I watched the clock all day, nervously waiting for it to strike five. I had someplace to go, unusual for me on a Friday night, or any night for that matter. I was more of a homebody and preferred to spend my evenings alone. But that wouldn’t be the case tonight. Thanks to a co-worker I was attending a book signing. I tried to tell him I wasn’t much of a reader. I didn’t even own a book.

“No problem,” he had said. “You have to meet this guy. He’ll change your life. I guarantee it.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I felt obligated to go. He had pulled me out of a jam once and I made the mistake of saying I owed him one. Who knew he would take me serious?

When quitting time arrived, I hurried to my car, ready to get this thing over. But I hit a string of red lights all the way through town. By the time I arrived at the bookstore, the parking lot was packed and a line of people snaked out the front door.

That wasn’t my biggest concern, though. For the last few blocks, I had passed nothing but rundown businesses, ramshackle apartments and junked cars, even a teenaged streetwalker perched on a fire hydrant. Up until then, I had expected to pull into a Barnes and Noble or a quaint shop. Well, there was nothing quaint about this place. Looking more like a bunker in a war zone, the square flat building with bars on its windows was not at all inviting. Expecting trouble, I clutched my purse with both hands before heading toward the door.

At the entrance, a burly store clerk blocked my path with his arms folded. He looked like someone who guarded prisoners instead of books.

“Sorry, ma’am, you’ll need to step to the end of the line.”

“Oh, I’m not here for the book signing. I’m meeting a friend inside.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. You gotta go to the end of the line.”

I stepped out toward the curb and peered down the long, winding string of people. A couple of guys with spiked hair and ripped, baggy jeans; a mother with two squalling babies in strollers; a leather-clad biker cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife; a whale of a man sucking soda from a cup the size of a lampshade. And these were the decent-looking ones. I could see why they had this guy standing watch.

“Are you out of your mind? I’m not going back there by myself. It’ll be dark soon and who knows what’ll crawl out of the sewers then.”

He jerked his thumb to the left. “Back of the line.” I noticed there was no polite ‘ma’am’ this time so I didn’t argue.

I slinked past the motley crew of bystanders, careful not to make eye contact, and took my place at the end. Less than a minute later, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find a hefty man with a crew cut and a soft face.

“Is this the line for the book signing?”

I forced a smile and nodded. I had no interest in striking up a conversation with anyone. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case for the petite brunette ahead of me, holding a small book in one hand, her caffeine fix in the other.

“Yes, it is!” She exuded the enthusiasm of a Jack Russell terrier.

Oh, and what a beauty she was. The silver nose ring accented the two studs mounted in her left eyebrow. And the purple-streaked hair complemented the black fingernail polish. With one look, I knew she had more than a coffee addiction.

The oaf reached out to shake hands with the junkie and gouged me with a huge book he carried. He was so clueless he didn’t even notice. Idiot. But I let it pass. That’s the kind of person I am. A forgiver.

At least the line moved at a brisk pace and we were inside the building in no time. It was dank and dusty and lit by bare, low-wattage bulbs spaced too far apart in the ceiling. The line weaved in and out of claustrophobia-inducing aisles formed by mahogany bookshelves that towered over our heads. As we moved around corners, I caught glimpses of others in the line. It appeared that this author wasn’t a one-hit wonder. A few people carried three or four books; some had seven or eight. Others, like the junkie and the clumsy oaf, held just one. I was the only person who didn’t have one at all.

A few turns later I spotted one of my neighbors. The sight of her made my blood boil. She had the brattiest kid on the entire block. I even caught him stealing my Sunday paper. When I came flying out my front door in my robe and slippers, he dropped that paper like it was on fire. She’d been out of work all year and word on the street was the punk was taking papers for the coupons. Well, if she wanted them, all she had to do was ask. It was no excuse for letting him run wild.

