The Bookseller

by Cynthia Swanson

I spend half an hour waiting in the reception area. I am beginning to wonder about picking up Mitch and Missy at school. I know now, in the way I abruptly know things that previously baffled me in this world, that fetching the children from school is my responsibility. I also know that school lets out at three o’clock, an hour that is quickly approaching. Will I come this far and have to leave, simply because I must go back to my duties?

  But finally another secretary arrives and nods at me. We make our way past a typing pool to a corner office. FRIEDA GREEN, PRESIDENT, it says on the door.

  “Miss Green,” the secretary says, pressing a button on her desk. “I have Mrs. Andersson.”

  It seems an eternity, and then finally I hear Frieda’s voice, crackly through the intercom. “Send her in.”

  Frieda is standing, facing outward toward the windows behind her desk. She turns when I enter.

  In some ways she looks the same, exactly as she did when I last saw her—which was yesterday, after all. Her thick, dark hair is teased up slightly, to give it more lift, then flipped under becomingly. Her heavy brows still arch in a way that makes her look like she’s concentrating even when she’s relaxed, just as they always have. Her mouth is outlined precisely with the bright red lipstick she favors.

  She is dressed more formally than she would be for our shop, of course. She wears a smart, crisp suit in beige wool, with a short jacket, a straight skirt, and a silky purple blouse under it. Large silver hoops in her ears and an abstract silver pin in her lapel give her outfit just the slightest edge—businesslike, but still creative. I find myself nodding slightly, looking at her. Her attire makes perfect sense. It’s exactly how Frieda would play it, in this corporate life.

  She looks me up and down. Compared to Frieda’s chic ensemble, I realize that my getup—plain navy-blue dress, low heels, no jewelry save for the wedding set on my left hand—makes me look outmoded. But not fun, artsy, who-cares-what-anyone-thinks outmoded, the way that Kitty would dress. More conventional-housewife outmoded, the way Katharyn would.

  Well, I think, I can’t control everything in this world, but my wardrobe is one thing I can certainly transform. That restrained, sensible clothing collection in the big closet at home is long overdue for an overhaul. I resolve to do something about it this weekend.

  “What brings you here?” Frieda asks finally, sweeping her hand toward the chair in front of her desk.

  I sit nervously, perching my purse in my lap. “Frieda, I just . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t even know how to explain it,” I say softly. “You’d never believe it, and none of this seems real to me—not yet, anyway. So I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  She sits across from me and puts her chin in her hands, a gesture she’s always made when she’s interested in what’s in front of her. “None of this seems real,” she repeats pensively. “What exactly does that mean?”

  I sigh. “Tell me if I have this straight. In this world, I’m married to Lars Andersson, I have six-year-old triplets, and I live in a big house in Southern Hills. And you run half a dozen bookstores, and have God-knows-how-many employees, and you are expanding all over the region. And you’ve closed our little shop on Pearl Street. Do I have all that right?”

  She regards me with disdain. “That sounds about right, Kitty.”

  “And nobody calls me Kitty anymore,” I go on. “Lars calls me Katharyn, and so does everyone else I’ve met since I became a married woman. And the only people who really knew me and loved me in that other life, the life I had before, are you . . . and my parents . . .” I feel tears stinging my eyes, and I blink them back.

  Frieda softens her gaze. “I’m sorry about your parents,” she says. “I did hear.”

  “But you didn’t come!” I burst out. “Their funeral. You didn’t come.”

  She looks away, toward the window. “I sent flowers,” she says, rather faintly.

  “Flowers?” I am incredulous. “My parents were killed in an airplane crash, and your response is to send flowers?”

  She hangs her head, just a tiny bit. “I didn’t think you’d want me at the service.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I fish in my purse and retrieve a hankie, wiping my nose. I am furious with myself for getting this emotional, but I can’t help it. “You’re my best friend, Frieda. Why wouldn’t I want you at my parents’ funeral?”

