Tucked in between pages fourteen and fifteen of A Year by the Sea by Joan Anderson was a small, rectangular greenish-yellow piece of paper.
It fell into my lap as I fanned the book open and took in the wafting scent of old books. I bought it online from ThriftBooks after a friend recommended it.
On that paper, in a hurried creative flair, was a name: Shirley Stoner.
No note. No explanation. No date. No address. No message—just her name, gently nudging its way into the story like an understudy waiting in the wings. Just as if Shirley had been there once and moved on.
And it made me pause. Who is Shirley? Was this her book? Did Shirley enjoy this book? Did she finish it? Did page forty-two make her heart ache? Did page fourteen trigger a memory in her own past? Why was her name tucked between those particular pages?
The mystery reminded me of my mom.
Long before and especially after her Alzheimer’s diagnosis, she had a habit of hiding things in books to keep them “safe.” Napkins, receipts, to-do lists, faded photos, birthday cards, anything she didn’t want to lose.
Books became her memory vault. Places to keep what mattered when her memory couldn’t be trusted.
All those private treasures gently tucked in and hidden. Quietly asking to be remembered.
A Christmas card list once fell out of her copy of The Thorn Birds. I wasn’t on it. But the Maeda family from Japan was. I’m not bitter.
As her memory began to fade, the tucking became more frequent—and more frantic. She hid things under cushions, in Kleenex boxes, under the carpet, inside her shoes, in her sock drawer. But books were her main go-to. She believed they were safe. That she’d remember. That she’d come back.
Sometimes, she did. But often, she didn’t.
In trying to keep things from disappearing, she hid them so well that they were lost for good.
Her memories slipped like water down the drain, there one moment and gone the next. A heartbreaking kind of irony.
***
I love second-hand books. Yes, for the stories printed in ink—but also for the invisible ones hiding between the pages. A bookmark made from a grocery receipt. A scribbled phone number. A ten-dollar bill. A note in the margin. Break-up notes. Locks of hair. A tattered postcard. A name on a scrap piece of paper…
These are the moments that remind me books don’t just tell stories. They hold them. They carry little echoes of the people who read them before us.
It’s like eavesdropping on a stranger’s life, in the most respectful way.
And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they give us just enough of a clue to imagine the rest.
So… Who is Shirley Stoner?
Did she need this book like I needed it? Was she taking a break from her life, too? Did she, like the author, crave a little solitude and a few salty waves?
I’ll never know.
Maybe pages fourteen and fifteen were Shirley’s version of a memory vault. A quiet spot she meant to return to.
Maybe she did.
Maybe she didn’t.
Wherever she is, I hope Shirley Stoner knows someone found her name and wondered.
It occurs to me, just now, that perhaps ebbing can be a rest time, a "psychic slumber" from a lifetime of learning to be a woman. I never thought about just being still, caught up as I was with escape and all it entails.
-Joan Anderson (excerpt page 14)
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