The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry

A.J. nods. “Call me later, okay?”

It is Daniel who calls later. “Ismay’s in the hospital,” he says flatly. “Another miscarriage.”

That makes two in the last year, five total

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, once the snow has stopped and even begun to melt away into mud, a body washes up against the small strip of land near the lighthouse. The ID in her pocket says that this is Marian Wallace, and it does not take long for Lambiase to deduce that the body and the baby are, in fact, related

“You said the mother had been through the foster system?”

Lambiase nods.

“Suppose she thought the kid would stand a better chance in a bookstore.”

“Who can say?”

“You said the mother had been through the foster system?”

Lambiase nods.

“Suppose she thought the kid would stand a better chance in a bookstore.”

“Who can say?”

If one afternoon with a baby can have such a refining influence on A.J., imagine what could happen to Daniel when the baby is born. Her brother-in-law’s small gesture gives her hope. She rubs her belly. It’s a boy in there, and they’ve already chosen a name and a backup name if the original name doesn’t suit.

To the Owner of This Bookstore:

This is Maya. She is twenty-five months old. She is VERY SMART, exceptionally verbal for her age, and a sweet, good girl. I want her to grow up to be a reader. I want her to grow up in a place with books and among people who care about those kinds of things. I love her very much, but I can no longer take care of her. The father cannot be in her life, and I do not have a family that can help. I am desperate.

Yours,

Maya’s Mother

My wife’s sister, Ismay, teaches at the high school

in combination with the sedative is mellowing

Come, thou monarch of the vine

feeling under the weather