The Bookseller(55)

But these two—clearly they not only desire but expect this connection with me. The thought makes my heart pound just a bit more quickly.

Finally I release them and ask, “Did you have fun, darlings?”

“So much fun,” Missy says. “I won the first game. Daddy won the second.”

“And I got a strike!” Mitch adds, hopping up and down. “Mama, I got all the pins down at one time!”

“Good for you both,” I tell them, and then I ask, “Where are Daddy and Michael?”

“Upstairs,” Missy says. “Daddy is giving Michael a bath.”

This seems odd, in the middle of the day. I make my way up the half flight of stairs and knock on the bathroom door. “It’s me.”

“Come in,” Lars says. He is slowly, rhythmically pouring water from two plastic cups over Michael’s thin, naked back. I can see the tiny round bones of Michael’s spine, like beads under the skin. Michael has his eyes closed and a smile on his face, and he is humming. I look at Lars, searching for understanding. “He was having a rough time,” Lars says in a low voice. “So we came home. You know how warm water helps him settle down.”

I nod, not because I was aware of this tactic for calming Michael, but because it makes sense. I, too, find a warm bath beneficial when I’m not at my best. The heat, the gentle splashes of water—it’s soothing in a way that nothing else can quite equal.

“Did you have a nice time?” Lars asks.

“Yes, it was . . .” I sit down on the closed toilet seat lid and take a look around. This bathroom, though smaller than the one I share with Lars, has the same slanted-front cabinets on the vanity; here, they are painted white. The walls are sky blue with white fish decals swimming the length of the longest wall, stuck-on bubbles arranged merrily above them. The sink, tub, and toilet are a robin’s-egg color, and the floor is a spotless white tile.

I watch the water stream down Michael’s back. “I went to the shop,” I finally venture. “Frieda’s and my . . . our old bookshop.”

Lars looks at me. “Did you now?” His voice is even, and I cannot decode his opinion about this information.

“It’s closed down.” I can see myself in the mirror over the vanity, and my eyes look hollow. “She’s closed down the Pearl Street shop. She has six other stores, and she changed the name to Green’s Books and News, and she wasn’t even there when I went to the one at the shopping center, and . . .” I stop talking. I must sound ridiculous to him.

Lars keeps his eyes steady on me. “Katharyn,” he says finally. “All that happened a long time ago.” He returns his gaze to Michael. “You know this. You remember it, right?”

I shake my head. “I don’t remember it. I’m sorry, Lars, I still don’t . . . I don’t . . .” I bite my lip, looking at my gloomy face in the mirror. “I just don’t remember a lot of . . . details.”

“Well.” His voice is neutral, but soft. “That’s understandable, love.”

“Oh, Lars.” And suddenly, I feel myself breaking down. Tears start streaming down my cheeks.

Lars stands and comes to my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and rubs it gently. “It’s okay, love,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I know you feel bad about it. Even all these years later.”

“What did I do?” I ask him, and I know he thinks the question is rhetorical. But of course it’s not.

“You did what you had to,” Lars says evenly. “You did what you had to for your family, for your child . . .” He tilts my chin up, so I can look in his eyes. “I know everything you gave up . . . for us . . . for him.” His voice is a whisper, and he turns his eyes toward the bathtub, where Michael is still humming, quietly playing with the two cups. “I know what you sacrificed. Don’t ever, ever doubt, Katharyn . . . how incredibly grateful I am to you for that.”


I go to our bedroom to lie down. If I fall asleep, I will wake up back where I belong. Where things make sense and nothing is confusing like this.

But I can’t sleep. I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come.

Instead, to my surprise, memories do.

It’s like the time when I was in the green bathtub, or the evening in the restaurant with Lars’s client and his wife. All of a sudden, I remember things with clarity.

I remember what started out as a routine visit to the obstetrician. I even remember the date: July 6, 1956. I was a few weeks into the second trimester of my pregnancy; Lars and I were expecting a Christmastime baby. I expressed concern that I was so big already. I felt tired and out of sorts, I told the doctor, as if I were ready to give birth now, though of course I had months yet to go.

“Let’s check for a heartbeat again,” Dr. Silver said. “I know we tried to hear it early on, and we checked again when you were here a few weeks ago. But we should definitely hear it by now.” Putting the stethoscope to my belly, he listened, then moved it, listened again, moved it again. This went on for a full five minutes, while he didn’t say a word. Finally he stood. “I’ll be back in a moment, Mrs. Andersson,” he told me. “I want to have Dr. Enright take a listen here, too.”

I lay there, sweating bullets, my mind numb. No heartbeat, I was thinking. He can’t hear a heartbeat, and he’s afraid the baby is dead. He wants the other doctor to confirm it.