Praise for Imaginary Things by Andrea Lochen
“Rarely does a book surprise me. But Imaginary Things caught me completely off-guard! Andrea Lochen writes another beautiful book, filled with vivid scenes, unforgettable characters, and oodles of heart. With a page-turning plot and an utterly unique concept, Imaginary Things entertains, inspires, and provokes thought—a perfect book club pick.”
—Lori Nelson Spielman, bestselling author of The Life List
“Imaginary Things takes place in a Midwest made so vivid and alive, so much its own character, that it becomes thrillingly believable that as Grandma styles the local brides’ hair into ringlets and the next door neighbor may be fighting a pain-killer addiction, a T-rex is running through the back yard. This isn’t just a psychological thriller, but a love story, and Andrea Lochen has put words to a reality that is as imaginary as it is rock solid.”
—Laura Kasischke, bestselling author of In a Perfect World
“Cleverly written with the perfect touch of magic, Imaginary Things will take you on a journey of the unexpected, and leave you contemplating the power of your own mind.”
—Liz Fenton & Lisa Steinke, authors of Your Perfect Life
“If it’s possible to write a witty modern fairy tale about a down-on-her-luck young mother, her erratic ex, and her charming four-year-old boy, Andrea Lochen has done it. Anna is not your typical overwhelmed mom, but her story feels like a friend’s. Imaginary Things reminded me again and again that the act of raising a child is a love story, a test of strength, and a thrill ride.”
—Susanna Daniel, author of Stiltsville
“Have you ever thought about seeing into someone else’s imagination? Neither had I. Then I read Imaginary Things. This is an honest, charming novel that blends reality and magical possibilities, hard struggles and small victories, starting over and daring to dare.”
—Cathy Lamb, author of What I Remember Most
Praise for The Repeat Year by Andrea Lochen
“An intriguing premise and some surprising twists make this an engaging, satisfying read that explores friendship, love, and who we really are when it truly matters. A debut novel that offers a fascinating glimpse into one woman’s opportunity to rewrite her past and change her future.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“For anyone who has ever needed a ‘do over,’ this novel gives hope for change and redemption.”
—RT Reviews
“Lochen’s twist on the theme, with relationships taking center stage, makes this a perfect light summer read…”
—Library Journal
“A clever novel about the myriad ways we second guess and sabotage ourselves in the name of finding happiness.”
—Margaret Dilloway, author of How to be an American Housewife
“Warm, touching, and thoroughly enjoyable… Anyone who has dreamed of getting a second chance at love will not be able to resist this book.”
—Janis Thomas, author of Something New and Sweet Nothings
“A magical realist rom-com of great charm, The Repeat Year reflects with lively wit (and a surprising undertow of poignancy) on questions of fate and karma, chance and choice.”
—Peter Ho Davies, author of The Welsh Girl
“The Repeat Year is a magical, fairy tale-like debut, and I will certainly be on the lookout for Andrea Lochen’s future releases. This book is for anyone who believes in second chances, fate, and the power of true love.”
—Luxury Reading
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel
are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
IMAGINARY THINGS
Astor + Blue Editions
Copyright © 2015 by Andrea Lochen
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by:
Astor + Blue Editions
New York, NY 10036
www.astorandblue.com
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
LOCHEN, ANDREA. IMAGINARY THINGS.—1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1-941286-11-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-941286-13-5 (epdf)
ISBN: 978-1-941286-12-8 (epub)
1. Contemporary Women—Magical Realism—Fiction. 2. Young mother begins to see son’s imaginary friends—Fiction 3. Women’s fiction—Fiction 4. Fantastical elements—Fiction 5. Coming of age—Fiction 6. Women & Family—Fiction 7. Wisconsin I. Title
Jacket Cover Design: Julie Metz
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
For my sister, Steph, the best childhood playmate and co-adventurer in pursuits of make-believe a girl could ask for, and for my parents, Mike and Linda, with my deep love, admiration, and gratitude.
Contents
Praise for Imaginary Things by Andrea Lochen
Copyright
Dedication
Title Page
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Book Club Discussion Questions for Imaginary Things
imaginary things
andrea lochen
CHAPTER ONE
There was something about driving an ancient Dodge Caravan packed with all of my worldly possessions, including my four year-old son and my cat, that reeked of failure and desperation. The back of the minivan was crammed with duffel bags of clothing and cardboard boxes filled with pirate action figures, perfume bottles, matchbox cars and race track pieces, sketchbooks, a remote-controlled dinosaur, mascara wands and eyeliner pencils, markers and stubby crayons, and black garbage bags stuffed with everything else: David’s rocket ship comforter, my flat iron, winter coats, story books, sandwich baggies full of earrings, and half-eaten boxes of Little Debbies that were probably smushed by now. I’d sold my bed, couch, and kitchen table for a fraction of their worth and had given my TV to Stacy for all the times she’d watched David for free. I’d also asked her to hold on to my rocking chair, the one piece of furniture I couldn’t bear to part with, until I could come back for it. I’d taken bags of clothes and toys that David had outgrown plus my old dresses, purses, and shoes to Goodwill, and still the minivan was bursting with the painfully mundane trappings of my life.
