The Bookseller (26 page)

I looked down at Missy's sweet face. Her eyes were half closed
and the bottle's nipple fell out of her mouth, dribbling formula down her chin. I wiped it with a burp cloth. “I'd say she's done,” I whispered.

Lars laughed. “Him, too.” He rose slowly and kissed Michael's forehead. “Time for bed, little ones.”

O
nce we'd made the decision, we looked at plots of land west and south of town, where so much new construction was going on. It took us a while to find the right lot.

“It doesn't feel right, not yet,” Lars said on more than one occasion, as we climbed back into the car after walking an empty property—the babies at home with my mother and father, because who wants to lug three infants along on such excursions if they don't have to? Thank goodness for my young, energetic, do-anything-for-me parents.

I remember finding the property on Springfield Street. We had looked at several other lots in Southern Hills, but when we found Springfield Street, we knew it was the right lot for us. We loved the way the lot was situated slightly on a rise; Lars said we could build a split-level house on such a plot of land, with the higher part of the house nestled against the hill. It was only a few blocks to a newly opened public elementary school. The neighborhood had only a few houses then, but there were others under construction; we would be in good company. “The kids can grow up here,” Lars said with satisfaction as we walked around the empty lot. “This will always be home for them.” He looked into the distance, the empty spaces between us and the mountains. “They'll have what I never had.”

I took his hand. I wanted so badly to give him this opportunity, to give him the chance at something permanent, something he could build for our family and hold on to forever.

Once we had purchased the land, Lars worked night after night on the house's design. He pored over sketches and blueprints in our small living room on Lincoln Avenue, going over every detail. I tried to stay out of his way, ensconced in our tiny kitchen or the bedroom, but sometimes a trip through the living room was necessary for one reason or another. Whenever I passed by him, Lars would look up, his eyes shining with eagerness and love.

The day we broke ground, we were all there: Lars and I, the babies, my parents, the job foreman, and the construction crew. Everyone clapped when the diesel engine on the backhoe roared to life, when the first shovelful of earth was removed to dig our basement.

I remember that the neighbors strolled by, the Nelsons. George and—well, of
course
, her name is Yvonne; how could I forget that? George and Yvonne came by, introduced themselves, pointed out their house at the end of the block. “Such beautiful babies,” Yvonne said longingly, admiring the triplets. Yvonne was young, in her early twenties, I guessed, and pretty, with brown, curly hair, long eyelashes, and indigo Elizabeth Taylor eyes.

“When it comes to family, Kitty—I mean, Katharyn—hit the jackpot,” Mother said, snuggling Missy against her bosom. I smiled; my dear mother was trying her best with the Katharyn business, but I was pretty sure that I would always be Kitty to her. “My go-getting daughter went from career gal to mother of three in just over two years.”

I winced. I knew she meant well, but at the time I was unsure where that “career gal” business was headed. I was working at the shop full-time, with my mother and various hired babysitters taking over the triplets' care during my working hours. We had tried a few full-time nannies, but none worked out; they generally left after a few days, proclaiming the job too difficult. Each
time that happened, my mother swooped in until I could find someone else. But this revolving-door arrangement was taking its toll—on me, on my mother, on the babies, and, though he never said so, certainly on Lars.

Not to mention that Frieda was getting fed up with my wishy-washy stance on what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. And I couldn't blame her, really. “You just need to decide,” she'd said more than once—hands on hips, lips pressed together in exasperation—when I was yet again being summoned home from the shop early by one family crisis or another. “You just need to figure it out, Kitty. What do you want? Because here's a news flash—you can't have it all, sister.”

Yvonne broke me out of these weighty thoughts. “We're still hoping to be blessed with a bundle of joy . . . someday,” she said longingly, reaching out a tentative finger to stroke Mitch's little blond head.

I nodded and asked her if she wanted to hold Mitch. She did . . . gratefully, as if she'd been given an unexpected gift. Mitch rewarded her with a sweet smile, a giggle, and the tug of a fistful of her dark hair into his mouth.

