to obtain a visa through the American consulate, but their daughter helped them immigrate to Switzerland before the war began.
In the novel, Bambi’s mother tells him not to look back, and I wonder about his creator—did Felix Salten ever look back? Surely he must have grieved the loss of the city he’d once loved and the thousands there—about sixty-five thousand Jewish brothers and sisters—who were killed during the Holocaust.
I have a little over a month to finish my article on Salten and then start gathering info about another author for a new post, one with a happy ending, of course. People like to hear about the failures, but most of them read children’s books because they also want to read about their favorite characters fighting to overcome whatever obstacles are in their way, triumphing in the end.
I thank Sophie for her help, then send one more request, asking her to find the Vienna newspaper from May 6, 1938.
Someone knocks on my door, and I fold over the cover of my iPad before crossing the hardwood. It’s my sister, her apron still streaked with chocolate from this morning, her hair strung back behind her ears.
“You want me to take over?” I ask.
“Yes, please.” She loops the apron strap around her finger. “Ethan said the boys are about to drive him mad.”
“From one zoo to another for you.”
My sister lives a mile away from the store, in one of those Victorian homes on Gambier Street with their high ceilings and winding staircases. The house keeps Ethan and his carpentry skills quite busy, with the added benefit of offering plenty of space for the twins to play. On cold or stormy days, they’ve been known to roller skate across the cement floors in the basement and play leapfrog down the foyer.
She checks the time on her phone. “It’s only an hour until close.”
“I’ve got it.” With my declaration, Brie unties the chocolate-splattered apron and holds it out, but I decline her offer. “I’ll collect some dinner for us after I finish.”
She tilts her head, skeptical. “On your bicycle?”
“Pizza delivery. Extra pepperoni for the boys.”
“Thank you.”
But really I should be thanking Brie because Saturday nights with her crew are the highlight of my week. I’ll spend an hour cheering while the boys play hoops to give Brie and Ethan some much-needed couple time. A win all the way around.
My iPad propped on the counter downstairs, the store empty, I begin writing an email to the bookseller in Boise, inquiring about where she obtained the copy of Bambi. It’s a favor I’m asking—most sellers won’t give out this information—but Brie said she’s purchased books from this lady before. Perhaps she’ll tell me as a courtesy.
I start searching again for articles about Schloss Schwansee, but I’m obsessing now, hunting for answers I don’t need. Moving on is what I need to do, at least in my mind, or I’ll be stuck here all night.
Slipping around the counter, I begin shifting beanbags back into place, reshelving books that have wandered. Inkspot is asleep in the corner, probably exhausted from the dozens of hands stalking him all day. I understand. Too many people, for too many hours, exhaust me as well. My sister and Charlotte are the only adults who don’t wear me out after an hour. And they are the only ones who understand that I still adore them, even when I need my space.
Family, I guess, is supposed to be like that.
Brie and I have the same father, but we have different moms. Brie’s mother ran away in the middle of the night, about six months after Brie was born, and never seemed to look back. I remember her vaguely, an apparition who haunted my mind until I found out that she wasn’t my biological mom.
I don’t look anything like Sandra Dermott, the woman who gave me life, nor do I look like my father. But Brie and I, as different as we are, look just like sisters.
Rumors fester and grow in a town like ours, but if people whisper any longer about the Randall girls, I’m not privy to it. Unless their parents have told them stories, the kids who crowd my floor each Saturday don’t know about my broken family, and most of the students from Brie’s and my school days have since moved to the big city or a state farther south where the sun shines warmth for most of the year.
When Brie and I were kids, our father was on the road most of the week and often weekends as well, driving a tractor trailer. On my eighth birthday, he decided that he didn’t have the extra cash for frivolous things like child care while he was traveling. For that matter, he didn’t have much time to care for his kids when he was in town, but at least an adult was home those nights and brought us an occasional bag of fast food.
So I moved into the mother role for Brie, out of necessity. In hindsight, the state should have stepped in, but back then I didn’t know that kids could borrow another family for a season. I made up all sorts of stories when adults asked about my father, because I’d somehow gotten it in my mind that Brie and I could end up in prison for being home alone.
Charlotte—Mrs. Trent to me then—never once shamed us. She offered Brie and me a safe place to spend our after-school hours. On Sundays, when the bookstore was closed, she invited us to church and into her home. She and Mr. Trent didn’t have children, and for all intents and purposes, Brie and I didn’t have parents. A match truly made in heaven.
When I was ten, Mr. Trent passed away, and after his funeral, I marched into Magic Balloon and informed Mrs. Trent that I’d decided to adopt her into our family. Ridiculous, looking back, but she didn’t laugh at me. Instead she said that it wasn’t often someone had the privilege of being adopted twice.
Our dad died when I was sixteen, Brie fourteen, and Charlotte invited two bewildered teenagers to come live with her. We both helped her with the bookstore each afternoon during high school. That switched to full-time after I graduated, working at the store to pay for my tuition at a local university called Mount Vernon Nazarene.
