I return to bed and close my eyes, waiting for sleep. I hope it will be a sleep of darkness, of blankness, of nothing. But that is not to be. Coming into dream-consciousness, I’m back there again. Back in the other world.
I am no longer shocked at my return to the dream life. What is surprising is that I am still sitting in the Cadillac in the shopping center parking lot. It seems to be the same day, even the same hour. The sun is sitting identically low in the western sky. I am wearing the same camel-colored coat and matching gloves, and the car is in precisely the same parking space. It is as if no time has passed. But of course, there is no reason time should pass here. Not here, where everything—good and bad—is imaginary.
I turn on the engine, pull out of the lot, and drive back to Springfield Street. Lars and the children have returned; the station wagon is parked in the driveway. I go inside and shake off the cold, hanging my coat in the front hall closet. I place my hat, gloves, and handbag on the shelf above the closet’s clothing rod.
“Mama!” I am hugged around the waist by both Mitch and Missy. I bend down to their level and return their affection. I am surprised at the fierceness with which I hold them, with how deeply I bury my nose into their flaxen heads and inhale the profound, clean smell of their hair. In my real life, I do not hold children like this. I had no idea, before now, how good it feels to do so. There are so few children in my life. There is Greg Hansen, of course, but our relationship is that of instructor and student, not one of physical affection. Occasionally I see Frieda’s nieces and nephews, and Bradley’s grandchildren regularly make an appearance in the shop. But none of those are children I’d feel comfortable holding with this fervor. Were I to suddenly do so, the discomfort would undoubtedly go both ways.
But these two—clearly they not only desire but expect this connection with me. The thought makes my heart pound just a bit more quickly.
Finally I release them and ask, “Did you have fun, darlings?”
“So much fun,” Missy says. “I won the first game. Daddy won the second.”
“And I got a strike!” Mitch adds, hopping up and down. “Mama, I got all the pins down at one time!”
“Good for you both,” I tell them, and then I ask, “Where are Daddy and Michael?”
“Upstairs,” Missy says. “Daddy is giving Michael a bath.”
This seems odd, in the middle of the day. I make my way up the half flight of stairs and knock on the bathroom door. “It’s me.”
“Come in,” Lars says. He is slowly, rhythmically pouring water from two plastic cups over Michael’s thin, naked back. I can see the tiny round bones of Michael’s spine, like beads under the skin. Michael has his eyes closed and a smile on his face, and he is humming. I look at Lars, searching for understanding. “He was having a rough time,” Lars says in a low voice. “So we came home. You know how warm water helps him settle down.”
I nod, not because I was aware of this tactic for calming Michael, but because it makes sense. I, too, find a warm bath beneficial when I’m not at my best. The heat, the gentle splashes of water—it’s soothing in a way that nothing else can quite equal.
“Did you have a nice time?” Lars asks.
“Yes, it was . . .” I sit down on the closed toilet seat lid and take a look around. This bathroom, though smaller than the one I share with Lars, has the same slanted-front cabinets on the vanity; here, they are painted white. The walls are sky blue with white fish decals swimming the length of the longest wall, stuck-on bubbles arranged merrily above them. The sink, tub, and toilet are a robin’s-egg color, and the floor is a spotless white tile.
I watch the water stream down Michael’s back. “I went to the shop,” I finally venture. “Frieda’s and my . . . our old bookshop.”
Lars looks at me. “Did you now?” His voice is even, and I cannot decode his opinion about this information.
“It’s closed down.” I can see myself in the mirror over the vanity, and my eyes look hollow. “She’s closed down the Pearl Street shop. She has six other stores, and she changed the name to Green’s Books and News, and she wasn’t even there when I went to the one at the shopping center, and . . .” I stop talking. I must sound ridiculous to him.
Lars keeps his eyes steady on me. “Katharyn,” he says finally. “All that happened a long time ago.” He returns his gaze to Michael. “You know this. You remember it, right?”
I shake my head. “I don’t remember it. I’m sorry, Lars, I still don’t . . . I don’t . . .” I bite my lip, looking at my gloomy face in the mirror. “I just don’t remember a lot of . . . details.”
“Well.” His voice is neutral, but soft. “That’s understandable, love.”
“Oh, Lars.” And suddenly, I feel myself breaking down. Tears start streaming down my cheeks.
Lars stands and comes to my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and rubs it gently. “It’s okay, love,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I know you feel bad about it. Even all these years later.”
“What did I do?” I ask him, and I know he thinks the question is rhetorical. But of course it’s not.
“You did what you had to,” Lars says evenly. “You did what you had to for your family, for your child . . .” He tilts my chin up, so I can look in his eyes. “I know everything you gave up . . . for us . . . for him.” His voice is a whisper, and he turns his eyes toward the bathtub, where Michael is still humming, quietly playing with the two cups. “I know what you sacrificed. Don’t ever, ever doubt, Katharyn . . . how incredibly grateful I am to you for that.”
I go to our bedroom to lie down. If I fall asleep, I will wake up back where I belong. Where things make sense and nothing is confusing like this.
But I can’t sleep. I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come.
Instead, to my surprise, memories do.
It’s like the time when I was in the green bathtub, or the evening in the restaurant with Lars’s client and his wife. All of a sudden, I remember things with clarity.
I remember what started out as a routine visit to the obstetrician. I even remember the date: July 6, 1956. I was a few weeks into the second trimester of my pregnancy; Lars and I were expecting a Christmastime baby. I expressed concern that I was so big already. I felt tired and out of sorts, I told the doctor, as if I were ready to give birth now, though of course I had months yet to go.
“Let’s check for a heartbeat again,” Dr. Silver said. “I know we tried to hear it early on, and we checked again when you were here a few weeks ago. But we should definitely hear it by now.” Putting the stethoscope to my belly, he listened, then moved it, listened again, moved it again. This went on for a full five minutes, while he didn’t say a word. Finally he stood. “I’ll be back in a moment, Mrs. Andersson,” he told me. “I want to have Dr. Enright take a listen here, too.”