If I’d sped past myself on the highway five years ago (and undoubtedly I would have, because this Caravan wasn’t exactly capable of high speeds), I would have looked at the maroon minivan missing its hubcaps, the back windows blocked by lumpy garbage bags and last-minute additions to the trunk like Candy Land, a bag of kitty litter, a dustbuster, and then at the driver—a pretty, twenty-two-year-old girl with dirty blond hair and a perfect nose, sporting glamorous sunglasses, a bleach-stained T-shirt, and frown lines, and thought—where the hell did she go wrong? And then I would’ve zipped past, changed lanes, secure in my own bright future, and forgotten her.
Ha. What a sucker I’d been. What a sucker I still was.
I raised my eyes to the rearview mirror and
caught a glimpse of David rocking back and forth in his booster seat, singing quietly to himself, “The tie-ran-a-suss rex had big big teeth, big big teeth, big big teeth. The tie-ran-a-suss rex had big big teeth when dino-suss roamed the earth.” In her pink crate on the seat next to him, Vivien Leigh was mewling her dissatisfaction, as she had been since we’d left Milwaukee an hour ago.
“How you doing back there, buckaroo?” I called over my shoulder.
He lifted his blond head and squinted thoughtfully. “Me and kitty are singing,” he said.
“I can hear that. Do you need to go potty?”
He squinted again and cocked his head. “No.”
Which meant yes. I popped a stick of watermelon gum into my mouth. “We’ll stop at a gas station in a few minutes and you can go.”
The AC had been wheezing and puffing out only a tepid breeze, so as soon as I pulled off at the next exit, I cracked the windows and the pungent, familiar smell of manure blew in. Yep, definitely not far from our new home now. Strands of my hair whipped across my face, and I wished I could remember where I had packed my brush—probably in one of the duffel bags at the very bottom of the pile. Oh well. Who was there to impress at this Podunk gas station anyway? There were only four pumps, and a homemade sign advertising BAIT! BRATS! HOTDOGS! God, I hoped there were indoor bathrooms.
“Can kitty come out, Mommy?” David asked as I unstrapped him from his booster seat. Sensing freedom was near, Vivien Leigh was yowling for all she was worth.
“No, she’s fine,” I said and held out my arms for him to jump down. “We won’t be long.”
David curled his pointer finger around one of the metal bars of her crate sympathetically. “Do you want food, kitty? Do you want to play? Do you need to go potty?”
I glanced inside her crate. She shot me a haughty look and then, seeming to think better of it, let out a pitiful meow. “Oh, don’t be such a diva.” I manually propped the side windows open an inch.
David looked unconvinced, but he slid into my arms anyway.
Inside, a country music radio station played over the speakers, and the tiled floors looked like they hadn’t been mopped or swept in twenty years. Crystals of salt leftover from winters long ago stuck in the soles of my sandals. David galloped straight for the candy aisle.
“No candy,” I said in my best I’m-not-in-the-mood-so-you-better-not-start voice. The man at the register craned his neck to get a good look at us, but I ducked behind a rack of trucker hats as I steered David’s little body to the restroom. Suspicious of what state the bathroom would be in, I flung the door open and flicked the light on with my elbow. It was pretty much in keeping with the rest of the gas station: sad gray tiles, scrunched-up paper towels on the floor, drippy faucet, toilet seat flipped up to reveal what I hoped was a ring of mildew.
“Don’t touch anything,” I instructed David and guided him inside.
He stood in front of the toilet for a second and then faced me. “Go outside, Mommy.”
“Just go potty, David.”
He frowned. “Go outside. I’m a big boy.” It was his rebuttal to everything lately.
I glanced at my phone—it was three o’clock already, and I’d told Duffy we’d be there around one—and blew out a sigh of resignation. “Fine. But don’t touch anything, and wash your hands when you’re done. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
When the door closed with another click, the cashier’s head darted up again. Unluckily, we had a direct view of each other as I waited outside the bathroom. He was middle-aged with a thick brown beard and a green plaid shirt. I supposed he was a nice enough guy—somebody’s uncle who sent birthday cards with a twenty inside, the best bowler on his team, maybe—but all I felt right then were his eyes crawling all over me, undoubtedly trying to determine the color of my bra and the cut of my underwear. Yuck.
I narrowed my eyes at him and then feigned interest in the odd assortment of items shelved nearby—windshield wiper fluid and ice scrapers right alongside boxes of tampons and bags of Funyuns. My gum was starting to lose its flavor, and I hadn’t heard the toilet flush or the water run yet. I pressed my ear against the door.
“Everything okay in there, buckaroo? Need any help?”
David didn’t respond, but I thought I could hear him singing softly: “When dino-suss roamed the earth…”
I pressed on the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “David!” I called. Was the door stuck or had he locked it? “Let Mommy in, okay?” I was acutely aware that the bearded cashier was watching the whole scene with interest.
