Chapter 11: Closed Book, Open Invitation
Summary: Trent visits the library and finds some villagers are easier to distance himself from than others.
Note: This chapter takes place during the same time span as Elli's last chapter. Also, woohoo! I'm back to writing this story again! Feels good man.
Trent stared into cold, white emptiness with tired eyes.
It was his day off, and he was out of milk.
He cursed under his breath and dropped his hand from the refrigerator handle. The door drifted shut, revealing a coffee cup waiting on the kitchen counter, doomed at half-preparation.
It was inevitable that this would happen now that he had returned to grocery shopping. Not that he hadn't tried going shopping in the past week, as much as he dreaded it—and any other activity that required interacting with patients outside clinic. But shops closed ridiculously early in Mineral Town, sometimes inexplicably. Gone were the days of convenience stores and bodegas, and so Trent hoped tourists brought extended hours in high season. He would have to ask Elli.
Trent paused.
No, he wouldn't.
He would ask Jeff. Despite Trent's lapse in his grocery shopping, he saw the general store owner weekly. Jeff's stomach pain persisted, as did Trent's doubts. Yet all tests, begrudgingly ordered, failed to identify any physical cause. Trent had even resorted to an endoscopy screening to be certain. Unremarkable, his progress note had read, Results consistent with gastroenterologist's report—all three of them.
Jeff's anxiety screening was another matter. Trent had reached for his prescription pad once they had reviewed the results.
"With modern pharmacology—"
"I'm not taking any pills."
Trent's head jerked back in mild surprise. Jeff often interrupted himself, but he rarely interrupted anyone else.
"I've read the side effects of those things—headache, nausea, diarrhea, dry mouth—" Jeff slipped his hand through his shirt and rubbed at his collarbone. "I don't want—I-I don't need it any worse than I already have it."
"There may be side effects, but we'll adjust accordingly. Focus instead on the benefits of managed anxiety: lowered blood pressure, improved sleep, reduced gastrointestinal difficulties…"
Trent looked meaningfully at his patient.
"N-no, thank you, I don't need it," Jeff insisted. "I've been exercising again. Some. And breathing. I mean, of course, I've been breathing, but, um…you know, doing it right. The breathing techniques. Heh." He blew out a shaky breath.
Trent handed him a pamphlet. "Read about the medication, and in the meantime, I'll look into other treatment options."
Jeff unfolded the pamphlet and began reading that instant. Trent held his gaze on his patient and drummed his pen against his prescription pad. He knew what the other options were, but other options just weren't there. No psychiatrist or psychologist practiced for miles and miles.
"Do you have anyone you can talk to about this?" Trent hoped.
Jeff rapid-fire blinked. "Well, you."
Trent's throat went dry.
"Doctor?"
"I'm writing you a prescription."
It had gone unfilled.
Trent eyed his own daily drug. Black. Lacking. Unfilling. He emptied the cup into the sink and listened to the last drips of coffee dregs trickle down the drain into an uncomfortable silence. He was becoming quite accustomed to them, uncomfortable silences. Uncomfortable silences with Elli. More often, uncomfortable silences with himself. The quietude of the country covered everything in a drawn-out and vague heaviness that left Trent feeling he traded away something vital when he left the city.
Maybe it will go away on its own?
A self-deprecating smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. How many times had he heard patients echo that same wish?
He scrubbed his hand down his face. Without coffee to snap his mind out of its funk, he turned to his second drug and trudged out back to smoke, still in his pajamas. No need to get dressed—he knew Elli had left for her grandmother's before he had gotten out of bed. He had laid awake waiting for her to leave, after all.
Time to the first cigarette of the day: thirty minutes, Trent observed dryly. A strong predictor of morbidity validated by extensive research.
The sound of his lighter scratching lit an itch in the back of his throat.
Oh well.
The cigarette tasted wonderful—cooling and clean and bright. Then gone. But it helped clear his mind.
And that's as good as my day will get.
That wasn't the clarity Trent had hoped for, and so he turned to his third drug of choice: work. Day-off be damned. He put himself in order in a sharp set of clothes, donned his white coat to boost his focus, and dove into paperwork. Most physicians would document paperwork as their chief complaint regarding practicing medicine. Until Mineral Town, Trent had been no exception. Now, it was a handy way of occupying himself when overbooking Jeff couldn't. Too bad his patient base wasn't large enough to occupy him long; he finished before noon.
Trent slumped back in his chair until his idle hands hung limp off the armrests. He slunk his head back toward the blank ceiling.
"What now?"
No answer.
He swiveled his chair from side to side, making it squeak with each movement. The sound only emphasized the quiet, as if Trent were sealed off in a little hermetic bubble. An old ache settled in his muscles. Perhaps stretching his legs during another trip up Mother's Hill was in order? He scratched his hand, recalling his last excursion. He needed to return that library book, the one on plants he never bothered to read.
On his way to Mother's Hill, then.
Trent walked, eyes fixed on the uneven road below him, until a woman's voice lilted to him, powerful without yelling.
"Good morning, Doctor."
Natural light stung his eyes as he spotted Anna strolling his way, statuesque with her head held high, her coiffed curls held higher.
Something coiled inside Trent, spurred on by an evolutionary impulse to flee from approaching threats. But civility pressed his lips into a tense, obligatory smile. He dipped his head as he attempted to sidle around her.
"I said, 'Good morning, Doctor.' Won't you greet me properly?"
