The Bookseller(87)

And yet a part of me longs for it. A part of me is desperate to know what that feels like. What it feels like to truly be me—the me who resides all the time in this world.

“And have I . . . how long have I been . . . acting this way?” I ask.

He furrows his brow. “A few weeks,” he says. “You seemed fine for a while after . . . it happened . . . We had the kids’ birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas . . . Looking back now, I thought you were fine, but maybe you were just going through the motions, just doing whatever you could to cope, to get through those events. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks after New Year’s that you . . .” He trails off.

I nod. This makes sense to me. I’d have needed every bit of emotional strength I had to get through the children’s birthday and the holidays without my parents. I would have put myself into whatever robotic state it took. Only when those days were over, when I was faced with a brand-new year and nothing on the horizon to look forward to, would I have allowed myself to confront my despair.

It was then, I realized, that my imagination would have taken over.

Next, I ask Lars, “Can you tell when I’m . . . when I have gone into my other world?”

“Usually I can tell,” Lars says. “It often happens just before you drift off to sleep at night, or else early in the morning—I sense that you’re awake, but you’re not really conscious, not really present in the moment. Sometimes it happens during the daytime hours. Your eyes get sort of dreamy and lost . . . usually it’s only for a few moments, and then you pop out of it and return to your normal self.”

I laugh. “Those few moments here can mean days have passed, in my other life.”

Lars doesn’t respond to this. Instead, what he asks takes me completely by surprise. “What’s it like there—in your other life?”

And so I tell him. I tell him about my apartment, my cozy home that I share only with Aslan. I explain about Greg Hansen, how when we started he could barely work out even simple sentences on a page. I speak of the progress Greg has made since then, and how much I enjoy working one-on-one with him. I mention how much fun I have writing books for Greg. Books about baseball, about Willie Mays and the San Francisco Giants.

Lars nods. “Well, you are an expert on that topic.”

I give a hoot of laughter. But Lars’s face is serious. “You’re joking, right?” I ask him. “I know nothing about baseball, except what I’ve learned since I began writing for Greg.”

“Katharyn.” Lars is smiling good-naturedly. “You know everything about baseball. You became interested in baseball because I’m interested in it. And so are the children. We all followed the World Series last fall as if our entire future depended on it.” He looks at me in astonishment. “You really don’t remember that?”

I shrug. “I really don’t remember that.”

He shakes his head. “All right,” he says. “Tell me more about your other life.”

I talk about my parents’ joyous homecoming, our long, relaxed dinners together. I smile fondly as I tell him about my conversation with my mother while she knit in the afternoon sunlight at my apartment.

And while I am telling it, I realize that—from the perspective of this world, at any rate—those moments are nothing short of a gift. They are an extraordinary gift that my mind has bequeathed me. With the help of my active imagination, I have been given the opportunity to spend a little time, just a little more time, with my parents, with Frieda—and even with Greg, learning through my experience with him who I want to be, what I want for myself.

I tell Lars about Sisters’, which of course he knew about, but not in the way it is now. I tell him about Frieda’s and my endless pots of coffee at the shop, our lunches at the sandwich place down the street, going out for drinks after we close up—and the conversations we’ve been having. I talk about the opportunity to close up Pearl Street and open in a shopping center—and my reluctance to do so, as well as Frieda’s enthusiasm for the prospect. “Things are changing there, no doubt about it,” I say. “But even so, it’s . . . well, it’s peaceful there.” I shrug. “Yes, Frieda and I are at a crossroads. But it’s an amicable one. I’m going to . . .” I feel foolish telling him this, because it doesn’t fit Katharyn as well as it fits Kitty. “I’m thinking about looking for a job as a tutor or reading specialist,” I say. “I’m finding that I love that kind of one-on-one work. That’s the part I miss about teaching.” I sigh, hearing the lilt of happiness and enthusiasm in my voice. “And I want to write books for children,” I go on. “For children like Greg. And any other child . . .” I am thinking of Michael. “Any other child who struggles to learn.”

“Do you now?” He smiles at this—and not because he’s amused. He actually seems impressed. “Tutoring. And writing. These are things you’d really like to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Here, in this world, they don’t seem possible, do they?”

“Why not?” He sits up straighter and takes my hand. “You’re so bright, Katharyn. You handle things with such determination. At least, you did, until . . .” He presses his lips together. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”