  “Kitty.” She stands up and reaches forward, across the desk, almost as if she plans to take my hand in hers. I hold my breath, waiting. But then Frieda’s look changes, becomes hard again, and it seems as if some moment, some potential, has passed—before it had a chance to fully form itself.

  She straightens her shoulders and rather hastily reseats herself. “You walked out on me,” she says. “You were the one who left, Kitty.” She looks out the window again. “Not me.”

  I shake my head. “Why would I do that?”

  She eyes me skeptically. “You know perfectly well why.” For emphasis, she taps her desk with her long, manicured nails. “At least, you know the reason you gave.”

  I am completely stumped. “I don’t remember,” I say softly. “I don’t know the reason, Frieda . . . but whatever it was, I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding. Yep.” She presses her lips together. “That’s quite a way to put it, Kitty.”

  The intercom buzzes, and the secretary’s voice comes through, saying something I don’t quite catch. “All right,” Frieda responds, leaning toward the intercom. “Put it through.” She looks up at me. “Excuse me a moment while I take this call.” I start to rise, and she waves her hand dismissively. “You can stay,” she tells me. “It’s just business.” She eyes me pointedly, and I lower my gaze to my lap.

  While she is speaking into the telephone, I force myself to try to remember. What am I doing here? What happened? What am I not remembering?

  Trying to concentrate, I close my eyes.

  Chapter 32

  Kitty.”

  I open my eyes, but I cannot see anything. Wherever I am, it’s light—very light. There is too much brightness, too much glare, to make sense of anything else.

  “Kitty, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  I’m not all right, I’m not all right. I’m saying it, but Frieda is not hearing it. I cannot focus on her. I cannot make out her features. I feel her grip on my shoulder, but my mind cannot make my muscles move. I’m unable to reach up and clasp Frieda’s hand with my own.

  “Kitty, listen to me. You have to listen to me.”

  Vaguely, as if from far away, I hear myself say, “I’m listening, Freeds.”

  “We need to have this conversation,” she tells me. “We need this.” Her fingers, familiar and soothing, gently massage my shoulder. “Back there, back in the real world—you and I need to talk.”

  I think about the day, in our shop, when Frieda tried to convince me that my life with Lars and the children is false, and that my life as Kitty is the real one. I wonder that she could have been so convincing that day, yet today she is saying just the opposite.

  But of course I invented Frieda that day in the shop, didn’t I? In the other world, I can invent a Frieda who is as credible as I like.

  For that matter, I can give my imaginary Frieda any qualities I want. She can be as loving, as kind and warmhearted, as I choose.

  In the made-up world, Frieda can be anyone I want her to be.

  “Are you following me, Kitty?” Frieda’s voice is urgent. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”

  Chapter 33

  Then I am back in her office. Frieda is still on the telephone; she has turned slightly away from me, the cord wrapped around her waist. Everything is in perfect focus. I can see little glints of sunlight on the plastic of the coiled wire. I can hear her murmur into the phone, an occasional harsh note as she raises her voice slightly at something the other party says. I can smell her sharp perfume-and-smoke scent.

  And sitt
ing there, looking at her back turned toward me, it comes to me. I remember it all.

  It was about four years ago, the spring of 1959. Sisters’ Bookshop was at a crossroads. Business was slow; we were behind on our rent and our loan payments. We needed to go out of business completely or move or do something. In my other life, my made-up life as Kitty, this was just before my small inheritance from my grandfather kept us afloat. But in this world, at the point I am remembering, Frieda and I did not yet know that money would be available soon.

  Instead, Frieda had begun to talk—as she did in my other life for many years before we made a decision—about closing our store on Pearl Street and opening in a shopping center. But we didn’t have the funds for a move like that.

  One day she sat me down and put it to me straight. “You need to ask Lars for the money. It’s the only way we’re going to be able to finance a move.” She lit a Salem and breathed smoke toward me. “He’s got to be good for something, right?”

  I smiled. “He’s good for plenty,” I said. “But I don’t know if he wants to front our business.” I shrugged. “He’s always said this is my thing, not an Andersson thing.”