Had that not been proper? It was more than friendly enough where he came from.
Anna waited, and Trent capitulated.
"Good morning, Anna."
She arched her brow.
"How are you?" he added.
"Much better."
It took Trent a second to grasp that Anna had been patronizing rather than answering him.
"I'm doing well, thank you," she said. "On my way to the square this morning. I take it you haven't had a chance to peruse our community board?"
"Not yet. I'm sorry, I need to be goi—"
"Ah, I should have known."
She brought her hand to the white coat Trent realized he still wore. He grimaced at his recklessness—few things could transmit bacteria like a doctor's white coat. Thankfully, he hadn't seen any patients.
"A house call on your day off…how industrious," Anna said, stroking his ego as she adjusted his lapel. "I'll have to let you go."
With one sentence, recklessness became serendipity.
Trent angled to hide his library book. "Thank you for understanding."
"My pleasure. Mind that you don't work too hard—this town is dull enough." Her hand slipped off him. "I hope to see you again soon."
Trent almost didn't believe how quick and painless the interaction had gone—a stark contrast from their last conversation. He smoothed his white coat appreciatively.
Maybe I should have a second tailored to me? A decoy?
Thomas poked his head out his front door—had he been waiting for Anna to pass before he ventured outside?—and greeted Trent as he approached. Trent used the opportunity to test the power of his coat.
"My apologies; house call."
And just like that, Thomas let him go. No one else stopped him. Trent strode to the library, concealing a smirk under a faux sense of purpose. He couldn't avoid human interaction entirely, however; the library lacked a book slot.
Anna had once referred to the library as a "cultural refuge." Hardly. It was as vacant as the closed clinic—no librarian manning the desk, no readers browsing the shelves, no students working at the tables. There was only the dusty scent of decaying paper and a hush in the air. Trent stepped lightly, the library's desertedness urging him to be quiet more than any shushing patron could. He intended to ditch the book on the desk until he heard the rasp of a turning page a few shelves down. He rounded the corner, and there, alone in the shadow of two bookshelves, stood Mary.
Trent froze. She was only reading, yet he felt he had walked into something private he shouldn't have. Maybe it was the way she bowed her head over her book, as if in prayer. He tried to soundlessly retreat just as Mary looked his way. She didn't jump or scramble or do anything to justify Trent's sense he had intruded. She merely gazed at his shoes, her eyes mysteriously watchful behind her glasses.
"Good morning," Trent remembered to say.
Mary looked as if she wanted to return to her reading, but she greeted him properly. Her mother would have been proud.
"May I help you find something?" Mary added. Despite her timid posture and soft voice, her words were clear.
Trent raised his book. "Returning."
Mary closed her paperback and led Trent to her desk, slight as a bookmark and just as boxy in her overly long skirt and button-down. The effect was only exacerbated by the peculiar way she carried herself—chin tucked low and arms pressed tight to her sides as if to make herself look smaller. She only held out her arm to pluck a catalog card out of a wooden drawer—the only card.
Was I the only person who checked out a book? Trent wondered.
"Your hand is clear," Mary said without looking up from the catalog card as she dated the return.
He glanced at his hand as if the rash hadn't been gone for some time.
"Did the book help?" she said.
Trent cleared his throat as he picked his words. Mary's father had written the book, and hadn't she done the illustrations? "It served its purpose."
Mary gave a modest, closed-mouth smile to the floor. "I understand. It's not the most engaging read."
So, she could tell he hadn't read it.
Trent took full responsibility. "Rather, I'm not much of a reader, remember?"
"Of course," she said as if she remembered everything. "But it's my belief that anyone who doesn't consider themselves a reader only needs the right book."
Trent shrugged. "I'm a lost cause."
"No one is. If nothing else, consider the benefits of reading: improved concentration, stress management, greater understanding of the world and the people in it."
"Spoken like a true librarian."
"Oh… I'm a cliché," Mary lightly lamented. "But perhaps that's why I'd love to find something you'd enjoy." She peered up at him through her lashes. She might have looked flirtatious if it wasn't for the total sincerity in her grey eyes. "What are your passions?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What are your passions, your hobbies, your interests?" she said, matter-of-fact. "They could help me match you with the right book."
It was an oddly direct question Trent wasn't prepared for. His mouth opened, but no words came to him.
Mary waited patiently as he searched for an answer.
He found none. He chuckled, a sting of heat in his stomach. "I'm sorry…"
Mary politely dropped her eyes. "I see."
And Trent saw too. He was dull.
Mary rubbed her thumb over the cover of her book. "If you'd like, maybe…maybe I could recommend a novel I enjoy?"
Trent nodded through his embarrassment. Agreeing seemed the fastest way to end the interaction.
"They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but I think you can judge a person by their books. Please excuse another cliché." She slid the slim paperback she had been reading across the desk. St. Emerald Academy.
Trent raised an eyebrow. "This one?"
"My favorite."
The cover, a photo of a crowded city train station, set a sharp twinge in Trent's chest. He pushed the book away. "But you're reading it."
"For the fifth time." The side of Mary's mouth quirked up as she slid the book to him again, a little closer. "I can share. This is a library."
Trent released a long exhale and opened the cover to surrender the card. But it was missing. It didn't even have a cardholder.
"This… isn't a library book." He pushed the book back to Mary with finality.