It took me six years to obtain my degree in English, but late into the night, when I couldn’t sleep, I delved into web design so I could launch a site for the store. The web experience proved to be just as valuable as my degree. Instead of leaving Mount Vernon like my high school friends, I opted to stay working here, helping Magic Balloon thrive. Brie headed up to Michigan for college and returned home four years later with a husband who adored her.
I’d so wanted a family of my own, like Brie, but men had terrified me during my college years. I deftly warded off any potential dates by proclaiming the supremacy of my busy life, and I think I terrified a few college men as well by seeming indifferent to their interest. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m protective of my heart, not indifferent, but during my early twenties I didn’t waver far from that facade.
Five years ago, Scott stopped by Magic Balloon in search of a gift for his niece. He worked remotely for a tech company, and our website, he said, needed some work. After I assured him that anything Fancy Nancy would jockey him into position for uncle of the year, he gave me a few tips on how to update our site. Then he invited me to dinner.
Initially, with our conversations focused solely on the website, Scott and I became friends, but as the weeks went by, we fell into something else. I thought it was love—and he declared it to be so. But I was wrong, and the loss just about crushed me.
The shopkeeper’s bell rings, an old-fashioned chime to remind our customers that we retain old-fashioned customer service. Several children walk through the door.
Two tween boys ask me about a creepy kids’ series they say they’re dying—lots of snickering—to read. I explain politely that we don’t carry any books in that genre. We have to draw the line somewhere, I tell them, and we’ve decided that there’s enough horror in real life for some children. No more reason to add to the fear.
One of the kids, the older boy with bangs hinged up like a ladder, pushes back, saying there’s no problem with pretend scary. Smiling, I start my well-rehearsed lecture for such a time as this.
“Books are a lot like food,” I begin, stepping between the boys and the exit. “First is the healthy stuff that most parents want their kids to read. Some of it tastes great, others perhaps not so much, but it’s good for the body and mind.”
Hands stuffed in his pocket, the hinged-bangs boy is not buying it, so I continue on. “Next there’s brain candy, the sugary sweet stuff that tastes good going down, but turns into a bellyache if you binge. . . . And then there’s the poison.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Kids need to eat real food for their bodies to grow, not the pieces of poison left out for, say, rodents.”
“There’s nothing wrong with rodents—”
“I think some books for kids can damage a perfectly good brain.”
At least, they can kill the hope that flickers inside it, stamp it out. Those books begin to define their readers.
“This store is a refuge,” I finish, “for a young person’s body and mind.”
The boy and his friend rush around me, fleeing for the door, and another child, about two years younger, taps my arm tentatively, asking me if we have The Humming Room. I direct him straight to the section for middle grade.
When the store clears again, the telephone rings, and I rush toward the front counter.
“Magic Balloon Bookshop,” I answer. “This is Callie.”
“Callie Randall?” a man asks.
“How can I help you?”
“This is Josh Nemeth, from Ohio State,” he says as if I’m supposed to know who he is.
“Did you order a book?” I watch Inkspot skulk around the perimeter of the room, checking to see if the kids are gone.
“I’m calling about the book you found. The one owned by Annika Knopf.”
I lean against the back wall, surprised. “I just posted that.”
“I have an alert set up,” he explains. “I’ve been searching for information about an Annika from Austria for years.”
I want to reunite this book with its owner, not someone else searching for her. “I don’t know that she’s from Austria—”
“But the book is printed there?”
“Yes, in Salzburg,” I say, reopening my iPad.
“My uncle met a woman named Annika near Salzburg, after the war,” he says. “He never told me her last name.”
Google leads me straight to Dr. Nemeth’s biography on the OSU website. He’s an assistant professor, researching and teaching modern European history.
After skimming Dr. Nemeth’s bio, I study the photograph. He’s a nice-looking man in a rugged sort of way, reminding me of Ryan Gosling in La La Land with his stubble beard and a melancholic look in his eyes as if he’s thousands of miles away. In Austria, perhaps.
“Why exactly are you trying to find Annika?”
“She told my uncle a story, a long time ago . . .” He pauses. “My uncle’s gone now, but I’d like to find Annika or her family, so they can tell me the ending.”
And I want to know as well, Annika’s story, but first I need to make sure we are talking about the same person. “Her mother wrote about a castle in the inscription.”
“If it’s the same Annika, the castle would be Schloss Schwansee.”
Goose bumps trail down my arms. It must be the same woman.
“It’s on the banks of a lake called Hallstatt,” he says.
Dozens of images replace Dr. Nemeth’s profile on my screen. Bluish-green mountains surrounding a pristine lake, medieval houses in a village called Hallstatt hugging the shore. And there’s an ancient castle on the opposite side of the water, no name listed, but it’s near a village called Obertraun.
Poetic descriptions accompany the photographs. Sun-painted mountains. Jagged cliffs. Ghostly fog creeping across the jeweled lake. What would it be like to see a place like this, hike around an alpine lake instead of perusing it from my computer screen?
“This list inside . . . What exactly did it say?” he asks.
“It’s written in German.” I’m not ready to tell him about anything that Charlotte translated. “We bought the book from a seller in Idaho.”
