To read Part One, please click here.
As soon as I am out of the subway, I am greeted by the bustle of Manhattan. My adventurous side kicks in as I observe my surroundings. Although the tall buildings create shade in this borough, it still feels hotter in Manhattan than in Brooklyn. All the bodies and movement seem to generate a climate of their own. I skip the cracks as I walk, and avoid brown spots on the sparkly sidewalks. The walk is far, but I don’t mind. I love people-watching, especially the surly and unfriendly ones. I try to imagine where they are going, what plans they have for the day, and why they are so grumpy. My stomach growls loudly as I make it to the sixth block and see a pretzel vendor. I know this is a bad idea, so I stop myself. After what feels like forever, I find myself in the magical wonderland of Tom’s Books, a small nondescript building holding millions of treasures.
I am greeted by the standard browsers: a mousy millennial, a retired Indian man, and a critical failed author. I silently wave my acknowledgments, as they all have their noses stuck in a book. The bookshelves are made of dark oak that touches the ceiling. As I run my hands along the perfectly organized shelves, Tom taps my shoulder. We greet each other with a big hug and walk to his office. As always, I find my iced latte; it glides down my heated throat as I slip into the purple bean bag. Tom slides me his new recommendation, and I find myself practically falling over when I attempt to hold the giant book. The font is tiny, and many words are unrecognizable. After sitting and reading for a while, our stomachs rumble, and he offers a late lunch.
Tom leads me through the streets of Manhattan and finally to a French bistro with an endearing yellow awning. Everything on the small menu makes my mouth water, but I decide on a ham and Gruyère sandwich on a baguette. Tom orders a quiche, and at first I laugh, thinking he is making up a fancy French word; my cheeks go red when I see the waiter scowling at me. The quiche turns out to be a dense egg and asparagus triangle with a pie dough underneath it. It looks funny, and the asparagus juice oozes through the egg, making a wild abstract silhouette. The baguette has a rough crust and a pillowy center, and the cheese is sharp against my teeth. We slowly pick at our food. Tom tells some stories of his life, but lets me explore my past through words. After some time, I can see the waiters' pushy eyes: our cue to leave. Tom takes out his wallet while I empty my pockets of three crumpled bills. Tom smiles at my effort and leaves a generous tip.
When we get back to the store, I am eager to ditch the ten-pound book and pick up a classic. When I ask Tom for a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, he points in the storage room’s direction. I walk timidly into the one room that I have not explored, and it scares me. I slowly open the door, and a cold breeze feels nice on my sweaty skin. Tom tells me it's good for the old books to be kept in darkness and cold, so they don’t wilt. The room feels like I’ve walked inside a dark-lit walk-in freezer, but instead of shelves of produce, they’re filled with sacred books. Like the store, the shelves are neatly organized, and I can easily pick out the book. The coolness feels good on my body, and I explore it as an excuse to stay in the room. The room is small but filled to the brim with the best books in literary history. Most of the walls have bookshelves, but the center wall has a massive painting lit by the one shining light in the room. The painting is full of colors of love and abstract meaning. It is naked of a frame, and the bare canvas is tacked onto the wooden wall, showing its proper form. The artist’s name is dubiously small and written in thin pencil. I peer closer at the painting, and slowly recognize the tangerine red that my mother uses in her work when she’s painting in a state of intimacy. I run my fingers through the rough signature and make out the words: Lily Torrance.
My first thought is it’s a coincidence, and I run out of the room, eager to tell Tom the peculiar discovery. I question him about the artist; brutally he says, “It’s definitely Lily Torrance.”
I am shocked by his expression. His face awkwardly shifts when I tell him I'm her daughter. He slowly trembles, “Do you know who your father is?”
“No,” I say awkwardly.
He grabs me hard by the shoulder, and I stare into his eyes. I fearfully notice how mine are the same lawn-green color, how we have the same color hair, outrageous eyelashes, and proud features. He pulls me close and whispers, “Do you know who I am?”
For the first time in my entire life, I utter the words, “my father.”
I am greeted by the standard browsers: a mousy millennial, a retired Indian man, and a critical failed author. I silently wave my acknowledgments, as they all have their noses stuck in a book. The bookshelves are made of dark oak that touches the ceiling. As I run my hands along the perfectly organized shelves, Tom taps my shoulder. We greet each other with a big hug and walk to his office. As always, I find my iced latte; it glides down my heated throat as I slip into the purple bean bag. Tom slides me his new recommendation, and I find myself practically falling over when I attempt to hold the giant book. The font is tiny, and many words are unrecognizable. After sitting and reading for a while, our stomachs rumble, and he offers a late lunch.
Tom leads me through the streets of Manhattan and finally to a French bistro with an endearing yellow awning. Everything on the small menu makes my mouth water, but I decide on a ham and Gruyère sandwich on a baguette. Tom orders a quiche, and at first I laugh, thinking he is making up a fancy French word; my cheeks go red when I see the waiter scowling at me. The quiche turns out to be a dense egg and asparagus triangle with a pie dough underneath it. It looks funny, and the asparagus juice oozes through the egg, making a wild abstract silhouette. The baguette has a rough crust and a pillowy center, and the cheese is sharp against my teeth. We slowly pick at our food. Tom tells some stories of his life, but lets me explore my past through words. After some time, I can see the waiters' pushy eyes: our cue to leave. Tom takes out his wallet while I empty my pockets of three crumpled bills. Tom smiles at my effort and leaves a generous tip.
When we get back to the store, I am eager to ditch the ten-pound book and pick up a classic. When I ask Tom for a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, he points in the storage room’s direction. I walk timidly into the one room that I have not explored, and it scares me. I slowly open the door, and a cold breeze feels nice on my sweaty skin. Tom tells me it's good for the old books to be kept in darkness and cold, so they don’t wilt. The room feels like I’ve walked inside a dark-lit walk-in freezer, but instead of shelves of produce, they’re filled with sacred books. Like the store, the shelves are neatly organized, and I can easily pick out the book. The coolness feels good on my body, and I explore it as an excuse to stay in the room. The room is small but filled to the brim with the best books in literary history. Most of the walls have bookshelves, but the center wall has a massive painting lit by the one shining light in the room. The painting is full of colors of love and abstract meaning. It is naked of a frame, and the bare canvas is tacked onto the wooden wall, showing its proper form. The artist’s name is dubiously small and written in thin pencil. I peer closer at the painting, and slowly recognize the tangerine red that my mother uses in her work when she’s painting in a state of intimacy. I run my fingers through the rough signature and make out the words: Lily Torrance.
My first thought is it’s a coincidence, and I run out of the room, eager to tell Tom the peculiar discovery. I question him about the artist; brutally he says, “It’s definitely Lily Torrance.”
I am shocked by his expression. His face awkwardly shifts when I tell him I'm her daughter. He slowly trembles, “Do you know who your father is?”
“No,” I say awkwardly.
He grabs me hard by the shoulder, and I stare into his eyes. I fearfully notice how mine are the same lawn-green color, how we have the same color hair, outrageous eyelashes, and proud features. He pulls me close and whispers, “Do you know who I am?”
For the first time in my entire life, I utter the words, “my father.”