The Soul Seekers
Authors: Amy Saia
| The Soul Seekers |
| Amy Saia |
| WiDo Publishing (2012) |
When her father dies, Emma Shay and her mother move cross country to a small, boring town. Now the only constant in her new life is
him
. Beautiful, silent him: the mysterious guy at the library she secretly calls Superman because of his dark good looks. But Emma is puzzled and intrigued by his behavior. He speaks
at
her but never
to
her. He comes up to touch her hair then suddenly leaves. Until one day an impulsive meeting between them uncovers a strange truth about William Bennett.
Set in Southern Indiana during the summer of 1979,
The Soul Seekers
is about one girl and the future she tries to deny. Can Emma Shay save William from his purgatory, or is she doomed to share his fate?
"
The Soul Seekers
is a very interesting novel! It is full of boys, trouble, a secret society, mystery, and love. It honestly has you questioning how it is going to end the entire time, because as soon as you think one thing will happen another thing happens to change that thought. I was really happy that it wasn't predictable at all." --Book Bite Reviews
"
The Soul Seekers
is one of the most intriguing books I've read. . . . captivated me and kept me turning the pages until the very end." --Whitney Boyd, author of
Tanned, Toned and Totally Faking It
Amy Saia lives in Kansas where she keeps busy as a writer, artist and musician. She has two very imaginative children, a cat named Grape, and a long-haired dachshund named Henry.
WiD
o
Publishing
Salt Lake City, Utah
www.widopublishing.com
Copyright © 2012 by Amy Saia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Amy Saia
Book Design by Marny K. Parkin
ISBN: 978-1-937178-20-8
My father was Colorado. He was white, snow-packed ridges and aspen-threaded valleys. He was pine and soft clouds across a pale blue sky. He was granite and crystal gushing rivers and columbine blooming over a hillside. He knew the way of the bear, and how not to get caught on the wrong path after they’ve come out of their caves in the spring, babies hobbling close. He was the epitome of organic, beautiful earth.
My father was my best friend.
My mother, however. . . .
It was a hot day in Colorado Springs, June 1979, when I stood watching her shove everything into the station wagon with her big Audrey Hepburn sunglasses pulled down over her eyes. We were going to leave—like it had never happened, like
he
had never existed.
The radio went from Elton John to Hank Williams. Mountains changed to hills, to prairies, to plains, to buildings and fast food restaurants and gas stations.
“Was that our exit?”
Mom had on a white peasant shirt and kept looking at herself in the rearview mirror.
“No, it’s coming up,” I told her.
On the interstate a Buick drove by loaded with kids my age, college-aged freshman with nothing more on their minds than to party and get the perfect tan. I saw a girl with hair flowing out the window and she looked happy, as though pain didn’t exist.
A boy smirked at me and honked his horn a few times.
“You know those kids?”
“No Mom, just ignore them.”
“Glad you’re not like that, Emma.”
We were headed for Springvale, a small town in southern Indiana where Mom had grown up and escaped at the ripe age of seventeen. It was time to go back because she didn’t know who she was anymore—the Rocky Mountains, and Dad’s cancer, had swallowed her up and now she needed clarity. All my life she had said she hated Springvale, but the closer we got, the faster she drove.
It was early evening when we arrived, pulling up to a house that spoke whispers. A curtain parted then the front door opened. Mom’s voice strangled with a cry as she hopped out of her seat. I had to scoot over and slam my foot on the brake to keep the car from crashing into someone’s mailbox.
They embraced, right there on the porch. Mom, the woman who swore she’d never go back, and Grandmother Carrie, the woman who hadn’t loved and understood enough. Or so I thought.
I helped Mom put her stuff away, then I put all my things into the gabled room that Grandmother Carrie suggested I take. It was charming enough, with a window seat, and a huge antique dresser in the corner. I walked over to open one of the curtains and peered outside. A line of shaded hills spread out across the west, fading into a dull horizon. A church spire jutted out above a cloak of trees to the east, blue sky behind.
The walls were shiny cream with little pin holes where pictures used to be. The floor was polished wood, covered by a thin woven rug. The bed was a big wooden affair with handmade quilt; colorful patterned pieces sewn together by the most delicate of stitches. I can honestly say this because I lay there for the longest time just staring at that quilt. How I wished my life could be so neatly arranged.
¤ ¤ ¤
A brass plaque hung beside the front entrance: Springvale Public Library, est. 1888.
I ran up the steps and pulled open the door. Not what I’d expected. The place was poorly lit with dust filtering by the front windows. It was hot, the air felt wet; the smell of mold singed inside my nostrils along with the scent of old, rotting wood covered by Pine-Sol. If a library could cry, this one would.
Books were a salve for everything crazy in this world: I’d gotten through many miserable days lost in the vast joy of literacy. Picking up an old clothbound volume of poetry and opening its cover, I watched as a paper weevil scrambled out of the binding. This place needed me. And I needed a job. If I could make enough money for a car by the time summer was over, I might just be able to drive back to Colorado Springs—with or without Mom’s approval.
