The Woman Who Read Tess Gerritsen

“Years later, we don’t only remember the stories. We remember who we were when we first turned the page.”

A Familiar Name in an American Bookstore

There are authors we enjoy for a season.

And then there are authors who quietly accompany us through life.

For me, that author was Tess Gerritsen.

For years, I thought my story with her books began in 2005, during my first trip to the United States after getting married.

My husband took me to what was, to us, the perfect place to spend an afternoon: a bookstore.

I can’t even remember whether it was Borders or Barnes & Noble now.

I only remember the endless shelves and the excitement of discovering books I had never seen before.

Then I saw a familiar name.

Tess Gerritsen.

For a brief moment, I was transported back to my university days in Indonesia.

“Wait… isn’t she the author who wrote Pencuri Hati*?”*

I remembered reading the Indonesian translation of Thief of Hearts, one of her early Harlequin romance novels. I smiled, picked up the book in front of me, and then realized something had changed.

This wasn’t a romance.

It was a medical thriller.

The same author?

Really?

Curiosity won.

I bought the book.

That afternoon, I had no idea I was beginning a reading journey that would quietly accompany me for the next twenty years.

One Book Became Many

One book became another.

Then another.

Eventually, I wanted to own them all.

Whenever a new novel came out, I couldn’t wait to find out what Detective Jane Rizzoli and medical examiner Dr. Maura Isles were facing next.

Those books quietly followed me through almost every chapter of my adult life.

Through moving countries.

Through pregnancies.

Through newborn nights.

Through homeschooling.

Through ordinary afternoons.

Through difficult seasons.

Perhaps part of the appeal was Tess Gerritsen herself.

She had been a physician before becoming a novelist.

I’ve always been drawn to medicine.

There was even a season when I quietly wondered whether, had Allah written a different life for me, I might have enjoyed becoming a doctor.

Instead, Allah wrote a different path.

Motherhood.

Homeschooling.

Supporting mothers as a doula.

Writing.

Looking back, I wouldn’t trade the life Allah chose for me, even though it has not always been easy.

But I still smile whenever medicine finds its way into a good story.

The Book That Measured My Brain

There is one book I will probably never forget:

The Mephisto Club.

Not because it was my favorite.

But because it became the unexpected measure of something I didn’t yet know was happening inside my own mind.

At the time, I was pregnant and raising young children.

Like many mothers, I assumed I simply had “pregnancy brain.”

Or “mommy brain.”

I would read an entire page.

Reach the bottom.

And realize I hadn’t understood a single word of what I had just read.

So I would go back.

Read it again.

Still confused.

Again.

I remember saying to myself,

“For the love of Allah… why is this book so difficult?”

But I was stubborn.

I refused to give up.

Somehow, I finished it.

I still remember how ridiculously satisfied I felt when I finally figured out who the murderer was.

I also remember feeling strangely relieved that Maura and Daniel had finally been honest about what they felt for each other, even if part of me wished their story could have ended differently.

For all the murders, conspiracies, and forensic science, it was still the people I found myself caring about most.

Years passed.

Life moved on.

Children grew.

Countries changed.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s thyroiditis. I got some treatments and went through lots of changes in my life.

Looking back, I began wondering whether what I had always dismissed as “mommy brain” had actually been something much more real.

One day, I picked up The Mephisto Club again.

This time, everything was different.

The conversations made sense.

The clues connected.

The story flowed naturally.

I noticed details I had completely missed the first time.

I sat there almost laughing.

The book hadn’t changed.

My brain had.

Looking back, I wonder how many years I quietly blamed myself for a lack of focus, when my body had been trying to tell me all along that it was struggling.

Meeting Old Friends Again

Years later, while we were living in Riyadh, I finally watched Rizzoli & Isles.

I remember feeling oddly excited.

After spending so many years imagining Jane and Maura in my own mind, they suddenly had faces and voices.

Of course, the television series wasn’t exactly the same as the books.

It couldn’t be.

But I happily watched anyway.

It felt a little like meeting old friends again.

Around that same time, I also became fascinated by Bones.

I loved the mysteries.

The forensic science.

The immense satisfaction of watching tiny, ignored clues slowly become a complete picture.

Perhaps that’s what I loved most.

Not the murders.

Not even the mysteries.

The curiosity.

The careful observation.

The quiet confidence that if you looked closely enough, the truth would eventually reveal itself.

Almost Meeting Tess

Then, in 2024, something happened that felt wonderfully unexpected.

Tess Gerritsen came to the Sharjah International Book Fair.

She was even giving a workshop.

I wanted to go.

I really wanted to go.

But that particular season of life was complicated, and after weighing everything, I chose to stay home.

At the time, I believed it was the right decision.

Perhaps it was.

Even so, I still feel a small, lingering ache whenever I think about it.

Not because I wanted an autograph.

Not because I wanted a photograph.

I simply wanted to sit quietly in a room and listen to the woman whose books had quietly accompanied so many seasons of my life.

The Woman Who Read Them

I thought this essay would end there.

It didn’t.

As I was writing these memories, another one quietly surfaced.

And when I finished writing, I opened Amazon.

Without thinking too much about it, I bought Listen to Me.

I laughed when I clicked Buy Now.

Apparently, after all these years, I’m still following Jane Rizzoli and Maura Isles.

Some reading habits never really leave us.

When I look at my bookshelf today, I don’t just see thrillers.

I see landmarks of my own life.

The university student in Indonesia reading Pencuri Hati.

The newly married woman wandering wide-eyed through an American bookstore.

The exhausted young mother determined to finish a novel even when her mind refused to cooperate.

The woman who later discovered there had been a biological reason for that fog.

The woman watching Rizzoli & Isles in Riyadh.

The woman who almost met Tess Gerritsen in Sharjah.

Books have a remarkable way of marking the seasons of our lives.

Years later, we don’t only remember the stories.

We remember who we were when we first turned the page.

Looking back now, I smile at the thought that Pencuri Hati—The Thief of Hearts—was where it all began.

Perhaps that title turned out to be more fitting than I ever imagined.

Not because Tess Gerritsen stole my heart.

But because, by Allah’s kindness, He placed the right books into my hands at different moments of my life.

Some entertained me.

Some challenged me.

Some kept me company through lonely nights, demanding pregnancies, and long seasons of motherhood.

Some quietly recorded the state of my mind long before I understood it myself.

Without ever planning it, I wasn’t just collecting novels.

I was collecting the memories of the woman who read them.

And somehow, after all these years, this reading journey isn’t finished yet.

There is still another book waiting to be opened on my nightstand.

And perhaps, somewhere between its pages, another memory is quietly waiting for me too.

Alhamdulillah for every single chapter.