On the outside, there was no indication that the warehouse down the street from my apartment stocked its shelves with books from parallel universes.
It didn’t look like much: a chipped-brick box crammed between a mechanic’s shop and a medical supply depot. In front was an asphalt parking lot dotted with oil stains and flattened screws. The sign above it blinked “Books!” in a seedy-bar shade of neon red.
Money was tight because for one thing, the dentist’s office where I politely answered phones was temporarily closed for remodeling. And the other reason, which I didn’t like to think about, was because I was living on one income now that the divorce was finalized. I had to watch my budget, for there was rent and food, but still, I hungered for an escape between pages.
The trashcan-green door was heavy, and when it closed behind me, it obliviated the outside world. At the front desk sat a woman whose spectacles balanced on her nose like a diver about to leap off. The glasses miraculously remained in place when she nodded at me.
I nodded back, then went exploring. Organization seemed entirely of hand-written notes taped onto the shelves: “Sci-fi with super cool laser guns,” or “Fantasy where horses never die,” or “Literature that’s not boring, I promise.”
The shelves were as high as the ceiling, blocking my view until I reached the end of a row, which revealed something new every time. I found more sagging shelves around the corner, then stairs leading down into dusty semi-darkness, then an open area with a 1970s floral couch and squat wooden shelves. The maze went on and on.
In “History to make you furious,” I noticed some strange titles, like “The Successes and Failures of President Salamander Samuel Smith.” I was pretty sure I’d have remembered a president with that name.
Another title declared in a bold, silvery font, “Pickle Ice Cream: How the World’s Favorite Flavor Brought International Peace.” I snorted. Surely a humor book in the wrong place.
Tall books tilted at drunken angles to fit onto shelves, while thin spines begged for attention between thick tomes. My fingers brushed along the shelves, feeling smooth dust jackets and rough cotton spines as though I was testing how firm the fruit. None seemed quite ripe for plucking.
I was strolling past a shelf full of “Careers you won’t regret,” when I felt a jolt, like something had zapped my shoulders and demanded that I stop there. My gaze fixed on a red spine with black letters declaring The Joys of Accounting. When I touched it, a tingle raised hairs on my arms.
I pulled it out and opened to the first page, where I saw the inscription: “Good luck, Paula! You’re going to wow all your professors. I’m so proud of you. Love, Mom.”
“Huh, same name as me,” I thought. Then I was feeling nervous energy, butterflies striking my stomach like a tin drum, holy shit, I’m leaving for college. I wish it wasn’t so far from you, Mom. No, don’t cry, you’re going to get me crying too…
I slammed the book closed. The feeling snuffed out, and I nearly lost hold of Joys of Accounting. When I read the inscription, I remembered Mom doing all that, yet that never happened. Opening the covers again and Mom’s hugging me, and I’m going to ace my classes for you, Mom…
Closing the book, I pressed it against my thumping heart. This one was coming home with me.
Somehow, I managed to find the front desk, where now sat a woman with long hair pushed back by a flower headband, engrossed in a book of poetry. I wanted to ask her, “Did you know that there are magical books here? I got to be another Paula for a second!”
But the door in my throat closed. What if by asking, I ruined the magic? Therefore, I simply placed the book on the counter to signal my intent to purchase. The salesperson only spoke once, to tell me that they didn’t take credit cards. Luckily, I had cash.
Back at my apartment, I disappeared into the inscription. I was no longer middle-aged Paula, divorced and in a dead-end dentist’s reception job. Instead, I’d gone to college, become an accountant, and probably lived in a gorgeous apartment overflowing with bookshelves.
When I closed the book, I was just myself again, remembering how I’d given up my college plans back when I’d gotten married. Now, I ate canned spaghetti off plastic dishes, sitting in a closet-sized apartment with one hardback-sized window that never saw the sun. One wobbly, thrift-store shelf waited in anticipation for paperbacks. I hadn’t taken any books with me after the divorce. I’d wanted a fresh start, to become someone new; instead, I was like the bookshelf, waiting for something to fill me.