She studied him, then opened the cover. Without a word, she daubed glue on a new cardholder and stuck it, perfectly straight, on the flyleaf of her—no, it was the library's book now. Trent watched as Mary filled out two blank catalog cards to make the transaction strictly professional—almost. She wrote his name as Trentwick, one word. Knight in shining white coat.
Is she teasing me?
But Mary's eyes remained sincere as she placed the book in his hands. "Careful. It made me cry three times."
"I only intend to read it once," he joked. It was a pitiful attempt at humor and, worse, a blatant lie.
But Mary breathed a polite "ha" anyway. "So did I."
Trent grabbed his book when suddenly he had an answer for her.
"I like hiking," he said. It was an overstatement, considering he had gone on one "hike," the rest merely fantasies.
"That's nice. I do, too." Mary turned to file the card.
Trent felt…good. He drummed his hands against the cover, hesitating. Oddly enough, he wasn't certain if he wanted to leave, not that he was certain he wanted to stay, either. Where would he go? Mother's Hill? For all his claims of enjoying hiking, he would only smoke at the peak and then hike back home. There was the general store, yes, but then he'd have to return to the clinic immediately after shopping, and he knew himself well enough to know he'd be there to stay. But it'd be pathetic to hang around the librarian like some friendless elementary schooler, and he had his rule against spending personal time with patients. Nevertheless…
Trent compromised by climbing upstairs. On his way up, he stole a glance back at Mary. She crossed to a nearby bookshelf, Trent forgotten.
The library's second floor was just as quiet as the first, but unlike the clinic, it didn't bother Trent. A library is supposed to be quiet, he decided, nothing to be unsettled by. Yet the sounds of the rolling wheels of a book cart and occasional hum from downstairs soothed something. Trent listened for them just for the pleasure of ignoring them.
They were far more engaging than the book, at least.
It was a plotless collection of vignettes centered around commuters on their way to school every morning. Each story began with the same line: She always sits alone in the same place, on the same train, at the same time.
How boring.
By the third entry, a meandering contemplation on a girl's choice of bookmark, Trent couldn't abide it. How much longer? He flipped through the remaining pages. Lines and lines of black text fluttered by until a bolt of blue ink caught his eye. He backtracked to a margin note composed of small, rounded letters written in a speedy hand, though clearly legible—Mary's handwriting.
"Try to be one of the people on which nothing is lost."
He leaned forward, scraping his chair closer to the table as he reread the line. He read it a third time. It felt profound, though he wasn't sure what was profound about it. He considered asking Mary about it on his way out, but when he inched downstairs, he found her engrossed in another novel. It would be better to leave the book on the desk on his way out—he had no intention of reading another page. But Trent wavered. A more considerate person would return it so Mary could resume reading it, but Trent left with his excuse to return the following week in hand.
Later, when he arrived back at the clinic with his groceries, a different invitation awaited him. Anna had left a message asking Trent to accompany her to church, "for what better way is there to engage with the community and hear Mary play?" Didn't she remember he had told her he wasn't religious? Trent answered the message with a professional declination. But he wondered as he hung up the phone: did his patients take the pagan-infused religion seriously, or was it another part of their curated "little village aesthetic" to draw tourists? He'd have to ask Elli.
Trent glanced at her shut bedroom door.
No, he wouldn't.
He abandoned his library book on his desk—cover face down—and shed his white coat disguise. Funny, he hadn't thought to tell Mary he was passionate about medicine, and it was what he'd devoted himself to for the past decade of his life. All he'd done, really.
That has to count as passion.
Trent put the thought out of his mind and headed to pull charts for the next day.
On his next day off, Trent woke up at the break of day with a clear purpose. The library opened at ten in the morning. Trent was there in his white coat at eleven—he didn't want it to look like he'd been waiting.
The building was as deserted as the week before, though Mary sat at her desk bent over a notebook. Her lips moved as she wrote, her body leaning into her work then pulling back in a slight rocking motion, as if she were performing at the piano. Again, he felt he had intruded. Trent recalled Anna's invitation from last week. Did Mary sway when she played?
The music of the shop bell stilled Mary. She greeted her lone patron, chin tucked, smile small, and closed her notebook.
"Returning?"
Was she asking about Trent or the book? He didn't care; he just liked the way she said it. "Returning," the "t" sharp and crisp. Was it just the complete quiet surrounding them that made it so? No. And her g's; she never dropped them, unlike the accent more common in town. Re-turn-ing.
He set the paperback in front of Mary.
She sat up straight. "So, what did you think?"
"Hmm." Trent glanced at the train station on the cover. "It was moving."
She peered up at him. "You think so? See, some people don't feel it, the depth of emotion hidden under the terse prose. I suppose most people don't, considering the book never sold well. Honestly, I felt guilty lending it, but more people should read it."
An itch needled in Trent's throat. "Well…thank you."
"You're welcome. Very welcome." Her smile stretched wide, though she edited it into something smaller. She seemed to wait for him to say something else about the book. When he didn't, she asked, "Can you guess which three parts make me cry?"
Damn. Guessing was all he could do.
Mary folded her hands as she waited.
"I don't know about all three…" Trent stalled as he shifted in place. "But there's the ending." He glanced at Mary to see if he was correct.
"The Girl Who Stares." Mary's voice softened, and she laid a gentle hand over the cover. "Every time."
Trent freed the breath he'd been holding and nodded in half-hearted support.
