the future isn’t here yet
I text Rachel after dinner tonight, to make sure she’s okay. The letters we exchanged this afternoon felt important. I’d call her, like I did in the old days, but she’s explained that the warehouse has no walls and Rose works long hours, so when she’s home, she needs her sleep.
Me: What are you doing?
Rachel: Finishing Cloud Atlas. I liked it. I don’t think I completely understood it.
Me: I don’t think you’re alone.
Rachel: I think it was a novel, though. I think the stories are interconnected. The characters all had that same birthmark and someone’s written a note in my copy about the transmigration of the soul – whoever wrote the note thinks the birthmark means the book is about soul transmigration. Do you believe that souls can transmigrate?
Me: What is transmigration exactly?
Rachel: The passing of a soul, after death, into another body.
Me: I don’t know if I believe in it. Do you?
Rachel: No. But it’s a beautiful idea.
Me: You’re always so certain about things. I wonder how it would feel, to be so certain.
Rachel: You’re certain about Amy. You’re certain that selling the bookstore is right.
Me: I’m certain it’s the most profitable decision.
Instead of texting me back, Rachel calls. She starts in on what she wants to say without even saying a hello. ‘This is important, Henry,’ she says. ‘Very important. I want you to imagine, really imagine, that Howling Books is gone. Are you imagining?’
‘I’m imagining.’
‘Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you go to work, every morning, to a normal nine-to-five job. Imagine there’s no Frederick or Frieda. No George, no Martin, no Michael, no books, no me.’
‘Okay.’
‘What exactly are you imagining?’ she asks.
‘I’m sitting at a desk, typing.’
‘What are you typing?’
‘A letter to you.’
‘In this job, you can’t write letters to me. This job doesn’t allow for writing in your spare time, or dreaming, or reading. You don’t really have spare time anymore. At least not unguarded spare time,’ she says, and I hear her shifting her feet around, sliding them through the sheets.
‘Now,’ she continues. ‘Imagine that you’re earning a decent wage. Imagine that Amy is waiting for you at home when you arrive. You live in a flat. You sleep in a regular bed. You have limited space for books.’
I stop imagining. ‘I know all this, Rachel. I know life won’t be great without the shop, but I also know the shop won’t be around forever. I can’t fight the future.’
‘The future isn’t here yet,’ she says, and refers me to my last letter.