I remember Lars holding my hand before I went into the operating room, then slowly releasing it as I was wheeled away. I remember the anesthesiologist, a kind-looking older man. “Count backward from ten, my dear,” he told me. I got to six, and that’s the last thing I remember.
When I woke up, I was in a regular hospital room. My abdomen was on fire with pain, and I winced, turning my head and closing my eyes again. I opened them and saw Lars sitting at my bedside. I whispered feebly, “The babies—are they okay?”
He smiled wearily. “They’re fine. They’re in intensive care, because their lungs are small and they need some help breathing. But they’re doing great, and the doctor thinks they’ll be just fine.”
“And I was right, wasn’t I? A boy and a girl?”
He shook his head. “You were almost right.”
“Almost? What does that mean?”
“A girl, my love. And a boy. And . . . a boy.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I wasn’t sure I understood what he meant. Then it started to sink in. “Are you saying it was . . . triplets?”
“Was and is. Yep. Triplets. The doctor thinks one was hiding behind the other two, which is why he only heard two heartbeats.” Lars let out a long breath, then took my hand. “So we have our Mitch and Missy. Now, what will we name that other fellow?”
Lying on the bed in our green bedroom, I remember all of this as if it happened yesterday.
As if it really happened.
I think about Michael, and how he was always “that other fellow.”
The unintended one. Not expected at all, really.
And, once he was here, certainly not expected to be as he turned out.
Chapter 20
When I wake up, I am at home—if indeed you can call this home; this quiet apartment with the hopeful yellow walls and the false sense of serenity.
Is it false? I think about this as I rise from the bed. A small part of me has started to wonder what is true and what is made up. It’s beginning to seem impossible that something as real as the world I share with Lars and the children could actually be imaginary.
I shake off the thought and fix myself some brain-tidying coffee. It’s Monday morning. Yesterday, thank goodness, the Soviets agreed to remove their nuclear weapons from Cuba, and the United States breathed a collective sigh of relief. I joined in the exhalation, of course; I walked over to Frieda’s house, and we watched the rebroadcast of the news on her television set, sitting side by side on her couch and drinking black tea with honey and no cream. Frieda never has cream in the house, much to my aggravation.
“Thank the Lord,” Frieda said, chain-smoking Salems and barely touching her tea. “Thank the Lord.”
Despite the relief I share with the nation, it’s true, what I said to Frieda in the middle of the night last week—I was never truly frightened about the Cuban situation. Perhaps it just seemed too unbearable to fathom, that World War III could actually be about to start, and there wasn’t a thing any of us could do about it. Or perhaps my mind is just too muddied these days by the peculiarity of my dream life, leaving me little room to think on a broader scope. Whatever the reason, I never thought the threat was as vast and imminent as everyone else seemed to believe. Turns out I was right.
As I drink my coffee, I consider this chain of events. I remember calling Frieda in the night; I remember her words of comfort. I remember, yesterday, hearing the news about Cuba and going to Frieda’s house to watch television. But what of the days in between? I shake my head. I can recall nothing of these days. I have no idea what I did or who I spoke to or what I thought about.
Feeling a bit panicky, I gulp the last of my coffee. How can this be? I search my mind for recent memories, but none appear. I look in the dustbin for newspapers from last week, but all I can find is yesterday’s Post, wrinkled and crumpled beneath a layer of bread crumbs and the wrapper from a Hershey’s candy bar. I don’t even remember eating a candy bar. When did this happen? Where was I, what was I doing, where did I buy a candy bar? It seems terribly important that I remember these details, but my mind is blank.
I need to gather my wits, I think as I go outside for my mail. There’s a postcard from Mother—one that was obviously written well before the Cuban situation came to an end yesterday.
Dear Kitty,
I suppose by now you’ve heard the news about the weapons in Cuba. It’s dreadful, isn’t it? I must say we feel very isolated here. And I am terrified for you, darling. I don’t think that madman Castro could fire his missiles all the way to Hawaii. But on the mainland—even though you are, thankfully, thousands of miles from the east coast—even so, your father and I are concerned.
Dad is looking into flights for you to come here to us, instead of us coming home next week. Think about it, darling.
Love,
Mother
I shake my head. I adore my mother, and I love how anxious she is about me. But honestly, does she truly think I could just up and leave? Get on a plane and fly away from Frieda, the shop, Aslan, my entire life? It’s a good thing the whole Cuban incident has blown over, making it a moot point.
Today is, luckily, my day off from work. I have planned to spend it opening my parents’ house and airing it out. I will give it a good dusting, and I hope to have time to rake the leaves in their yard, too. I want everything to be perfect for them when they get home. With the Cuban situation resolved, there will be no change in plans; my parents will leave Honolulu on Wednesday night and arrive here on Thursday.
I put on old pedal pushers and a frayed denim blouse, tie my hair back with a kerchief, and retrieve my bicycle from the shed behind my duplex. It’s a cool, cloudy day, and after crossing the Valley Highway on the Downing Street bridge, I ride up the slight hill, turn right, and pedal on Louisiana Avenue, along the southern edge of Washington Park—the park I went to with Michael in the dream life, a few dreams ago.