Oh.
He trips away from me and walks over to a swing. He gets on and sits still. It’s clear he doesn’t know how to pump and get himself going. “Push me, Mama.”
I rise from the bench and walk over to him. From behind, I give him a push, my hands light on his back. I am not sure how high he wants to go, but I keep pushing just a little more each time. He laughs gleefully. Once I find a pace that he seems to enjoy, I settle in, maintaining just enough tempo to keep him going without variation.
“Wheeeeee!” Michael cries out with joy as the swing sails through the air.
I take a good look at him. He wears green corduroy pants, a checkered woolen jacket, and a chunky, navy-blue knitted cap that covers his ears. I wonder vaguely if my mother made his hat. His thick-lensed horn-rimmed glasses are sturdily positioned on his head. I have the feeling he doesn’t go far without them.
He is thinner than Mitch and Missy, who have clearly inherited their stocky builds from both Lars and me. Michael is willowy; I can see how stick-thin his legs are through his pants, how his elbows poke out against the sleeves of his jacket. Is this his natural build, I wonder, or is he simply a picky eater? His hair color and features are similar to Mitch’s; it is entirely possible that they are identical twins. I have no idea what the odds are of conceiving triplets, or whether it is typical for two of them to be identical. These are issues that have never crossed my mind back in the real world.
I close my eyes and put my fingers lightly on my belly. I am trying to imagine what it would feel like to have three babies inside me, all at the same time. I cannot fathom it. It makes me think of high school plays, of how Miss Potts, the drama coach, always told us, “Feel your character. Be your character.” Frieda loved that advice and took it to heart, enthusiastically becoming the tragic Lady Macbeth or the spunky, aspiring actress Terry Randall from Stage Door. But I was never particularly good at it. I was always too aware that no matter who I was playing on-stage, underneath the detailed costume and the thick makeup I was still just plain old Kitty.
That’s how I feel right now, imagining myself as someone who has been pregnant with triplets. Like it’s a part I could play if I had to, but I wouldn’t be fooling anyone. They’d all know that there were no babies inside me, that it was just a pillow under my skirt. I remove my hand from my stomach and continue pushing the swing.
Suddenly, I have an inspiration. “Hey, Michael.”
He does not turn his head. “What?”
“When Mama was being silly . . .” I know I am going out on a limb here, and I hesitate. I do not know, have no idea, how I would handle him having a scene, out here all by myself. Nonetheless, I take a deep breath and plunge in. “When Mama was asking those silly questions . . . did you like that?”
His shoulders move up and down slightly. “I don’t know,” he says dully.
“Can I . . . is it okay if I ask you some more silly questions?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know.”
I think we are both glad that we are not facing one another.
“Let’s give it a try,” I suggest. “How about this? How old are you, Michael?”
He doesn’t say anything, and I wait, breathless, praying that he won’t explode.
“Michael? Did you hear me?”
“I’m thinking!” he yells. “Can’t you see that I’m thinking, Mama?”
He is coming in for a push, and my hands snap back in aversion, missing a beat. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. Recovered, I continue pushing. Then Michael pipes up. “Do you know what time it is?”
I look at my wrist to see if I am wearing a watch, and indeed I am: a tasteful jeweled one with a black velvet band. “It’s ten thirty.”
“Ten thirty exactly?”
I laugh. “Okay. It’s ten thirty-two.”
“Well, then,” he says. “I am six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and eighteen minutes. Mitch is six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and fifteen minutes. Missy is six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and eleven minutes. I’m the oldest!” he finishes proudly.
I am speechless.
He turns his head slightly, so he is looking to the west rather than southward in front of him. “Mama? Do you have any other questions?”
“Yes,” I say. “What day is it?”
“It’s Wednesday, February twenty-seventh.”
“What year?”
He giggles. “Nineteen sixty-three, Mama.”
Nineteen sixty-three. So we have only moved a few months into the future.
Shifting topics, I ask, “What else are we doing this morning? Besides playing here at the park, I mean.”
His shoulders stiffen. “Mama, it’s Wednesday.”
I wait.
“It’s Wednesday,” he repeats, with a little more edge in his voice.
“Remember, Michael, this is a game,” I say. “So let me ask you: What do we do on Wednesdays?”
“Oh!” He giggles again. “We go food shopping, Mama.”
Aha. “Does Mama make a shopping list?” I ask.
“Well, of course,” he replies. “All mothers make shopping lists.”
I suppose they do. Incidentally, thirty-eight-year-old unmarried women do not make shopping lists. They pop into the food mart when their cabinets and refrigerator are bare, buy whatever looks good and doesn’t require a lot of preparation, and take it home.
“Who cooks at our house?” I ask. “Alma or me?”
“Sometimes you, sometimes Alma,” Michael says.
“And Alma . . . does she come to our house every day?”
He chortles, as if what I’ve asked is extraordinarily ridiculous. “Of course not,” he says. “She comes three times a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. She arrives at nine o’clock in the morning, and she leaves as soon as she has dinner ready. Except sometimes she comes on Friday instead of Thursday, and then she stays in the evening, if you and Daddy are to go out. But you never go out . . .” He pauses. “Until I’m in bed.”
Hmm. Interesting. I decide it’s best to change topics again. “So Alma is not there in the mornings before Daddy goes to work . . . or Mitch and Missy go to school.” I consider this. “Does Mama make breakfast?” I can’t imagine preparing a good, healthy breakfast for five people. Many mornings in the real world, I barely get my own egg, toast, and juice on the table before I find myself running late for the shop. In this world, I probably serve Froot Loops every morning.