The Bookseller(41)

The park and playground have changed over the years. The swings look new, and the city closed the swimming beach a few years ago; the lake was too small, too many people were using it, and the water had become murky. Perhaps, I think now, my friends and I were right about a monster living in that dark, dim water.

Michael and I are the only people at the playground. The lake is partially frozen over, the air is cold, and the sky is gray. Snow is not falling, but it hangs in the clouds. I lift my nose and smell it, the way a watchdog might sniff out an approaching intruder.

Whatever are we doing here? And where are the other children?

“Michael,” I say. “Where are Mitch and Missy?”

He rolls his eyes—not at me, because he doesn’t look at me, but at the swings a few feet from us. “You know where they are, Mama. Where they always are during the daytime.”

“And where is that?”

Now he grins; he must think I am joking with him. “Honestly,” I implore. “Where is that?”

“Mama!” He laughs out loud. To my surprise, I find the sound delightful. His laugh has a joyous, ringing tone; it reminds me instantly and incongruously of my mother’s laughter. “Silly Mama. They’re in school, of course.”

“Oh.” I place my kidskin-gloved hands on either side of me, on the green bench. “And you?” I ask. “Why aren’t you in school, too?”

He laughs again and hops clumsily off the bench. “Well, now you’re just being crazy,” he says. “You know I don’t go to school, Mama.”

Oh.

He trips away from me and walks over to a swing. He gets on and sits still. It’s clear he doesn’t know how to pump and get himself going. “Push me, Mama.”

I rise from the bench and walk over to him. From behind, I give him a push, my hands light on his back. I am not sure how high he wants to go, but I keep pushing just a little more each time. He laughs gleefully. Once I find a pace that he seems to enjoy, I settle in, maintaining just enough tempo to keep him going without variation.

“Wheeeeee!” Michael cries out with joy as the swing sails through the air.

I take a good look at him. He wears green corduroy pants, a checkered woolen jacket, and a chunky, navy-blue knitted cap that covers his ears. I wonder vaguely if my mother made his hat. His thick-lensed horn-rimmed glasses are sturdily positioned on his head. I have the feeling he doesn’t go far without them.

He is thinner than Mitch and Missy, who have clearly inherited their stocky builds from both Lars and me. Michael is willowy; I can see how stick-thin his legs are through his pants, how his elbows poke out against the sleeves of his jacket. Is this his natural build, I wonder, or is he simply a picky eater? His hair color and features are similar to Mitch’s; it is entirely possible that they are identical twins. I have no idea what the odds are of conceiving triplets, or whether it is typical for two of them to be identical. These are issues that have never crossed my mind back in the real world.

I close my eyes and put my fingers lightly on my belly. I am trying to imagine what it would feel like to have three babies inside me, all at the same time. I cannot fathom it. It makes me think of high school plays, of how Miss Potts, the drama coach, always told us, “Feel your character. Be your character.” Frieda loved that advice and took it to heart, enthusiastically becoming the tragic Lady Macbeth or the spunky, aspiring actress Terry Randall from Stage Door. But I was never particularly good at it. I was always too aware that no matter who I was playing on-stage, underneath the detailed costume and the thick makeup I was still just plain old Kitty.

That’s how I feel right now, imagining myself as someone who has been pregnant with triplets. Like it’s a part I could play if I had to, but I wouldn’t be fooling anyone. They’d all know that there were no babies inside me, that it was just a pillow under my skirt. I remove my hand from my stomach and continue pushing the swing.

Suddenly, I have an inspiration. “Hey, Michael.”

He does not turn his head. “What?”

“When Mama was being silly . . .” I know I am going out on a limb here, and I hesitate. I do not know, have no idea, how I would handle him having a scene, out here all by myself. Nonetheless, I take a deep breath and plunge in. “When Mama was asking those silly questions . . . did you like that?”

His shoulders move up and down slightly. “I don’t know,” he says dully.

“Can I . . . is it okay if I ask you some more silly questions?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know.”

I think we are both glad that we are not facing one another.

“Let’s give it a try,” I suggest. “How about this? How old are you, Michael?”

He doesn’t say anything, and I wait, breathless, praying that he won’t explode.

“Michael? Did you hear me?”

“I’m thinking!” he yells. “Can’t you see that I’m thinking, Mama?”

He is coming in for a push, and my hands snap back in aversion, missing a beat. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. Recovered, I continue pushing. Then Michael pipes up. “Do you know what time it is?”

I look at my wrist to see if I am wearing a watch, and indeed I am: a tasteful jeweled one with a black velvet band. “It’s ten thirty.”