“We need to have this conversation,” she tells me. “We need this.” Her fingers, familiar and soothing, gently massage my shoulder. “Back there, back in the real world—you and I need to talk.”
I think about the day, in our shop, when Frieda tried to convince me that my life with Lars and the children is false, and that my life as Kitty is the real one. I wonder that she could have been so convincing that day, yet today she is saying just the opposite.
But of course I invented Frieda that day in the shop, didn’t I? In the other world, I can invent a Frieda who is as credible as I like.
For that matter, I can give my imaginary Frieda any qualities I want. She can be as loving, as kind and warmhearted, as I choose.
In the made-up world, Frieda can be anyone I want her to be.
“Are you following me, Kitty?” Frieda’s voice is urgent. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”
Chapter 33
Then I am back in her office. Frieda is still on the telephone; she has turned slightly away from me, the cord wrapped around her waist. Everything is in perfect focus. I can see little glints of sunlight on the plastic of the coiled wire. I can hear her murmur into the phone, an occasional harsh note as she raises her voice slightly at something the other party says. I can smell her sharp perfume-and-smoke scent.
And sitting there, looking at her back turned toward me, it comes to me. I remember it all.
It was about four years ago, the spring of 1959. Sisters’ Bookshop was at a crossroads. Business was slow; we were behind on our rent and our loan payments. We needed to go out of business completely or move or do something. In my other life, my made-up life as Kitty, this was just before my small inheritance from my grandfather kept us afloat. But in this world, at the point I am remembering, Frieda and I did not yet know that money would be available soon.
Instead, Frieda had begun to talk—as she did in my other life for many years before we made a decision—about closing our store on Pearl Street and opening in a shopping center. But we didn’t have the funds for a move like that.
One day she sat me down and put it to me straight. “You need to ask Lars for the money. It’s the only way we’re going to be able to finance a move.” She lit a Salem and breathed smoke toward me. “He’s got to be good for something, right?”
I smiled. “He’s good for plenty,” I said. “But I don’t know if he wants to front our business.” I shrugged. “He’s always said this is my thing, not an Andersson thing.”
Frieda rolled her eyes. “Hmm. I’ve always been led to believe that marriage is a partnership.” Her eyes were dark, challenging me.
I remember that I shrugged again. A partnership? Yes, Lars and I were partners—when it came to the children and what church to attend and who to invite to a dinner party. But not when it came to business. His business was his, and mine was mine. It was something we’d established long ago, when we first became engaged. It was something we were in complete agreement about. “I don’t know . . .” I stammered.
“Just suck it up and ask him, Kitty.”
So I did. Surprisingly, he took it better than I thought he would. “I’m interested,” he’d said, sipping his late-evening Scotch. “Especially if it’s what you want . . . if it will make you happy.”
If it was what I wanted? I had no idea what I wanted. I had no idea how to be happy. I had some vague feeling that if everyone else was happy—Frieda, Lars, the children—then I would be happy, too.
Frieda clearly was not pleased with the things the way they were. But if we changed things, if we did what she wanted—well, she would be happy then, wouldn’t she? I could do that for her, I reasoned, by getting Lars to finance this big move of ours.
Lars seemed fine, Lars seemed happy. But he was—he is—like that. His optimism, his utter conviction that when he’d met me, he struck gold—those things seemed to keep him going, no matter what was happening. It was a trait I admired, but never quite managed to emulate.
And the children? Well. Young children are always happy, aren’t they? My children were two and half then, no longer babies but not full-fledged kids yet, either. They seemed fine—most of the time, anyway. Mitch and Missy were talking, running, climbing. Looking at books, learning to use their imaginations.
Michael was . . . I admitted to myself that I wasn’t sure how or what Michael was. I knew he wasn’t like the other children. He spoke only a few words. He sat in a corner. He played alone, the same simple games over and over. Neat stacks of blocks or books, toy cars lined up in a row. He didn’t look at anyone. He kept his head down.
But that was all right, wasn’t it? That was normal for some kids. We’d had Jenny for over a year, and she was the expert, wasn’t she? If something was wrong, why then, surely she would tell me.
Remembering this years later, knowing what I know now, I feel a hot flush of fury with myself. How did I fail to see it? How could I have turned a blind eye?
What kind of mother was I, anyway?
Nonetheless, in those days, happiness for all was my goal. So I’d nodded at Lars. “A new store, a new future. It’s what I want,” I told him.
“Well, then.” He rose from the sofa. “We should all get together and talk—you, Frieda, and me. Let’s have her over for dinner sometime soon. After the kids are in bed, we can talk business.”
I’d smiled gratefully and put my arms around him. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear.
The next morning I woke early and dressed quickly, eager to get to the shop and tell Frieda what Lars had said. I remember getting ready to leave the house, an animated smile on my face as I impatiently searched for my keys and gathered a few books and some office supplies into my arms.
And then I’d felt a small, tentative tap on my shoulder. It was Alma.
“Por favor,” she’d said softly, glancing furtively toward the stairway, toward the children’s rooms, where Jenny was with the triplets. “Por favor, Se?ora Andersson, there is something I must tell you.” She’d tightened her fists, pressing them against the sides of her body, against her clean, crisp uniform. “I can keep silent no longer. Se?ora, I must tell you about Jenny.”
Now I stare at Frieda, sitting in her big office on the eleventh floor, the telephone pressed against her ear. “Yes, I agree,” she says into the receiver. “Yes, but I think we need to talk further about that.” She pauses, glancing at me. “Look, can I call you back in ten? I have someone in my office.”
After she hangs up, I say quietly, “I remember now.”
She laughs. “How very convenient,” she says drily.
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry!” I cry. “I’m sorry this sounds so ridiculous to you.” I feel a bitter taste in my mouth. “Though I also remember now why I have no reason to apologize to you.”