I heard a familiar voice behind me. I was surprised to find a co-worker chatting it up with the oaf. Although, if it hadn’t been for her flaming red hair, unmistakable in any light, I might not have recognized her. She liked to dress for the boys, spike heels and miniskirts, that sort of thing. But today, her attire was toned down—nothing that revealed her assets or that she had to be poured into. I’d heard that a few of the girls were donating clothes to her. Something about a fire at her apartment building. I thought about giving her some of my old things, but I figured she’d turn her nose up at them. These frumpy things she had on probably cramped her style. The look was more street urchin than office hottie.

The line shifted forward. I took a couple of steps and then suddenly I was shoved into the junkie. She was thrown off balance and her book flew through the air. It bounced off one of the bookshelves and landed a few feet away with the cover open.

“I’m sorry—” the oaf began.

“No!” the junkie screamed.

Then, from within the pages of the book, the tortured cries of an infant assaulted us. For a moment, we all stood in shocked silence. I even wondered if I was mistaken about the source of the sounds. Those horrible wails couldn’t be coming from a book. As they continued, the young woman rushed forward, her arms stretched out toward the book.

Just as she reached it, the crying abruptly stopped, cut off with a harsh finality that sent chills up my spine. She stared at the book, waiting, her face a mask of fear. Then, with a trembling hand, she picked it up and carefully started to brush off its cover as though it were her most precious possession. But a wave of emotion washed over her and she hid her face behind the book, her small frame shaking with each sob.

“There, there.” The oaf tried to console her, patting her head as if she were a dog. “There, there.” He looked toward the redheaded tart, a plea for help written all over his face.

She stepped in to comfort the crying girl. As she stroked her hair, she spoke in soothing tones. “Hush now, little one. There’s no need for tears. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. That’s why we’re here.”

“Yeah, see I have a book, too.” The oaf held up a large tome in one of his ape-like hands, eager to be of assistance.

The junkie lifted her head slightly. “It can’t be as bad as mine,” she whispered.

He fished a kerchief out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Don’t be so sure.”

He placed his book across his arm. My curiosity got the best of me and I moved closer as he opened the cover.

A still picture of a dimly lit bar swirled to life. The sound of raucous laughter and clanking beer mugs spilled out. Sultry music played in the background. Several people, their faces unrecognizable in the gloom, crowded around a table, drinking themselves silly, the men mauling every waitress that passed by. Four of the men and their companions stumbled out into night and piled into a car. The driver managed to keep it on the road, but barely. Then he headed into a curve—too fast and too drunk. The sound of screeching tires ended in shattering glass and twisting metal. As sirens began to wail, the oaf slowly closed the book and stared at the floor.

“People died that night. I’ve had to live with that guilt ever since.”

“What about you?” The junkie nodded toward the tart.

“No, you don’t want to see mine.”

“You’ve seen ours already.”

“Mmm-mmm, I can’t.” She drew her book close to her body, hugging it with both arms.

“Like it or not, we’re all in the same boat or we wouldn’t be here. You said so yourself,” the oaf reminded her.

She cast a dubious glance at the junkie, but then reluctantly, the tart held out her leather-bound volume and opened it. A soot-covered fireman asked her, “Were you home alone when the fire started?” In the background, the ruins of an apartment complex smoldered as she managed a meek reply of, “Yes.”

“That’s it? You lied about being alone?” the oaf asked.

She averted her gaze. “Well, not exactly.”

“So what happened?”

As the three of them discussed the tart’s burning secret, I realized the line had disappeared around a corner. Ignoring the three musketeers, I took off in search of the others. When I caught up, I discovered there was only one person ahead of me and I could see this infamous author. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I watched as the young man ahead of me stepped before the author and offered him a thick tome. The writer flipped through a few pages of a large book lying to his left, nodded his head and then accepted the offering.

When he opened it, gunshots and screams ripped through the air. I ducked for cover, but from my place on the floor, I saw that the author hadn’t even flinched. He just autographed the book. And as he lifted his hand from the page, the mayhem stopped.

Then the book changed. All of the ink lifted off the pages, floated into the air and disappeared. The paper, yellowed with age, transformed into crisp, white pages. The broken binding was mended and the blackened, worn cover was replaced with deep, brown leather that I could smell from where I crouched. The author’s effect was apparent, inside and out.

