The Bookseller (32 page)

Whatever it took.

I set up a little desk for him in the dining room. I would sit him there, put paper in front of him, and work with him on writing his letters. We started with
A
. I didn't ask anything else of him—just to write
A
's and to look for
A
's when we read books. At first he was willing, but as time went on, he became less and less interested.

I was in despair. I thought he'd never learn a thing. He could recite the alphabet, but it had no meaning for him. Words on a page meant nothing. He'd shake his head if I asked if he recognized an A, or any other letter. He was a compliant student, if not an eager one; he did not protest when I said it was time for lessons. Instead, he would sit at the little desk and write his A's, staring at the blank wall, waiting wordlessly for me to say it was all right for him to rise from his seat, that lessons were over for the day. Which I would do, eventually—sometimes two or three exhausting hours later, when I was ready to give up.

I couldn't understand it. “He knows how to do it,” I told Lars. “He just doesn't want to.”

“He'll get it, in time.”

That was mid-October of last year. Right before Halloween. Right before . . . that week.

N
ow, standing at the closet door, I select a pair of dark slacks and a gray sweater. They match my mood. I slip them on, find knee-highs and a pair of black leather flats, brush my hair and pull it back with a headband.

I return to the living room. Alma has vacuumed here, making neat lines in the carpet from the picture window to the dining room table. As I cross it, my feet leave prints in the pile. I stand by the window and watch for Lars's car.

When Lars pulls up and opens the car door for Michael, I see my son emerge sullenly, sniffling. This surprises me; he always seems more cheerful around Lars than he is around me. I go to the door to greet them.

Lars helps Michael off with his coat. “Go on upstairs,” he tells our child, and Michael complies, wordlessly.

Lars shakes his head. “I don't know how you do this all day, every day.”

I shrug. “Me, neither.”

He goes to the kitchen and pours coffee from the still-warm pot. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.” While I get myself a glass of water, Lars heads to his office. I drink my water, then go to the bottom of the stairs and listen. It's silent up there; perhaps, I think, Michael is resting on his bed. I follow Lars to his office.

Standing in the doorway, I watch him speak into the telephone. “Right, but I can't make it in today,” he says. “Okay . . . no, I understand.” He glances at me. “Hold the line a moment, Gladys.” He covers the receiver and turns to me. “They really need me this afternoon,” he pleads. “Will you be all right if I go in?”

I shrug again. “It's fine by me. I just need to . . . I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes first.”

He puts the receiver back to his mouth. “Gladys, tell them I'll be there by one thirty.” He hangs up and brushes past me. “I've got to change,” he says. “Can we talk while I do that?”

I nod and follow him to our bedroom.

We have a club chair in the bedroom, tweed, dark green, a nice contrast to the sage-colored walls. I sit in it, watching Lars while he finds trousers, a crisp white shirt and tie. Even from across the room, I can smell the clean-laundry smell of his fresh clothes as he dresses. I watch him button the shirt over his broad
shoulders, his solid chest. He is such an attractive man. So lovely, so perfect, and I know I should feel nothing but gratitude to be here with him.

Whether it be real or not, I should be happy for what I have.

He looks at me in the mirror. “You feeling any better?”

“I'm hanging in there.”

“You were pretty upset last night.”

“Lars.” I stand and cross the room, joining him by the mirror as he puts his tie around his neck. “I need you to do something for me. It might be hard.”

He turns and puts his arms around me. “Anything you need.”

I close my eyes for a moment, relishing the feel and smell of him so close to me. Wishing I could just take pleasure in that and forget everything else. But I can't. I open my eyes.

“Just . . .” I sigh. “Just tell me what happened,” I whisper. “To them. To my parents.”

He tilts his head. “Honey, you know this.”

I shake my head. “No, I mean afterward.” I break away from him and step back. “How did we find out? What did we do? How did we tell the children? How . . .” I bite my lip. “What was the funeral like?”

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he ties his tie—slowly, cautiously, taking his time.

When he is satisfied with his appearance, he leads me back to the club chair, gently pushing me down into it. He sits on the bed opposite me. “It was rough,” he says, shaking his head.

I nod. Of course it was rough.

“I took the morning off from work, and we'd kept Mitch and Missy out of school for the occasion. We went out to the airport in your car,” he went on. “Piled in and ready to pick up Grandma and Grandpa from their flight. The kids had on their Halloween costumes; they were delirious with excitement.” He
looks at me sadly. “You, too, honey.” He puts his hand on my knee. “Katharyn, maybe I shouldn't say this, but that morning in the car . . . I think that's the last time I saw you truly happy.”

I look out through the patio doors to the snowy backyard. I don't remember that, but I can picture it in my mind. I know how the children would be dressed. Missy would be a princess, because Missy is always a princess. Mitch would be a hobo or a magician or a train engineer or perhaps a cowboy—Mitch's imagination could take him anywhere in the world, so the possibilities were endless. Even Michael would have gotten into the spirit of it; perhaps I would have convinced him to dress up, just a little. I would have outfitted him in something comfortable and not too confining—yes, I know what it would be, a puppy-dog costume, with floppy ears that I made out of felt and attached to a soft, loose hood, worn with a regular pair of brown pants and a brown sweatshirt, the spotted tail I'd fashioned from more felt pinned to the seat of his trousers.

I can see myself, too. My face would be flushed with anticipation. I would lean over to check my reflection in the rearview mirror as we drove to Stapleton. I would be fussing over my hair, although it would no doubt be picture-perfect from Linnea's skilled hand.

Lars would be at the wheel, whistling and cracking jokes with the kids. The weather would be overcast, the same as it was in the real world on that day, but that would not destroy our jovial moods.

I can imagine us reaching the airport, parking, going inside. Passersby would smile and nudge each other, gazing at our delightful children in their costumes. I can see us finding our way to Gate 18.

The same gate from which I picked up my parents in the real world, just a few days ago.

“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.

A
fter 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.