Over the next few weeks, I kept returning to the warehouse. I figured out early on that the store carried books that this world had never published. Phones wouldn’t work, so I couldn’t research titles, but sometimes it was easy to tell if a book came from a parallel world, like with The Tale of Petra Rabbit.
I found other inscribed pages—even one “For Stinky”—but it was only the “to Paula” books that gave me jolts, as if the universe was saying that they belonged to me, even if I wasn’t the Paula who’d originally been given the book. I don’t think the universe cared which version of me it sparked.
The universe’s signals led me to four hardbacks with “Happy Birthday Paula!” inside their front covers, now standing proud on my wobbly shelf. My mom never gave me books, not for my birthday or otherwise, but reading the inscriptions let me become a Paula who did receive such gifts. My favorite one went: “Paula, Happy 13th Birthday! I’m so proud of the young woman you are and I can’t wait to see the amazing person you’re becoming. Love, Mom.”
The words filled my eyes and I was 13, rubbing my fingers lightly over the cover, opening to the first page to see Mom’s handwriting on the marbled endpapers… A warm hug around my heart, the kind that you feel when Mom looks at you with her bright eyes taking in the perfection of you, and you feel like you could run marathons and jump over houses because Mom thinks you are awesome. You can fly…
My mind stretched across universes, wrapping itself in that fuzzy-warm-blanket of a memory. I didn’t recall closing the book, but the moment the inscription was gone from my sight, the sensation vanished. I was left with dark disappointment prickling me as I remembered how my 13th birthday really went: Mom had to work late and I ate canned spaghetti.
My mom passed away a few years ago. We’d never had a very good relationship, but I still liked opening that book and feeling like someone out there believed that I could do anything.
It took several more visits to the warehouse before I learned that another me had also discovered the place.
I was looking over “Mysteries for snuggly days indoors” when I felt the universe signal.
“Hello there,” I said to a swashbuckling fantasy, clearly in the wrong place. Skimming the dust jacket, it read like something I’d have devoured when I was a teen, except that I’d never heard of this book. It probably hadn’t been published in my reality.
I flipped to the first page, expecting a “Happy Birthday, Paula” or something similar, but this inscription was in my own looping handwriting:
“Hello there, Paula! Really hoping another Paula has discovered this shop! Just writing a note to help you find this book. I ADORED it when I was a teen. Did you? If not, happy reading! Love, Paula.”
I was another Paula, curious, with a tickle of mischief threatening to burst out into a nervous laugh while scribbling the words as quickly as possible…
I slapped the book closed, blinking away that feeling of my mind stretching like rubber across universes before wobbling back into place.
Had Other Paula just been here? I held the paperback to my chest and raced down aisles labeled “Fiction to help you sleep” and “Fiction to give you nightmares.”
I saw no one.
In fact, I’d never seen anyone in the store except for the salespeople.
Still grasping Other Paula’s book, I made my way to the front. The clerk scribbled notes in a paperback, the title covered by a yellow USED sticker, and didn’t look up when taking my payment.
Back at home, I slipped the fantasy onto my wobbly shelf, which was slowly filling with Paula books. They fattened up the apartment. I felt satisfied, sitting in the dark room, slurping my store-brand spaghetti.
A salesperson with Einstein hair waved his curved pipe in greeting when I next entered the warehouse. In my purse, I’d brought a romance that’d thrilled my teenaged heart. I’d purchased it from another store and scribbled on the inside:
“To Paula, Hello back! I’ve started reading your favorite and LOVE it! This one was my favorite when I was younger. Maybe write me back and let me know what you think? Love, Paula.”
While I was looking around for the perfect place to hide my book, a spark struck me in the “Children’s stories best read aloud” section. The book wore a green cover with an engraving of turtles. The inscription read:
“To Paula, Love, Grandmama. Let’s read this one together.”
