The Bookseller(43)
I head east, then turn south on York Street. A few blocks later, I pull up in front of my parents’ small brick bungalow on the west side of the street.
The house is still. The shades are drawn. Someone has shoveled the sidewalk in front of the house, but not the four concrete steps leading up from the sidewalk, nor the walkway to the front porch; these are covered in patches of icy snow that look like they’ve been there for quite some time. I’ve become used to the house having a quiet calm about it. It’s been that way since my parents left on their long vacation, every time I go over to water the plants. But shouldn’t I be done with that by now?
I had been planning to park the car, go inside, see my parents’ faces. Driving over, I’d felt a lightness at the thought of their familiar voices. My nose had been lifted in anticipation of the particular smell that always pervades the house—I’ve never been able to nail down precisely what it is; the best I can come up with is a peculiar cross between roasted butternut squash and dried lavender. I’d been looking forward to the way my father’s eyes would twinkle at the sight of Michael and me walking up the steps. I’d thought about how my mother’s hug would feel: solid, warm, with a brush of soft wool against my cheek—the handmade yellow shawl she throws around her shoulders in the house, because my father keeps the furnace turned low to save money.
Do my parents get along with Michael? Do they know how to say the right things, do the right things, not set him off? I can’t know for sure, of course, but I feel confident that they do. I don’t know how I know it, but I am certain that Michael loves my parents, that he feels safe and comfortable around them, just as he does with Lars.
Suddenly a memory comes to me, the flash of an imaginary episode.
It is the height of summertime, the sun blazing, the air warm, the bushes heavy with their fattest warm-weather foliage. I am walking up the steps to my parents’ house, all three children in tow. Lars, behind us, is coming around from the driver’s side of my car. Lars and I are both in tennis whites, racquets in tennis bags slung over our shoulders.
We all grin as the front door bursts open and my father comes out. He steps briskly off the front stoop and bends down to take all three children in his arms at once. They wrap themselves around him, hugging him eagerly.
Even Michael.
“Ah, my darlings,” my father says breathlessly, releasing them. “When did I last see you? It seems like forever.”
Missy giggles. “It was last weekend, Grandpa.”
“Only last weekend?” He gives her a look of exaggerated shock. “Surely that can’t be so, Missy. It had to be last year. Maybe the year before.”
Michael laughs, and I notice that he looks directly at my father. Looks him straight in the eye. “Grandpa,” he says seriously. “You are such a kidder.”
My mother comes outside, glancing at Lars and me, and then at her watch. “Scoot, you two,” she says. “Don’t be late for your game.” She places one hand on Michael’s shoulder and the other on Mitch’s, steering them gently toward the house. My father takes Missy’s hand in his.
“We’ll all be fine,” my mother assures me. “As always, dear . . . we will be just fine.”
I nod. “I know you will.”
Lars and I give out kisses all around, and then we walk down the block hand in hand, heading toward the park. I sigh happily, feeling carefree and lighthearted. “What would we do without them?” I say, glancing back at my parents’ house. “Whatever would we do without my parents?”
He nods and squeezes my hand a bit tighter.
Thinking about this now, I can’t help but smile. Nonetheless, I find that I don’t want to go inside my parents’ house at all. Not today. I am not sure why, but suddenly this is the last place I want to be.
“On second thought, maybe we ought to just go on with the shopping,” I say to Michael, taking my foot off the brake and pulling away from the curb. He does not look up, nor does he reply.
I turn left on Louisiana Avenue, then wait at the light at University Boulevard. “Since you’re so good at answering questions, Michael, let’s see if you can answer this one: What’s the best way to get to the food store from here?”
He directs me to a Safeway store not far from the University Hills shopping center where I went with Mitch and Missy, and not far from the house on Springfield Street, either. We pull into the parking lot, and I search my purse for a list. Sure enough, there is one. On the right-hand side of the paper, I have carefully written a week’s worth of dinner menus, the name of each day underlined and the main course and side dishes listed below it. On the left-hand side, divided by categories such as Fruit/Vegetables, Dairy, and Meat, I have written what I need to prepare the listed suppers, as well as breakfast and lunch staples such as bread, peanut butter, and eggs. Marveling at my impressive organizational skills, I usher Michael into the store.
We’re doing quite well, working our way through the aisles, when I turn a corner and hear my name. “Katharyn, is that you?”
Naturally, I have never before seen the woman who addresses me—neither in real life nor in any of my previous dreams. Her hair is dark and pulled back into a large, elaborately braided bun at the nape of her slender neck. She wears a dark blue car coat with a black fur collar. Her lips and nails are a startlingly bright red.