The Bookseller(82)
I laugh aloud. “Talk about a strange way to put it!” I stretch my arms, releasing the tension in my shoulders. “Frieda and I aren’t lovers, Mother.”
Her face reddens. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean . . . that wasn’t what I meant, Kitty.”
“Some women are, you know,” I say playfully.
“I know that, too, darling. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“But not Frieda and me. That’s simply not the way we feel about each other.” This discussion has taken a surprising turn, and now I find that I am the one to blush. My mother and I have always been able to speak openly with one another, but I think I can say with assurance that in the thirty-five-odd years I’ve known how to verbalize my thoughts, she and I have never discussed lesbianism, on either a personal or a purely social science level.
“Well.” Thoughtfully, she puts down her needles. “You and Frieda are true companions. That’s not easy to find, you know. Some people search their entire lives for it. Some people—many people, really—marry, and don’t get that with their husbands or wives.”
This makes me wonder about Lars and myself. Do we have that, in the other world? Are we “true companions,” as my mother puts it? I believe we are, actually. He seems to read me so well, like he’s known me forever. The way that Frieda does, in this life.
Who do I lean on in that other life, if not on Lars? Certainly, I lean on him more than any other person. Without Lars, how would I manage Michael? If the memories that return to me in my dream life are any indication, it’s clear that I have done, and continue to do, a poor job of parenting Michael. And it would be all the poorer if it were not for Lars.
But suddenly I realize who else I must lean on, in that world.
My parents, of course. They are my champions there.
Mine, and—more importantly—Michael’s.
Another memory comes to me, or maybe something I’m making up in my head. Who knows anymore? In either case, I can see us in my mind’s eye: my children, myself, and my mother.
We are at the library. It’s the Decker Branch Library, the one that’s within walking distance from my duplex and from Sisters’. Is there no library closer to Southern Hills? There is so much new construction out that way; you’d think there would be a library. But perhaps one has not been built yet. Or perhaps one has been built, but in that life, I prefer the old-time library in my former neighborhood.
We are in the children’s section, and it’s story hour. All of us—Mother, Mitch, Missy, Michael, and myself—are sitting cross-legged on the carpeting. A number of other mothers and their children are settled in to listen, too. The children all seem similar in age to mine, perhaps three or four.
The librarian holds up a book and begins to read. The book is called Ann Can Fly. It tells the story of a girl who gets to fly with her father in his single-engine airplane. He is flying her to, of all places, her summer camp. Lucky girl.
The children listen thoughtfully—a twitch or a wiggle here or there, but the story is mesmerizing, and the librarian is an animated reader. She has everyone’s attention.
Everyone except Michael.
He is seated next to me, with his knobby knees up around his chest and his eyes on the floor. His upper body sways side to side. I know, because I’ve seen him do it before, that this helps him concentrate and block out any sensations that disturb him. His swaying is rhythmic, steady, and silent, but I note that his movements are getting wider and more dramatic. He doesn’t seem to realize that he is moving more and more rapidly as the story goes on.
I am not the only one to notice. Several of the other mothers, those in close proximity to me, turn to glare. Two of them lean toward each other and whisper, then look my way again. I can tell exactly what they’re thinking: What’s wrong with that child?
My mother is looking straight ahead at the librarian, Mitch on one side of her and Missy on the other. She has her arms around both of them, and they snuggle against her.
Michael’s swaying gets even more exaggerated; he almost reaches the floor with each shoulder as he moves his torso from left to right. It is distracting, I have to admit. I duck my head, feeling ashamed—not of Michael, but of myself. I am ashamed for wishing so desperately that my son could simply be ordinary.
One of the mothers leans toward me. “Please,” she whispers loudly. “Your boy’s swaying is distracting. It’s hard for the children to concentrate.” She gives me a long, pointed look. “I don’t really think he belongs here, do you?”
I stare at the woman, unable to answer. I find that I am blinking back tears.
Before I can say anything, my mother—still spry despite her fifty-odd years—slides on her bottom until she is between Michael and me on her left, and the other mothers and children on her right. She puts her arm around me and reaches her hand to gently ruffle Michael’s hair. “This child,” she whispers fiercely to the woman, “has as much right to hear the story as any other child. He and his mother belong here, the same as any other mother and child.” She glares around at the women. “The same as all of you and your children.” She raises her hand and points her index finger directly at them. “Don’t forget,” she says to the other mothers, “that all children are God’s children.”
My mother reaches into her pocket and hands her handkerchief to me. “Dry your eyes, beautiful girl,” she tells me. “These people are not worthy of your tears.”