When he handed the book back, the young man cradled it in his arms and nodded in appreciation. As he stumbled away from the table, tears brimmed and his face was radiant.

Then I looked into the author’s eyes for the first time and all the pieces fell together. I knew who he was. There was only one who could erase the record of such horrible deeds simply with his name. As I headed to the table, eager to present myself before the Author, the other three caught up and the junkie jumped ahead of me.

“Hey, no cutting,” she snipped.

I wanted to throttle her, but I let it go. I knew she was about to receive her comeuppance. She handed her book to the Author. He began scanning his own book.

“Oh, no, sir, you won’t find my name in there.” Her voice trembled. “I’m coming to you for the first time. I know you can help me, though. You’re the only one who can.”

He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes with love. Then he said something I had not expected him to say to her.

“Your faith has saved you.”

He opened her book and signed it amid the wails of the infant. When he finished, he wrote her name in the Book of Life.

I was blown away. I would never have thought that someone with her sordid past would end up in the Book of Life. But, if he could forgive a junkie like her, I could only imagine how pleased he would be with me, one with no sins to account for. No doubt he would welcome me with open arms and say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” It gave me goose bumps just thinking about it. I knew what a good Christian I was and in a few minutes, everyone else would know, too.

The junkie stepped aside. “Hey, why don’t you have a book?” she asked.

I smiled with smug satisfaction. “Oh, you’ll see.”

I was giddy with excitement. My palms were sweaty. My heart raced. Then his eyes met mine.

“You will be so proud of me. Look, I don’t have a book!”

A side door opened and my friend from work entered. A couple of clerks followed him, their arms full of enormous books. They piled them beside the Author.

“Gabe, I’m so glad you invited me. I had no idea who would be here.” They continued to stack books one at a time by the Author. “That’s a lot of books. I’d hate to be the guy those belong to, wouldn’t you?”

Gabe didn’t respond.

“He probably had those carted in here. His back would give out carrying them in.” I laughed. “I wonder who it is. Hey, I know, look around for the guy who walked in here empty-handed. Then we’ll know who the real sinner is.” I turned to search the line, feeling like I was on top of the world. “Do you see anyone, Gabe? Do you…”

Then I noticed everyone staring at me. “What? What is it?”

The oaf pointed. I looked down. Immediately I knew what had drawn everyone’s attention to me—my empty hands. I whirled around to Gabe.

“Are these…these are my books?”

He nodded.

I gaped at the stacks in disbelief. “Well, I don’t understand, but, okay.” I shrugged. “I’ll get them signed and start over. I’ll try to be better this time. I promise.”

The Author scanned the Book of Life and then shook his head.

“What do you mean? I’m a Christian. I go to church every week. Why isn’t my name in the book? I don’t carouse around town like some of these other hooligans. And I’m certainly not on the same level as these three,” I said, indicating my line companions. “Look, look at this one.” I pointed to the oaf. “He’s not as innocent as he appears, no, not at all. Get a few drinks in him and stick him behind the wheel and he’s a killing machine! And this one over here,” I said, addressing the tart. “Don’t let this get-up fool you. This isn’t the way she dresses, uh-uh. She wears her clothes tighter than body art, tempting men until they’re panting after her like dogs. Oh, and guess what else? She leaves burning buildings in her wake!”

“Whoa, wait a minute, lady! You’ve got this stuff all wrong!” A red-faced oaf glared at me.

“Oh, do I? I saw the books. I know the stories.”

“You don’t know the whole story! For starters, I wasn’t even in that car that crashed!” He ran his hand over his head and blew out an exasperated sigh. “I was the bartender that night. I knew that bunch had had way too much to drink, especially the fella they kept calling their designated driver. I should have stopped ‘em…” He shook his head. “And as far as this lady goes, she didn’t start that fire. And those clothes you’re talking about, they’re not even hers.”

The tart put her hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

He looked down at her. “You gotta defend yourself.”

“It’s bad no matter how you look at it.” She glanced in my direction, but wouldn’t make eye contact. My instincts told me she was about to reveal something juicy. “He’s right. I didn’t start the fire. I lied to the fireman about being alone in the apartment because I…I was with someone that night, someone I shouldn’t have been with.”

