After dinner, I resolutely push Springfield Street and the dream man—and his dream children and even his dream housekeeper—out of my head. Keeping my mind on young Greg Hansen, I go through my bookshelves and pull out all the children’s books I have that are appropriate for beginning readers. I am not sure exactly how much trouble Greg has with his reading, how far behind he is, or even what difference I could possibly make. But if he is willing to give it a whirl—why then, I am willing to help.
Just before eight, there is a knock on my door. I dash over and open it, and Greg is standing there in the half darkness, looking small and anxious in my porch light.
“I thought . . .” He looks down. “I thought maybe you could show me some of those books.”
“Of course.” I smile and usher him inside.
Chapter 7
I am floating in a pool of green. My eyes are half closed, but through the slits of them I make out that the room I’m in is dimly lit. I wiggle around a bit and feel warm water rush over my body.
I open my eyes all the way, expecting to see the sea-green bathroom in the house on Springfield Street. Instead, I find myself in a much smaller bathroom. Like the bathroom in the split-level house, this one has green walls and fixtures—in this case a toilet, a pedestal sink, and the small bathtub in which I lie, half covered with warm water. The bathtub faucet is marked with elaborately engraved letters, swirled versions of a C and an F. A thick yellow candle in a clear glass dish sits on a wooden shelf next to the sink, its flame flickering in the shadowy room. A white towel is neatly folded on the closed toilet-seat lid, waiting for me to dry off when I finish bathing. On a hook on the back of the door hangs a short peignoir—lacy, tiny, and ruby-red. Good heavens, I think, who is going to wear that?
The frosted-glass casement window is slightly opened, and from outside I can hear the sounds of street vendors and music—an accordion? How odd!—drifting toward my ears.
I stretch my arms forward and wiggle my hands in front of me. I smile, admiring the rings on my left hand. I take a closer look at them today than I did the first time I noticed them, the first time I entered this dream world. The wedding ring is a wide gold band; along with it, I wear a brilliant diamond ring with an etched gold setting. I am no expert on diamonds, but this stone seems respectably sized. It is not so huge that it is gaudy or flashy, but it’s certainly large enough that it doesn’t look cheap.
My hands themselves look better than I’ve ever seen them—devoid of their customary ragged cuticles, the nails polished a pale pink. These hands, too, are decidedly younger and less wrinkly than they are in real life.
There is a knock on the door, and Lars hesitantly sticks his head in. “Just wanted to check on you, love,” he says. “Make sure you didn’t fall asleep in here.”
I smile at him, my heart filled with adoration. “Come in and keep me company.”
He laughs. “I don’t think I’d fit in that little tub.” He steps into the bathroom, closes the door, and looks around the tiny space. “The French sure don’t make anything oversize, do they? Except meals.” He pats his stomach. “What a dinner that was! I can’t remember the last time I ate so well.”
“Just take it easy on the pastries,” I warn him playfully. I have no idea what I am talking about, or why I am saying such a thing. It just comes out.
It is then that I notice Lars looks younger, too. He has more hair on his head, and only a few strands of gray. In casual slacks, a white shirt, and no tie, he seems leaner, his body relaxed and comfortable. When he smiles, there are creases around his blue eyes, but they are not as deep as those I remember from my other dreams.
“You look amazing,” I tell him. “You look so young and healthy.”
He leans over and kisses me. “You look pretty amazing yourself.” He deliberately looks me up and down, naked in the tub. “Every inch of you.”
Suddenly I remember the photograph on the wall of our bedroom on Springfield Street—and I understand. We are on our honeymoon. We are in Paris. “Oh!” I exclaim.
He laughs again. “Have an insight? Something you want to share?”
I smile. “Not really.” I look around. “I’ll tell you this, though,” I say. “I want a green bathroom like this someday. I want all the fixtures in my bathroom to be sea green like this. It’s the loveliest color I’ve ever bathed in.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me.” He glances around the room, then back at me. “Maybe a bathroom that’s a little bigger than this, though, don’t you think?”
I wiggle in the water. “Maybe a little.”
“You’re going to turn into a prune if you don’t get out.”
“You’re right. I’ll be out in just a moment.” I sneak a peek at the lingerie hanging on the back of the door.
He smiles tenderly at me. “I’ll go pour us a nightcap.” He goes out and gently closes the door.
I remember the last dream I had, when we were in bed and I was afraid to shut my eyes—afraid that if I did, I’d leave this lovely, imaginary world and wake up at home. Floating here, bathed not just in water but in happiness, I feel that same way again. I do not want to wake up from this dream-within-a-dream.
Despite this, I apparently drift off, at least for a moment or two. But when I open my eyes again, I am in the other green bathroom, the one in Denver. The one in the house that doesn’t exist, that I share with the people who are not real.
I look at my hands. The rings are there, all right—looking a bit less glittery, to be sure, but nonetheless the same wedding set. I notice with dismay that the wrinkles are there, too. I glance at my stomach, see stretch marks on the sides of my body. We must be back in 1962.
There is another knock, on another bathroom door. I hear Lars’s voice. “You okay, Katharyn?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I’m fine.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Lars enters the bathroom, looking like the middle-aged Lars I am now used to. Nonetheless, he looks gorgeous to me. He may be balder and paunchier, but his blazing blue eyes haven’t changed. And I can tell that when he looks at me, he doesn’t see wrinkles or stretch marks. He just sees me, and what he sees is still beautiful.
“I love you,” I blurt out. “I absolutely and positively love everything about you.”
He smiles. “Hey, now, don’t get carried away.” He pulls a towel from the bar and places it on the edge of the vanity, where I can more easily reach it when I’m done. “You’ve been in here a long time,” he says. “You’ll turn into a prune.”
I laugh. “You and your prune jokes.”
He looks at me quizzically.
“Do you remember our honeymoon?” I ask. “Remember the green bathroom in Paris?”