“Where did the seller get it?” His voice has changed, tightened, with this question, and I wonder if he’s intrigued or angry.
“I emailed her today and asked that very same question.”
The bell above the door rings again, and Devon Baker, one of my Saturday morning regulars, tromps inside, tugging on his dad’s hand. His father is a local, but almost a decade older than me. While I attended school with his younger sister, I can’t for the life of me remember his first name.
“She has it, Daddy,” I hear Devon say, dragging Mr. Baker toward me like a magnet about to attach itself to the steel counter.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Nemeth. I need to call you back.”
The man doesn’t seem to hear me. “Can I borrow Annika’s book?”
Hyper-focused, just as I suspected.
Devon rounds the counter and gives me a hug. Then he rushes off toward the castle.
“Just one moment,” I whisper to Devon’s dad. He looks irritated about having to wait, especially since no one except us and a cat are in the store. So much for customer service.
Turning slightly, I try to hide the telephone under my long hair as if Devon’s father won’t see it.
“I can pick it up—”
“No.” I don’t want this man I don’t know to show up at the store. “I’ll scan the marked pages and upload them to Dropbox.”
Then again, I’d like to meet him before I hand over Annika’s list, and hear his uncle’s story. Mr. Baker glances at me again, and I know I’m about to lose a customer if I don’t end the call.
“I’ll bring it to you,” I blurt. Instantly I wish I could take back my words. I don’t want to drive to Columbus or attempt to navigate the crowds at Ohio State.
Devon catapults off the slide, and after his father retrieves him, the man takes a step back as if he might bolt for the door.
“Did you translate any of the notes?” Dr. Nemeth asks, clearly not relenting.
“I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“When can I meet you?”
“Email me at the store’s address,” I say. “We’ll figure out a time.”
He begins talking again, but I disconnect the call.
“Now—” I lean toward Devon—“what can I help you find?”
Devon smiles, his freckles climbing upward. “A Magic Tree House book.”
“I suspect you have a specific one in mind.”
He nods. “The one about the sabertooth.”
I curl my fingers, pretending they are claws. “It’s a fierce sabertooth.”
“I like fierce.”
“Very good then. Let’s see if we have a saber-toothed tiger in stock.” I guide him toward the base of the castle, the section crammed with dozens of Magic Tree House chapter books and decorated with the cutout of a sturdy tree. Devon plucks the sabertooth story off the shelf, and his dad agrees to buy it along with two more in a series of more than fifty books now.
While Devon climbs up the castle steps again, presumably to ride down the slide one more time, I take his books to the counter.
Mr. Baker hands me his credit card. “Devon thinks this place is his second home.”
“I understand. It’s been my second home since I was about his age.”
Mr. Baker’s gaze falls to my left hand, as if someone might have slipped an engagement or even wedding ring on it since story time this morning. Then he smiles at me, any lingering frustration about his waiting gone.
I pull my hand back to reach for a paper bag under the counter. Single men make me nervous enough, the expectations often unclear, but the married ones who like to flirt—nauseating.
“How is Mrs. Baker?” I ask, packing up Devon’s books.
“She moved to Wisconsin a few months back.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure that’s the proper sentiment.
Mr. Baker pushes his glasses up his nose. “We’ve been separated for more than a year.”
I eye the front door, wishing another child in town would have a sudden book crisis. Or an adult for that matter. I’d be fine with just about anyone, except perhaps Scott, walking through that door. “Hard for everyone, I’m sure.”
“Not so much,” he replies. “We fell out of love long ago. She’s engaged to someone else up there.”
Ten seconds, that’s how long it would take me to sprint to the staircase by the office and be halfway upstairs. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me or the way he’s announced his ex-wife’s engagement as if I’m supposed to rejoice at this news.
“Thank you for shopping here, Mr. Baker.” I hand over the bag. “I hope you and Devon have a good night.”
“My name’s Nate.”
My nod is sharp, dismissive. “Thank you,” I say again, though I don’t want to acknowledge his first name. It’s old school, I know, but titles are not only a form of respect; they keep a safe distance between me and any man who threatens to step into my space.
“Devon and I are having dinner at China Buffet,” he says. “Care to join us?”
Brie’s right. I’ll never marry if I continue to run from every man who expresses interest in me, but then again, I’d rather stay hidden away upstairs for the rest of my life than marry someone who could fall out of love.
“I’m afraid I can’t.” I glance at the clock behind the counter. “I have to work until six, and then I have a date afterward.” No need to tell him that the date involves hanging out with my nephews.
His smile falls slightly, but he’s not deterred. “Perhaps next weekend.”
Devon squeals as he zooms down the slide.
“Let me know if there are any other books you’d like me to order,” I say, escorting both Devon and his father toward the door before Devon decides to climb back up.
He swipes the bag from his dad’s hand. “Thanks, Story Girl.”
“Next weekend,” Mr. Baker reminds me before stepping toward the door. “We’ll go on some sort of adventure.”
I lock the front door and head back upstairs to prepare for an adventure of my own through someone else’s story.