"The Girl Who Looks Outside always strikes something in me, too," Mary said, her clear voice a little rushed. "And The Girl Who Apologizes. I think it would for many women if they read it. Though I'd be curious to hear your perspective on it."
"I…I doubt I have much to contribute to the discourse." Trent said, wanting to flee.
"That's nonsen—"
She went mute once she read Trent's face. He read hers.
Mary dropped her eyes, just as she had the week before. "Ah, never mind, it's alright. I won't pick your brain anymore."
He could tell she knew he hadn't read the book, but she had the grace to pretend not to. Too bad she was just as bad a liar as he was.
"I'm sorry, with work and—"
"No, I understand." A flush crept up her neck, but she hid it by tucking her chin even lower. She turned her back to him to grab the catalog card—the only one in the drawer, once again.
Dammit. He hated that he disappointed her. He hated disappointing anyone, though he seemed to do it frequently enough. And so Trent's mind grasped for anything about the book he could talk about.
"There was this, though…" he said, opening to a memorized page. He pointed out the quote to Mary. "Try to be one of the people on which nothing is lost."
"Oh," she said.
"You wrote it." It wasn't a question.
Mary tugged the book from his hands and shut it. "I shouldn't have."
"I like it. What is it from?"
"…a book."
"Not that one?" Trent reached for St. Emerald Academy again, but Mary pulled it away.
"No."
"Well?"
"You wouldn't like it."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"You're not a reader."
Her words wounded. It was one thing for Trent to say that, but she had been the one who'd insisted he wasn't a lost cause.
"Maybe it's the right book to make me one?" he said.
"It's not."
Mary hurried away to shelve the book.
"How would you know?" Trent demanded, following her.
"It's not finished. Not started, even."
Trent waited for more explanation, but she didn't give one.
"Is it something your father is writing?" he asked, though Trent hoped not. If it's just about stopping and smelling the roses—
Mary shook her head. There was only one logical conclusion.
"You wrote it?" Now it was a question.
She didn't answer.
"You're a writer?" he said flatly.
"No—" She shoved St. Emerald Academy between other books, shaking her head, then nodding. "Well, a little, technically. But not really. It's all very silly, mostly."
Another talent? The sudden squeeze of envy at Trent's core surprised him, and he directed it outward into easy flattery.
"Writing, sketching, piano, organ…is there anything you can't do?"
"Ha, many. I never said I could write, just that I have written. Somewhat." Her tone turned rueful as her finger fell over the author's name printed on the book's spine. "Even so, it is sometimes painful, not being able to share your passions with another person."
Her arm fell tight against her side, and she retreated to her desk. Trent stood still, considering her words.
What do I have to share with someone?
He felt his posture slip but swiftly straightened by reaching for St. Emerald Academy.
"I'd like to try again, please," he said, handing the book to Mary. "I don't think I gave it a fair chance."
Mary fidgeted with the cover corner. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer something else?"
"I'm sure."
She lent the book to him a second time. Instead of climbing upstairs, Trent proved himself by sitting at a table across the room and reading the book from its beginning.
She always sits alone in the same place, on the same train, at the same time…
At first, Trent read with a determination to enjoy each character study. They were odd, yes, with an undeniable edge of voyeurism. How could they not have it, with the way the narrator studied their oblivious subjects? But it was never leering. Instead, it seemed like a person wishing to see where people went in their minds when life took them elsewhere.
But Trent's interest waned as time passed, so he began conducting his own character study—Mary.
Unlike the girls in her favorite novel, Mary did not sit in the same place. Without enough work to tether her to her desk, she wandered from one shelf to another—she was the only librarian Trent had ever seen with time to read. She'd stop, grab a book, read a page or two, then shelve it before seizing another. She moved in the same hemmed-in way that had made Trent initially think her timid, but he now recognized that Mary carried herself with a quiet sense of self-possession. Unsurprising, as anything she possessed was in a quiet sense.
Was it simply her mind that pulled her inside herself? He watched her pace back to her desk—to write?—or simply to pace, so lost in her head he swore he would see the thoughts that enveloped her if he only looked hard enough. The fact she ignored him made her mildly more interesting to Trent, but it hardly made Trent special; it appeared Mary forgot everything around her. Sometimes she absentmindedly hummed a tune he didn't recognize. Sometimes she'd let out a muted groan, as if remembering something embarrassing from years ago. Mostly, he spied her smiling to herself. He liked her private smiles and wanted to know the secret behind them. Then again, what secrets did she have? It didn't feel like she hid herself at all. There were simply parts of her he didn't understand.
Once she settled, the two sat in harmonious silence, Mary writing while Trent read. How courtly. Courting? Not at all. But that is probably what they'd call that sort of thing in Mineral Town. He'd have to ask Elli.
No, he wouldn't.
But maybe he would ask Mary?
He caught sight of her absentmindedly pulling her braid loose as she worked. Upon further inspection, he had to admit that Mary was…cute. But that was inconsequential. He liked Mary's distant company enough, and that was already testing the limits in relating to a patient.
But it had been a long time.
Maybe Karen had the right idea, picking up tourists. Only, how much longer would Trent have to wait?
Mary rose from her desk and passed his table to wander to another bookshelf.
I mean, I could, he thought as she moved. But I don't want to, not really. But I could.
It wasn't until his chair creaked as he turned in his seat that Trent realized his eyes had been following her.
