From behind the shutters, I hear a man’s cheery whistle—off-key, just like Frieda’s. The thought makes me smile. I cross the room and push through the swinging doorway. Lars is there, with all his brightness and his blue eyes. I walk quickly to him and embrace him, my body pressed against his. “Well, hello, there, beautiful,” he whispers. “Feeling better this morning?”
“Feeling just fine.” I tilt my head up to receive his kiss. It’s a long, lingering, full-mouth kiss, one that I don’t want to end. I can tell that Lars doesn’t, either; it’s with reluctance that he finally draws his lips away from mine.
“Wow,” he says breathlessly. “That was quite a welcome.”
“I just missed you,” I replied. “I just . . . wanted to . . . feel you.” I give him another squeeze. “Feel how real you are.”
He laughs. “I’m real, all right.” He turns back to the countertop and lifts an olive green electric percolator. “Ready for coffee, love?”
“Yes, please.” While he pours it, I look around the kitchen. The countertops are orange Formica; the stove and refrigerator are both beige. A window over the sink lets in morning light; on its sill is a large mason jar, half filled with coins. The curtain over the window exactly matches the wallpaper; both show a cheery pattern of fruit slices—bananas, apples, oranges, limes—on a taupe background. The cabinetry is dark brown, very simple, with sleek brass handles and no ornamentation on the wood. My first thought is how easy it must be to keep it clean. I am forever scrubbing the ornate trim on the kitchen cabinets in my Washington Street duplex, and no matter how I try, I can never get the decades-old gunk out of the crevices.
I wander back through the swinging doors, cross the dining room, and enter the living room. My eyes are drawn to the large picture window that faces the street, and I step over to take a look outside. It’s a bright, wintry morning. Why is it winter here and autumn in the real world? I cannot reconcile this. The clean white snow against the dark of the leafless trees, the startling blue of the sky, the mountains in the distance, and the long, lean houses—all together, they make me take a deep breath, relishing their freshness.
“Here’s your coffee.” Lars comes up behind me and hands me a warm cup. I wrap my hands around it. “See anything new and exciting?”
I shake my head, sipping the coffee. “It’s pretty, though.”
He puts his arm around my waist. “Sure is. I love this view.”
I laugh. “Of the neighbors’ houses?”
He shakes his head. “Of potential,” he says. “Of the future.”
Squeezing my shoulder, he goes back to the kitchen.
Just as I am wondering why Lars is making breakfast instead of me—isn’t that the wife’s job?—I am attacked.
“Mamamamamamamamamamama!” I manage to hang on to my mug, but the hot coffee goes flying. It does not land on my attacker or me, thank goodness, but it splashes all over the picture window and the carpeting.
I turn to see a small, bespectacled boy with an enormous grin on his face. But there’s something off about his smile, and with a start I realize what it is: although he is beaming, he’s not looking directly at me. He is looking sideways through his thick lenses—at the couch, the coffee table, perhaps the floor.
At nothing.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
And then a noise arises from the boy that doesn’t even sound human. It’s the shriek of an animal in pain—one caught in a trap, perhaps, about to be devoured by a predator and fully aware of its fate. I’ve seen some disturbing fits by children, in restaurants and the like, but never in my life have I heard a child scream like this. I stagger backward and stare at him.
Lars rushes in from the kitchen. Simultaneously Mitch and Missy arrive, tumbling down the stairs and into the living room.
Lars firmly takes the screaming child by his shoulders. He holds him tightly, but I notice he does not actually hug the boy, nor move in any closer than arm’s length. Instead, he starts softly repeating, “Go to the river, go down to the river, go to the river, go down to the river . . .”
I step back, transfixed. Mitch quietly walks over and stands next to me. “Is he always like that?” I whisper to Mitch.
He nods, and we both continue to stare. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, but is likely only a few minutes, the screaming subsides into whimpers. And then there is silence.
Lars slowly releases the child’s shoulders. “Mitch,” he says, turning toward the other two children. “Why don’t you and Missy take Michael back upstairs?” He presses his lips together. “I’ll have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.”
One on each side of him, like pint-size, protective parents, Missy and Mitch walk the third child across the room. Their hair color is identical; their three heads are at exactly the same height. I watch as they quietly climb the stairs.
Lars stares at me without speaking. His blue eyes are narrowed; for the first time ever in this world, I see a blaze of anger in them. The eyes that focus on mine are unblinking, and I realize, quite abruptly, that Lars’s fury is not aimed at the child who has just left the room.
It is aimed at me.
“Katharyn,” he says finally. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
Chapter 14
And again, before I can react—it’s over. I am back in my apartment.
It’s dark and silent when I awake. I look at the little green-lit alarm clock beside my bed. Four in the morning. Aslan purrs contentedly beside me.
I turn over, adjust the covers, and tell myself to go back to sleep. “Just a silly dream,” I murmur to Aslan. “These are just dreams. They don’t mean anything.”
But they are so real. I feel like I truly experience everything in that world. I know precisely how snug the quilted robe felt, wrapped around my body. I can recall the touch of Lars’s kiss, the warmth and softness of his mouth on mine. The snow on the ground outside the window—I see it in my mind’s eye. I can still taste the coffee in my mouth.
I can see those three children.
The two delightful ones. And the frightening one.
I shake my head in the darkness. That’s not fair, I tell myself. You have no idea why that child acted that way. True, something was off with him. Something was not right in that boy’s head. You could tell by looking at him, by how his eyes did not meet yours. By how he seemed to lean to one side, as if he were having trouble holding himself up.
And that scream. I have never heard anything like that scream.
But the child—like Lars, like Mitch and Missy—is a figment of my imagination. All of this is nothing but my head playing tricks on me. If I had even the slightest doubt of that before, I have absolutely none now.