The Bookseller (16 page)

One on each side of him, like pint-size, protective parents, Missy and Mitch walk the third child across the room. Their hair color is identical; their three heads are at exactly the same height. I watch as they quietly climb the stairs.

Lars stares at me without speaking. His blue eyes are narrowed; for the first time ever in this world, I see a blaze of anger in them. The eyes that focus on mine are unblinking, and I realize, quite abruptly, that Lars's fury is not aimed at the child who has just left the room.

It is aimed at me.

“Katharyn,” he says finally. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

A
nd again, before I can react—it's over. I am back in my apartment.

It's dark and silent when I awake. I look at the little green-lit alarm clock beside my bed. Four in the morning. Aslan purrs contentedly beside me.

I turn over, adjust the covers, and tell myself to go back to sleep. “Just a silly dream,” I murmur to Aslan. “These are just dreams. They don't mean anything.”

But they are so
real
. I feel like I truly experience everything in that world. I know precisely how snug the quilted robe felt, wrapped around my body. I can recall the touch of Lars's kiss, the warmth and softness of his mouth on mine. The snow on the ground outside the window—I see it in my mind's eye. I can still taste the coffee in my mouth.

I can see those three children.

The two delightful ones. And the frightening one.

I shake my head in the darkness. That's not fair, I tell myself. You have no idea why that child acted that way. True, something was off with him. Something was not right in that boy's head. You could tell by looking at him, by how his eyes did not meet yours. By how he seemed to lean to one side, as if he were having trouble holding himself up.

And that scream. I have never heard anything like that scream.

But the child—like Lars, like Mitch and Missy—is a figment of my imagination. All of this is nothing but my head playing tricks on me. If I had even the slightest doubt of that before, I have absolutely none now.

Because what mother could completely fail to remember her own child? What kind of mother would I be—if I actually was a mother, and that world was real—if I had somehow forgotten that Michael even existed?

It does not occur to me to question whether Michael is my child. I know—have always known, since the dreams started—that in the imaginary world, Mitch and Missy are mine. And I know now that Michael is, too. I don't know how I know these things, but I do. In that world, that world that doesn't exist, those three children are mine. Lars's and mine. And they are all the same age; they are triplets. I am certain of it.

I put my hand out and stroke Aslan's warm fur. I feel his solid weight under my hand. I ground myself in his simple authenticity.

I must put that other world to rest. I must sleep it off.

I close my eyes and fall into slumber, deep and blackened.

L
ater at the shop, I am paging through the newspaper while Frieda runs errands at lunchtime. Skimming past the latest news about the Communist takeover in Cuba—a Senate subcommittee has determined that at least one State Department official should have known, and should have warned his superiors long before—I move on to the sports section. Great news: after four days of delays causes by torrential rainstorms, game six of the World Series finally happened last night in San Francisco. The Giants won, tying the series at three games to three. Greg must
be over the moon, I think, scanning the details of the game. I begin picturing the book I can write for him about this game, about how the fans in San Francisco—Greg included, of course—were properly rewarded, after days of patiently waiting for the game to take place.

After a while, I put the paper aside. Impulsively, I pick up the telephone and dial Aunt May's number. Long distance to Honolulu. Frieda will have my head for making a long-distance personal call at the shop, but I don't care.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Mother asks, upon hearing my voice.

I laugh a little. “Nothing at all,” I reply. “I just miss you, Mother. I can't wait to see you.”

“I can't wait to see you, either,” she says. “This trip is wonderful, it truly is—but I guess I am finding that I am a homebody.” She pauses. “I miss home. And I miss you.”

The bell over the door jangles, and a customer comes into the shop. It is a woman in a blue hat and suit, not unlike those I was wearing in the photograph in Lars's office. Jeepers, everyone wants to be Jackie Kennedy, don't they?

Holding the woman's hand is a little girl, perhaps a bit older than my children in the dreams. The girl has blond braids; she wears a pink dress and a matching cardigan with pearl buttons down the front. She gazes to one side, then down at the floor.

I smile and wave at the customer, and she nods. She begins to browse, the child in tow. I turn back to the telephone. “Well, your trip is almost over,” I say to my mother. “And it sounds like you're ready to come home.”

She laughs. I love my mother's laugh; it is the most delightful sound in the world. With its quick up-and-down tones, it's like listening to a whole host of bells from different churches, ringing as one.

“Yes, I'm ready,” she replies. “Although I can't say I'm looking forward to winter, after being here. And neither is your father. But we'll weather the storm. Or storms, I ought to say. It will be good to be back in our own house, with our own things.” I hear a rustle, as if she has shifted the receiver to her other ear. “Are you watering my plants?”

My mother is not much of a green thumb, but she does have several houseplants—a spider, an ivy, and a philodendron—and I am their official caretaker until she returns. “Twice a week,” I tell her. “They're all thriving.”

“Good girl, Kitty.”

I hear a crash, and then a sharp, long wail from the stacks where the woman and child are. “Mother, I've got to go. I have a customer.” Before hanging up, I add, “I'm counting the days, Mother. I miss you so.”

After we ring off, I head for the stacks. The child is still crying, a high-pitched scream that reminds me of the one I heard in my dream the night before. She is seated on the floor, the child, legs crisscrossed awkwardly as if they belonged to a flopping frog instead of a girl. She is rocking from side to side. In front of her, about a dozen books are strewn on the floor. The books are the former elements of a pyramidal display I'd set up a few days ago—rather awkwardly, I realize now—on an open shelf at the end of an aisle. There are a number of copies of
Silent Spring
, which arrived at the end of September as expected, and another up-and-coming title, the near-future thriller
Seven Days in May
, in which the military takes over after a fictional president signs a disarmament treaty with the Soviet Union. Both of these books are attracting a lot of attention right now, and my objective in setting up the display had simply been to make them easier for my customers to locate—and purchase, of course. I hadn't considered the precarious nature of the arrangement.

