The Bookseller(42)

“Ten thirty exactly?”

I laugh. “Okay. It’s ten thirty-two.”

“Well, then,” he says. “I am six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and eighteen minutes. Mitch is six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and fifteen minutes. Missy is six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and eleven minutes. I’m the oldest!” he finishes proudly.

I am speechless.

He turns his head slightly, so he is looking to the west rather than southward in front of him. “Mama? Do you have any other questions?”

“Yes,” I say. “What day is it?”

“It’s Wednesday, February twenty-seventh.”

“What year?”

He giggles. “Nineteen sixty-three, Mama.”

Nineteen sixty-three. So we have only moved a few months into the future.

Shifting topics, I ask, “What else are we doing this morning? Besides playing here at the park, I mean.”

His shoulders stiffen. “Mama, it’s Wednesday.”

I wait.

“It’s Wednesday,” he repeats, with a little more edge in his voice.

“Remember, Michael, this is a game,” I say. “So let me ask you: What do we do on Wednesdays?”

“Oh!” He giggles again. “We go food shopping, Mama.”

Aha. “Does Mama make a shopping list?” I ask.

“Well, of course,” he replies. “All mothers make shopping lists.”

I suppose they do. Incidentally, thirty-eight-year-old unmarried women do not make shopping lists. They pop into the food mart when their cabinets and refrigerator are bare, buy whatever looks good and doesn’t require a lot of preparation, and take it home.

“Who cooks at our house?” I ask. “Alma or me?”

“Sometimes you, sometimes Alma,” Michael says.

“And Alma . . . does she come to our house every day?”

He chortles, as if what I’ve asked is extraordinarily ridiculous. “Of course not,” he says. “She comes three times a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. She arrives at nine o’clock in the morning, and she leaves as soon as she has dinner ready. Except sometimes she comes on Friday instead of Thursday, and then she stays in the evening, if you and Daddy are to go out. But you never go out . . .” He pauses. “Until I’m in bed.”

Hmm. Interesting. I decide it’s best to change topics again. “So Alma is not there in the mornings before Daddy goes to work . . . or Mitch and Missy go to school.” I consider this. “Does Mama make breakfast?” I can’t imagine preparing a good, healthy breakfast for five people. Many mornings in the real world, I barely get my own egg, toast, and juice on the table before I find myself running late for the shop. In this world, I probably serve Froot Loops every morning.

Nonetheless, Michael nods. “You make breakfast,” he confirms. “Except for the weekends. Daddy makes breakfast on the weekends.” I can’t see his face, but I can feel it brighten, the way you can sometimes feel the sun through a thin bank of clouds. “Swedish pancakes on Saturdays and waffles on Sundays.”

“Is that right?” I smile, picturing it: Lars, an apron around his waist, pancake batter on a griddle, expertly flipping at just the right golden-brown moment. It must have been a weekend, the last time we were in the house. The morning I first saw Michael, when Lars was in the kitchen.

This leads me to another question. “Michael,” I say quietly. “You love Daddy a lot, don’t you?”

Michael gives a happy sigh. “Yes,” he replies. “Oh, yes.”

And me? I want to ask. Do you love me, Michael?

But I cannot ask that question. I fear its answer too much.

Instead I say, “One more silly question.” I look around. “Do we come to this park a lot, Michael?”

He leans forward, into the cold air. “We didn’t used to,” he tells me. “But lately we do.”


I close my eyes and concentrate on pushing. I am waiting for the dream to end, because these dreams always seem to end on critical moments like this one. But this time, it does not. I open my eyes, and I am still in the park, still feeling the chill of the air through my coat, still pushing skinny Michael on his wooden swing.

“Mama, is it eleven o’clock yet?” Michael asks.

I check my watch. “Almost.”

“We go shopping at eleven,” he informs me.

“Oh. Right. Well, hop off then and let’s go get in the car.”

He skips in front of me, leading me to the parking lot and the Chevy station wagon. He climbs in shotgun, and I turn the key in the ignition.

Glancing sideways at Michael, I say, “Ought we to . . . do you think we ought to go by Grandma and Grandpa’s house, since we’re in the neighborhood?”

He doesn’t look at me—not that I expected him to, of course. “If you want to,” he mumbles, staring at the floorboard.

So I drive carefully out of the park. The only other driving I’ve done of late was as imaginary as this—the few moments in the car with Mitch and Missy, before I slammed on the brakes, wondering where Michael was, and thus ending that dream. Today the dream does not end; my time behind the wheel continues. The roadworthy lessons my father taught me years ago come back more easily than I would have expected. Just like riding a bicycle, I guess. That thought makes me smile, because in the real world I do ride my bicycle—quite often, in fact, whenever I am not walking or taking the bus. I wonder if I even have a bicycle in this life.