Amy Meyerson Quotes
“Charlie sang as he filled the display case with muffins. The scene reminded me of Mom, how her song commenced with the opening of the cookbook and continued until the meal was plated. If I asked her what she was humming, she’d quiet, surprised that the sound existed outside her head. I’d stopped pointing out the melodies of her meals. It was the only time I got to hear her sing.”
“I watched my oldest friend, the friends I’d recently made, the people who knew me before I knew myself. Yesterday’s Bookshop belonged to them as much as it did to me, but Prospero Books was Billy’s. Evelyn’s. We were giving the store a chance to survive. I needed to give myself a chance, too. It’s what Prospero had wanted for his Miranda, not to be burdened by the past but to know it farther, to prepare for the future.”
“My parents had gone out, and Billy was babysitting. We stayed up late to watch Return to Oz. I wasn’t allowed to watch the movie, but I didn’t tell Billy, not that he’d asked whether shock treatments and a demonic Oz were appropriate for a four-year-old. From the entrance of the menacing score, I knew I was in for a sleepless night. When Billy put me to bed, I didn’t tell him to leave a light on, even though the shadows from the floodlights etched the monstrous shapes of the Nome King across my walls. I tossed and turned, and soon the floor began to vibrate. The trophies on my bookshelf rattled. The Nome King had overtaken my room, shifting the walls into stone gargoyles and goblins that wanted to eat me. I screamed. The room didn’t stop shaking. I screamed louder. By the time Billy opened the door, the bookshelves had stopped moving but the Nome King’s minions remained in the shadows across my walls.”
“We sat on the couch in our pajamas, eating Thai food from the container. It felt like old times, before she moved in with Chris, before I moved in with Jay, when we would stay up all night talking about the small injustices of our jobs, the ways our bodies had and would continue to betray us, the people from high school who had become inexplicably successful, all the faraway parts of the world we planned to visit together,”
“Normally, singing was an essential ingredient in any recipe. Mom's mellifluous voice would weave its way into a pie or a lasagna, making the cherries or the tomatoes sweeter. As she continued to flip the cookie dough, over and over again, the kitchen was painfully silent. She looked up when she heard me in the doorway. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks still colorless.
How was breakfast?
Dad let us get three different kinds of pancakes.
She returned her attention on the bowl of cookie dough.
That was nice of him.
I wanted her to start singing, to break her own trance. She continued to watch the dough thud against the sides of the mixing bowl, and I wondered if the cookies would taste as good without her secret ingredient.”