  Frieda rolled her eyes. “Hmm. I’ve always been led to believe that marriage is a partnership.” Her eyes were dark, challenging me.

  I remember that I shrugged again. A partnership? Yes, Lars and I were partners—when it came to the children and what church to attend and who to invite to a dinner party. But not when it came to business. His business was his, and mine was mine. It was something we’d established long ago, when we first became engaged. It was something we were in complete agreement about. “I don’t know . . .” I stammered.

  “Just suck it up and ask him, Kitty.”

  So I did. Surprisingly, he took it better than I thought he would. “I’m interested,” he’d said, sipping his late-evening Scotch. “Especially if it’s what you want . . . if it will make you happy.”

  If it was what I wanted? I had no idea what I wanted. I had no idea how to be happy. I had some vague feeling that if everyone else was happy—Frieda, Lars, the children—then I would be happy, too.

  Frieda clearly was not pleased with the things the way they were. But if we changed things, if we did what she wanted—well, she would be happy then, wouldn’t she? I could do that for her, I reasoned, by getting Lars to finance this big move of ours.

  Lars seemed fine, Lars seemed happy. But he was—he is—like that. His optimism, his utter conviction that when he’d met me, he struck gold—those things seemed to keep him going, no matter what was happening. It was a trait I admired, but never quite managed to emulate.

  And the children? Well. Young children are always happy, aren’t they? My children were two and half then, no longer babies but not full-fledged kids yet, either. They seemed fine—most of the time, anyway. Mitch and Missy were talking, running, climbing. Looking at books, learning to use their imaginations.

  Michael was . . . I admitted to myself that I wasn’t sure how or what Michael was. I knew he wasn’t like the other children. He spoke only a few words. He sat in a corner. He played alone, the same simple games over and over. Neat stacks of blocks or books, toy cars lined up in a row. He didn’t look at anyone. He kept his head down.

  But that was all right, wasn’t it? That was normal for some kids. We’d had Jenny for over a year, and she was the expert, wasn’t she? If something was wrong, why then, surely she would tell me.

  Remembering this years later, knowing what I know now, I feel a hot flush of fury with myself. How did I fail to see it? How could I have turned a blind eye?

  What kind of mother was I, anyway?

  Nonetheless, in those days, happiness for all was my goal. So I’d nodded at Lars. “A new store, a new future. It’s what I want,” I told him.

  “Well, then.” He rose from the sofa. “We should all get together and talk—you, Frieda, and me. Let’s have her over for dinner sometime soon. After the kids are in bed, we can talk business.”

  I’d smiled gratefully and put my arms around him. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear.

  The next morning I woke early and dressed quickly, eager to get to the shop and tell Frieda what Lars had said. I remember getting ready to leave the house, an animated smile on my face as I impatiently searched for my keys and gathered a few books and some office supplies into my arms.

  And then I’d felt a small, tentative tap on my shoulder. It was Alma.

  “Por favor,” she’d said softly, glancing furtively toward the stairway, toward the children’s rooms, where Jenny was with the triplets. “Por favor, Señora Andersson, there is something I must tell you.” She’d tightened her fists, pressing them against the sides of her body, against her clean, crisp uniform. “I can keep silent no longer. Señora, I must tell you about Jenny.”

  Now I stare at Frieda, sitting in her big office on the eleventh floor, the telephone pressed against her ear. “Yes, I agree,” she says into the receiver. “Yes, but I think we need to talk further about that.” She pauses, glancing at me. “Look, can I call you back in ten? I have someone in my office.”

  After she hangs up, I say quietly, “I remember now.”

  She laughs. “How very convenient,” she says drily.

  I bite my lip. “I’m sorry!” I cry. “I’m sorry this sounds so ridiculous to you.” I feel a bitter taste in my mouth. “Though I also remember now why I have no reason to apologize to you.”

  “Oh, really?” She leans forward and presses both hands against the desktop. “You were the one who walked away. You were the one who left me in all that hot water.”