Mary glanced back at the sound. His eyes dove to his book. He pretended to read for two seconds before he rose to leave. Unlike his book's narrator, there was something undeniably leering about Trent.
When he returned to the clinic, he had received another message—a second invitation from Anna. This time she offered the family piano for practice again.
"It takes commitment to acquire any skill and even more to maintain it," she had said. "Anyone who understands that has my admiration already."
He had agreed with her but declined again, almost wishing he didn't have to. He reiterated his rule against spending personal time with patients. Yet after he hung up the phone, he faltered. Wasn't he spending personal time with her daughter?
No, I'm simply spending personal time at the library.
He put the thought out of his mind and headed to pull charts for the next day.
On his next day off, Trent followed his new morning routine: cigarette, white coat, work—until eleven. Then, he beelined for the library. He found himself looking forward to the silent refuge throughout the week, and so he felt a breathless, empty sensation when he finally opened the library door and was filled by a now familiar scent. The air that had once smelled decaying and dusty now smelled paper sweet, like an old vanilla perfume—eau de library.
But a woman's lilting voice reverberated off old wood, and the library lost all its newly cultivated charm.
Anna loomed opposite Mary at the desk. Anna's eyes flickered to Trent's but darted away as she attempted to appear casually unaware of his presence. If only Trent were so lucky. His hand clung to the door handle as he debated escape.
"Any edits?" Anna asked her daughter.
Mary handed her a sheet of paper. "It's perfect."
Anna was a smiling fiction as she made a show of spotting Trent. "Oh, good afternoon, Doctor!"
"Good afternoon, Anna," His grip tightened on the handle. "How are you?"
"Well, thank you. On your way to yet another house call?"
"Not today," he said, feeling the weight of his coat over his shoulders.
"Oh?" She hummed with knowing. "Well, I'm hard at work. I was asking Mary to check a posting for the community board. I gift Thomas the easiest festival to organize all year, and the man doesn't even put up a flyer for it! Yet I've been organizing the Chicken Festival essentially on my own!"
"How frustrating." Trent slowly forced the door handle down.
"Oh, it is," she huffed. "Would you care to look over the flyer, Doctor?" Anna rested her fingertips over it on the desk. "Another set of eyes couldn't hurt."
Rather than offering the flyer to him, Anna waited for him to join her at the counter. Trent's hand slipped dejected off the handle as he approached her. Anna's perfume overpowered the room with a distinctive, fresh scent Trent recognized but couldn't remember from where. Ginseng?
The flyer appeared to be for an upcoming holiday, Beach Day, sporting a litany of rules. One was calligraphed across the top, the letters sweet and curling despite their foreboding nature: "Swim at Your Own Risk!"
Trent's eyes swept over the page. "Looks good."
"You'll be attending, of course?" Anna prompted.
He withdrew from her. "It's not on my day off."
"It's a holiday. That means it's a day off."
"A beach party—"
"Festival."
"Regardless of what you call it, it means cut feet, jellyfish stings, alcohol poisonings, near drownings—it won't be a day off for me."
"Why, you're awfully gloomy!" She clicked her tongue. "No matter how hard you work, Doctor, negativity will not avail your success. A little sun is healthy for your body and mind."
"I'm not available that day."
"If it's your duty holding you back, shouldn't you want to be readily available to provide emergency treatment, Goddess forbid?"
Trent yanked at the sleeves of his coat. "Well, Elli should be there." He'd have to ask her.
No, he wouldn't.
"Up until someone buys her a drink, I'm sure," Anna quipped, a smirk lightening her features. "Then she'll have her hands full."
Trent didn't understand the joke, but something about Anna's tone lit a spark of defensiveness on his colleague's behalf. "Elli takes her nursing seriously."
Anna arched her brow. "I'm sure, but, oh dear, Mary, I don't think he's heard! See, this is precisely why you should be more sociable, Doctor."
Trent's jaw hardened as he refused the bait. "I'm afraid it can't be helped."
"Oh, I sincerely doubt that. Come to Beach Day, and I'll be sure to fill you in on all the gossip you've missed out on."
Anna changed the topic before Trent could refuse again. "I have another task for you, Mary." She set a packet on the desk and pointed a lacquered fingernail to the sorry picture on the cover. "That farm needs to sell before your father gets it in his head again to buy it." She released a heavy sigh. "I wish that tourist would stop encouraging him."
Tourist?
"I thought the tourists hadn't arrived yet?" Trent interrupted.
Anna waved his question away. "Just a hanger-on from last season."
"Wouldn't that make them a resident?" Trent said, disappointed.
"Hardly. We don't permit just anyone to join our community, and those we do should take care they don't squander the opportunity."
Trent withered under Anna's pointed look and breathed gratitude once she turned away.
"Mary, you wouldn't believe the absurd fee the ad agencies I've consulted are asking for on top of what it'll cost to get that farm a place in the papers. I figure it couldn't be too difficult to write something snappy on our own, right? Information's in the packet. Fantastic! Oh, and Doctor?"
It seemed Anna seized every opportunity to use Trent's title—something he would normally like, but coming from her, it made him stand on edge.
Anna's shining grin turned saccharine. "Mary's such a source of encouragement and support, and so hard working. That's rare in a girl as pretty as she is, but she's a rare girl. She'll be attending Beach Day, you know."
Trent stood speechless at Anna's complete lack of subtlety.
"Weren't you meeting with Thomas?" a soft, clear voice prompted.