Later, back in our apartment, I remember praying—a little appeal to whoever might be listening—that Yvonne might have a child soon. It was several years before my prayer was answered and Kenny came along for them, but he did finally come along.

Oh, it's all falling into place for me. I remember so much that I didn't understand before.

But how is it possible that I can remember events from a life that never even happened?

L
innea's voice brings me back to the present. “Goodness, you were off in dreamland,” she said. “I've been busy as a bunny
here, and you've been a million miles away in your thoughts, madam.”

Busy as a bunny? I look at her quizzically, then remember how she mixes up American expressions. She must have meant a bee.

Linnea smiles playfully at me in the mirror and ties a plastic kerchief over my head. “Under the dryer you go, and then I'll have you finished and out of here in a snip.”

“Linnea.” I reach over my shoulder and take hold of her warm, firm hand. She is startled into silence.

“I just wanted to say . . . I just . . . I'm sorry,” I tell her.

“Sorry for what, Kitty?”

“Sorry about your brother,” I go on hastily. I need to say this, no matter how absurd it might sound to her. “I feel . . . I don't know, Linnea, I don't know why, but I feel a connection with him, with you . . . and I'm just . . .” I look down, then back in the mirror, meeting her eyes. “I'm just sorry . . . I never met him. He sounds like a wonderful man. I think . . . I think we would have liked each other.”

Linnea nods slowly. “Lars should have had someone like you in his life,” she says. “I wish that he had. It would have made all the difference.”

She shrugs sadly and withdraws her hand from mine.

O
nce again, I don't remember going to sleep, but when I come to wakefulness, I am in Lars's office in the house on Springfield Street, standing next to his desk. A pair of scissors is in my hand. For a moment I stare at them, wondering what I was planning to do with them.

I look around, confused, and then it comes to me. Of course. I look at the desk and see Mitch and Missy's school photographs lying there. I sort through them and find the sheets that contain three-by-five-inch photographs, the right size for the frame on Lars's desk, the one meant to hold three photographs.

In the school pictures, Mitch and Missy are a matched set. Mitch wears a mustard-colored button-down shirt under a brown vest. His hair is combed carefully to one side, the curls cropped close. Someone, probably Linnea, must have cut his hair not long before the photograph was taken. Missy is wearing a brown dress with a white collar and a wide bow that matches the dark yellow of Mitch's shirt. Her hair is in pigtails, tied with brown ribbons. Both children are smiling merrily, their eyes no more than slits in their round faces.

I cut out a photograph of each of them and carefully place them in the frame, Mitch on the left-hand side and Missy in the center. And then I look through the photographs and papers on the desk for a picture of Michael.

The photograph I find makes me melancholy. Michael does not have a school picture, of course. But I—to be sure, I am the one who would have done this—have dressed him in the same outfit as Mitch's and taken a photograph of him against a blank wall in the house. Likely I snapped a whole roll to get this shot, and this was the best of the bunch.

The photograph is not terrible. Michael is not looking at the camera, and he's not smiling, but at least he's not scowling. His expression is blank. His collar is straight and his hair is neatly combed. His eyes, behind his glasses, are impossible to decipher; they look neither glad nor glum. But at least he doesn't seem to be in distress. I hope I didn't put him through too much, trying to get this photograph taken for Lars.

I place the picture of Michael in the right-hand slot in the frame, then gather up the scraps and extras. I am standing back to admire the effect when I hear the doorbell ring. This is followed by Missy's excited voice shouting, “They're here!” There is a trampling of children's feet down the staircase, then Lars calling down the hallway, “Katharyn, where
are
you? They're here!”

Wondering who “they” are, I hurry down the hall. As I do so, I glance at the photograph of the mountain scene, the one across from the master bedroom door. I don't know where the thought comes from, but suddenly I know exactly where this photograph was taken: at the top of Rabbit Ears Pass, near Steamboat Springs in northwestern Colorado. But that location means nothing to me; I've never even been there. I shake my head, trying to make sense of it. No flashes of clarity come to me, so I continue walking and join my family at the front door.