I remembered being younger, rubbing the cover with short fingers, giving Grandmama’s cheek a kiss. Whoops, it’s too sloppy and wet, but Grandmama laughs, showing her straight, white teeth. We sit in a rocking chair, Grandmama’s chest moving up and down beneath her flowered shirt, her words tickling by my cheek…
I shut the covers, aching like someone had ripped pages out of me.
How did Other Paula feel when she read some of these inscriptions? I opened the book I’d just inscribed and added a postscript to my note: “P.S. I just found an inscription from a Grandmama. Did you know your grandparents? I didn’t know mine.” I slipped my colorful paperback between two black spines. The green turtle book came with me to the front of the store, where a clerk with a plaid shawl around her shoulders smiled as she accepted my dollars.
Back at my apartment, I boiled store-brand noodles and imagined relatives like Grandmama dropping by for dinner. That would make the dinner table feel a bit too crowded, but in that familiar way when you bump elbows and snort pig-like laughs but you don’t care because they’re family.
I read Grandmama’s inscription again and again, devouring memories as I slurped my noodles.
In a section titled “Cookbooks for making dinner without pots,” I found another note from Other Paula:
“I grew up in the foster system. Guess I got one of the sucky Paula lives. I like reading about the Paulas out there with moms and wishing it could be me. Tell me about your life. Love, Paula.”
I swallowed, feeling Other Paula’s anger rising like vomit and why couldn’t life be better? What’d I do to deserve this? I’m sick of feeling this way all the time…
I closed the book. I used to feel angry like that, but now I could escape into happy Paula experiences, like holidays and birthdays. No one inscribed books to commemorate funerals or divorce settlements.
From my purse, I pulled out a paperback that I’d brought from home and wrote, “It’s wonderful to have found you. Do you think we’ll ever bump into each other? Have you ever seen anyone else in the store? Love, Paula.”
I slipped it onto the shelf, then brought the book with Other Paula’s note in it to the front desk. The clerk who took my dollar bills was covered in a white sheet with two holes for eyes, like a ghost. Back in my apartment, I slipped Other Paula’s inscribed book between two Mom-inscribed ones, as if I could give Other Paula a family that way.
Other Paula wrote: “I’ve never seen anyone in the store except the salespeople. I’m too scared to ask anyone how this works. Are you here at the same time I am? Are we just slipping by each other, in different realities in a single store?”
That thought made my brain hurt.
Through our shared notes, I learned that Other Paula made and sold metal sculptures from a tin-roofed hut by a lake. Her book warehouse was behind a seedy hotel where corrupt politicians conducted scandalous affairs. I wrote back about my own dark little apartment, where the only thing that managed to grow were weeds in the parking lot.
I could admit that I was lonely, that people had lost touch with me. That I didn’t really miss my ex, but I missed the role that I had back then. Now, I didn’t really know who I was. I was scared that the next chapter in my life would be even worse. It felt calming to read the inscriptions and imagine I’d lived those lives.
Other Paula wrote: “Stop hiding in the inscriptions and start doing stuff! If I can survive the foster system, you can survive the next steps of your life. You’re tougher than you think.” I read those words and felt my teeth clench, remembering Other Paula’s experiences that no matter what the world throws at me, I can take it, like the shitty home where Mr. Jacobson tried to touch me every night until I took the knife and—
I slammed the book closed.
“Oh, Paula,” I whispered. If only I could stretch my arms across the realities and hug her. I knew that, if she could, she’d do the same to me. For all that Other Paula had been through, she’d built her own life. I was doing … what? Living lives that weren’t mine.
At home, my fingers traced the inscriptions in The Joys of Accounting, my brain reliving what it was like to have college on the horizon, to be That Paula.
What if I tried college?
But that wasn’t my story. I wasn’t That Paula. Right?
