“They were to make a connection in Los Angeles,” Lars continues. ‘The connection came in on time. We waited, watching at the window, waving to everyone who got off the airplane and stepped onto the tarmac. We waited while they all came through the gate. And then we waited until the gate area was empty.
“‘They must have missed their connection,’ you said. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t telephone.’”
“Yes,” I whisper. “They would have telephoned.”
Lars nods. “There was a stewardess at the gate, so we asked her. She directed us to a service desk. They . . . they seemed to be waiting for us there. Several people, a man and two women. ‘The Anderssons?’” one of the women said as we approached. ‘We tried to telephone you at home, but you must have already left for the airport. We’re sorry to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Miller’s airplane from Honolulu . . .’”
And here Lars stops. “Well,” he says after a moment. “You know what they told us.”
“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, not in front of the children?”
He nods. “I was angry about that. I thought . . . they ought to have pulled us aside or something . . .” He shakes his head.
“What did . . . what then?”
“Well, it was bad,” he says. “Everyone was crying. You, the children, even me. I . . .” He holds up his hands. “They were fine people, Katharyn. I loved them, you know, as a son loves his parents.”
He pauses, and I remember our first telephone conversation, when Lars told me he was 4-F and didn’t serve in the war, and I wondered what my father would think about that. And then I know—I realize I have always known, of course—that my father would not have cared at all. I understand that my father, that both my parents, would have adored Lars. That they would have seen how much he loved me, how devoted he was to our family, and that would be all that mattered. And Lars would have felt exactly the same way about them.
“My own parents had been gone for such a long time . . . and I always felt . . . I felt . . . that with Tom and Claire, I received a second chance to have parents.”
And suddenly I discover something about grief that I had not known before. When I was a child and a young adult, when I’d lost grandparents, pets, friends during the war—not to mention that awful day when my father told me that my baby brother had died—those grievings were huge and sad, nearly immeasurable in my young mind. But they were my own. There were times when I had to attend funerals, offer condolences, send sympathy cards. But I did not have to think too much about anyone else’s grief. I could go home and fall apart; I could cry and cry, for as long as I wanted to. I did not have to hold it together for anyone else.
In that other life, I am the center of my world. Of course, I love and care about other people—many other people. But at the end of the day, my thoughts and actions are mainly about managing my own life and my own emotions.
Here, that is not the case. My life, and my love, are bigger than that. Even in grief, I have to hold other people close.
I reach forward and clasp Lars’s hands. “Tell me . . . if it’s not too hard . . . tell me about the funeral.”
He shrugs. “No . . . um, no bodies, of course. No caskets. Nothing but . . . well, we put up some photographs and flowers.” He smiles. “Lots of photographs and lots of flowers, as a matter of fact. It seemed you couldn’t get enough of either.”
“Because that was all that was available,” I say, not really wanting to think about what that means.
He shrugs. “Anyway, it was a nice service. The church was packed.” He looks away, then back at me. “So many people, Katharyn. I couldn’t believe all the people. Men and women that your father worked with over the years. Everyone your mother knew from all her volunteer time at the hospital, all the community work she did. All your neighbors from Myrtle Hill and our neighbors from here. So many people that you went to school with—high school, college. People you knew over the years, when you had the bookstore.” He smiles at me. “Everyone, Katharyn. Everyone was there.”
I am appreciative of this. But there is only one name I really want to know about. “Lars,” I say softly.
“Yes?”
“Was . . . was Frieda there?”
Lars stands abruptly. He puts his hands on mine. “Katharyn,” he says. “Don’t torture yourself like this.”
I shake my head, incredulous. “So she didn’t come,” I say. “She didn’t even come to my parents’ funeral.”
“My love.” He kneels in front of me. “My love, there are things in our past . . . that we just can’t change.” He stands. “I don’t think there’s anything you could have done . . . not a single thing . . . that would have changed how things turned out with Frieda.”
I lean back in the green chair and blink away tears.
Lars puts a hand on my shoulder. I see him glance toward the clock on the nightstand.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I know you have to go.”
“I don’t want to leave you like this.” He looks into my eyes. “Katharyn,” he pleads. “I think you should talk to someone. A psychiatrist. Please, let me make some calls . . .”
A psychiatrist. A doctor. I think about the things doctors have said over the years—all their “truths.” Telling my mother not to have any more babies. Telling Lars and me that our child has an incurable disease, and it’s my fault. Telling me, I think ruefully I as remember Kevin’s rebuff all those years ago—not in so many words, but telling me by his actions—that I was not good enough to be a doctor’s wife.
I shake my head and look up with resolve. “No doctors. I’ll be fine.” I stand and put my arms around him. “Thank you for telling me,” I say. “I know it sounds crazy . . . that I can’t remember.”
He nods. “You just tell me what you need,” he says gently. “Whatever you need, Katharyn . . . anything . . . I will do it for you.”
I smile. He is so amazing, so perfect.
But he can’t give me the one thing I want.
He can’t give me back the people who—in my real life—I love the most.
After Lars leaves the house, I go to the kitchen and ask Alma to fix lunch for Michael. “What for you?” she asks me, frowning.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “I’m not hungry.” I go to the staircase and call Michael. He appears in the doorway to his room. “Come down and eat lunch now, honey,” I say. “Alma will sit with you.” I turn to her. “After he’s done, he can watch television,” I say. “Then he won’t be in your way. Is that all right?”
She shrugs and nods. I tell her I’m going to lie down.
In the green bedroom, I lie on the bed and cover myself with an afghan that matches the colors in the wallpaper. I don’t recognize the afghan itself, but I recognize my mother’s favorite knitting pattern. She must have made it for us after we moved into this house. It would have been like her to make me one that matched my perfect new master bedroom.
I close my eyes and wait, knowing exactly where I will be when I awake.
Chapter 28