“It’s time to go, David. Let me in so we can wash up and then go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.” I jiggled the handle again, but no luck. I squatted down to be at his level and spoke into the crack. “Did you lock yourself in? You need to turn the knob or the little dial thingy, okay?”
“I know how to lock and unlock the door,” David said. It sounded like he was crouching, his mouth hovering near the door jamb.
“Great. Then unlock it so I can come in.” I stood up and swung my purse back over my arm.
“Need any help there, honey?” the cashier called.
I didn’t even bother to look up. “No, thanks. We’re fine.”
“Alrighty then,” he said, heavy on the skepticism. “Let me know if you change your mind.” Like he was worried my son was going to wreak havoc in his precious, pristine gas station bathroom. Right.
“David, unlock the door right now,” I hissed.
“If I unlock the door, can I have candy?”
“No deal. Unlock the door this instant, David.” My tone was stern, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. My four-year-old clearly had the upper hand here. The cashier knew it, I knew it; even David knew it.
There was a long pause, then the sound of water rushing. I could only imagine what he was doing inside. Unscrewing pipes? Playing in the toilet? Licking the floor?
“It’s time to go, David. Please unlock the door for Mommy.” I was so tired. I’d been up until three the night before, packing the minivan and attempting to cover up the holes in the walls and scrub out the carpet stains for our apartment inspection. Not that I’d gotten my deposit back anyway.
The water stopped. “If I unlock the door, can I have animal crackers?”
Fine. Given the circumstances, it seemed a small concession to make. I was starting to worry Vivien Leigh was dehydrating into cat jerky in the minivan. “Yes, if you unlock the door you can have a snack.”
“Animal crackers?”
“Sure. Whatever. Just open the door.”
A few seconds passed and then the door clicked, and I scrambled to open it. David looked up at me with his wide brown eyes.
I gripped his shoulder a little too tightly and peered in the toilet. The water was grungy, but not yellowish at all. “Did you go potty?”
“No, Mommy. I told you I don’t need to go potty.”
“David,” I said, and then stopped, too angry to continue. Count to ten, twenty, a hundred, whatever it takes, Stacy was fond of saying. You can’t take back your words. I bit my lip. “Don’t ever do that again. Now let’s get your snack and get back on the road before Grandma Duffy starts to think we changed our minds.”
Of course there were no animal crackers, so we settled on a dusty package of mini chocolate muffins, which I was pretty sure had been sitting on the shelf a few years past their absent sell-by date, but David wouldn’t be dissuaded. The cashier enjoyed a good close-up of my cleavage in my V-neck as we checked out but then sent me a disapproving look as I handed the muffins over to David. Great, even he thought I was a totally incompetent mother.
I buckled David into his booster seat somewhat gruffly, but enamored with his mini muffins, he didn’t seem to notice. The standoff in the gas station was just another one of the footholds I lost with him every day. Sleeping in his T-ball jersey and socks? Sure, why not? As long as the cleats came off. Eating a Swiss Cake Roll for breakfast? Fine. How different was it really in n
utritional value from a Pop-Tart or doughnut? Burying and then digging up his action figures in various holes in the backyard like a dog? Whatever. As long as it kept him occupied. I was a disaster at discipline because David knew my Achilles heel—I didn’t have any energy left in me to fight.
As I pulled out of the gas station, I did a double take. Leaning against one of the pumps was a blond man wearing a leather jacket, despite the heat. He was much too tall and heavyset to be Patrick, but my pulse accelerated anyway. No matter how much time passed, Patrick would always be my own personal boogeyman, lurking behind every corner.
“Tell me a story,” David said around a peaty mouthful of chocolate muffin.
My head felt like a wasp’s nest—brittle and buzzing. “Not now, buckaroo. Maybe later if you’re good. I need to focus on the road now.”
It would’ve been easier to think of our stay with my grandparents as a fresh start if their home in Salsburg hadn’t been the place I’d been shipped to whenever I needed to recover from my other failures in life. My mom had first sent me to stay with them the summers I was seven and eight, after serious “behavior problems,” as she called them. Then after some spectacular mischief my sophomore year of high school, I was exiled to Salsburg again for the entire duration of the school year. Most recently, when I was eighteen, they took me in for part of my pregnancy.
So the symbolic significance of the fact that I was going there now, after I’d lost my job as a receptionist at Lakeview Dermatology, was not lost on me. Or them, I was sure. But they had always been good about taking me in, dusting me off, and attempting to set me back to rights again. Winston and Duffy Jennings were not stern, preachy types, nor were they permissive, indulgent pushovers. Since my mom had made them grandparents before they were even forty, much too young to be dubbed Granny and Pops, Duffy had insisted I call them by their first names instead. She owned a small beauty salon and over the years had learned to talk auctioneer-fast, pausing rarely to catch her breath, lest someone interrupt her. She called it like she saw it; sometimes she called me a dumb-ass and sometimes she called me a snickerdoodle, and whichever it was, usually rightfully so. Winston was a semi-retired farm equipment mechanic who had adapted to his wife’s loquaciousness by speaking up only when necessary; his silence was occasionally restful but most of the time kind of unnerving.
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