The Bookseller(49)

Goodness, it all seems so clichéd, like some B-grade movie. Made the wrong choice, did you, buddy? And look where it got you. Drunk and alone in a bar—and running into your college girlfriend, who clearly would have appreciated you more than that shrew you married ever did.

This strikes me as quite funny, and I stifle a laugh. Mortified, I put my hand over my mouth, hoping Kevin won’t notice.

But he does. Gazing darkly at me, he asks. “Something funny, Kitty?”

I shake my head. “No, of course not. I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out.”

He takes a long swallow of Scotch. “Yes,” he says coolly. “I’m sure you are.” He stands and drains his glass. “I shouldn’t have come over,” he says crossly. “I don’t know why I did. I’m sorry I interrupted your dinner, girls.” He slams his empty glass on our table and stalks back to the bar. We watch in silence as he pays his tab, picks up his overcoat and hat, and strides out the door without a backward glance.

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Frieda says softly. I nod, and we both watch the door where he’s disappeared.

“Poor chap,” Frieda says after a few moments. She watches me over her wineglass. “Must make you feel good, though.”

“Actually,” I tell her, “it doesn’t.” I put my face in my hands. “Freeds, I’m tired,” I say. “I had too much wine. I need to go home.”

She nods. “Me too, sister. Me too.”





Chapter 17


At home, I crawl into bed, adjust the covers evenly around myself, and then pull Aslan toward me and snuggle him close to my chest. I turn off my bedside lamp and take a deep breath, enjoying the stillness and my solitude.

I am convinced that the dreams won’t return. I’ve seen it all now, haven’t I? I’ve seen what kind of child Michael is. I’ve seen what I would have to contend with, if the dream life was my real life.

“I get it,” I say aloud in the darkness. It seems silly, saying it out loud, but I want to make sure my subconscious understands. I want to be sure it knows that I understand.

There is no such thing as a perfect life. It’s not perfect here, and it’s not perfect there.

I truly don’t expect that I’ll wake up there again. In the house with Lars, the children, and my other life.


But I do. This time we are eating what appears to be lunch, seated around the dining room table. The shutters to the kitchen are open, and I spy the cheery fruit-motif wallpaper, sunlight shimmering through the south-facing window. The entire family is at the table with me: Lars, Missy and Mitch, Michael.

I look across the table, meeting Lars’s eyes.

“How was it, in that other world?” he asks.

“What?” I startle myself, and everyone else, with the sharpness of my reply. The children stare at me, half-eaten sandwiches in their hands. Lars gives me a curious look.

“Sorry,” he says. “You just seemed like you were a million miles away. In some other world.”

“Oh.” I smile. “I suppose I was.”

The children go back to their sandwiches. Peanut butter and grape jelly, it looks like, judging from their purple-smeared faces. On each child’s plate is a small stack of carrot sticks and the remains of a pile of potato chips; evidently they ate the chips first, before the sandwiches and vegetables. Mitch and Missy eat delicately, holding their sandwiches with their fingertips, like little bear cubs licking a handful of honey. Michael is not eating his sandwich at all; instead he is pulling it apart into small bits that he rolls into balls, then arranges neatly around the perimeter of his plate. I turn my gaze away from him, hoping my distaste doesn’t show. And hating myself for feeling this way about my own—albeit imaginary—child.

I look down at my plate, and glance at Lars’s. He and I are eating chef salads. Did I make this? It’s quite elaborate, with carefully arranged slices of Swiss cheese, hard-boiled egg, olives, and delicatessen ham and turkey on a bed of iceberg lettuce. In real life, I would never make something this fancy for lunch. Frieda and I usually have a sandwich from the shop down the street, or else I brown-bag it with what the children are eating today, peanut butter and jelly.

“So, what’s on the docket for the afternoon?” Lars asks. He sets his fork on his empty salad plate and wipes his mouth with a blue-flowered paper napkin.

“Celebrity Lanes, Daddy!” Mitch cries, and Missy enthusiastically nods in agreement.

Michael, I note, remains expressionless.

I’ve heard of Celebrity, although I’ve never been there. It’s on Colorado Boulevard, the same street as the University Hills Shopping Center, several miles north. It opened a few years ago. I believe its official name is Celebrity Sports Center, and in addition to bowling, they have a swimming pool, arcade games, and other amusements. I’m sure it’s delightful if you have children, or like bowling. Since neither of those is true in my real life, I have not found occasion to visit Celebrity. Besides, like the shopping center, it’s difficult to get to without a car.

“Maybe Mickey will be there,” Missy says, and I remember reading in the Denver Post that Walt Disney owns the place, and his characters make regular appearances.

Lars tilts his head thoughtfully. “It will be busy there. It might take a while to get a lane.”