  “I had to walk away,” I say to Frieda. “My child needed me. My family needed me.”

  She shakes her head and reaches for the pack of Salems on her desk. “You made it all sound worse than it was. The truth is, you welcomed an excuse to leave. You weren’t happy. All you could think about was the time you were spending away from them. You said—” She pulls a cigarette from the pack and tightens her lips around it as she lights it. “You said the store was a waste of your time.” She blows smoke in my direction. “Do you remember that, Kitty?”

  Yes. I remember that, too. And I remember why I said it. Because Frieda was the one who’d found Jenny for me. Frieda was the one who’d convinced me that Jenny, with all her credentials, was the right person to watch the children.

  I remember telling Frieda that it was her fault that Michael was the way he was. “If I’d been at home, he would have been just fine!” I shouted. “If I’d never hired Jenny—that awful woman that you found, Frieda—if I’d never done that, everything would be different now. But you—you convinced me to stay here at the shop, you found Jenny to watch my children, and I trusted you, I trusted you, Frieda. I trusted you to help me do the right thing. But it was all wrong. And now look at what’s happened to him.” I sat down on my stool behind the counter, flushed and trembling. Then I took a breath and looked up at Frieda.

  “I want out,” I said firmly. “I don’t care what you do, but I want out. This isn’t working for me—and let’s be honest, it’s not working for you, either. You figure this out, Frieda. It’s your fault, not mine. So you get out of this mess, if you can. Go on and do all the big things you want to do with this business. I don’t care.”

  “How can I do that?” she challenged me. “I have no money, Kitty.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “That,” I told her, “is not my problem.”

  It wasn’t my problem—I made sure of it. I got out, and I stayed out. I remember it now. The money I inherited, not long after Frieda and I quarreled—in this world, that money did not go toward saving Sisters’ Bookshop. What did I do with it? I shrug, and then it comes to me. I used it to hire a lawyer to get me out of the Sisters’ mess—that’s where most of it went. And the remainder? I smile wryly. That nice sofa and the other fine furniture in the living room on Springfield Street—that’s where the rest of my grandfather’s money went, in this wor
ld.

  Frieda had strode to Sisters’ front windows and looked out on empty Pearl Street for a few seconds. Then she turned back to me. “What will you do with yourself?” she asked. But not nicely, not like she actually wanted to know. Her tone was mocking. “Mrs. Housewife, huh? Well, fine. It’s what you always wanted, anyway.”

  “It is not what I always wanted. It’s just what happened. It’s just how things turned out.” I stood up, wringing my hands. “It turned on a dime, Frieda. For God’s sake, I almost didn’t even meet him. The poor man could have died.”

  She snickered. “Yes. Quite a tale. You ought to call the newspapers. It would make a charming human-interest story.”

  “With what ending?” I asked softly. “How would it end?”

  “Well.” She turned away again, refusing to look at me. “I guess we’re finding that out, aren’t we?”

  Now, seated across from me in her office, Frieda glares at me. “You left me with nothing,” she says. “Next to nothing. A pile of bills. A few hundred books in our inventory. Some miscellaneous store equipment. And not a dime to move forward with.”

  I look down at my lap. “You could have asked your parents for help.” I tentatively raise my eyes to meet hers.

  “How could I do that?” She presses her lips together. “How could I ask them? How could I go to them, tail between my legs, and admit failure? I hadn’t . . .” She looks out the plate-glass window, then back at me. “I hadn’t made a success of the bookstore. I hadn’t done anything right, in their eyes. I hadn’t . . .” She hesitates, and then adds, “I hadn’t married. I hadn’t found another . . . person . . . to share my life with.”

  I wait for her to go on. But she is silent, her eyes downcast. She taps her cigarette against the ashtray on her desk, and a few ashes float in the air for a moment before settling into the porcelain dish.

  I think about Jim Brooks, the man Frieda told me about in the other world, the imaginary world. He sounds so right for where she is in her life—in that life. Well, of course, I think. Naturally, I would invent a happy ending for Frieda, in that happy-ending world.