Lars nods. “We’ve been lucky,” he says. “Lucky that, after all the dreary, desperate jobs she and I took just trying to scrape out a living, Linnea found work in a bakery. Lucky that Steven walked into that bakery one day and liked who he saw behind the counter enough to return again and again, just to see her. And lucky that Linnea found Steven as appealing as he found her.”
Oh, now I remember that story. I remember Linnea telling it to me, her eyes shining with a spark she still felt for her husband, even after all those years together. She told me about it the first time she gave me a wash-and-set, back in October 1954. Not in my real life, not when I’m Kitty. No, it was here, when I was Katharyn. It was the first time I went to see her at Beauty on Broadway. Lars was still in the hospital then, recovering from his heart attack.
“And it was Steven who convinced you that you could do better than being a streetcar repairman for the rest of your life,” I say now to Lars. “Steven helped you apply for college.” I can feel my heart quicken, remembering this. Knowing this.
Lars nods. “He encouraged me to stick it out when I wondered whether it was worth all the hassle and expense. Yep, without him, I’m not sure my career would have happened. I might still be fixing streetcars on the Colfax line.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I say a bit ruefully, thinking about Sisters’ and deserted Pearl Street. “There are no more streetcar lines. You’d be repairing buses now.”
Lars chuckles. “Well, that’s probably true. So you see how lucky I was that Steven and Linnea met.” He takes my hand. “And of course, I was very, very lucky that you came along when you did, Katharyn.”
“Lucky,” I parrot softly. “I guess in many ways we have been very lucky.”
His eyes are pained. “I know it doesn’t seem like that right now,” he says. “I know it’s hard to imagine that there could be any good outcome after what happened last fall.”
What happened last fall? I remain silent, waiting.
“You know I’ll always be here for you,” Lars says, squeezing my hand. “You know that I know how hard it is to lose your parents.”
To . . . what?
Now I shake my head in a frenzy, trying desperately to wake up.
I’m sitting on the sofa, rocking back and forth and crying. Lars holds me by the shoulders, hands me his handkerchief, presses his cheek against mine.
“I need to get away from here,” I tell him, squeezing my eyes shut. “I want to go home.”
“Katharyn, you are home. This is your home.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, you don’t understand. This isn’t where I belong. This is all made up, and I need to go back where I belong.” I stand and start pacing the living room floor. My left heel gets caught in the aqua carpet. Perhaps, I think, pulling it loose, the heel has a torn edge and needs repair. If I’m not careful, it will become hooked in the carpeting and I’ll fall. What an absurd thought to have right now.
Lars stands and tries to put his hand on my waist, but I push him away. “You’ve been kind,” I tell him. “More than kind. You’ve been the man I always dreamed would come along someday.” I laugh, and I can feel the bitterness in my throat. “The man of my dreams, right? But this is not real. This is all just a dream. And in the real world, my parents are not dead. Do you understand me? They are not dead there, and I need to go back to where my parents are alive!”
“Mama?” a small voice calls from the landing upstairs. “Mama, is everything all right?”
Lars hurries to the bottom of the staircase. “It’s fine, buddy,” he says. “Go back to bed.”
“Mama sounds upset,” Mitch says, and despite myself, my heart fills with love for him, this delightful, imaginary child of mine. “Mama, are you all right?”
I wobble toward the staircase, wiping my eyes. Standing at the bottom of it, I look up at him, his mop of clean hair, his cozy green pajamas. “Mama’s fine, sweetheart,” I manage. “Just feeling a little sad tonight.”
“Because of Grandma and Grandpa?”
I can’t help it; an enormous sob escapes my throat. Mitch rushes down the stairs and puts his arms around my waist. I bend down to his level and squeeze him tight. Lars stands next to us, silent.
“I just . . . I didn’t think I’d lose them . . . this soon,” I whisper to my son.
He holds me tighter. “I know, Mama. I’m sorry. I know it must be really hard for you.” He sniffles. “Even if you are all grown up.”
I nod into his hair. “Yes,” I say. “Even if I am all grown up.”
I close my eyes and wait. Surely this is the moment when I ought to be going home. I’ve accepted it, haven’t I? I’ve accepted this crazy news the dream has thrown at me, and I’m being the adult here and doing the right thing. Surely that ought to earn me a trip back to my own bed in my own apartment—oughtn’t it?
But I remain where I am, holding my son against me. After a moment, I let him go.
Lars steps forward. “Let me tuck you back in, buddy,” he says, taking Mitch’s hand. To me, he says, “Go back and sit on the sofa, Katharyn. Just relax and I’ll be back soon.”
But I don’t go to the sofa. Instead I walk to the hallway and stand in front of the photograph of myself with my parents when I was a baby. I am still staring at it when Lars returns.
“She was twenty then,” I say hoarsely. “She had me at twenty. He was twenty-two.” I do not turn to face Lars. “She is only fifty-eight; he just turned sixty. I know they’ll die someday. I know that. Everyone loses their parents someday. But not yet. Not this soon.”
“Katharyn . . .”
“Don’t call me that!” I whirl on him. “My name is not Katharyn. It’s Kitty. My name is Kitty Miller, and I am an old maid who owns a bookstore with her best friend. My life is very simple. There are few surprises. It does not resemble this life whatsoever.”
“Okay.” Tentatively he places a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the living room. “Let’s sit down again.”
We go back to the sofa, and he gently presses my shoulder until I am sitting. After he has seated himself beside me, I say, “Tell me exactly what happened to them.”
“Katharyn.” His eyes are sorrowful.
“No.” I sit up straighter, resolved to hear this out. “Tell me. I don’t care if you think I already know. I don’t know. You have to tell me.”
He sighs and sips his Scotch. “They were flying here,” he says. “They were coming home from a big fortieth-wedding anniversary trip they took to Hawaii. There was weather, a storm, and . . .” He sighs again. “Their airplane went down, Katharyn, in the Pacific. Everyone onboard was killed.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true,” I say. “They did go to Hawaii, but they arrived home just fine, safe and sound. Their airplane did not go down. Nothing of the sort happened.”
He doesn’t answer. He is waiting.
“When was it?” I ask. “Tell me the date.”