The Reading List

by Sara Nisha Adams

Just in case you need it: To Kill a Mockingbird Rebecca The Kite Runner Life of Pi Pride and Prejudice Little Women Beloved A Suitable Boy

This small scrap of paper, so neatly folded, is nothing more than a stranger’s reading list.

A strange role reversal that made him feel an immense sense of shame. How could he be whole again when his whole had gone for good?

He was the father; he should be looking after his girls. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to without Naina.

Then followed several pieces of empty Tupperware. And finally, one lonely, dust-covered library book.

“Mummy’s book—well . . . library book,” Rohini said. “I thought I’d returned them all, but I must have missed this one.” She held it up to him and he walked forward, not quite believing it. As though this dusty, icky, sticky book was some kind of mirage. When he’d seen the other relics of her life, he’d barely felt a thing. But here, seeing this book, the gray dust sticking to the plastic cover in splotches, it was like Naina was here in the room with them. Here, with his three girls, and one of Naina’s beloved books, for a moment, just a moment, he didn’t feel so alone.

Her “favorites.” Mukesh wished now that he’d asked her what they were about, what she loved about them, why she’d felt the need to read the same ones again and again. He wished that he’d read them with her.

And now all he had left was this one library book: The Time Traveler’s Wife.

He wanted this book to be Naina, and only Naina. He searched, forensically, for a clue—a mark on the page, a drop of chai, a tear, an eyelash, anything at all. He told himself that one day he would have to return it to the library—it’s what Naina would have wanted. But he couldn’t let it go. Not yet. It was his last chance to bring Naina back.

“Henry and Clare . . . you know . . . they loved each other ever since they were very young, just like me and your mummy. And they knew when he was going to die. And they lived their lives as best they could, making the most of every moment. I don’t know if I did the same.”

I’ll never be lost to you, Mukesh, she had said to him then as he gripped the book in his hands. He heard the words. Her voice. The story—it had brought her back—even if just for a moment.

Time to go to the library, no excuses, the book whispered to him, in a voice that sounded uncannily like Naina’s. It was time to leave this book behind, to move forward. Now it was time.

“Do people even still use libraries?” her school friends had asked her when she got the job.

Librarians know what people want to read. I know the sort of thing. I want books to read that I will enjoy.

I’ve read it a few times now—I keep coming back to it . . . It helps me get out of my head—well, all stories do that, you know?

Crime Thriller stumbled on, awkward and shy. “This book . . . you know . . . I’d recommend it.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded almost imperceptibly toward the old man framed by the shelves. Aleisha frowned again, and Crime Thriller waved the book once more in the old man’s direction. “It’s a classic . . . a book everyone should read.”

But then Aleisha looked closer—the handwriting was nice, curly in all the right places. It wasn’t how she imagined Crime Thriller would write. She scanned the words again: it was a list of books. A reading list. There were eight titles scribbled there. It began with To Kill a Mockingbird, the book she was holding in her latexed hands. Just in case you need it: To Kill a Mockingbird Rebecca The Kite Runner Life of Pi Pride and Prejudice Little Women Beloved A Suitable Boy

I know this isn’t your usual thing, but I read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was twenty-one and going through a hard time—it taught me a lot back then, and I got to see the world through the eyes of a child once more, the good and the bad. It was an escape for me;

Sometimes, books just take us away for a little while, and return us to our place with a new perspective.

When he reached page twenty-seven, which arrived sooner than he could have imagined, he found another note settled there. A whole reading list, of which To Kill a Mockingbird was the very first. This book had kept Melanie from his mind—kept her in that little box, with a tiny wooden lid—so he didn’t have to feel his pain and doubt fizzing through his veins every minute. Those first twenty-seven pages had given him something he hadn’t felt since the breakup: hope. The list was for him—he knew it. He thought of that scripted message at the top: Just in case you need it. He felt like he’d never needed anything more.

Someone had taken care with this list—they’d curated it. What was in these books? Why had they chosen these ones? Had the reading-list author known their scrap of paper would become someone else’s reading list too?

She would do anything to see life through a child’s eyes again; a time when life wasn’t so serious, and scary neighbors were nothing more than a fun pastime, and family just meant home.

That day was the last day Indira saw Naina. The reading list remained screwed up and forgotten in the plastic bag for a long time, taken to and from the mandir every week. But, at just the right time, it would find its way out.

