The Bookseller (27 page)

“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.

D
espite 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.

I pull a postcard from my handbag. It shows an aerial view of Honolulu, a range of high-rise hotels on the beach, one taller than the next, like the rows of tall books Frieda and I keep on a bottom shelf in the shop—the art and travel books, those too big for the regular stacks.

This card is the last one I will receive. My mother says as much.

I read and reread the card until finally I hear an announcement that the Los Angeles flight is landing. I rush to Gate 18.

Eagerly, I stand by the window at the gate as the airplane taxis. I can see my parents as they descend the stairs from the airplane and walk across the tarmac. I jump up and down and
wave through the big pane windows. Mother sees me and waves back. She is wearing her navy blue coat and matching hat, which she holds against her head in the wind.

“Kitty!” My mother's hug, after she comes through the doorway, is exuberant. I hold her tightly, breathing in her perfume—Chanel No. 5, which she's worn for as long as I can remember. I wonder if she still feels that rush of warmth when she holds me that I feel when I hold Mitch and Missy. (Who knows how it would feel to hold Michael? Or if I will ever get an opportunity to hold him at all?) I wonder, as my mother and I cling to each other, if holding one's child is always so warm, so powerful—even when one's child is grown. I suspect it is.

Reluctantly, when I sense that people will probably start staring at us soon, I release her. Then it's my father's turn. He's wearing a suit and tie for the special occasion of airline travel, his clothing a bit rumpled now after the overnight ride from Honolulu and the layover in Los Angeles. His buttons press against me as we hug. His shoulders, curved from years of hunching over an assembly-line table, straighten gallantly in my embrace.

We all three hold hands, me in the middle, as we make our way to the baggage claim—childish, I know, but I am more than overjoyed to see them. I've never been as elated in my life to see someone as I am to see my parents at the airport this afternoon.

Suddenly, I wonder if the self in my other life missed my parents this much when they went on this trip. For that matter, did they go on the trip at all? Surely, they must have; it's something they've talked about doing for years, ever since Uncle Stanley and Aunt May moved to Honolulu more than a decade ago.

“Well, that long delay was unexpected,” my mother says as we wait for the luggage to come around on the carousel. “But worse things have happened. Did you hear about Tuesday's Honolulu flight?” She shakes her head. “Not the Russians, but
Mother Nature can be equally as dreadful. I almost didn't get on the plane when we heard the news, but your father reminded me that it's a long boat trip from Hawaii to the mainland.” Her eyes light up, and she changes the subject. “Tom, there's my train case—don't let it get away.” My father reaches for it, and then both of their suitcases come round, one right after the other. “Lucky!” my mother says triumphantly, as my father heaves the large bag. I take the midsize one, and she clutches her train case.

We go outside to hail a taxicab. “We didn't plan to get here so late.” My mother glances at her watch. “Goodness, it's nearly suppertime.”

“It's all right. I expected to have supper with you.” Noticing how tightly I'm gripping her hand, I try to relax, loosening my grasp but not letting go. “But I thought you'd get a few hours to unwind first.” I shrug as a cab pulls up in front of us.

“I hope you didn't plan to cook.” My father hands his bag to the cabbie and holds the taxi's back door open for my mother and me. “Because I want nothing more than a steak at the Buckhorn.” His look is wistful. “You can get all the mai tais you want, but you can't get a good steak to save your life in Hawaii.”

Unlike my mother, with her frequent postcards, my father wrote to me only twice from Honolulu. What his communication lacked in quantity, it made up for in quality; he wrote letters, not postcards, pages and pages describing his favorite holes at the golf course, the hike he took with Uncle Stanley up a mountain called Diamond Head, the surf on the beaches on the north side of the island. And the food; he told me all about the meals he'd been eating, the fruit salads and grilled fish and sweet rolls. In both letters he remarked that while the Hawaiian food was “interesting,” he missed eating “good old-fashioned red meat.”

Now, however, at his mention of going out to eat, I let my face fall slightly. “I have a delicious home-cooked supper planned.”

“Do you now? What a shame.” He shakes his head dramatically as he climbs in after my mother and me, a little smile playing around his lips.

I grin, too. I can't get a joke over on him; he knows me too well. “Now, Dad, you didn't let me finish,” I chide him affably. “
My
supper is planned for tomorrow night.”

He takes my hand. “That's my girl.” Looking up, he informs the driver to take us to his favorite steak house.

T
he Buckhorn Exchange is the oldest restaurant in Denver, dating back to 1893. It is also one of the most famous; there was an article about it in
Life
magazine some years ago. I remember my father proudly showing me the glossy magazine page and saying, “Look, honey, Denver is on the map now!” The editors, I suppose, took note of the Buckhorn's long history, its delicious steak dinners, and its Western ambience. In its small, darkly paneled rooms, old photographs line the walls, and saddles and horse memorabilia are spread about. There are rustic tables and chairs for dining, and comfy velvet sofas in the lounge. It's kitschy, but my dad loves it. “Ah, home!” he says as we are seated at a table in the back room. “Back in the wonderful, wild, wild West.”

Supper is marvelous. We linger over cocktails, followed by two bottles of wine—much of which, I am ashamed to admit, I drink myself. My parents are alive with stories of Hawaii. “It was exceptionally beautiful,” my mother says, her voice hushed, as if describing a cathedral. “I've never seen anything like it. Flowers as big as dinner plates. Palm trees everywhere. Brand-new, high-rise hotels cropping up everywhere in Waikiki. And the ocean . . . you should have seen how blue the ocean was . . .”

“And the girls,” my father says. “You should have seen how gorgeous the girls were.”

“Tom!” Lightly, my mother punches his upper arm.

He's teasing, of course. He's never had eyes for anyone but her. Once, when he and I were watching a beauty pageant together on television, he told me that if Miss America walked into the room and offered to run away with him, he'd send her packing. “Even if she had legs to the moon, she couldn't hold a candle to your mother,” he said, his eyes luminous. “Not when your mother was her age, and not now, either.”

I remember feeling a bit melancholy, wondering if anyone would ever adore me like that.

After dinner, my father has the hostess call another cab to take us home. The wine has gone to my head; vaguely, I hear my dad saying something like, “We're living it up—this is the last night of vacation!” I climb into the backseat of the taxicab, sitting in the middle. How safe I feel, snuggled between my parents, and how easy it is to nod off in the secure little haven that they create for me.

A
nd then I'm singing to my children.

Lay thee down now and rest . . . May thy slumber be blessed . . .

I'm in the boys' room, a space I haven't previously occupied in the dreams. The room is, predictably, painted blue, somewhere between the hue of the sky and that of a king's royal robe. Side by side are twin beds, with blue-and-red-plaid coverlets on them and matching shams that are currently on the floor, as the boys are in their beds and ready for sleep. Above Mitch's bed are several small framed prints of ships and trains—no doubt painstakingly selected by yours truly—as well as an assortment of crayon sketches on the same subjects, most likely done in his own hand, taped beside the framed works. His bedside table is piled with picture books; his bed is crammed with stuffed animals of every sort. In the center of the bed, Mitch sits in rumpled splendor, his covers already disheveled despite the fact that he has likely just been tucked in.

Michael's side of the room holds nothing. No artwork on the walls, no toys on the bed, no books to look at if he wakes early and can't get back to sleep. The only thing on his bedside table is his eyeglasses case. He is sitting up very straight in bed, his pillow carefully arranged behind him, his covers neatly pulled up
on his lap. His eyes without his glasses are open but unfocused, and he is swaying slightly, silently.