Page 20 of The Library of Borrowed Hearts

“You’re better off giving Noodle the number to the White House,” Trixie warned. She was still avoiding my gaze, still speaking with a bitterness that caused my heart to clench. “Or even a phone without a battery in it. A dead carrier pigeon would reach her faster than one of her kids calling for help.”

“The oldest sloth in the world lives at a zoo in Germany,” Theo announced as he started slurping the milk from his bowl. “His name is Jan, and he’s over fifty years old.”

I closed my eyes and did the same thing I did every morning whentrying to corral this herd out the door—I addressed their issues one at a time. Sometimes I moved in order of age. Other times I opted for the old librarian standby, alphabetical order.

Today, I started with the easiest and worked my way up from there.

“Theo, those had better be facts you read about on the internet and not the result of a hundred-dollar sloth hotline bill I’m going to be hit with next month.”

Theo giggled and tossed his breakfast things in the sink. “I guess you won’t know until next month, will you?” he asked.

I assumed—and hoped—the question was rhetorical, so I moved on to the next task. Pressing a kiss on Noodle’s forehead, I said, “Please call me as many times as you need today, okay? Don’t feel like you have to hold back because I’m at work. Gunderson won’t like it, but hewillunderstand. If you need anything—anything at all—I can drop what I’m doing and come running.”

Noodle nodded solemnly. “I will. I promise.”

Drawing a deep breath, I turned to Trixie next. She was already halfway out the door, but she stopped long enough to fling up a hand. “Don’t say it. I was just blowing off steam. I didn’t mean it.”

“Trix,” I said.

“I can’t have this conversation right now. We’re already running late. If I get too many tardies, they’ll kick me off the debate team.”

“She did the best she could with a bad situation,” I said, unwilling to accept my sister’s attempt to wriggle out. For once in our lives, we were actually running ahead of schedule. The adrenaline that had been running a nonstop course through me since yesterday was doing wonders for my time-management skills. “I know you haven’t forgiven her, and I’m not asking you to, but—”

Trixie turned toward me in full-tilt Trixie fashion, every one of her hackles up. “I willneverforgive her. Not in a million years. Not if she showed up on the doorstep with a million dollars.”

The tight feeling in my chest clamped harder. I was a long way from forgiving our mother myself, but it had been a while since I shared the sharp edge of anger that Trixie held clenched in both hands. I’d learned the hard way that responsibility would do that. All the things that used to fire me up a few years ago—a passion for justice, the absolute certainty of right versus wrong, a desire to go out and follow my dreams to the bright, brilliant future that awaited me—had grown dull and weathered. I’d grown old before my time, and not in the fun way that some women did, turning into eccentric aunts who may or may not be secret witches on the side. Most days, all I wanted was a nap.

“You can’t hold on to your anger forever,” I said.

“Watch me.”

I gave up the fight. I knew, from a handful of conversations with Trixie over the years, that she’d done everything in her power to keep the household going after Mom had run out. Even at age eleven, she’d known enough about the system to recognize that the safest route was to pretend that all was well. As long as the kids showed up to school at their regular times, moderately bathed and fed, the state wouldn’t intervene.

For more than a week, she’d kept up the pretense—feeding the boys whatever she could find and walking them the bus stop, making sure they looked the part of happy, healthy children whose mother was just at home sleeping off too many drinks at the bar the night before. I had no idea how she managed it for as long as she did, but I suspected it was the boundless certainty that characterized all her actions.

“You should throw that stupid phone number away,” she muttered now. “We’re doing fine without her.”

“Of course we are,” I agreed blandly. The lie rolled easily off my tongue. “But it’s a good fallback plan. No matter what happens, she’s still technically our mother.”

Trixie’s look of derision spoke loudly, but I pretended not to hear it and ushered her and Theo out the door instead. Nothing about thissituation was ideal, but as I clicked the lock behind me, I refused to let myself dwell on the quiet of the house or the way Noodle’s mouth was set in a firm line against it all: the pain, the boredom, the loneliness of the day stretching out ahead of him.

And, underscoring everything, the realization that there was very little any of us could do about it.

Gunderson took pity on me and put me on shelving duty for the day. There’d been talk of lending me to the parks and recreation janitorial staff for a few months, since they were short of workers and my government paycheck kept me at the mercy of any and all municipal offices in need of labor, but he must have sensed that I was nearing the end of my rope.

The library, with its hushed interior and quiet efficiency, the books laid out in neat, organized rows, was the only kind of order I had in my life right now. Sure, I might have to check the bathrooms every fifteen minutes to make sure the kids weren’t indulging in the new TikTok trend of covering the seats with clear plastic wrap. And, yes, I was the one who had to answer the phones and listen to irate patrons complaining about late fees, but I still appreciated the gesture. Gunderson didn’t even hold it against me that Noodle turned down the offer of his wife’s company.

I pushed my cart down the nonfiction aisle and groaned to discover that someone had moved all the dystopian fiction to current events.

“This was cute the first time it happened,” I muttered as I pulled out a copy ofThe Handmaid’s Taleand stacked it on the cart alongside1984,Battle Royale, andParable of the Sower. At least whoever was responsible for the prank had good taste. “People need to start coming up with better ways of participating in civil government.”

“Psst.”

The sound of a very obvious, very indiscreet whisper assailed me from behind.

“Psst,” it sounded again, this time accompanied by a low male voice. “Come here. I have something I want to show you. It’s a library emergency.”

I was carefulnotto turn around.