I left Other Paula notes saying I was fine with things as they were. She didn’t write back. I scoured the maze of shelves and couldn’t find a single note from her. I knew that was purposeful. She was a version of me, after all. I imagined her saying, “I’m not going to write another word until you do something to improve your life.”
I pictured writing back, “Of course I’m doing things. I enrolled in college, I’m getting the degree in accounting that I was supposed to get.”
But I couldn’t lie to myself like that.
When I stopped feeling any sparks in the warehouse, I suspected that Other Paula was working overtime to stop me from finding any other inscribed books. I couldn’t find even a little “Happy Birthday Paula” to brighten up my day.
“You’re a bitch, Other Paula,” I muttered. “Okay, you win. I can do this.”
I went digging online for the application. I doublechecked every word before I submitted it. Every possible outcome played in my mind as I waited for the answer.
When an acceptance arrived alongside a scholarship offer, I began composing a note to Other Paula. “See! I did it!” But first, there was another person I wanted to write to. I pulled out The Joys of Accounting and scribbled my own words beneath the inscription: “Thank you, Mom.” I put all of my love and gratitude into each looping swirl. It was the only way that I could think of to communicate with that Mom, for her faith in her Paula. Never underestimate the power of an inscription.
Other Paula started writing again once I let her know that I’d enrolled, although I didn’t make it over to the warehouse quite as often after school started eating up so much of my time.
It was near the end of the semester when I found the note that changed all the inscriptions for me. It was in a section titled, “Philosophical discussions to ponder for a lifetime,” and the note said in my handwriting: “Hey, Paula, Mom died two days ago. Have you found any inscriptions from Mom? I haven’t been able to find any yet. I just want to surround myself with all the Moms out there right now. I need her.”
Wait a second, you grew up in the foster system. You didn’t know your mom.
Uncertain what to do next, I slipped the book from this other Other Paula back between two philosophy textbooks. From there, my mind pondered possibilities as I passed the clerk, whose smile revealed braces and whose tight muscle shirt declared “The Toenail Society.” I exited beneath the neon “Books!” sign and stumbled down the greasy streets back to my apartment.
How many of us were scribbling inscriptions across universes? Had I been writing to one Paula or to different Paulas? I’d assumed that Other Paula and I were the only ones who were wandering between those ceiling-high shelves, but what if more me’s had found that place? What if there were other Paulas, hungry for something more.
And right then, that one Paula needed a very specific inscription.
It was easy to find my favorite inscription on my wobbly bookshelf: “I’m so proud of the young woman you are….” Remembering Mom smiling at me, I’m 20 feet tall and ready to tackle the world because Mom believes in me…
I shut The Joys of Accounting for the last time. The book rode in my purse back to the warehouse, where the clerk’s head was hidden behind a yellowed newspaper. I walked through the maze of shelves, looking for the perfect label. “Horror with too much blood,” then “Mysteries with fluffy dogs.” Then the perfect spot: “Literature with motherly love.”
My hand quivered a bit as the book slipped perfectly between two worn red spines.
“Hey Paula-who-needs-an-inscription-from-your-mom. This one’s for you,” I whispered. She’d find it, just like I’d found it. There’d be a need, then a spark.
A quick glance at my watch alerted me that I couldn’t linger. My feet picked up speed, out of the aisles, past the clerk—now a balding man reading a thick leather tome, his leather shoes on the counter. Down the road, then inside my dark apartment filled with memories not mine.
I’ll be putting you back, I thought to those other books on the wobbly shelf. The other Paulas need you.
But that was for later. For now, I had a backpack to grab, a class to go to, a new chapter in my life to start, and I didn’t want to be late.
Carol Scheina is a deaf speculative author who grew up spending too much time in the library and now spends too much time stuck in traffic. Her stories have appeared in Flash Fiction Online, Escape Pod, Diabolical Plots, and more. You can find more of her work at carolscheina.wordpress.com.
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