Still On Duty

by Carolyn Parnall Fink

At a Book Signing

I was signing books at one of a national chain of bookstores in the biggest mall in Albuquerque, on a summer holiday weekend. It was only the third time I had done this, and the excitement hadn’t worn off. This was several months after the lymph node surgery, and my leg was healed and I was doing fine. No more drains, no more bandages. I could sit comfortably and think about the future.

My book wasn’t a best seller, it wasn’t even a blip on the publisher’s radar screen, but it didn’t matter. There I sat at a folding table, a little vase with a flower in it at my elbow, and a stack of books in front of me. It was early at the mall, people were beginning to wander around, bargain hunting, neighbor visiting, children watching. The bookstore was in the center of the mall, with all the usual suspects around it. The aroma of early lunch came from a chicken sandwich place next door, and I could smell popcorn from across the way. The clothing stores had opened an hour earlier and were crowded with signs about sales. A card shop did a thriving business and a cosmetics place offered beauty and marked down prices at once.

People milled around me as I sat in the front of the store with a flyer taped to the table. I watched, and waited. A kind young lady who worked at the store brought me a glass of water, and people wandered in and out, dressed for summer, for weekends, for relaxing.

He came towards me with a purpose, his step sure and deliberate. Most people read the flyer on the table about the book signing and sort of sidled up and took a minute to sort out what’s going on. He didn’t; he knew what he wanted.

“Your book. Does it talk about death?” he asked, crisply.

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “Quite a lot about death, and also about living.”

He was a small man, compact and short, maybe 50 years old. His dark hair was shot with gray, his eyes bright with something that was searching and in need. He held about six paperback books in his hands, on the spine of one I read the title of a book about angels, one was a book by a physician about the dying process.

“Can you sign this for me?” he asked, handing me a copy of my book on the table.

“Of course, what’s your name?”

“Teodoro Santos,” he said, and I wrote it slowly, thinking. This man needed more than an autographed book. I dug out one of our cards and looked at him and took his hand. He stared back at me, dark eyes speaking silently.

“If you would,” I said, “please write or call and let me know how you like it.”

He took the card and looked at me for a long moment. Then he looked up and stared blindly at the bright display of “New Fiction” in the bookcase behind me. He sighed and said, “I lost my wife to kidney disease after forty-six days in the hospital. I need to sort all this out.”

He took the card and the book and gave me a little bow, and went to stand in line to pay for his books about angels and death and eternal life.

I continued to sign books, and smile, and felt the waves of his pain until he left the store, with a little smile in my direction.

Zoey and Bailey were there, of course, at their grandmother’s book signing. They weren’t sure what it was all about, but they knew bookstores and were familiar with the Children’s Corner, where the small tables and chairs sat waiting for them. Zoey was six, Bailey two; Zoey was blond and slim and serious, Bailey dark-haired and blue-eyed, all smiles and wiggles. While Bailey crawled into my lap to investigate the process of signing books, Zoey leaned against me, watching and telling me that ‘the lady in the big white hat is looking at you, maybe she’ll come over…’ and generally commenting on the adults who wandered by. ‘I hope she doesn’t come over, her kid has ice cream all over him….’ While Bailey peered into her sister’s face, listening, as if to store important information that she would need later about being six. When Zoey began to hop, with her arms at her sides as she had seen Irish dancers on television, her back perfectly straight, Judy watched her and tried to hop in my lap. I could feel her little body push up and down, imitating Zoey. I leaned down and whispered, “Soon you’ll do that, sweetheart. Don’t worry, you’ll learn how to hop really well and Zoey will probably teach you.” She looked solemnly into my face, and then smiled a big bright smile, agreeing with me. She continued to hop in my lap, oblivious of the people who watched her with wonder. I signed books with my arms around her, and then she slid off my lap and ran to her mother, bright-eyed Amelia, and reported her adventures. Zoeyr continued to hop, perfectly straight, perfectly serious. Her toes alone projected her upward, around and around the bookcase behind me, arms straight down like an Irish sprite.

I looked up as an older lady came towards me, smiling. She had white hair, and wore a tee-shirt that said “I know I’m efficient, tell me I’m beautiful” and I laughed out loud. She grinned and took my hand.

“I bought your book when it first came out and I just wanted to come by and meet you!” she said, and gave me a quick hug. “I’m a retired nurse, and I’m here to buy a book for my grandson, and I saw your sign. Go tell ‘em, girl.” She shook my hand again, and went to the children’s corner, with Taylor hopping along beside her, telling her about Dr. Seuss.

The morning wore on, the mall grew more and more crowded and much noisier; people looked more tired, children seemed to have more and more ice cream on them, as Zoeyr commented. I could smell hamburgers and Chinese food and pizza now, as well as frying chicken. And along with the smells wafted towards me came five of my best friends, four nurses and a regular person, Kate Emerson, an old high school friend. They all had serious health problems, they all were strong and supportive of me and each other, and they smiled a lot. They were laughing and smiling and waving and nearly knocked the table over as they hugged me and each other. They had all met here, in my little corner, to begin a day of shopping and talking and lunch. Mostly lunch; they were arguing already about going to the local enchilada emporium or the Chinese place, or somewhere else.

“Let’s go to Mama Mia’s, they’re open for lunch now, but no free pizza.”

“How about Taco Sal’s? Great food, better than Enchilada Express.”

They all bought books, I signed them all and got hungry listening to their conversation. They wandered off, waving and smiling and strong, each one an oak tree disguised as a nurse, or Kate.

The little stack of books in front of me grew smaller, and soon I had only two books left to sell. The store manager came towards me with a fresh cup of coffee, and said, “Nearly done? We’ve got another half hour, so when you sell those two I’ll take orders.”

As he spoke, a young lady came towards the table slowly. She was small and slight, her light brown hair long and straight. She wore little makeup, and her nose was sprinkled with freckles. She smiled a little, but there was something in her eyes that reminded me of Mr. Santos.

“I’m a nurse practitioner, and I want both those books. I need one for a friend’s birthday….” I drew the books toward me to sign them, and she told me the name of her friend. “Sign it to Bobbie, thanks.” She took the book in her hands and turned to go, and then turned back. “I’m doing a lot of reading like this, books by nurses and doctors about illness.” I sat very still, and listened. “I’ve just been diagnosed with MS.” Multiple Sclerosis is a chronic, slowly progressive disease of the central nervous system that strikes mostly young people; it has no specific therapy and no one knows how it starts but it often ends in death and degeneration.

“I’m sorry.” I said, and took her hand. What could I say? With all the words in all the books around me, what could I say?

“I’m still dealing with it; it’s only been about a week. Bobbie’s been a big help, so have my other friends. That’s all I have….” She stopped and looked fixedly at the books behind me. “They’re really great, my friends.”

“Amen to that,” I said, thinking of those five who were somewhere arguing about where to go for lunch.

She stood in line, this nurse who wore shorts and a tee-shirt and a heavy burden on her slim shoulders. I drank my coffee and watched Judy run towards me with a book about a boy who has six magical friends. Amelia walked behind her and grinned. “She wants you to sign it, like you signed the others.” So I signed it for Judy and her mother stood in line, behind the young nurse, and I watched the mall and the people and listened to the voices and thought about words and books, and friends, and more friends. But I never heard from Teodoro Santos.