“Oh, pish, it’s not me at all. You’d be lovely if you never combed your hair out and only washed it once a month.”
I laugh merrily and am surprised at how happy I feel. “I hardly think that’s true.”
Linnea ignores this. “Here’s that book back,” she says, handing me a hardback volume. I glance at the cover: The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton. “I really enjoyed it. Thanks for loaning it to me.”
“You’re welcome. I thought it might be your style.” I balance the book underneath the pan of rolls.
“Well, come on in, everyone.” Lars ushers the crowd into the living room. “Kids, you go downstairs and play. Mama will bring Cokes in a bit.”
I will? Fine, then, I will.
“Gloria, you go on down with them,” Linnea says, taking off her coat. “Play with the little ones, won’t you?”
Gloria rolls her eyes. “I’m not a child, Mother,” she says. “I’d rather be in the kitchen with you and Aunt Katharyn. Must I go downstairs with the children?”
Linnea nods firmly, opening the front hall closet door to hang up her coat. “You must. You know how they love playing with you, k?resta.” Linnea reaches for her husband’s coat while Gloria heaves a heavy, dramatic teenage-girl sigh. I get the distinct feeling we’ve been through this routine before.
The boy—I believe his name is Joe; I remember Linnea telling me that in my other life—slips out of his jacket and loafers, while simultaneously ruffling Missy’s hair. “Don’t worry, sis, I’ll come, too,” he says, looking at Gloria over the children’s heads. He hands his coat to Linnea while all three of my children—even Michael, I note with pleasurable surprise—jump gaily around him.
“Cousin Joe! Yippee, we get to play with Cousin Joe!” Mitch cries.
Mitch, Missy, and Michael fly down the basement stairs with Joe in hand. Gloria, still sulky but at least compliant, takes off her jacket and shoes, places them in the coat closet, and then heads slowly down the stairs. Before long, I hear what sounds like all five of them talking at once, likely figuring out what they want to play. Their voices are elated and loud, though muffled by the distance and the carpeting. I’m not sure what the game is, but it seems that everyone—even Gloria, even Michael—is having a good time.
“Come with me to the kitchen,” I say to Linnea. “I’ll put these rolls in as soon as the roast comes out. Boys,” I call over my shoulder. “Can you fix us gals some drinks?”
Good heavens, who am I? For the first time ever in this world, I feel a complete sense of confidence. I know exactly what to say and what to do. Why is that? Is it because Linnea is here? I have to admit that her presence, looking and acting just as warm and sweet as she does in the real world, buoys my spirits like nothing else I have experienced here so far.
Linnea leans on the counter and sips the Brandy Alexander that Lars has brought her. She stirs the ice with the red plastic swizzle stick that Lars placed in her glass. “How are you holding up?” she asks me.
My confidence, my sense that I have acutely grasped everything that’s going on here, abruptly falls away. For a moment I think Linnea is referring to how I am holding up in the peculiar situation of being in an entirely different life in my dreams—as if she knows I am dreaming. Perhaps she does. Why not? With the exception of Bradley and our neighbors the Nelsons, Linnea is the only other person who has been in both worlds with me.
But when I look at her, I can tell she’s not talking about the dreams. Her look is serious, as if we’re continuing a discussion we’ve recently left off. For all I know, we are. Perhaps I saw her earlier today to get my hair done. I put my hand on my head; it does feel marvelous, as if every strand is exactly where it should be.
Well, then. She must mean Michael. “We’ve had a good week,” I reply. “Nothing too out of the ordinary. A few moments . . . but overall, okay.” I open the oven door and, mitts on both hands, remove a hefty roasting pan. I adjust the temperature a bit higher to brown the rolls. How do I know to do this?
“You and Lars . . .” Linnea ventures. “Things are okay?”
What in heaven’s name is she talking about? I think about the few occasions when Lars has been angry with me in this imaginary world—each time, it had to do with Michael. Goodness, does that mean that we—sometime that I can’t remember, sometime recently—have had an all-out disagreement about Michael? Inwardly, I shake my head at my own idiocy. Who cares if you did, Kitty? I chide myself. This is all made up. What difference could it possibly make, in the grand scheme of things, if you and Lars have quarreled?
Nonetheless, I find I can’t meet Linnea’s eyes. “Sure.” I shrug, my gaze fixed on the orange countertop. “We’re fine.”
Linnea says nothing in response. After a moment, she asks if I have the potatoes cooking.
“Of course. Lars wouldn’t consider it dinner without them.” I remove the lid from a large pot at the back of the stove and poke the potatoes with a fork. They’re almost ready to drain and mash. Jeepers, could I truly be making an entire meal for nine people? From scratch?
I reach into the refrigerator and bring out five Coke bottles. Do I really let my kids drink Coke? Yes, I suddenly realize. On special occasions, like when the cousins are here for dinner, they can have one. Well, then. “Let me run these downstairs,” I say to Linnea, grabbing a bottle opener from a drawer. It barely registers that I don’t have to think about which drawer it’s in.
Linnea straightens up. “No, you have your hands full. I’ll do it.” She gathers the bottles and opener, disappearing through the swinging doors.
I look around. It seems I have everything under control. Meat, potatoes, rolls, and now I see there is also a pot of peas simmering on the stove. Gravy, I can start in a few minutes. Is the table set? I draw back one of the wooden shutters and see that it is. I can also see Lars and Steven in the living room. The television is tuned to a drag race; both men are leaning forward, drinks in hand, keenly studying the action. Occasionally one of the men turns toward the other to remark on a car’s features or a racer taking the lead. From the basement I can hear the children’s eager squeals; Linnea must be passing the pop bottles around.
It seems such a sweet state of family and domesticity. So this is what other people do on Sunday afternoons.
Suddenly I wonder where my parents are. Do they get along with Linnea and her family? Of course they must. Linnea is lovely, like my mother. And Steven seems like a calm, kind man. Like my father.
I wonder if sometimes we have the whole family here—both sides, Lars’s and mine. Neither of us has much family, but small as it is, certainly they all get along, and here is where we would gather.