I made my way over to the front desk where a woman sat reading a paperback novel.
“Yes, I was wondering,” I said, using my most adult-sounding voice, “if you were hiring?”
She sat up, perhaps with a bit of disbelief, and looked me over. “Why, yes I am. Would you like to apply?”
“Yes. This place really needs my help. Oh—sorry if that sounds rude.”
She smirked and gave me a yellowed form which I filled out right there at the counter.
I watched as she looked it over. Her hair was a mass of kinked up curls sprayed into a round helmet.
“Looks good. You’re seventeen. You worked in your junior and high school libraries. You seem like a nice young woman. Are you sure you want to spend the rest of your summer being cooped up in a musty old building?”
“Books and me . . .” I twisted my fingers together.
She laughed at that, causing a bit of caked-on makeup to crackle at the corners of her mouth. “I’m going to hire you right now. I was getting right bored sitting in here by myself everyday—despite the strange happenings.” She gave me a look of panic and opened a drawer, handing me a pin-on name tag. “Write your name on this and bring it to work. Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then be here at a quarter till nine, and make sure you bring something to eat for lunch.”
“I will. Thank you.”
My eyes skimmed across the room to a good-looking young man, hunched over, reading at a corner table behind some shelves. Strike that, good-looking wasn’t even close. Black hair hung in waves over a forehead that curved down gracefully to a long, Roman nose. Firm, but full lips moved ever so slightly as he read. He was strong and solid—like Superman come to life.
Curious about the book he was reading, I squinted but couldn’t make out the title. He read with such intensity that I almost laughed. It made me curious. Back in my old town the cute boys didn’t read. They boasted about football, tripped you in the hall when you came out of science class, bragged about the head cheerleader; but they never read. I had worked in the school library for four years without seeing anyone except Mike Stultz come in. Mike wasn’t what you would call handsome, but he was gorgeous with intelligence.
The young man sitting in front of me was gorgeous with a noble grace. And unattainable, too perfect, like he was missing his suit of armor. I was staring too much, I realized with shame. When he shifted in his seat to look up at me, I pretended to be scanning my watch. He looked back down, I looked back up.
Standing near a low bookcase, I faked interest in a shelf-top display of Victorian cameos. He looked up at me again. It was as if he held up a magnifying glass, and his eyes were the sun, burning into my skin.
A whisper started in my head, one of the stupid whispers I’d been trying to ignore my whole life, similar to the ones that had started coming from Grandmother Carrie. This was the strongest yet. Beautiful, achingly beautiful. Frightening. Addictive. Deep and wonderful and wise. I turned away fast and headed out the door.
I started in right away, sweeping a feather duster across every shelf and book and anything else that caught my eye. After that I grabbed a bucket of soapy water and got down on my knees to scrub the floor. Next came the wall, then the tabletops and chair backs. Once I fell off a chair trying to remove cobwebs from a high corner, but it only made me more determined.
It felt good to be useful. Every smudge of dirt on my skin was a badge of honor. I was proud of how the library had shaped up in just a matter of a few days. Miss Lacey, or Ethel as she instructed me to call her, sat at her desk with an expression of happiness and sometimes disbelief.
It didn’t take long to figure out a couple of things. One, the Springvale Library was not the most popular place around. Almost no one came in, and if they did, the exchange was tinged with a feeling of guilt or hostility. Ethel often referred to the books as contraband, and said it wouldn’t be long before
they
won.
The other thing was him. I had a claim on his whereabouts Monday through Friday, nine to five. He’d sit at that desk, in that chair, in that corner and wouldn’t move for anything. Not to eat, not to use the restroom, not to check out any books, and certainly not to talk. He wasn’t a talker.
Neither was I. I let things be, and took the whole situation for what it was, or rather, what it wasn’t. Talking might scare him away and then what would I have to look forward to?
It turned into a game. A game brought on by an urgent need to escape some of the more unpleasant things in my life, like Mom’s sudden withdrawal from us, and the late-night drinking binges she thought I knew nothing about. She seemed bothered by something, but wouldn’t say what. Most nights she went straight to her old bedroom, and I learned not to knock.
Grandmother Carrie had begun urging me to apply for college. She said I needed to do something with my life. Getting a job was a good start, but I should always try for more. She and Mom argued on a constant basis about me. A few days before, Grandmother Carrie had sat down next to me and said,
You have the gift, Emma . . .
He too had something to escape, it was obvious. So there we both were in the library, escaping.
Part of the game was figuring out what made him tick. I began to create stories, how he lived in some shack down by the bluffs and had nowhere else to go, or perhaps he was studying to become a doctor and would leave town after getting his acceptance letter from a fancy college. That part made me sad. I didn’t want him to leave.
The other story was that he was on the run from the law, or hiding from a gang—a real fugitive. It would explain those secretive glances whenever someone walked by the front window.