"Why, yes, I was." Anna gestured toward her daughter like a showwoman on a game show. "What did I just tell you? I'll make myself scarce. I'll see you very soon, Doctor, I promise."
She glided outside with an elegant wave. Once the door shut behind her, Trent felt how much tension had knotted around his shoulders and drew in a long, slow drag of her perfume. There was something uniquely stressful about An—
"Hello."
Trent jumped at Mary's greeting. She had completely faded into the background around her mother, though he suspected Anna had a way of dominating a room, or town, regardless of who she was around.
"Returning?" asked Mary, as usual. Was she as eager to forget Anna's misguided matchmaking as Trent was? "How was the book?"
"In truth, I haven't opened it since last week."
Mary stifled a sigh. "Well, thank you for try—"
"No, please don't misunderstand. I wanted to read it here."
"Oh." Mary adjusted her glasses as if they were what led her to an incorrect assumption—an uncommon occurrence for Mary. "Um, be my guest."
Trent sat at the same table as he had the week before, in the same seat, at the same time. Without Anna, the library was a refuge once again. But it had been bizarre seeing how used to getting her way Anna seemed. The way she delegated to her daughter—was it a sign of her faith in Mary's abilities as she had claimed, or was it just a matter of saving cents?
Trent lowered his book and cleared his throat. "Mary, may I ask you a question?"
"Mm-hmm," she hummed as she flipped a page in the packet.
"Why'd your mother ask you to write the ad? I don't mean to offend you, but your father is…published."
"Papa's away again. She always gets stressed like this when he's on an expedition. Please forgive her; she likes to keep herself occupied and takes on a bit too much. Some people take advantage of it, so I help when possible."
"Ah," was all Trent said. It seemed a magnanimous way of excusing Anna's demanding behavior. "Does it ever bother you?"
She shook her head. "These are my favorite kind of tasks."
"The ones where you write?"
"The ones where I get to do it my way." She shared a private smile with the packet before focusing her wide eyes on him. "May I ask you a question now?"
"Go ahead," Trent steeled himself for another pop quiz. He'd only gotten a few chapters in St. Emerald Academy.
"What brought you here?"
"To the library?" He held his face blank as he searched for any answer other than the truth.
"To Mineral Town."
Coldness hit Trent's core.
"I can't advertise this farm on its merits alone," Mary continued. "Have you seen it?"
Trent slowly nodded, recalling the state of it.
"If I can identify what drew you to live in Mineral Town, I may be able to draw another person."
Trent cleared his throat and then launched into his rehearsed explanation: "I want to practice where my services are needed and…" But the hollowness in his words only seemed amplified in the library. "Where my services are needed and I can…I don't know."
He just…did it. Without adequate cause. Like most things he did.
"Yes, you do. Take your time to reflect upon it."
Reflection was not Trent's strong point. "The scenery," he dismissed.
Another private smile lifted Mary's lips.
"What's that smile for?"
"My mother told me it was charity work."
"Yes, well, she also told you I'm a competitive piano player, and I haven't touched one in…eleven years?"
Mary chuckled. "I think I get my imagination from her. Uncle Duke has one too."
Trent acted as if he understood who Uncle Duke was beyond an alcoholic.
"So, scenery?" Mary prodded.
"What?"
"It's not the answer I expected from you."
"What did you expect?"
"Something more…factual." She paused, then wrote something in her notebook. "I like your answer."
A rush of relief passed through Trent. Mary liked hiking, and she liked his answer. But she wasn't going to let him off easy.
"What scenery exactly?" she said.
Trent blew out a breath. "I don't know…mountains, sky, hills, that sort of thing."
"I see. What did they represent to you?"
"Pardon?"
"Adventure?"
Trent scoffed. He wasn't prepared for their conversation to turn into bargain-basement psychoanalysis. But he watched Mary run her pen along a page, curious.
Well, who else do I have to talk to?
"No," he began. "Not so much adventure. More…" He held up empty hands as he searched for the right answer, perpetually blocked.
"Peace?" Mary prompted.
Trent lowered his hands. "I suppose."
"Did it work?"
He let out a hard laugh. "No matter how much you change the scenery, you're still bringing yourself with you."
"Ah, so you were hoping to become someone else?"
He let her off-putting question settle around him. "That's one interpretation. But I'm very much the same." He shrugged. "How disappointing."
"That's an uncharitable thing to say about yourself. You have many good qualities."
Trent listened to her pen scratch, wanting to ask her what his good qualities were but not quite desperate enough to do it. Mary must have sensed some desperation in him, though.
"You're diligent, handsome, a doctor, you read music and play piano…"
"Ha, barely," Trent joked, shifting in his chair. His good qualities were dull, but he couldn't help but melt at the praise. Coming from Mary, it felt genuine. Poor girl.
"…and you're lonely."
Trent went rigid. "What are you saying now?"
"That you're lonely," she repeated frankly.
"No, I—" He stopped himself. It was such a strange thing to say, stranger still to hear.
For the first time, the library was too quiet.
"I didn't realize loneliness was a 'good quality.'" he said, trying to keep his voice light or at least mocking.
"I believe it is," said Mary. "Depending on how it's used, of course. Solitude elevates."
Trent studied her. She seemed just as comfortable sharing her odd philosophy as she was checking out books.
"Do…do you get lonely?" he asked, cautious.
