Because what mother could completely fail to remember her own child? What kind of mother would I be—if I actually was a mother, and that world was real—if I had somehow forgotten that Michael even existed?
It does not occur to me to question whether Michael is my child. I know—have always known, since the dreams started—that in the imaginary world, Mitch and Missy are mine. And I know now that Michael is, too. I don’t know how I know these things, but I do. In that world, that world that doesn’t exist, those three children are mine. Lars’s and mine. And they are all the same age; they are triplets. I am certain of it.
I put my hand out and stroke Aslan’s warm fur. I feel his solid weight under my hand. I ground myself in his simple authenticity.
I must put that other world to rest. I must sleep it off.
I close my eyes and fall into slumber, deep and blackened.
Later at the shop, I am paging through the newspaper while Frieda runs errands at lunchtime. Skimming past the latest news about the Communist takeover in Cuba—a Senate subcommittee has determined that at least one State Department official should have known, and should have warned his superiors long before—I move on to the sports section. Great news: after four days of delays causes by torrential rainstorms, game six of the World Series finally happened last night in San Francisco. The Giants won, tying the series at three games to three. Greg must be over the moon, I think, scanning the details of the game. I begin picturing the book I can write for him about this game, about how the fans in San Francisco—Greg included, of course—were properly rewarded, after days of patiently waiting for the game to take place.
After a while, I put the paper aside. Impulsively, I pick up the telephone and dial Aunt May’s number. Long distance to Honolulu. Frieda will have my head for making a long-distance personal call at the shop, but I don’t care.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Mother asks, upon hearing my voice.
I laugh a little. “Nothing at all,” I reply. “I just miss you, Mother. I can’t wait to see you.”
“I can’t wait to see you, either,” she says. “This trip is wonderful, it truly is—but I guess I am finding that I am a homebody.” She pauses. “I miss home. And I miss you.”
The bell over the door jangles, and a customer comes into the shop. It is a woman in a blue hat and suit, not unlike those I was wearing in the photograph in Lars’s office. Jeepers, everyone wants to be Jackie Kennedy, don’t they?
Holding the woman’s hand is a little girl, perhaps a bit older than my children in the dreams. The girl has blond braids; she wears a pink dress and a matching cardigan with pearl buttons down the front. She gazes to one side, then down at the floor.
I smile and wave at the customer, and she nods. She begins to browse, the child in tow. I turn back to the telephone. “Well, your trip is almost over,” I say to my mother. “And it sounds like you’re ready to come home.”
She laughs. I love my mother’s laugh; it is the most delightful sound in the world. With its quick up-and-down tones, it’s like listening to a whole host of bells from different churches, ringing as one.
“Yes, I’m ready,” she replies. “Although I can’t say I’m looking forward to winter, after being here. And neither is your father. But we’ll weather the storm. Or storms, I ought to say. It will be good to be back in our own house, with our own things.” I hear a rustle, as if she has shifted the receiver to her other ear. “Are you watering my plants?”
My mother is not much of a green thumb, but she does have several houseplants—a spider, an ivy, and a philodendron—and I am their official caretaker until she returns. “Twice a week,” I tell her. “They’re all thriving.”
“Good girl, Kitty.”
I hear a crash, and then a sharp, long wail from the stacks where the woman and child are. “Mother, I’ve got to go. I have a customer.” Before hanging up, I add, “I’m counting the days, Mother. I miss you so.”
After we ring off, I head for the stacks. The child is still crying, a high-pitched scream that reminds me of the one I heard in my dream the night before. She is seated on the floor, the child, legs crisscrossed awkwardly as if they belonged to a flopping frog instead of a girl. She is rocking from side to side. In front of her, about a dozen books are strewn on the floor. The books are the former elements of a pyramidal display I’d set up a few days ago—rather awkwardly, I realize now—on an open shelf at the end of an aisle. There are a number of copies of Silent Spring, which arrived at the end of September as expected, and another up-and-coming title, the near-future thriller Seven Days in May, in which the military takes over after a fictional president signs a disarmament treaty with the Soviet Union. Both of these books are attracting a lot of attention right now, and my objective in setting up the display had simply been to make them easier for my customers to locate—and purchase, of course. I hadn’t considered the precarious nature of the arrangement.
Her back to me, the woman leans over her child and says, “It’s all right. Please stop. Please, just stop.”
The child screams more loudly.
I stand still, not sure whether or not to interrupt. The woman, apparently sensing my presence, turns slightly and gives me a pained look. “I am so sorry,” she says loudly over the din. She begins picking up the books, which makes the child shriek with more fervor and clutch her mother’s arm. The books the woman has gathered spill once more onto the rug.
“Don’t worry about the books,” I say. “Is there anything I can do?”
The woman shakes her head. “She—they—she knocked them over accidentally, and I think the noise startled her.” Her lips are pursed. She wraps her arms around the child, and after a few moments the girl seems to settle down. She closes her eyes and leans her head against the woman’s shoulder.
“I ought not to have come in,” the mother says, almost in a whisper. “It’s just that we were having such a good day. She was having such a good day. And I thought . . . I only thought, for a minute . . . there was a novel I wanted to find, something new by Katherine Ann Porter; it was recommended to me. And I thought, just quickly . . .” Her voice trails off.
“You must mean Ship of Fools,” I reply. “I’ve read it. It’s quite good, everything the reviewers say it is. I have a copy over at the counter.” I wave my hand in that direction. “I can wrap it for you . . . just let me check the price . . .”