The Bookseller(66)

My confidence, my sense that I have acutely grasped everything that’s going on here, abruptly falls away. For a moment I think Linnea is referring to how I am holding up in the peculiar situation of being in an entirely different life in my dreams—as if she knows I am dreaming. Perhaps she does. Why not? With the exception of Bradley and our neighbors the Nelsons, Linnea is the only other person who has been in both worlds with me.

But when I look at her, I can tell she’s not talking about the dreams. Her look is serious, as if we’re continuing a discussion we’ve recently left off. For all I know, we are. Perhaps I saw her earlier today to get my hair done. I put my hand on my head; it does feel marvelous, as if every strand is exactly where it should be.

Well, then. She must mean Michael. “We’ve had a good week,” I reply. “Nothing too out of the ordinary. A few moments . . . but overall, okay.” I open the oven door and, mitts on both hands, remove a hefty roasting pan. I adjust the temperature a bit higher to brown the rolls. How do I know to do this?

“You and Lars . . .” Linnea ventures. “Things are okay?”

What in heaven’s name is she talking about? I think about the few occasions when Lars has been angry with me in this imaginary world—each time, it had to do with Michael. Goodness, does that mean that we—sometime that I can’t remember, sometime recently—have had an all-out disagreement about Michael? Inwardly, I shake my head at my own idiocy. Who cares if you did, Kitty? I chide myself. This is all made up. What difference could it possibly make, in the grand scheme of things, if you and Lars have quarreled?

Nonetheless, I find I can’t meet Linnea’s eyes. “Sure.” I shrug, my gaze fixed on the orange countertop. “We’re fine.”

Linnea says nothing in response. After a moment, she asks if I have the potatoes cooking.

“Of course. Lars wouldn’t consider it dinner without them.” I remove the lid from a large pot at the back of the stove and poke the potatoes with a fork. They’re almost ready to drain and mash. Jeepers, could I truly be making an entire meal for nine people? From scratch?

I reach into the refrigerator and bring out five Coke bottles. Do I really let my kids drink Coke? Yes, I suddenly realize. On special occasions, like when the cousins are here for dinner, they can have one. Well, then. “Let me run these downstairs,” I say to Linnea, grabbing a bottle opener from a drawer. It barely registers that I don’t have to think about which drawer it’s in.

Linnea straightens up. “No, you have your hands full. I’ll do it.” She gathers the bottles and opener, disappearing through the swinging doors.

I look around. It seems I have everything under control. Meat, potatoes, rolls, and now I see there is also a pot of peas simmering on the stove. Gravy, I can start in a few minutes. Is the table set? I draw back one of the wooden shutters and see that it is. I can also see Lars and Steven in the living room. The television is tuned to a drag race; both men are leaning forward, drinks in hand, keenly studying the action. Occasionally one of the men turns toward the other to remark on a car’s features or a racer taking the lead. From the basement I can hear the children’s eager squeals; Linnea must be passing the pop bottles around.

It seems such a sweet state of family and domesticity. So this is what other people do on Sunday afternoons.

Suddenly I wonder where my parents are. Do they get along with Linnea and her family? Of course they must. Linnea is lovely, like my mother. And Steven seems like a calm, kind man. Like my father.

I wonder if sometimes we have the whole family here—both sides, Lars’s and mine. Neither of us has much family, but small as it is, certainly they all get along, and here is where we would gather.

This is the place.

I sigh a contented smile. I smell the good smells of the meal I’ve prepared; I watch the men engaged in their drinks and sports talk. I see Linnea appear at the top of the stairs, meeting my eye and making an “okay” sign with her thumb and index finger—well, at least she got that one right. Someone must have taught her, probably Gloria.

Yes, Linnea, you are correct. Everything is A-OK in this world.





Chapter 24


Despite the familial bliss in my last dream, I am eternally grateful to wake up the next morning in the real world. It is Thursday, finally, the day I am to take the bus to Stapleton to meet my parents’ airplane. We will take a taxicab home—they’ll have all of their luggage, too much for the bus—but for me it’s just as easy, not to mention more economical, to hop on the bus to go out there and meet them. I considered taking my father’s car; with my newfound driving expertise in my dream life, I thought I might be able to handle it. My father had left the keys at home and told me I could use the car any time I wanted. But at the last minute, I decided I wasn’t up to driving that far.

As it turns out, their flight, a connection they made in Los Angeles, is delayed. I wait anxiously for almost two hours, browsing the airport’s notions store and wishing I’d brought along a book to read. I purchase a copy of Woman’s Day and glance through it, sitting restlessly in one of the airport’s plastic seats. There is a whole section about Christmas crafts, and I wonder vaguely if the self in my other life would have made some of these items as gifts—since, apparently, I am a skillful seamstress in that world.

I sigh and place the magazine on the seat next to me. I can’t concentrate on it anyway; perhaps the next passerby will get more out of it than I can.