Her back to me, the woman leans over her child and says, “It's all right. Please stop. Please, just stop.”

The child screams more loudly.

I stand still, not sure whether or not to interrupt. The woman, apparently sensing my presence, turns slightly and gives me a pained look. “I am so sorry,” she says loudly over the din. She begins picking up the books, which makes the child shriek with more fervor and clutch her mother's arm. The books the woman has gathered spill once more onto the rug.

“Don't worry about the books,” I say. “Is there anything I can do?”

The woman shakes her head. “She—they—she knocked them over accidentally, and I think the noise startled her.” Her lips are pursed. She wraps her arms around the child, and after a few moments the girl seems to settle down. She closes her eyes and leans her head against the woman's shoulder.

“I ought not to have come in,” the mother says, almost in a whisper. “It's just that we were having such a good day.
She
was having such a good day. And I thought . . . I only thought, for a minute . . . there was a novel I wanted to find, something new by Katherine Ann Porter; it was recommended to me. And I thought, just quickly . . .” Her voice trails off.

“You must mean
Ship of Fools
,” I reply. “I've read it. It's quite good, everything the reviewers say it is. I have a copy over at the counter.” I wave my hand in that direction. “I can wrap it for you . . . just let me check the price . . .”

The woman shakes her head. “I think it's best if I leave,” she said. “Perhaps I can come back another day.” She heaves her too-large child into her arms; the girl collapses into them like a rag doll and wraps her bare legs around her mother's waist. “I'm sorry about the books on the floor,” the mother calls over her shoulder.

I rush ahead of her to open the door. The girl is playing with her mother's hat, still moaning softly. “Is she . . . I know it's terribly rude of me to ask, but is your daughter . . .” I stop talking, because I don't know what else to say.

The woman gives me a sharp look. “She's autistic,” she says. And then she strides through the doorway and does not look back.

A
utistic.

I have heard of that, I think. I know it is some sort of mental disorder. But I am not sure exactly what it means.

Luckily, I have a convenient facility at my fingertips for finding out.

The store is silent as I head for the psychology section. This is not a big section; we are an all-purpose shop, but a small one, and we carry only the basics in most nonfiction. Only those items that might appeal to the general reader. We can order anything, and often do for our regulars. But as for the stacks, we keep them stocked with what appeals mainly to the browser, the woman reader, the casual intellect. Nothing too studious.

I scan the psychology volumes. Unlike our fiction section, which is organized by author, Frieda and I arrange the nonfiction shelves in our store by category—such as psychology—and then by book title. Over the years we have learned that customers are more likely to find what they seek there by title rather than author, because the names of many nonfiction authors are unknown to the general reading public.

I select a book entitled
A Basic Introduction to Modern Psychology
. Turning to the index, I locate the topic in question and find a few paragraphs that suit my purpose.

Fair enough. Sounds like Michael, and like the little girl in my store today.

The next line, however, stops me in my tracks and leaves my heart cold.

M
ama.”

I am startled into consciousness.

“
Mama
.” This time, the tone is more insistent.

I turn my head and see him. The frightening little boy. Michael. I attempt to meet his eye, but he refuses to look directly at me. Nonetheless, I can tell that behind the glasses, his eyes are blue—like Lars, like Mitch and Missy. Evidently, no one in this dream world inherited my hazel eye color. I don't know if it's the thick lenses or if Michael's eye color is simply not as saturated as that of the others—but in either case, behind the glasses, his eyes seem cloudy, unfocused.

He shakes my shoulder. His long, thin fingers dig into me; it feels like tiny knife blades burrowing in my flesh.

I reach up and rub my shoulder. “Ow. Michael, that hurt.”

He ignores this. “Mama, I was saying your name and you weren't answering.”

“I'm sorry,” I tell him, although I don't feel sorry at all.

I look around. We are sitting on a bench near a playground, with a small lake to our left. I swivel my head, looking for the mountains to the west—that is the best way to orient oneself in Denver. Finding them, I trace directions for the nearby landscape. The lake is north of us. To the east and the west, I see
residential streets, rows of houses. To the south is a barren field, patched with snow, and another, equally small lake beyond it. I can barely make out the tall chain-link fences around a cluster of tennis courts at the southern lake's far end. In the distance, a red-brick clock tower rises above the trees.

I realize we are in Washington Park. The clock tower belongs to South High School, the secondary school from which I graduated more than twenty years ago. The school is across the street from the southern edge of the park; we students used to walk across to the park for our PE classes, to run laps on the roadway that winds through the park or take practice shots on the tennis courts.

It is probably a good five or six miles from here to the house on Springfield Street that I share with Lars and the children in my imaginary life. But it is only a few blocks from the park to my parents' house on York Street. The photograph hanging in the hallway of the Springfield Street house—the picture of my parents, with me as a baby, picnicking—was taken in this park. I haven't been here in years, but I spent many a happy hour in Washington Park as a child, both at this playground and swimming in the lake. Smith Lake, it's called; when we were kids, the neighborhood children and I would scare each other with tales of sea monsters who lived in Smith Lake. “Don't go out too far,” we'd tease each other. “A one-eyed monster will get you.”