All the Time in the World (10 page)

I close my eyes then because I don't have a free hand to block my ears with.

June, two years before

I meet Patrick for the first time a few months after I started working for Gretchen and Scotty. I have only seen Scotty a handful of times before this, but they need an extra hand at Matt's fourth birthday party. There are twenty-five kids in attendance and twice as many adults.

Patrick's first words to me come as I'm refilling one of the ice buckets.

“I hear you're the new babysitter. Thank God! I was afraid we'd have a problem if you looked like the stereotypical au pair—you know, a tall, blonde Norwegian model—but you don't! So we're all good. I'm Uncle Patrick.”

I don't know what he expects me to say to that, so I continue on with my task. He might be waiting for some witty banter, or at the very least for me to blush at his attentions. Instead, I pretend that the exchange has not taken place, that I have not, in fact, met perfect Gretchen's jackass younger brother-in-law. I don't want him to exist in a family as lovely as this one.

Apparently, though, he does exist, and we are having a conversation. He leans one Nautica-clad hip against the counter and points to Jillian, whose name I can't yet keep straight in my head.

“What's her deal? You know a lot of these women, right?”

“She has twins who go to school with Matthew,” I say, slugging the bucket, heavy with new ice, up into my arms. “Excuse me.”

“Need any help?” he asks, when I am most of the way out the door.

“I'm good,” I call back. I take the bucket over to the drink table and start placing new cans and bottles inside. Adults must come to birthday parties on the Upper East Side for the booze. Gretchen and Scotty have encouraged me multiple times to partake, but I can't bring myself to dip in.

Gretchen comes over to refill a bowl with tiny hot dog buns. She nudges my arm with hers.

“I see you've met Uncle Patrick,” she says. “Charming, isn't he?”

“I'm sure there are many women who think so,” I say, trying to squeeze the last two Perriers into the bucket.

“Just wait until he gets another beer or two in him. I'm sure he'll tell you the story of how Scotty and I met. He loves that story. Tells it at every family holiday dinner after the kids go to bed. Just remember, I came to my senses!” She hurries away to check on the next round of macaroni-and-cheese bites (which come out on kid-sized porcelain spoons) before I can get the story out of her.

Sure enough, Patrick ends up on the couch (with his third or seventh beer) toward the end of the party, with George asleep next to him. He watches me clean up wrapping paper and stuff it into a trash bag.

“What do you do, Charlotte? I mean, when you're not maintaining house and brood with Gretchen and my bro.”

“Oh, you know. Not too much. Bet on the ponies, organize underground poker tournaments, that kind of thing.”

Patrick fixes me with a look like I'm suddenly interesting and not merely the only one available for an idle chat.

“Really?”

“No. Not really.”

“Gretchen said you were some kind of singer, or something.” I'll take that as a testament to his listening skills. “So, what, you frequent the late-night lounges? The punk clubs?”

“If I did, we'd surely have met before now,” I say, picking up shreds of gift wrap. Some little girl went bananas with the curling ribbon.

“Did Gretchen ever tell you that we used to go out?”

“Who did?” I ask.

“Me and Gretchen.”

This is surprising, but I continue stuffing paper into the garbage bag.

“It was hot,” he says, gunning for my reaction now. “Two dates. Two nights together.” I look at him then, and he raises his eyebrows. Ew. “We pretty much set the room on fire wherever we went together.”

“And then she married Scotty?” I say, as I pluck tiny bits of tissue paper out of the Persian rug.

“They met one morning at brunch. I had to leave a little early, and I guess he must have told some crazy stories. Next thing I knew, they were going steady.” He finishes his beer and leans over to kiss George's cheek, which is a sweet moment. The many women who fall at his feet must cling to moments like that. I think he's going to get up, but he doesn't.

“Where were you going?” I ask him. “When you left brunch, I mean?”

“You've already heard this story,” he accuses me.

“I don't think she has, but she can probably guess,” says Scotty, carrying two additional trash bags out of the kitchen.

“Hey, we never said we were exclusive,” says Patrick. “C'est la vie, I suppose.”

“Charlotte, you didn't happen to see how many Shirley Temples Matthew had, did you?” Scotty asks. “He's back in our bathroom with his head in the toilet.”

“No, I'm sorry,” I say. “Oh gosh. He told me he was drinking apple juice. I'm so sorry.”

“Yes, he does that. Don't worry. I think he's going to learn his lesson. He told Gretchen he was drinking apple juice too, but what's coming up looks suspiciously like grenadine.” Scotty pulls on the strings of one of the trash bags, struggling to tie it off. The bag is so full that he doesn't have much to work with.

“He obviously has his father's constitution.” Patrick sets his empty beer bottle down on the end table. I pick it up and take it over to the recycling bag that Scotty has stashed by the front door.

Gretchen comes into the living room, looking for George. “Our fledgling bartender is asleep on your side of the bed,” she tells Scotty. “How'd you make that happen?” she asks Patrick, pointing to George's prone body.

“I just told him to chill out,” Patrick says. I would dearly love to give him an afternoon all to himself with his nephews and then hear him say that again.

“Patrick has been regaling Charlotte with the tale of how we met,” says Scotty to Gretchen. I love it that this is their favorite inside joke.

“The nights get hotter and hotter,” Gretchen says. “We set more and more things on fire. I'm surprised we're not on some kind of FDNY watch list, the way he tells the story.” No one laughs louder than Patrick.

