The Bookseller(61)

But how did I get into the dream this time? I don’t remember taking the bus back to my own neighborhood. I have no memory of making dinner, of reading or watching television or tutoring Greg, the things I usually do in the evening at home. I don’t remember turning off the front porch light, feeding Aslan, getting dressed for bed. I don’t recall closing my eyes, and I certainly don’t remember falling asleep. But I must have done those things.

Or I did something. Something.

Mitch and Missy are wobbling on bicycles—two-wheelers, his green and hers pink. Lars is walking beside the two of them, working with one and then the other to teach them how to ride. I think the training wheels must have recently been taken off the bikes, because both children are falling. A lot.

Missy goes down and lands on her elbow. “Ow!”

Before I have time to react, Lars reaches down to help her rise. Gently, he bends her arm back and forth a few times to make sure the elbow is functioning normally. “Don’t give up,” he tells her, righting the bike and helping her back onto it. “It takes a lot of practice.”

Lars catches my eye and smiles. Then he turns sideways and swings his arm, as if he’s batting a tennis ball. Automatically I do the same thing, also turned sideways. Lars is a lefty and I’m right-handed, so our positions pose us as partners, as if we were playing doubles against imaginary rivals. This pantomime, I suddenly understand, is one that Lars and I frequently perform. It’s our silent way of communicating to each other that we are on the same team—not just in tennis, but in everything. I nod at him, and he turns his attention back to Mitch and Missy.

It’s then that I realize Michael is not riding. He’s sitting in the driveway, staring down at the fabric of his bunched-up pants. A blue boy’s bike stands in the drive next to him; this one still has its training wheels on it.

I pause for a moment, and then I walk over and sit next to Michael.

Hesitantly, I ask, “Michael? Don’t you want to ride?”

He shakes his head, not looking up.

“You can try, you know,” I tell him gently. Because I believe this. There are a lot of things that, perhaps, he can’t do. But he can learn to ride a bike. I am sure of it.

He shakes his head again, and won’t answer and won’t meet my eye.

I inspect his bike. It’s beautiful and looks brand-new—still gleaming, with nary a scratch on it. I recall that the triplets’ birthday is in November; perhaps these bikes were birthday presents when they turned six.

I glance back at the garage, which is standing open, the large double door raised. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Michael, standing and dusting off my skirt.

I go into the garage and look around. The station wagon is parked in here; the Cadillac, too. It’s a big garage, with room for a lawn mower, sleds, and bikes in addition to vehicles.

I find my bike easily. It’s the same battered red Schwinn that I have in real life. I suspect that at some point during our marriage Lars would have proposed purchasing a new bicycle for me. But I would have resisted that notion. He may be able to buy me a car and fine clothes and a diamond ring, but this is my bike. We’ve been together for a long time, my Schwinn and me; I bought it myself during the early days of my teaching career, so I could bicycle to school. I would not have abandoned it heedlessly.

I wheel it out and climb on, gliding down the driveway. I stop in front of Michael, pressing the brakes gently with my feet. “Mama will ride with you,” I coax.

Michael doesn’t respond.

I know I ought to let it go, but I simply cannot. It seems terribly important—for reasons that I cannot fathom—that I make this connection with him.

That he rides with me. That biking becomes “our thing.” Something we share.

I reach out for him, try to pull him up by his arm.

Oh, I should know better, shouldn’t I? By now, I should know better.

The howl that comes out of him makes me step back, drop my bike, put my hands over my own mouth, as if by doing so I can silence his. Missy and Mitch stop riding and stare at us wordlessly. Lars strides over, glaring at me.

“I was hoping . . . I thought I could convince him to . . .” I trail off.

Lars bends down, does the shoulder-hold, and begins to hum. After a moment, Michael stops screaming and hums with Lars, until they are both in a little singsong trance. No one else in the world except the two of them.

Biting my lip, I turn away.

I pick up my Schwinn and wheel it over to Missy and Mitch. “Daddy will manage Michael,” I tell them, climbing on my bicycle. “Now, you two show me what you can do.”





Chapter 22


On Wednesday afternoon, I have a hair appointment with Linnea.

I wonder, as I walk toward Linnea’s beauty parlor, how I got from Monday to Wednesday. Again—as was the case a few days ago, when I didn’t remember getting from the middle of last week to the beginning of this week—I don’t remember a lot of details. I can’t recall transitioning from my last dream, from bicycling with the children, back to the safety of my own bed. I don’t remember waking up on Tuesday morning. Indeed, I must have arisen and made breakfast and fed Aslan. I must have gone to the shop and worked. There would have been customers; there would have been book orders and shelf arrangements and conversations with Frieda. What did we discuss? I don’t remember. I think there was more conversation about the vacant space in the shopping center. I think we went over the financial aspects, trying to figure out how we could make it work moneywise. Did we decide to make an appointment with the bank to talk about an extension to our loan? Perhaps we did, but I can’t recall any particulars about the discussion.