“Of course. You said that’s why you wanted a green bathroom. You wanted one just like that one. Except larger.”
“I did say that,” I concur. “And you know what, Lars? I remember saying it. I remember!” I know I probably sound childish, gleeful. But I can’t help it.
Lars laughs. “I’m glad to hear you sounding more like yourself.” His voice lowers. “I’ve been so worried about you, Katharyn,” he says. “We all have been.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why are you worried?”
“Honey.” He comes forward and kisses the top of my head. “Just relax and finish your bath. The important thing is that you try not to worry.”
“I’m not worried. I’m in love.”
He shakes his head. “You’re cute tonight.” He turns toward the door. “Finish up, and I’ll pour us a nightcap.”
A dream inside a dream. A dream of a minor—albeit pleasant—incident that never happened. All inside a dream of an entire life that never happened.
When I wake up at home, alone in my own bed, I realize something quite unsettling.
I have fallen in love with a ghost.
Chapter 8
I have to stop thinking about it. I have to put these dreams out of my waking mind. They are confusing and pathetic, and they do me no good whatsoever.
Fortunately, I have other concerns with which to occupy myself. Forcefully pushing Lars out of my head—it makes me feel smugly self-satisfied, like refusing a second helping of dessert when I am trying to trim unwanted pounds from my hips—I instead turn my mind to the previous evening with young Greg Hansen.
We began with Hardy Boys and Beverly Cleary books, but he struggled with the first few pages of each. “Use the pictures as clues to what the text might say,” I’d advised him—remembering how he’d noticed the sunset, I figured that Greg likely learns best when there are visual cues. But as soon as I provided this counsel, I realized how useless the suggestion was. Mine would have been fine advice if Greg were reading a picture book, something akin to the Madeline’s Rescue story that young Missy was reading the first time I dreamed about my other life. But books like the Hardy Boys series and Cleary’s novels, books with topics that might interest Greg, have only a few pictures scattered throughout, not one on every page.
Setting the advanced books aside, I pulled my old Dick and Jane readers off the shelf. Greg scoffed when he saw the covers.
“Those are baby books. They’re boring,” he proclaimed.
“Can you read them?”
Greg shrugged. I opened one and tapped the first page. He squinted at the words. “‘Spot has the ball,’” he recited. “‘See Spot run with the ball.’” He looked up at me. “There, you see? I can read that.”
“Greg.” I closed the book with a swoosh of the pages. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve seen this book before?”
He reddened. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. But I still read it!” he said defensively.
“Okay.” I placed the book on the side table next to my davenport. “Let me poke around for something else.” I looked into his eyes. “Will you come back another time, if I can find something more interesting for you to read?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
Remembering the conversation with Greg last night, I am eager this morning to get to the shop. My mail is arriving just as I leave my duplex; hastily I grab my mother’s postcard and read it while walking.
Kitty, darling,
We’ve had a turn of foul weather here. I must say that tropical storms are much more frightening than landlocked ones. The way the waves whip up, the debris that lands on the beach—yesterday, after the storm passed, I went walking and found a woman’s necklace on the sand. Just a string of clear beads, very simple and humble. I left it hanging in on a bush by the beach’s entrance, though I doubt anyone will return for it. Such incidents make one wonder what other mysteries lie deep under the sea.
Such dark thoughts for a mother writing to her daughter from paradise! I hope your day is sunnier, my dear.
Love,
Mother
Poor Mother. I am distressed to hear her sound so melancholy; it’s not like her at all. As I unlock the shop door, I resolve to write her a long letter this evening, after work.
Frieda and I don’t have a large selection for kids, just a few classics and some newer children’s books from the publishers’ catalogs, books that we find interesting and salable. But surely, I think as I comb the children’s section, there must be something that would appeal to Greg, at a level he can comprehend.
To my surprise, I discover nothing appropriate. The books he’d find interesting would be too difficult for him to read. And those he could read are too lackluster to hold his attention.
On my lunch hour, I walk over to the Decker Branch Library, just a few blocks from Pearl Street. It’s the same story there as at our shop. Plenty of beginning-reader books . . . as long as one assumes that the beginning reader is five or six years old. I check out a few Dr. Seuss books. I know they will not satisfy him, but I need to start somewhere.
“This isn’t much better than the one from last night,” Greg complains that evening, after a few pages of Green Eggs and Ham. “I’m sorry, Miss Miller, I know you’re trying to help me, but . . .” He looks down at his feet, embarrassed.
“Greg,” I say, an idea suddenly forming in my head. “If you could read a book about any subject, what would it be?”
“Baseball,” he says without hesitation. “I would love to read a story about baseball.”
I nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Of course, there are no baseball stories for nine-year-olds who can’t read. I look through our catalogs, I go back to Decker, and I even make a trip to the downtown library—my second time there in as many weeks, I note, and the reasons couldn’t be more different. But I find no stories that would appeal to Greg.
So I decide to write some for him.
I start by asking him questions. “How exactly does the game work, Greg? What are the rules?”
He rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows the rules of baseball, Miss Miller.”
“Well, pretend that I don’t. Pretend you’re explaining it to someone who’s never heard of baseball. Maybe someone from another country, where they don’t play baseball.”
He looks astounded. “Don’t they play baseball everywhere?”
I smile and shake my head. “Actually, they do not.”
It’s a warm evening, and we’re sitting on my porch, he on the railing and me in my aluminum rocker. I have a notebook in my lap. As he talks, I take notes on what he says.
“In major-league baseball, there are two leagues, the American League and the National League,” he tells me. “The best team in the National League right now is the San Francisco Giants. They’re a shoo-in for the series.”