The Bookseller (35 page)

“No,” I whisper to the silent room. “Oh, no. Please, no.”

They were in a small airplane. Randy Hughes, Patsy's manager, was flying the plane.

There was bad weather, a storm. Everyone on board was killed.

I feel hot tears in the back of my eyes. It's so unfair, I think. Good people, people with so much to live for—they should not die that way.

“Patsy, I'll miss you,” I say aloud in the silent living room. I make a mental note to keep an eye on Patsy Cline's performance schedule when I get back to the real world. Perhaps, I think, I will get an opportunity to see her in concert before she dies.

And then I shake my head, feeling a slight fondness for my own silly imagination. You're making this up, I remind myself. It would make perfect sense for you to invent a plane-crash death for one of your favorite singers. It's merely a way, I tell myself sternly, to mentally sort out those same false circumstances for your parents. That doesn't mean it's actually going to
happen
, Kitty.

Lars comes down the stairs and quietly joins me on the sofa. I show him the paper. “Patsy Cline died,” I say, my hands trembling.

He nods. “I know. We talked about it before dinner tonight. Don't you remember?”

I shake my head. “I have no memory of that whatsoever. All I know is, this paper says that one of my all-time favorite singers is dead.”

Lars nods again. “I'm so sorry, love. I know how much you adored her.”

“But I'm making it up, anyway,” I say, brightening. “She's not going to die. None of this is happening, so it's of no consequence, really.”

He sighs. “Katharyn . . .”

I squeeze his hand. “You know, in some ways, I wish this
was
real,” I admit. “There are parts of this world that I wish desperately were real. But other parts . . .” I shake my head, tapping the paper. And thinking of my parents.

He takes my face in his hands and turns it toward his. “How can I help you, Katharyn? How can I convince you that this is real life?”

I break away from him and shake my head. “You can't. Not any more than Frieda can convince me of the same thing back there.” I am thoughtful for a moment. “Tell me,” I say. “What am I like here most of the time? You say we talked about Patsy earlier this evening; I don't remember that. But I can't be like this all the time, can I? Not remembering? Thinking I have another life?”

“You're not like this all the time,” Lars confirms. “Generally, you do the things you've always done. Take care of the children, manage the household. You don't . . .” He bites his lip. “You rarely mention your parents, Katharyn. When their names come up, you usually change the subject. The kids have asked me about it, and I just say . . .” He shrugs. “I just say that Mama needs some time.”

I nod. I have no memories of that whatsoever. I try to picture myself—Katharyn, that is—coping in this life. Going about her day, caring for her children. Running into her neighbors at the shopping center and knowing their names. Going to the grocery store without having to be reminded of how to get there. It is hard to envision.

And yet a part of me longs for it. A part of me is desperate to know what that feels like. What it feels like to truly be me—the me who resides all the time in this world.

“And have I . . . how long have I been . . . acting this way?” I ask.

He furrows his brow. “A few weeks,” he says. “You seemed fine for a while after . . . it happened . . . We had the kids' birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas . . . Looking back now, I thought you were fine, but maybe you were just going through the motions, just doing whatever you could to cope, to get through those events. It wasn't until a couple of weeks after New Year's that you . . .” He trails off.

I nod. This makes sense to me. I'd have needed every bit of emotional strength I had to get through the children's birthday and the holidays without my parents. I would have put myself into whatever robotic state it took. Only when those days were over, when I was faced with a brand-new year and nothing on the horizon to look forward to, would I have allowed myself to confront my despair.

It was then, I realized, that my imagination would have taken over.

Next, I ask Lars, “Can you tell when I'm . . . when I have gone into my other world?”

“Usually I can tell,” Lars says. “It often happens just before you drift off to sleep at night, or else early in the morning—I sense that you're awake, but you're not really conscious, not really present in the moment. Sometimes it happens during the daytime hours. Your eyes get sort of dreamy and lost . . . usually it's only for a few moments, and then you pop out of it and return to your normal self.”

I laugh. “Those few moments here can mean
days
have passed, in my other life.”

Lars doesn't respond to this. Instead, what he asks takes me completely by surprise. “What's it like there—in your other life?”

And so I tell him. I tell him about my apartment, my cozy home that I share only with Aslan. I explain about Greg Hansen, how when we started he could barely work out even simple
sentences on a page. I speak of the progress Greg has made since then, and how much I enjoy working one-on-one with him. I mention how much fun I have writing books for Greg. Books about baseball, about Willie Mays and the San Francisco Giants.

Lars nods. “Well, you
are
an expert on that topic.”

I give a hoot of laughter. But Lars's face is serious. “You're joking, right?” I ask him. “I know nothing about baseball, except what I've learned since I began writing for Greg.”

“Katharyn.” Lars is smiling good-naturedly. “You know
everything
about baseball. You became interested in baseball because I'm interested in it. And so are the children. We all followed the World Series last fall as if our entire future depended on it.” He looks at me in astonishment. “You really don't remember that?”

I shrug. “I really don't remember that.”

He shakes his head. “All right,” he says. “Tell me more about your other life.”

I talk about my parents' joyous homecoming, our long, relaxed dinners together. I smile fondly as I tell him about my conversation with my mother while she knit in the afternoon sunlight at my apartment.

And while I am telling it, I realize that—from the perspective of this world, at any rate—those moments are nothing short of a gift. They are an extraordinary gift that my mind has bequeathed me. With the help of my active imagination, I have been given the opportunity to spend a little time, just a little more time, with my parents, with Frieda—and even with Greg, learning through my experience with him who I want to be, what I want for myself.