Just coming inside are Linnea, followed by a thin, pleasant-looking man and two gangly young people, a boy and a girl. Linnea's arms are full with a cookie tray covered with tinfoil. “I
brought the rolls,” she says, passing the tray to me. “They just need heating for about twenty minutes.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “You look beautiful, as always.”

I smile and kiss her back. “It's all your work, you know.”

“Oh, pish, it's not me at all. You'd be lovely if you never combed your hair out and only washed it once a month.”

I laugh merrily and am surprised at how happy I feel. “I hardly think that's true.”

Linnea ignores this. “Here's that book back,” she says, handing me a hardback volume. I glance at the cover:
The Age of Innocence
, by Edith Wharton. “I really enjoyed it. Thanks for loaning it to me.”

“You're welcome. I thought it might be your style.” I balance the book underneath the pan of rolls.

“Well, come on in, everyone.” Lars ushers the crowd into the living room. “Kids, you go downstairs and play. Mama will bring Cokes in a bit.”

I will? Fine, then, I will.

“Gloria, you go on down with them,” Linnea says, taking off her coat. “Play with the little ones, won't you?”

Gloria rolls her eyes. “I'm not a child, Mother,” she says. “I'd rather be in the kitchen with you and Aunt Katharyn. Must I go downstairs with the children?”

Linnea nods firmly, opening the front hall closet door to hang up her coat. “You must. You know how they love playing with you,
käresta
.” Linnea reaches for her husband's coat while Gloria heaves a heavy, dramatic teenage-girl sigh. I get the distinct feeling we've been through this routine before.

The boy—I believe his name is Joe; I remember Linnea telling me that in my other life—slips out of his jacket and loafers, while simultaneously ruffling Missy's hair. “Don't worry, sis, I'll come, too,” he says, looking at Gloria over the children's heads.
He hands his coat to Linnea while all three of my children—even Michael, I note with pleasurable surprise—jump gaily around him.

“Cousin Joe! Yippee, we get to play with Cousin Joe!” Mitch cries.

Mitch, Missy, and Michael fly down the basement stairs with Joe in hand. Gloria, still sulky but at least compliant, takes off her jacket and shoes, places them in the coat closet, and then heads slowly down the stairs. Before long, I hear what sounds like all five of them talking at once, likely figuring out what they want to play. Their voices are elated and loud, though muffled by the distance and the carpeting. I'm not sure what the game is, but it seems that everyone—even Gloria, even Michael—is having a good time.

“Come with me to the kitchen,” I say to Linnea. “I'll put these rolls in as soon as the roast comes out. Boys,” I call over my shoulder. “Can you fix us gals some drinks?”

Good heavens, who
am
I? For the first time ever in this world, I feel a complete sense of confidence. I know exactly what to say and what to do. Why is that? Is it because Linnea is here? I have to admit that her presence, looking and acting just as warm and sweet as she does in the real world, buoys my spirits like nothing else I have experienced here so far.

L
innea leans on the counter and sips the Brandy Alexander that Lars has brought her. She stirs the ice with the red plastic swizzle stick that Lars placed in her glass. “How are you holding up?” she asks me.

My confidence, my sense that I have acutely grasped everything that's going on here, abruptly falls away. For a moment I think Linnea is referring to how I am holding up in the peculiar
situation of being in an entirely different life in my dreams—as if she knows I am dreaming. Perhaps she does. Why not? With the exception of Bradley and our neighbors the Nelsons, Linnea is the only other person who has been in both worlds with me.

But when I look at her, I can tell she's not talking about the dreams. Her look is serious, as if we're continuing a discussion we've recently left off. For all I know, we are. Perhaps I saw her earlier today to get my hair done. I put my hand on my head; it does feel marvelous, as if every strand is exactly where it should be.

Well, then. She must mean Michael. “We've had a good week,” I reply. “Nothing too out of the ordinary. A few moments . . . but overall, okay.” I open the oven door and, mitts on both hands, remove a hefty roasting pan. I adjust the temperature a bit higher to brown the rolls. How do I know to do this?