I jabbed my finger at her. “Ha! I knew it! I knew it!”

She grimaced, but the oaf placed his hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to continue.

“If anyone had found out that he’d been there…it would have caused a scandal.”

My stomach churned.

“I lost everything that night, including him. He decided it was too risky after that. It was for the best. I shouldn’t have been with him in the first place. I’ve been staying with my sister ever since. Those clothes, they’re hers. They’re not my style, but I can’t afford any of my own yet. But they depict what I’ve become, don’t they?”

As she spoke her last sentence, she looked directly at me, right into my eyes. It caught me off guard. It was almost as if she knew the things I had thought about her. The churning in my stomach grew worse.

“Well, I hope you’ve both learned your lesson,” I mumbled, unable to muster any of my earlier self-righteousness. I was losing my case. I needed another target and fast. My eyes fell on the junkie and my ire was rekindled.

“Ah, yes, and then there’s this one. Without batting an eye you wrote her name in the Book of Life. That poor baby. I bet you were higher than a kite when you did it.”

“I’ve never even smoked a cigarette.”

“I’ve never smoked a cigarette. I bet you’d smoke anything to ease the pain of what you’ve done.”

“What would you do to ease your pain?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re not that different, you and me.” The junkie had an odd smile on her face.

The Author reached for a book from the bottom of one of the stacks. When he opened it, a woman’s voice, shrill with anger and frustration, spewed out.

“How could you do this to me, to our family?”

My gut wrenched in pain. “Momma? Oh, no, not this. Please, not this.”

I couldn’t bear to look at the book. I didn’t need to. That day was burned into my memory for all eternity. My mother ranting and raving, fanning her face, first with one hand, then with both, as if she were trying not to faint, pacing back and forth, occasionally peeking out the curtains to see if the neighbors were still watching her performance. Me, cowering on the sofa, crying my eyes out, wishing she would hold me and tell me everything would be okay. But that never happened. Instead her harping continued to echo in my head.

“I raised you better than this. I deserve better than this, missy. What were you thinking? He’s your teacher and married and with a baby on the way! Do you know what kind of scandal you’ve caused? I will never be able to show my face at the PTA and it’s all your fault. Well, things are going to change around here. From now on you will attend church every Sunday, every Sunday, do you hear me? But you will sit in the back, not in the front with me. The front is for good Christian folk, like me, not for trollops like you. And your days of dressing like the town tramp are over. From now on, you will dress like a lady. You may not be one, but you’ll dress like one. You will carry this scar for the rest of your life, missy. Nothing can erase this. Oh, thank heavens, you didn’t get pregnant. You’re not pregnant, are you? Oh, thank heavens, because if you were I would simply have to move to another city, another state. My life would be over.”

I looked up at the Author, barely able to breathe. “But I was pregnant. There was no way I could keep it. You heard her. I was only seventeen…seventeen. She tortured me for months over the ‘scandal.’ Anything that went wrong in her life she blamed me for it. Imagine what it would’ve been like if I had told her I was pregnant. No, I had to do it. I found a doctor in a town a hundred miles away. No one knew me; no one knew her; no one ever knew. I had no other choice. I was only a kid.”

Then it began to sink in that maybe I had more in common with these people than I had thought. Even though there was no other way out of it, what I did was wrong. There were definitely similarities.

“You’re right. Even though I was a kid and I didn’t have a choice, maybe I’m not that different from you guys after all.”

An unfamiliar voice spoke up. “Yes, you are.”

The young man who had received the new journal stepped forward. “You’re not like them at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“You make excuses for your mistakes, you know, you try to justify them. ‘Oh, poor me. I was just a kid. I was trapped. I never had a goldfish. My daddy didn’t love me. Boohoo.’” He waved a dismissive hand. “Hey, don’t feel bad. I’ve done it, too. Like when I stole your paper. I told myself it was for a good cause. Mom needed the coupons so that made it okay. But I was wrong. You had every right to bust me for that.”

