Checked Out: Curtain Calls Part 1
The staff I left behind at Cyprus was vastly different from the one that had greeted me two years before. Aside from only a few people, I felt I hardly recognized the group anymore. There was a new manager, a whole new children’s department, and a whole new teen department, plus a few people missing from circ. When I thought about leaving these people, I didn’t feel any deep sense of sadness but for a handful of them.
Mostly Zahra.
I was offered the job the last week Zahra was gone on a month-long European vacation with her family. I told her before I told Lacy. Thankfully, because I had laid the groundwork months ago, she and I were both mentally and emotionally prepared.
This was the first time I would be leaving a job without moving to a whole new state. It felt surreal. I’d actually be able to continue seeing these people if I wanted to without having to drive hours and find a hotel and make it a whole thing. I could pop by on a Saturday morning and say “hello” so easily. I’d have no trouble staying in touch.
As a result, I didn’t really view it as a goodbye because I would indeed be seeing them all later.
Instead, I reveled in how my life would change. No more night shifts. No more weekend shifts. No more cleaning up bodily fluids. No more torturing myself with watching other people’s happy families on a daily basis. No more having to be told my degree wasn’t enough to do the job anymore.
My last week arrived and I prepared for my final story time. I worried I would get emotional.
I had only ever cried twice in story time, and neither time was during a farewell.
I had conducted final story times before. In each of those, I’d hardly felt any emotion other than excitement to be in front of the group again and a fleeting sadness that it would be the last time I’d see these kiddos’ faces.
But this would be my last ever story time. That is, unless I realized what a horrible mistake I made and came back to libraries (Ha! Doubtful.). Would I feel differently?
I prepared crafts the day before. The morning of, I made my last minute book selections. I practiced my songs with the blukulele. I checked the sound.
Throughout the summer, there had only been five families to whom I was worried about saying farewell. By my last week, one little girl’s family had already moved and one had started kindergarten. The people I cared about were leaving before I had a chance to say goodbye.
Our last theme was “opposites.” We read through the stories together. We sang our blukulele songs. We danced goofy dances. During the readings, I asked the typical types of questions.
“What’s this animal?” I asked excitedly.
“An octopus!” they collectively replied, save for one teeny voice who said, “It’s a cephalopod.”
Dang, kid.
“How many legs does an octopus have?”
“Eight!” they yelled back
I pointed to a different animal.
“What animal is this?” I asked again.
“A crocodile!”
“Nuh-uh, it’s an alligator!”
“A frog!”
I fought a laugh.
“Crocodile or alligator! They both look alike, don’t they?”
A few pages further in, I said, “This monkey is going up. What’s the opposite of up?”
“Down!”
I kept waiting for the tears to prick my eyes. For me to stare up at the light to stop any crying before it started. But there was nothing.
Story time came to a close.
We finished up our goodbye song.
“Thank you all so much for coming out for story time,” I projected over the crowd, reclaiming their attention before they could drift to the craft, “In case you weren’t here last week, I made an announcement. Today was my very last story time here at Cyprus. I will be starting a new job next week. I want to thank all of you so much for joining me at this story time every week. I have loved reading every single book and singing every song together that we have. It has been such a joy spending time with you all and sharing a love of books and reading. I don’t know yet who will be replacing me, but rest assured, story time will continue as normal. Thank you again.”
I would have placed bets that I would have tears flowing freely and a runny nose by the end of my little speech. I was completely shocked to find that I was absolutely fine. There were no tears. No sniffles. Not even a hint of a tremor in my voice.
A part of me was ready to interpret a hint of emotion as regret for my choice to leave. But there was no emotion. I was ready. And there were no regrets. Not yet, at least.
Most had heard the announcement the week before, but a few were surprised by the news.
A set of twins approached with their grandma. These girls came most every week, but rarely ever came out of their shells. They sat politely and paid attention, but never participated. Grandma held both of their hands and shook them encouragingly, prompting them to talk.
“Good luck,” one piped in her tiny voice.
Grandma shook the other’s hand.
“Best wishes,” she said, a lisp making it harder for her to say.
I knelt down and shared quick hugs with both of them.
A mom of a little boy approached for her own hug after that.
A young girl who only spoke Spanish approached next. Raquel came to the library with her mom every day. I was known as “Maestra” to her. The more comfortable Raquel became with me, the more excited she grew to see me at the library. By the time I left, Raquel would wheel into the library in her stroller, her mom pushing from behind, and spot me at the door. In her elation, she’d yell, “MAMA, LA MAESTRA ESTA AQUI! HOLA MAESTRA!”
I’d be at the desk or shelving books and I share a big smile with her and wait for her to be brought closer. In my broken Spanish, we’d greet each other properly.
“Hola.”
“Hola.”
“Como esta?”
“Bien, y tu?”
“Bien,” I’d reply and point to her shirt, “Me gusta tu camiseta. Quien es?”
“Es Anna y Elsa!”
Saying hello to Raquel was a highlight of my week. There’s something uplifting about talking to someone so overwhelmingly ecstatic to see you that they can’t contain themselves. And Raquel definitely couldn’t contain herself.
At the end of that story time, I thought she understood I wasn’t coming back. She got a hug, then smacked a kiss on my cheek.
“Gracias!” I said.
About 15 minutes later, I had left the families to finish their crafts and waited at the children’s desk.
Raquel and her mom approached.
“Te vas?” her mom asked, “Te estás moviendo?”
I didn’t understand her.
She changed her question. This time I thought I heard her ask about my “trabajo,” but I still wasn’t sure. I lapsed into an apologetic, pained smile.
She held up a finger and typed something into her phone.
She turned it so I could see Google Translate on the screen.
She wanted to know if I was moving.
“Oh, si,” I said, nodding, “Yo tengo un trabajo nuevo. Hoy fue mi hora de cuentos ultimo.”
She gave a sad smile, then knelt next to her daughter.
“Raquel,” she said, getting her attention, “Dile ‘adios!’”
Raquel turned to me before her mother finished and chimed an “Adios!” at me.
“No, la señorita C se va. Ella ya no estará aquí,” she explained.
“Adios!” Raquel crowed at me again.
Her mom tried again, speaking a few more words in rapid fire Spanish.
Finally, Raquel understood. She turned back to me, her face completely somber, all hint of smiles gone.
Unprompted, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around my waist.
I draped my arms across her back, holding her tight, hoping I could still keep it together.
Miraculously, no hint of a tear showed itself. I found myself wanting to cry desperately. But I couldn’t muster up any tears, even for Raquelita.
When she pulled away, her mom asked, “¿Podemos tener una foto?”
“Si!” I answered.
We took a picture, shared one last hug, and then they left.
Doubts encroach next time on Checked Out.
Until then, I remain…
-C. Quill
