Mrs. Nelson raises her eyebrows. “Well, under the circumstances, I’d certainly agree.” She places her hand on my arm. “You know, Katharyn,” she goes on, her voice lowered. “I must mention, I saw your Lars taking the children over to the golf course on Sunday afternoon, the day after our party. All bundled up and with their sleds dragging behind them. Delightful. And I didn’t see them return for a good two hours. Now, I know Kenny here isn’t much more than a baby . . .” She looks down at him affectionately; he tries to pull away from her, but she tightens her grip. “But even so, I cannot imagine George taking over Kenny’s care for a whole afternoon that way.” She shrugs. “It just wouldn’t happen, you see, not in my house.”
Kenny starts to whine, and Mrs. Nelson reaches down to hoist him to her hip. “Your Lars is a good man,” she tells me—as if I didn’t already know this. “You got a good one, Katharyn. They aren’t—” Kenny’s wails become louder; he clearly wants to run around the store with the bigger kids. Mrs. Nelson sets him down again. “The husbands aren’t all like yours,” she finishes. “You’re very lucky, you know.”
“Lucky.” Yes, I suppose I am. Or I would be, if any of this were real.
“Oh!” Mrs. Nelson puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean . . .” Her face turns red. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t kind of me to say that.”
Wasn’t it? It sounded kind to me.
“I mean, after . . . everything.” She shrugs, and I can see that she feels she’s backed herself into a corner, though I have no idea why. “I just meant that Lars is a good man, a good father,” she says hastily. “I know that we all—every one of us—we all have some things to be thankful for, and some things . . . some things . . .”
Young Kenny saves her from further embarrassment. He starts crying so loudly that neither of us would be able to continue our conversation even if we wanted to. “I’d better take him out of here,” Mrs. Nelson says, picking him up. “This boy needs an early dinner and an early bedtime.”
“Yes.” I nod. “I understand.”
“I’m sure you do. Look at me, with just the one. I cannot imagine what the toddler years must have been like in your house!” Mrs. Nelson lifts her fingers in a small wave. “Bye, now, Katharyn. You enjoy the rest of your day.” She is gone before I can say anything else.
After we have purchased their selections—I can tell that Mitch and Missy think they’ve hit some sort of jackpot, getting a new toy for no reason—we walk back along the concrete pathway toward the parking lot. I look around. Suddenly I know where we are. This is the University Hills Shopping Center, out on Colorado Boulevard, on the east side of town. This shopping center has been in operation for a decade or so, but May-D&F only opened their store here a few years ago. I have been here once or twice, but honestly, for me it’s easier to take the bus downtown or walk over to Broadway. This place is only convenient if you have a car.
Which, in this life, surely I must. “Do you two remember where we parked?” I ask Mitch and Missy. The sun has disappeared behind a cloud, and I lean down to button her coat, to adjust his woolen cap more tightly on his head against the wind.
“Silly Mama.” They swing their toy-shop bags happily, and with their free hands each take one of mine. Balancing the shopping bag with the shoe boxes in it over one arm, I let them lead me to a dark green Chevrolet station wagon with wood-paneled doors.
“I call front seat!” Mitch yells. He opens the passenger-side front door and scrambles happily onto the brown vinyl seat. Missy whines that it isn’t fair. I shoot her an ominous look, and she grudgingly opens the rear door and slides in, opening her bag to inspect the evening gown she’s chosen for Barbie.
After finding keys in my purse, I get into the driver’s seat. It feels odd to sit there. I haven’t driven a car in years, not since Kevin and I were together; he used to loan me his car occasionally, if he didn’t need it. Praying that I will remember how to shift the gears and simultaneously operate the clutch, I turn the key in the ignition.
I am going along just fine, making my way across the parking lot, when a wave of panic hits me. I punch my foot down hard on the brake. In doing so, I forget all about the clutch, and the car stalls.
“Mama!” Both children are hurtled forward, and I instinctively reach my arm across the front seat to prevent Mitch’s forehead from hitting the dash.
“Are you all right?” I ask them. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to stop suddenly like that. It’s just . . . it’s just . . .”
And then I don’t know what to say. They wait, eyes large and questioning.
“It’s just . . .” I continue weakly. “All of a sudden . . . I just can’t remember . . . where is Michael? Why isn’t he with us?”
Michael? Who is Michael? What am I talking about?
Missy shakes her head. “Silly, silly Mama,” she says, reaching forward and affectionately patting my shoulder. “Did you really forget? Daddy came home from work early today, so you could take Mitch and me shoe shopping.” She releases my shoulder and leans back in her seat. “Everything is fine, Mama,” she reassures me gently. “Michael is safe at home, with Daddy.”
Chapter 12
Heavens, how disturbing,” I tell Aslan when I awake. “It’s nice to be back here, where everything makes sense.” Aslan looks at me blankly, then stands, turns twice, and settles back into the covers, purring loudly.
It’s raining lightly but steadily. A rainy morning in Denver generally means it will rain all day. More common here are abrupt afternoon thunderstorms, especially in the summer and early autumn, but those are sudden and violent—brief downpours that sluice off the rooftops in buckets and occasionally cause the South Platte River and some of the neighborhood gulches to flood. A gentle, all-day rain is a rarity here. We get so few of those days, I actually find them to be a bit of a treat.
I get up and pull on my cotton robe, which is quite a bit more threadbare than the blue quilted number of the dreams. But it is also more colorful, bright purple with a fuchsia cherry-blossom pattern all over it. In the bathroom, I untie the kerchief I’ve been wearing over my head at night to protect Linnea’s exceptional work. It’s only been a few days since my wash-and-set, but I plan to call and make another appointment soon. I am beyond a doubt going back. I am a Linnea Andersson Hershall convert.
Going out to get the mail, I am saddened to find there is no postcard from Mother. I fetch my damp Rocky Mountain News from the welcome mat and shuffle through it as I step back inside. I have taken to reading the sports page before anything else. Greg was right; the Giants did win the pennant, beating the Los Angeles Dodgers last night with four runs in the ninth inning. The World Series, which will pit the Giants against the New York Yankees, starts immediately. This surprises me. I would have thought they’d give the players some time to rest first. But what do I know of sports? I’ve learned more about baseball in the past few weeks of talking to Greg than I’ve ever known before in my life.
Going into my kitchen to make breakfast, I think dreamily about the stories I can write for Greg, once the World Series is under way. Mitch, Missy—and the mysterious Michael, whoever he is—are erased from my mind.