“You didn’t steal my paper.” I glanced at Gabe, gesturing toward the nut case. “That kid’s seven or eight years old. You’re what? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Nine and a half,” a child’s voice replied, snapping my attention front and center.

The young man was gone and in his place stood the neighbor’s little boy.

“I was small for my age,” he continued. “But by the time I was thirteen, I caught up with the other kids.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them, the boy had disappeared and an adolescent male with shaggy hair and faded jeans stood before me.

“That’s also when Mom told me that you got her fired. So I considered it justice when I broke out your windows.”

“My windows? Are you—are you threatening me?”

Then right before me, he morphed into the nineteen-year-old again. He lunged toward me, spitting venom, his face twisted into a dark, menacing scowl.

“But imagine my fury when I found out that you busted up my parents’ marriage. Because of you, I grew up without a dad. Yeah, that’s right. He split right after I was born. My mom, she had to work two jobs to support me. You took away her chance at a good life. My chance. So I figured I had every right to take away yours. I imagined it so many times. Pulling the trigger, hearing you scream, watching you die.” He drew a make-believe gun and put it to my head. “Boom,” he whispered.

Suddenly he seemed racked with pain. His breathing grew ragged and he shook his head as if trying to free himself of an invading force. He closed his eyes tightly and balled up his fists. Then an iridescent image of the Author appeared in front of him…wait, inside of him. The Author held his arms out to the side, forming a protective barrier around the young man. His face relaxed and the shadows disappeared. He opened his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was softer, calmer.

“Sorry. Old habits, you know. There was a time I would’ve given anything for my shot at settling the score with you. But then one night someone handed me a thick, ugly book and flipped open the cover. I couldn’t believe the things I heard coming out of it, the things I saw…things I didn’t ever want to see again.” He shivered visibly. “And she told me about the Author. He sounded like someone I wanted to meet.”

“You really screwed things up for us, didn’t you?” The junkie sized me up from head to toe. “I had higher hopes for us than this.”

“I don’t understand.”

She moved closer to me, her face just inches from mine.

“Didn’t you see how easy it was? The kid walked right up and handed him his book and he was forgiven. I did, too. He took my hand and he forgave me. We could’ve been in the Book of Life. What happened?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Momma. She said nothing could erase what I had done.”

The young woman placed her hand on my cheek. “Momma was wrong.”

Peering eye to eye, it dawned on me who this girl was. I put my hand over hers so I feel the young skin that had once been mine. “You’re me, aren’t you?”

She smiled wistfully and nodded.

“And I’ve become my mother.”

But it wasn’t too late to change. It was never too late to change. I spun around to the Author.

“I don’t want to be like this anymore. I want my name written in the Book of Life, too.”

I waited for him to reach for my hand and look upon me with loving eyes and tell me all was forgiven. But he didn’t. Instead, his face was rigid with determination as he opened one of my books. I heard my own voice whisper, “Idiot.”

He opened another. “Clumsy oaf.”

He continued opening books as the others approached me, their hands reaching for me.

“Junkie.”

“Tart.”

“But I never said any of those things!”

The redhead flipped her hair and winked. “Haven’t you heard? It’s the thought that counts.”

Then the Author raised his hands and every one of my books sailed into the air. A cacophony of sound burst forth, every wicked thought that had ever crossed my mind. Through the uproar I heard the voice of the Author.

“I was hungry and you did not invite me in…”

“No!”

“…I needed clothes and you did not clothe me!”

“Please, no! I can change!”

I felt hands grabbing me, pulling me into the dark. I fought with all my might, kicking and scratching, but the hands were too strong. I was going down.

“No! I’m sorry! I can change!”

Then a defiant voice pierced the din.

“Leave her alone!”

An arm fought through the writhing flesh and heaved me to my feet, bringing me face-to-face with my ugly past. Standing before me was the woman that I had wronged all those years ago with her child by her side.

I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Why would you rescue me?”

She tousled her son’s hair, avoiding my eyes as she whispered. “Because I need you.”

I scoffed. “You need me?”

