The Bookstore

“Do you have James Henson’s new book?”

Beth looked up.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “We just got a shipment in yesterday. It’s been flying off the shelves.”

A faint smile spread across the man’s face. He looked to be in his fifties.

“Come with me. I’ll show you where it is.”

Beth stepped out from behind the register and led him toward the middle of the store, moving past a display table piled high with books.

“Have you read it?” he asked.

He saw her shake her head before answering.

“No. I love James Henson’s books, but life’s been too crazy lately to get around to this one. My sister has read it, though, and she said it’s one I definitely need to read. She had a silly way of putting it: ‘It’s a book that would understand me.’ ”

“Understand you? That is interesting.”

“Yes.” Her reply came slowly.

“How does a book understand you?”

“Well, sir, do you ever go through times in your life that are hard and wonder why? Then you read a book, maybe a scene, a thought, or even the premise of the whole story, that just makes you feel held. Not cured, necessarily, but like you can keep going in spite of it all. That is what it means for a book to ‘understand you.’ At least, that’s what my sister and I say.”

The man, without thinking, asked,

“So your sister thinks this book will be good for you? What sort of trouble are you going through?”

She paused, and the look she gave him reminded him of a deer in the headlights, yet also of someone who wanted to cry on a shoulder if only someone would listen.

He was about to correct himself when she spoke first.

“Well, things have been crazy lately. My husband left three months ago and disappeared, leaving me to take care of our three children and a pile of bills. Normal bills wouldn’t be a problem, but my middle child, about a month before he left, was diagnosed with a rare cancer. The treatments are expensive, and most of the time, you do everything you can, and the person still… doesn’t make it. My poor Sarah. I don’t want to lose her.

I took this job at the bookstore part-time. I have another full-time job, but I’m afraid I might lose it because I’ve had to miss so many days taking care of Sarah and just being a mom.”

She stopped, her eyes filling with tears. The man immediately regretted asking her anything about herself.

“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.”

She turned away from his gaze and realized she was standing right next to the book he wanted. She took it off the shelf and handed it to him. As he held it, she saw the image on the back and her heart skipped a beat. The man she was talking to was none other than James Henson.

She was full of regret. She had just told the great James Henson about her own life struggles. He must think she was a fool. She wished the floor would open and swallow her, or that the bookstore was closing. But her eyes met his, and there was nothing but a kind, caring gaze, the gaze of someone who had also known pain and difficulty.

His face reminded her of the interview she had seen him have, and the early days he had talked about.

He had gone to college, met the woman who would become his wife, and earned a degree in engineering. He took a job, for the money, but hated it.

At heart, he just wanted to be a writer. He had written short stories for his wife when they were first married, and she had urged him to try writing a book. After some time he finally agreed, and started it.

For years, he worked hard. An engineer by day, a writer by night.

As time passed, he had three children. But the work got bigger, and his role more consuming, keeping him away from home more often than not.

Twelve years passed in a haze of endless projects, airplanes, and hotel rooms. His wife begged him to quit, or at least step back from such a consuming role. She would talk with him long into the night, pleading for him to be home more. To attend Charlie’s baseball games, or Racheal’s ballet. And he would agree, but the change never came. Slowly, the warmth and life of their home and relationship faded.

At last, she gave up. She left, taking the children with her.

Before he could reach them, tragedy struck. Passing through an intersection, a car ran a red light crashing into his wife’s car. She and the children were killed in the collision. Everything he had worked for, every plan, every goal, vanished in an instant.

He quit his job immediately. He visited their graves everyday. Work that had meant so much for so long, didn’t even get a thought.

Beth watched his face as he looked down at the book in his hands. His brow tightened, like he was holding something in. For a moment, she saw herself in him.

She was back at the kitchen table, her children working through their homework. Her head felt heavy, her eyes burning. She half-listened as one of them spoke, trying to give them her best while running on dregs. Work she had brought home sat untouched beside her. The clock moved too fast. Doctor’s appointments. Lunches to pack.

She wasn’t chasing anything grand. She was just trying to make it to the end of each day, to keep some semblance of normal life for her children.

When she felt his gaze meet hers, she knew she was failing.

He held the book in his hands for a long moment, then looked up at her.

“Don’t neglect your family,” he said quietly. “Whatever happens… don’t lose that.”

She nodded, unsure why his words felt heavier than they should.

He hesitated, then gestured toward the front of the store. “Would you like to get a coffee?”

She glanced at the clock. “My lunch break’s in an hour… I’d like that.”

He gave a small nod, purchased a copy of the book, and left without another word.

An hour later, he returned.

They ordered their coffee and sat across from each other at a small table near the window. For a while, they made only small talk. Then he asked about her children, about Sarah, about the father who could leave his children and never reach out.

James Henson sat there listening until her break ended and she had to go.

She hadn’t had someone just sit and listen for a long time. She felt a sense of relief as she collected her purse and phone.

As they both rose to leave, Beth wanted to ask one question — something odd about this middle-aged man.

She looked down at her cup, her hands wrapped tightly around it.

“Why did you buy your own book?” she asked, a faint smile breaking through.

He slid the book across the table toward her.

“It wasn’t for me,” he said. “Take a look.”

She opened the cover slowly.

On the first page was his signature, written in a wide, unsteady hand. Beneath it, a short note:

They don’t need everything. They need you.

Her fingers lingered on the page as she let out a short exhale.

When she looked up, the chair across from her was empty.