"Sometimes, but it's necessary to be a little lonely to be a good narrator. To observe, without getting too close. A person needs to stand separate to see things honestly. But I suspect you have an inkling of that already." She smiled, a private one not between her and the floor, but from one professional to another. "Perhaps that's why it's most difficult to view oneself objectively—how do we stand separate from ourselves? And so we tell ourselves stories of who we are—terribly subjective, myopic stories, like we have no good qualities or that we're stuck the way we are. Maybe we should think instead, 'if someone else knew my story, how differently would they tell it?' I suppose what I'm trying to say is that if you came here hoping to be different, there's hope for you yet."
Trent's pessimism couldn't allow him to think of an alternate telling that didn't seem ingenuine.
"So, how would you write the story of the lonely doctor?" he asked, genuinely curious but attempting to hide it with humor.
"Convention dictates he needs a love interest, but that's a bit cliché. I'd want to do something completely different. Then again, they say write what you know, so I'd probably write him reading books and practicing piano."
"Riveting."
The two exchanged knowing looks, and Mary returned to her work. Trent wasn't ready to let the conversation die yet.
"What all have you written?"
Mary briefly closed her eyes. "Nothing," she admitted. "I've started many times but never finished. When I begin, I want it to be…perfect. But it seems there's nothing more perfect than a pure, blank page."
"I think…" Trent cleared his throat. "I think I understand. And thank you, for… all you said earlier."
"No need to thank me for a compliment."
"Well, I like your smile."
Mary spoke from behind her notebook, her tone flat. "No need to compliment me simply because I complimented you, either."
"That's not it. You have this way of smiling, like you've got a secret I wish I knew."
She set her notebook down, unmoved. "No one likes their secrets known."
"Maybe sometimes."
Mary shook her head.
"I mean it," he insisted.
"You're a smoker."
"What?"
"You're a smoker."
She said it as plainly as she had listed his qualities, without any indication it was a shameful vice, especially for a doctor.
Trent swallowed hard. He had gone through such painstaking efforts to wash his hands every time, there were no nicotine stains on his fingertips or nails, he always showered and changed his clothes after, brushed his teeth, never smoked publicly after almost being caught on Mother's Hill—
"What gave it away?"
"The way you rub your index and middle finger together when you're thinking," she explained. "It looked like you wished you were holding a cigarette."
Trent glanced at his hand and saw his fingers moving just as Mary described. He hid his hands under the table.
"It was a guess, truly," said Mary. "But now I know a secret."
"And you're right; I don't like it."
She adjusted her glasses. "I'm sorry."
A surge of hopefulness filled Trent. Maybe the reason she sussed him out so easily…? "Do you smoke?"
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
Trent winced, despite knowing he shouldn't. Was this the disappointment Mary had felt over his lack of reading?
Oh no, is smoking my only hobby?
"Thank you for answering my questions," Mary said before Trent could descend into any more uncomfortable introspection. "I think I can strike that note, wanting a new life."
She set to work in her notebook, and Trent stole glances at her pen dragging across the page as he read. It was weird to think she was writing an ad to draw someone like him. How would it read? Like a personal ad for his kindred spirit?
Middling doctor seeking fellow city-dweller to regret spontaneous life decisions with. Has no hobbies or interests or passions but enjoys long smokes on Mother's Hill. Will be the one in the white coat doing his own grocery shopping.
Trent wouldn't want to be around the person that attracted. But it was possible he needed to rewrite his personal narrative.
Like Anna, he pretended to be oblivious to the object of his interest for the rest of the afternoon, and soon, it was time for him to leave.
"I'd like to renew," he said, offering the book to Mary. He'd hardly made any progress on it, but he didn't mind.
She checked out the book again, only this time she tore a page out of her notebook, perfectly straight, naturally.
"For you," she said, handing it to him over his book.
Mary hadn't been writing the ad that afternoon—she had been sketching. The background of the sketch was meticulously detailed as if she had been viewing it directly. She hadn't been; it was not the library's packed bookshelves and empty tables, but mountains, sky, hills—scenery. In the center was a portrait, all fine lines and delicate shadowing—nothing less than he would expect from the multi-talented Mary. But her subject's face was unfinished and empty, as if dragged over by an eraser, made recognizable only by the neckline of his white coat.
There Trent was—a blank, expressionless still life.
"Uncanny," he said through a sore throat, his tone wry and self-deprecating.
Mary looked up at him. Not peering through her lashes, not tucking her chin low, but looking right at him, her smile wide and her neck flushed. She hadn't been ignoring him at all, had she? Not only had Mary been paying close attention to him the entire time, but worse yet, she was interested in what was happening inside his head. And what would she think when, with enough observation, she realized he was just as flat as the paper she had sketched the illusion of depth onto?
At that moment, Trent decided he had better not return to the library the following week.
When he arrived at the clinic with his groceries that afternoon, Trent discovered a pop of color on the white fridge. He was almost tempted to display his devastating portrait beside Stu's art project. Instead, he mulled over the coloring page. It featured a collection of Harvest Sprites spilling out of a crowded hut. He never did ask anyone about the local religion. Maybe he would ask Mary?
No, I won't.
Trent put the thought out of his mind and headed to pull charts for the next day.
The next evening, Trent retrieved a pearlescent card from his regular pile of mail. Anna hadn't called him the day before but had sent a formal invitation, handwritten in the same calligraphy as the Beach Day rules.
