Nonetheless, Michael nods. “You make breakfast,” he confirms. “Except for the weekends. Daddy makes breakfast on the weekends.” I can’t see his face, but I can feel it brighten, the way you can sometimes feel the sun through a thin bank of clouds. “Swedish pancakes on Saturdays and waffles on Sundays.”
“Is that right?” I smile, picturing it: Lars, an apron around his waist, pancake batter on a griddle, expertly flipping at just the right golden-brown moment. It must have been a weekend, the last time we were in the house. The morning I first saw Michael, when Lars was in the kitchen.
This leads me to another question. “Michael,” I say quietly. “You love Daddy a lot, don’t you?”
Michael gives a happy sigh. “Yes,” he replies. “Oh, yes.”
And me? I want to ask. Do you love me, Michael?
But I cannot ask that question. I fear its answer too much.
Instead I say, “One more silly question.” I look around. “Do we come to this park a lot, Michael?”
He leans forward, into the cold air. “We didn’t used to,” he tells me. “But lately we do.”
I close my eyes and concentrate on pushing. I am waiting for the dream to end, because these dreams always seem to end on critical moments like this one. But this time, it does not. I open my eyes, and I am still in the park, still feeling the chill of the air through my coat, still pushing skinny Michael on his wooden swing.
“Mama, is it eleven o’clock yet?” Michael asks.
I check my watch. “Almost.”
“We go shopping at eleven,” he informs me.
“Oh. Right. Well, hop off then and let’s go get in the car.”
He skips in front of me, leading me to the parking lot and the Chevy station wagon. He climbs in shotgun, and I turn the key in the ignition.
Glancing sideways at Michael, I say, “Ought we to . . . do you think we ought to go by Grandma and Grandpa’s house, since we’re in the neighborhood?”
He doesn’t look at me—not that I expected him to, of course. “If you want to,” he mumbles, staring at the floorboard.
So I drive carefully out of the park. The only other driving I’ve done of late was as imaginary as this—the few moments in the car with Mitch and Missy, before I slammed on the brakes, wondering where Michael was, and thus ending that dream. Today the dream does not end; my time behind the wheel continues. The roadworthy lessons my father taught me years ago come back more easily than I would have expected. Just like riding a bicycle, I guess. That thought makes me smile, because in the real world I do ride my bicycle—quite often, in fact, whenever I am not walking or taking the bus. I wonder if I even have a bicycle in this life.
I head east, then turn south on York Street. A few blocks later, I pull up in front of my parents’ small brick bungalow on the west side of the street.
The house is still. The shades are drawn. Someone has shoveled the sidewalk in front of the house, but not the four concrete steps leading up from the sidewalk, nor the walkway to the front porch; these are covered in patches of icy snow that look like they’ve been there for quite some time. I’ve become used to the house having a quiet calm about it. It’s been that way since my parents left on their long vacation, every time I go over to water the plants. But shouldn’t I be done with that by now?
I had been planning to park the car, go inside, see my parents’ faces. Driving over, I’d felt a lightness at the thought of their familiar voices. My nose had been lifted in anticipation of the particular smell that always pervades the house—I’ve never been able to nail down precisely what it is; the best I can come up with is a peculiar cross between roasted butternut squash and dried lavender. I’d been looking forward to the way my father’s eyes would twinkle at the sight of Michael and me walking up the steps. I’d thought about how my mother’s hug would feel: solid, warm, with a brush of soft wool against my cheek—the handmade yellow shawl she throws around her shoulders in the house, because my father keeps the furnace turned low to save money.
Do my parents get along with Michael? Do they know how to say the right things, do the right things, not set him off? I can’t know for sure, of course, but I feel confident that they do. I don’t know how I know it, but I am certain that Michael loves my parents, that he feels safe and comfortable around them, just as he does with Lars.
Suddenly a memory comes to me, the flash of an imaginary episode.
It is the height of summertime, the sun blazing, the air warm, the bushes heavy with their fattest warm-weather foliage. I am walking up the steps to my parents’ house, all three children in tow. Lars, behind us, is coming around from the driver’s side of my car. Lars and I are both in tennis whites, racquets in tennis bags slung over our shoulders.
We all grin as the front door bursts open and my father comes out. He steps briskly off the front stoop and bends down to take all three children in his arms at once. They wrap themselves around him, hugging him eagerly.
Even Michael.
“Ah, my darlings,” my father says breathlessly, releasing them. “When did I last see you? It seems like forever.”
Missy giggles. “It was last weekend, Grandpa.”
“Only last weekend?” He gives her a look of exaggerated shock. “Surely that can’t be so, Missy. It had to be last year. Maybe the year before.”
Michael laughs, and I notice that he looks directly at my father. Looks him straight in the eye. “Grandpa,” he says seriously. “You are such a kidder.”
My mother comes outside, glancing at Lars and me, and then at her watch. “Scoot, you two,” she says. “Don’t be late for your game.” She places one hand on Michael’s shoulder and the other on Mitch’s, steering them gently toward the house. My father takes Missy’s hand in his.
“We’ll all be fine,” my mother assures me. “As always, dear . . . we will be just fine.”
I nod. “I know you will.”
Lars and I give out kisses all around, and then we walk down the block hand in hand, heading toward the park. I sigh happily, feeling carefree and lighthearted. “What would we do without them?” I say, glancing back at my parents’ house. “Whatever would we do without my parents?”
He nods and squeezes my hand a bit tighter.
Thinking about this now, I can’t help but smile. Nonetheless, I find that I don’t want to go inside my parents’ house at all. Not today. I am not sure why, but suddenly this is the last place I want to be.
“On second thought, maybe we ought to just go on with the shopping,” I say to Michael, taking my foot off the brake and pulling away from the curb. He does not look up, nor does he reply.