Once upon a time, he’d held Priya as a newborn. All eyes and ears, and a tiny button nose. How small and breakable she had seemed then. And now look: their roles had already reversed. He was the breakable one now.

He watched as Priya dipped in and out of the shelves, already browsing, completely unperturbed by this strange new world. How did she find it so easy? Looking around, everyone knew what they were doing. Everyone but him.

Every reader, unknowingly connected in some small way.

“No one can ever really understand what other people have gone through. But people should try.”

She hopped up from her chair and headed to the shelves—she found the copy immediately. He thought it was very clever, how Aleisha knew where every book in the library was placed.

“She was my wife, I should have paid attention to the books she liked. I liked to watch her read, but never asked her what was happening in her books. I feel silly starting to read storybooks at my age.”

“It’s never too late to read stories.”

He liked the library. It was peaceful.

At home, Joseph opened then slammed his front door, and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He tucked himself under the covers, the duvet resting on his head as he sat cross-legged on his bed, and opened the book to where the scrappy bit of paper had been left. He pulled it out—being as gentle as he could with the paper—and scanned it. It was a list. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight books. With one of them circled. Life of Pi. His book.

And, if Amir’s story showed Aleisha one thing, it was that—no matter how terribly you have behaved in the past—you should do everything you can to be good. Amir and Hassan’s friendship had literally broken Aleisha’s heart; she hadn’t known she could feel this bereft from a story, some words on a page.

The Kite Runner

But The Kite Runner—she’d lived and breathed this book for days.

“I guess books say different things to different people.”

“I’ve got to be straight with you—this is really, really hard to read, like, not difficult, but it’s deep. So, so deep, okay?” “Okay,” he said. “I’ve had deep in my life, I think I can do it.” He smiled broadly.

But for the first time since Leilah’s dark days, weeks, and months had begun, she had let her daughter in, even if just for a moment. All thanks to a boy, a tiger, an orangutan, a zebra, and a hyena stuck on a boat.

She wanted to remember this moment, the warmth of it, and how a terrifyingly unpredictable tiger and a boy could create this magic beyond the pages. She didn’t want to think about whether this moment, this feeling, her own and Leilah’s, would last until the morning. She knew she might never re-create this moment again, but she hoped she could. She believed the book . . . and the list . . . they might bring her mother back to her.

She looked down at the list and frowned. It wasn’t a shopping list after all. It was a book list, a film list, or something like that. She held Samuel’s hand in one of hers, and wandered toward the front entrance, hoping to find the man again. He was nowhere to be seen. She hurried around the shop once, with no clue what he really looked like.

But, just before Gigi turned around, she pulled out her phone and took a quick snapshot of the list. She would call her mum, her mum knew everything—she’d know every title, every film, every book. Maybe they could go see some of these together. To make up for lost time.

“Are you still trying to do your Atticus words of wisdom thing?” “My friend, I have my own words of wisdom, thank you very much!”

Throughout Indira’s life, she’d always looked for signs. While the list of books hadn’t felt like one at first, her mind had kept being drawn back to it, like a siren in the night. And today, it had found her just when she needed a distraction.

As Izzy wandered out of the library, she looked around her, wondering—as she always did—whether the list writer was hiding in the bookshelves. Or, could they be sitting behind the library desk? What had this person wanted from the list? Even after all her reading, all her snooping, she wasn’t sure she was any closer to the person who had written it, but she was enjoying the journey.

But the list had given her so much—she enjoyed speaking to people here, and in this new city, where life never seemed to stand still, it had given her a place just to be.

Aleisha took a deep breath. The list wasn’t just a distraction for her anymore. She’d learned how to fight for something you believe in from Atticus Finch; she’d learned how to survive with a tiger like Pi; she’d learned never to stay in a creepy house in Cornwall, maybe just go to a B&B or something instead; and from Amir in The Kite Runner she’d discovered it was never too late to do the right thing. Pride and Prejudice . . . that was more like a guilty pleasure read, but she liked aspects of it—especially the parts that reminded her of Zac.

“I guess all women write lists, do they?”

The books, the list, it had become too important.

It was an old story, but the March sisters, they were vibrant, gutsy; they followed their dreams, whatever they might be.

Little Women was undoubtedly the book. It was the book he should have asked for at the library when he didn’t know what book to read.

And everything about Little Women spoke of Naina. Every page burned with her legacy, her spirit sprinkled through the sentences.