Her name was Bethany.

Perhaps we were destined to meet. After my mother died—I took care of Connie for 13 years—we lived hand-to-mouth. I was debilitated by daily migraines and chronic fatigue from a misdiagnosed pituitary tumor, and worked sporadically, so we couldn’t afford a city rent. We packed our meagre belongings, and found a spartan apartment in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia for $350 a month. It had no amenities, and even less charm. It screamed like a banshee during Nor’easters. But the view was worthy.

We made a threadbare home.

On our first few days in town, two notable events occurred. Exhausted by the move, I left my wallet in the car with the keys in the ignition and the windows wide open. Yet everything was as I left it in the morning. It was a fine benediction from this small UNESCO World Heritage town.

And we had our first visitor.

Bethany was the little girl who lived up stairs. She was the very definition of a tomboy—all skinned knees and dirty hands, with salamanders always at the ready. She had blonde curls to her shoulders, and a bright, curious face. 

My wife and I gave her a tour, and showed her our four humble rooms, furnished with worn couches and chairs propped up by bricks. When we reached our living room, her face went from sunshiny to sour in a heartbeat.

“Yuck!” she said. “You have so many books! Yuck. I hate them!”

I’m not a parent, but I felt like I was in a sitcom that ends with a teachable moment.

“Oh, I love books!” I exclaimed. “They’re my best friends! They keep me company when I’m feeling lonely, they take me on adventures when I’m bored, they make me happy when life is making me sad.

“Books are the most magical invention in the whole wide world.”

She wasn’t convinced, and mustered as much cynicism as any five-year-old could.

Nevertheless, during our first week in Lunenburg, we became Book Faeries. 

Over the next few months leading to years, we scraped together as much change as we could to buy books for Bethany, which we left inside her door with a note from the Book Faerie. We were aided ably in our task by my sister Linda, a Halifax primary school teacher, who gave us free credits at Scholastic. 

It wasn’t always easy. We were racing towards bankruptcy, but we did as well by Bethany as we could. First with some lovely picture books. And then with more challenging fare, like Coraline.

We came to understand she needed these imaginary worlds. 

The household was erratic. The father had trouble finding steady work, but his friends were steady, and ready to party until the wee hours. The stoic mother never stopped, but flew into periodic rages against the unfairness of this world. The high school daughter was bright, but rebellious.

After three years, we returned to the city, as job prospects in Lunenburg were slim. On one of our last days in town, Bethany came downstairs to read with us on our deck. It was a difficult chapter book for a kid about to graduate from grade two. 

I admit it. I had no faith in the Book Faerie. But Bethany showed me, reading a couple of chapters with nary a stumble. My curmudgeonly heart swelled three times in size..

I think of Bethany often. I hope we gave her a better chance to escape her grinding, difficult life.

I don’t remember if I cried that morning when she read to us, but I expect that I did, because I just wiped away a tear now.