The Bookseller(86)

And so I find myself in the bedtime hustle: baths for all, pajamas for Mitch and Michael, nightie and hair brushing for Missy. She is remarkably patient with this last chore, despite her mop of curls. Remembering how tortured I felt as a child when my mother attempted to detangle my own crazy head of hair, I try my best to go easy on my daughter.

Lars and I apparently switch off the girl-boy thing, because tonight I get Missy for tucking in. She settles under her covers, her eyes large, looking at the snow falling outside her window. “Do you think we’ll have school tomorrow?”

I shrug. “Depends on how much we get overnight.”

And will I be here to know the difference? It’s impossible to be sure of that, one way or the other. I find myself saddened by that bit of actuality.

We read Cinderella—her favorite, she tells me—and then after hugs, kisses, and two songs, I press the covers around her chin and bid her good night. “Sleep well, Princess Claire,” I say softly.

Missy opens her eyes wide. “I haven’t used that name in a long time, Mama.”

“No.” I shake my head. “But you’ll always be a princess to me.”

I remember the thought I had on the day—it now seems very long ago—when Missy, Mitch, and I went shoe shopping. The thought that I would give anything in the world for Missy to be real, and to be mine.

Anything, Kitty? You would truly give up anything for her?

My fingers tremble as I brush a lock of hair from Missy’s forehead. I lean toward her ear and whisper tenderly, “I love you.”

She smiles. “I love you, too, Mama.”


Downstairs, I wait while Lars finishes with the boys. It’s quiet in the living room, and I pick up the Denver Post from the coffee table. A headline on the right-hand side of the front page cries out, “Air Crash Kills Three Opry Stars.”

My hands tremble as I pick up the paper and look at the date: Wednesday, March 6, 1963.

Quickly, I scan the story. The crash occurred last night—Tuesday, at around six o’clock in the evening. Those killed included country music singers Cowboy Copas, Hawkshaw Hawkins . . . and Patsy Cline.

“No,” I whisper to the silent room. “Oh, no. Please, no.”

They were in a small airplane. Randy Hughes, Patsy’s manager, was flying the plane.

There was bad weather, a storm. Everyone on board was killed.

I feel hot tears in the back of my eyes. It’s so unfair, I think. Good people, people with so much to live for—they should not die that way.

“Patsy, I’ll miss you,” I say aloud in the silent living room. I make a mental note to keep an eye on Patsy Cline’s performance schedule when I get back to the real world. Perhaps, I think, I will get an opportunity to see her in concert before she dies.

And then I shake my head, feeling a slight fondness for my own silly imagination. You’re making this up, I remind myself. It would make perfect sense for you to invent a plane-crash death for one of your favorite singers. It’s merely a way, I tell myself sternly, to mentally sort out those same false circumstances for your parents. That doesn’t mean it’s actually going to happen, Kitty.

Lars comes down the stairs and quietly joins me on the sofa. I show him the paper. “Patsy Cline died,” I say, my hands trembling.

He nods. “I know. We talked about it before dinner tonight. Don’t you remember?”

I shake my head. “I have no memory of that whatsoever. All I know is, this paper says that one of my all-time favorite singers is dead.”

Lars nods again. “I’m so sorry, love. I know how much you adored her.”

“But I’m making it up, anyway,” I say, brightening. “She’s not going to die. None of this is happening, so it’s of no consequence, really.”

He sighs. “Katharyn . . .”

I squeeze his hand. “You know, in some ways, I wish this was real,” I admit. “There are parts of this world that I wish desperately were real. But other parts . . .” I shake my head, tapping the paper. And thinking of my parents.

He takes my face in his hands and turns it toward his. “How can I help you, Katharyn? How can I convince you that this is real life?”

I break away from him and shake my head. “You can’t. Not any more than Frieda can convince me of the same thing back there.” I am thoughtful for a moment. “Tell me,” I say. “What am I like here most of the time? You say we talked about Patsy earlier this evening; I don’t remember that. But I can’t be like this all the time, can I? Not remembering? Thinking I have another life?”

“You’re not like this all the time,” Lars confirms. “Generally, you do the things you’ve always done. Take care of the children, manage the household. You don’t . . .” He bites his lip. “You rarely mention your parents, Katharyn. When their names come up, you usually change the subject. The kids have asked me about it, and I just say . . .” He shrugs. “I just say that Mama needs some time.”

I nod. I have no memories of that whatsoever. I try to picture myself—Katharyn, that is—coping in this life. Going about her day, caring for her children. Running into her neighbors at the shopping center and knowing their names. Going to the grocery store without having to be reminded of how to get there. It is hard to envision.