I tell Lars about Sisters', which of course he knew about, but not in the way it is now. I tell him about Frieda's and my endless pots of coffee at the shop, our lunches at the sandwich place
down the street, going out for drinks after we close up—and the conversations we've been having. I talk about the opportunity to close up Pearl Street and open in a shopping center—and my reluctance to do so, as well as Frieda's enthusiasm for the prospect. “Things are changing there, no doubt about it,” I say. “But even so, it's . . . well, it's peaceful there.” I shrug. “Yes, Frieda and I are at a crossroads. But it's an amicable one. I'm going to . . .” I feel foolish telling him this, because it doesn't fit Katharyn as well as it fits Kitty. “I'm thinking about looking for a job as a tutor or reading specialist,” I say. “I'm finding that I love that kind of one-on-one work. That's the part I miss about teaching.” I sigh, hearing the lilt of happiness and enthusiasm in my voice. “And I want to write books for children,” I go on. “For children like Greg. And any other child . . .” I am thinking of Michael. “Any other child who struggles to learn.”

“Do you now?” He smiles at this—and not because he's amused. He actually seems impressed. “Tutoring. And writing. These are things you'd really like to do?”

I shrug. “I don't know. Here, in this world, they don't seem possible, do they?”

“Why not?” He sits up straighter and takes my hand. “You're so bright, Katharyn. You handle things with such determination. At least, you did, until . . .” He presses his lips together. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“No, it's okay. You're right.” I think about the sad triumvirate. “In this world, I've shut down. Things have worn me down. Michael, Frieda, losing my parents . . .”

“But it doesn't have to be that way,” he says. “You can do anything you want to, love. I don't ever want you to feel tied down by our life here at home.”

“Well.” I glance at the newspaper again, then back at Lars. “I guess we'll just see.”

W
e make love passionately that night. We are slow with each other, taking our time, touching each part, our hands moving as slowly as if we were uniting for the first time. I memorize the shape of his body, the warm feel of his skin next to mine. Laying my head against his chest, I inhale his clean, intoxicating scent. I press my hand against his heart, his beautiful and wonderful heart. I say a silent little prayer that it will keep ticking long enough for us to grow old together.

Afterward I nestle myself against him, pressing the length of my body against his. I don't ever want to let him go. “I don't know where I'll be when I wake up,” I whisper to him. “When I go to sleep here, I feel like I ought to say good-bye to you, because it might be forever.”

The snowy sky outside has made the room brighter than usual, and in the half-light I can see his dazzling blue eyes. “Isn't that true for everyone?” he asks. “Any one of us can be gone in a second.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Don't think I don't consider that . . . all the time,” he says. And then he repeats hoarsely, “All the time.”

We go to sleep with our arms wrapped around each other.

I
'm standing in front of the shop. The morning is misty, almost foggy. I can barely make out the street in front of me, the few cars parked along it. I glance to my left, looking north on Pearl Street. Through the haze I can see the sandwich shop, the Vogue Theater, the drugstore. Everything is where it belongs. I twist my neck and look behind me, through the plate-glass window. I see my meticulously constructed display of fall colors and cozy-up-with-them books. Beyond these, Frieda is sitting at the checkout counter. She glances up, sensing my eyes on her, and gives me a smile and a small wave. I automatically smile back, feeling my heart skip a beat or two.

“I love you,” I whisper, although of course she can't hear me through the glass. “I love you so much, sister. More than you'll ever know.”

And then, looking at her, I feel suddenly, irrationally angry. Something she's done makes me furious. I feel betrayed, like I could never trust her again. Having no idea why I feel that way, I try to shrug the emotions away.

I'm not sure why I'm outside. Was I going somewhere? I don't think I was. It's cold out here, and I'm not wearing a coat or hat, nor holding my handbag. I wrap my arms around my ribs, tucking my hands under my sweater sleeves.

No traffic passes. The street is silent and still. Will Pearl Street always be as still as this? It makes me sad, thinking about Frieda and me leaving this place, about things changing. I know it has to happen; I know it's the right thing to do. The future, at least the near future, is not here. It's in the vast shopping centers and the sprawling ranch houses and the highways that go on forever.

Is that the future just for a time—or is it for always? Is that Denver's future; is it America's? I wish I could look in a crystal ball and see what the world will be like in fifty years. But I am not a fortune-teller.

I think about the world I share with Lars and the children. If I had a crystal ball, what would it tell of that world, in fifty years? What would become of my children? Mitch and Missy would, I am sure, discover their passions in life, whatever those passions may be. They would, I hope, marry and have families. They would live with integrity and commitment and love, the way that Lars and I would teach them to.

And Michael? I hadn't thought I could get any colder, standing out here, but considering a future for Michael makes me shiver. What would become of him, if that imaginary world were real?

I think about the woman who came into the shop with her autistic daughter. I wish I could talk to that mother again. If I could, I would be more gracious. I would smile kindly and welcome her to my store. I would then go about my business and not stare at her child.

Perhaps I would have been smarter about how I set up that silly, wobbly display of books. But if not, and if the child still knocked it down—well, then, as the mother made her hasty retreat, I would not ask rude questions. Instead, I would hand her a complimentary copy of
Ship of Fools
. And as I did so, I would
look in that mother's eyes, and without words, I would try to let her know that I understood.

I
turn and go inside. The bell over the door jingles as I enter. Frieda looks up at me, a wordless smile twitching around her lips. The phonograph is turning silently, softly, its stack of records completed. Frieda swivels on her stool, selects a new stack, and places the records on the phonograph's stem. The first disc drops onto the turntable; the needle moves into position. Patsy Cline's voice fills the bookstore.

If you got leavin' on your mind . . . Tell me now, get it over . . .

I shake my head. This song doesn't exist yet. In the other world, in the Italian restaurant we went to with his clients, Lars told me that Patsy Cline had just released it.

And that happened in February. Which is three months from now.