"We cordially request the pleasure of your company at our home," it read, inviting him to a dinner party on his next day off. Anna was undoubtedly upping her efforts.
Trent called without having to look up her number, ready to leave a message, but the line picked up.
"Hello?"
"Good evening, Anna. This is—"
"Doctor! I believe I have an idea as to why you're calling."
"Thank you for the invitation—"
"My pleasure. I'm quite pleased you recognize the value of it. Arrive at 7:30—"
"Excuse me; I hadn't finished my sentence. Thank you, but—"
Anna's tongue clicked across the line. "Ah ah ah, let's not descend into excuses this time. I'm throwing this party just for you, Doctor. Don't disappoint me."
"I—I'm afraid I'm not available."
"But I think you're confused. I don't mean to be challenging, but Elli already told me your schedule is clear."
Trent's head spun to glare at the blue curtain Elli sat behind. "That's a time for patients—"
"That's a time for you. I don't need to remind you it's your day off, do I?" Anna blew out an affected, weary sigh. "Let me put this as delicately as I can: if I need to reschedule to guarantee your presence, rest assured, Doctor, I will, but I'm quite confident I don't."
It sounded less like an invitation and more like a threat.
"Is this usually how you get your way?"
"Why, I'm shocked you would say that so bluntly, Doctor. I don't 'get my way.' Things happen to take their natural course until they end up the right way. Now, you accept my invitation, don't you?"
Trent pinched the bridge of his nose. She wouldn't stop, and what was the harm, in the end, beyond a headache or two?
"… I'll be there."
"Excellent. Wear a suit!"
The line clicked.
A suit?
With one final detail, Trent's patience reached capacity. Now Trent had a question to ask Elli.
"Elli?" he called as he rounded the clinic desk. She raised her head as if surprised he was speaking with her. "Did you tell Anna I was available Wednesday evening?"
"Yeah," she said, wide-eyed. "She was interested in a house call as soon as possible." Elli reviewed her notes. "Chief complaint was…neck pain."
"Why didn't you consult me first?"
A tint of pink raised in Elli's cheeks. "Well, you never—I mean, you don't usually have…I never had to ask when overbooking Jeff. I'm sorry; I'll be sure to consult you first from here on out. On the bright side, she didn't end up scheduling."
Not for an overbook. Trent rubbed at his shoulders—Anna knotted them even over the phone, yet he was the pain in the neck?
"Should I call her?" Elli offered.
"No," Trent snapped. "No, that'll be all."
He stalked back to his office and threw his white coat onto its hanger—some decoy. Trent stared at it with tired eyes.
If I put in the effort this once, Anna will have to leave me alone for some time.
Unable to put the thought out of his mind, he headed to smoke cigarettes for the evening.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Had a delay these past couple months while I worked on another writing project, but the story is back on its monthly schedule moving forward. If you'd like to support this story, the best way to do so is to drop a comment letting me know what you liked/didn't like! Now, onto my usual ridiculously-long author's note.
Hope you enjoyed reading about Trent and Mary forming a shallow connection with one another. The big challenge I feel with Mary and Trent is how to get these two introverted characters to start meaningfully interacting, especially when they both have stilted speaking styles. Enter art! At least, that's how I, a reserved character in my own right, first connect with others. Why do you think my author's notes are so filled with movies, books, and music I like?
Speaking of, I listened to "Lolita" by Miniature Tigers quite a bit while working on this chapter. The whimsical piano, odd rhythm and key changes, and literary title reference give me a strong Mary vibe, especially considering how her character will develop over this arc. Plus, the chorus lyrics are near perfect for both characters!
When you go to your dark place
I wanna look in your mind
Wanna look around inside your head
Wanna turn on your light
I don't really get it and I can't relate
I just wanna lock myself away
Only wanna spend my time with you
Only wanna do what you wanna do
And I don't know what I want from you
Not sure if I wanna stay with you
I can't take my mask away
Also, when I was writing Trent's morning cigarette scene, "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music randomly shuffled on, and I was surprised that it perfectly captures that first-cigarette-of-the-morning feel. So yeah, there's an "Edelweiss" reference up in there. Deal with it.
St. Emerald Academy is my favorite of the M/FoMT TV shows (suck it, My Dear Princess.) I always wished they had all 80 files, but if you want to read the ones in the game, they're here. If anyone wants to write the missing files as fanfic, you have my support, and send me a link! For old stories, I headcanoned St. Emerald Academy was Trent's favorite TV show in a past work (of course, a workaholic liked a plotless collection of slow character studies—a substitution for human interaction that's easy to miss and just as easy to tune in the next time you have the time.) I prefer this short story collection iteration of it for this story, and it was very useful for characterizing a very quiet character like Mary, IMO.
Onto Mary: she's a walking-talking collection of writing references. The "perfection of a blank page" is a quote from Neil Gaiman. Mary's line in her book is from "The Art of Fiction" by Henry James and is a reference to Rushmore (1998.) Mary's take on loneliness is very much inspired by "The Creative Process" by James Balwin. Essentially, I wanted Mary's philosophy to echo writing advice she has applied to her life with perhaps too broad of a brush. Looking forward to showing the different sides of Mary in upcoming chapters, but I hope she wasn't confusing in this one. Trent had a lot of wrong impressions about her (it's sort of a running theme in this story, haha.)
Next chapter, Trent tries to make it through a dinner party pain-free but old and new faces make it a challenge.