She held out a thick black book. Her voice quivered with unshed tears. “This is what I showed my son that night. My sins, not his.” She met my gaze. “If I can’t forgive you, then how can I expect to be forgiven?”

I stared in awe at the woman whose marriage I had shattered, whose world I had turned upside down, the woman who now offered me forgiveness and I felt the truth bubbling to the surface.

For years, for every fault I had found in someone else, I had buried one of my own. Ah, you were an unwed mother at twenty-six? You should know better. I was only seventeen. I buried that one. You had an affair with a married man? You’re a grown woman. My teacher took advantage of me. I buried that one. Like a dog burying bones in the backyard, I buried my sins deep within the recesses of my mind until I had convinced myself they no longer existed. But as I stared at her, the backyard flooded and all that crud floated to the top, exposing me for what I truly was—a home-wrecker, a murderer, a sinner in need of forgiveness in the worst way. But I didn’t deserve forgiveness. Not from her, not from God, not from anyone.

“How can anyone forgive me for all the wretched things I’ve done? It’s not like I cheated on my taxes or kept the extra change the store clerk gave me at the checkout.”

She smiled, radiating more peace than I had ever felt. “It doesn’t matter. Take a look around you.” She gestured toward the other people. “We all waited in the same line to see the Author. He uses the same signature for everyone’s books and there’s only one Book of Life. He’s here for all of us, no matter what.”

“It seems too easy.”

“It’s harder than you think. But we’ll make it through.” Her smile faltered a little. She reached out her hand. “Now, come on. Let’s get your books signed.”

Her son clasped my other hand and stared up at me with beautiful blue eyes. “I’ll go with you so you won’t be scared.”

I felt my throat thicken at his loving gesture. I squeezed his little hand and wondered why I had ever chased him out of my yard.

When we reached the Author I took the final step alone. He looked up at me and the disappointment in his eyes brought me to my knees. I buried my face in my hands and I cried.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but, please, please, help me.”

Through my tears I heard thump, thump, thump, over and over. Then a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I lifted my head and the Author smiled at me.

“Go and sin no more.”

The stacks of books had disappeared. In their place was one small journal with pristine pages. I thought my heart would burst. I leapt to my feet and scooped up the little boy. I swung him around while he squealed and giggled with delight. Applause broke out in the little bookstore.

When I set the child down, he ran to his mother and hugged her. I gasped when I noticed that she still held the thick, ugly book in her hand.

“Why wasn’t your book signed?”

“This is the present. My book signing is in the future after I’ve learned of the Author. Right now, I don’t even go to church.”

The woman and her child waved good-bye then disappeared around a corner.

“Wait! If you don’t go to church, how will you ever find out about the Author?”

Her cheery voice floated around the bookshelves. “You’ll tell me…neighbor.”

As I headed home, I was in a different frame of mind than I’d been in on my drive over. I passed the streetwalker again, but for some reason, this time she looked more like a lost little girl than a woman of the night.

I turned the car around so that I could come up alongside her. As I drew closer, I realized she had all of her belongings in a box next to her. She clutched two books in her arms.

“Need a lift?” I called out the open passenger side window.

She nodded, eyeing me warily.

I jumped out to help her load her stuff into the back seat. As I shut the door, a thin woman with unkempt, short hair poked her head out a second-story window and yelled down at the girl.

“And don’t ya be thinking ‘bout coming back here after it’s born neither, ya hear me? I’m done wit’ ya!” She slammed the window and yanked the curtains closed.

The young girl stared blankly at the sidewalk, the color drained from her face.

I opened the car door for her. “It’s okay. Let’s go.”

Back in the car I asked her, “Where you headed?”

She shrugged and played with the tips of her bleached blonde hair. “I don’t know yet.” Her voice was barely audible.

I took a good look at her. No, not her piercings or her midriff-baring shirt or her fishnet stockings—I mean her. I saw the fear riveting her to the door, the desperation darkening her eyes, the shame hanging her head. And I saw me…after a few wrong turns and before several bad detours. But there was time to get her back on the right road.

“I know where you’re headed. Let’s see if we can take you someplace better.”

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