“I can't believe you tell that story at family dinners,” I say, tying up my garbage bag full of wrapping paper.

“Classy, right?” Scotty says, taking that last bag from me and putting it in the hall with the others ready to go out. “Gretchen, I have my wallet here. How much do we owe you, Charlotte?”

Gretchen speaks before I have a chance and says a number several hundred dollars higher than necessary.

“No,” I say. “It was only three hours.”

“Yes, but we didn't expect you to have to act like a caterer,” says Gretchen. “I didn't realize how much work this would be. Seriously. I thought I might just have you posted at the door to make sure none of the monkeys escaped, but you had to run around like a maniac refilling ice buckets and cupcake trays.”

“And using your body as a buffer between that toddler's head and the corner of the table—did anyone else see that? It was impressive,” Scotty adds, handing me some cash.

“It was fun,” I say. “Really—”

“Charlotte, don't argue,” Gretchen says, propelling me to the door. “Scotty will get you a cab.”

“It's only four o'clock—” I start to protest.

“Her mind is made up,” says Scotty as Gretchen hands me off to him. I grab two of the garbage bags as she waves me toward the door, feeling like it's the least I can do.

As Scotty holds the door open to let me through with the huge bags of trash, I hear Patrick's voice from the other room.

“Jesus Christ, Gretch. That girl costs you more than my last prostitute.”

Valentine's Day

I'm jolted awake by my phone, vibrating underneath my hip, and I look up to scan the waiting room. Not much has changed. I check my watch. I must have fallen asleep for a minute. Or maybe ten. Eliza is gathering her coat and purse, and Patrick is sitting next to Scotty with his hand on his brother's back. Scotty has his head in his hands again. The boys are still sleeping. It has been almost five hours since we arrived at the hospital, and to me it seems absurd that Gretchen is not in charge of what is happening. Gretchen is on her second surgery. In five hours? Can that possibly be right?

I look at my phone, and there's a text message from Everett.

“Are you home from work yet?” I turn the phone off. He'll never find me where I am right now, even if he tries. I wonder for a moment where he is, whether he would come if I asked him to, but I'm having trouble imagining that anyone in my life would understand the gravity of this situation, especially Everett and his snarky comments about my pretend kids.

Eliza comes to my side. “I think it might be better if I go before the rest of the family gets here. You won't need extra bodies once they start to arrive.”

I have the fleeting thought that perhaps I should offer Scotty the same thing of myself, but I can't imagine going home and waiting for news or leaving the boys in the middle of such precariousness.

“Thank you for coming, Eliza. I'm sure Scotty really appreciates it, and I know, ah, I know that Gretchen would.”

“You still have my number, right?” she says, hesitating for a moment as she puts on her coat. “Would you mind … I mean, I'm very concerned. I don't want to bother anyone, but…”

“I will text you and let you know what's happening,” I say. “I definitely will.”

“Thanks.” She glances in the direction of the two men but doesn't say good-bye. As she heads off toward the door, I can see her put her cell phone to her ear, and I'd bet a million dollars that she's calling her mother. That's exactly what I feel like doing.

I can't though, because I might fall apart, and the last thing Scotty needs right now is to comfort someone else.

I roll up my damp sweater and get up, moving Matt's head carefully from my lap to the sweater pillow. That's it for the sweaters—there are no more to waste. I'm down to the last one. I need some caffeine posthaste. I move in the direction of the vending machine, weighing the merits of getting three Diet Cokes and downing them one after another versus trying to maintain the appearance of self-control and waiting fifteen minutes between each one. I am about to retrieve my wallet when I see the double doors start to swing open.

It's Dr. Russell, and he is alone. There is no Rosie Ramsay flanking him. Suddenly, I am desperate for her to appear. I stand on my toes and try my best to see down the hallway. She is not there.

Patrick sees me see the doctor, and he taps Scotty and stands up. Scotty looks at the doctor, and he stands up also.

The doctor approaches and shakes Patrick's hand, and he is speaking in such a low voice that I can't hear a word he says. I could probably come up with a justification for moving closer, but I don't want to. I want to. I can't. I don't want to.

I can't see anyone's face except for the doctor's, and his is so neutral that I have no idea what he could possibly be saying. I wish that Eliza had stayed. Her face is so nakedly emotional that I might have been prepared for what is about to come.

The doctor puts his hand on Scotty's arm and squeezes for a brief moment, and then he turns around and walks back toward the double doors. Just before he reaches them, he turns to Scotty, who is not looking. Dr. Russell is forced to address Patrick.

“Rosie will be out in just a few moments to take you back.”

Something leaps in my stomach, and for this brief space of time, I am thrown into a moment of total unknowing. I have no feeling one way or another. I know nothing. I hope, but I'm afraid. I am about to get an answer. But right in this moment, I know nothing.

And then Scotty turns to look at the boys, and the look in his eyes is the look of a person who is no longer a person, of a man whose soul has fled his body. No light comes off him in the normal human way. He is somehow duller than he has been, than everyone else in this room, than maybe anyone has ever been, ever. He looks at his children, and the thoughts he should be having are not there in his eyes. He is not thinking.

Because if he were thinking, his thoughts would have to be she's dead. She died. Gretchen is dead. My wife is dead. Their mother is dead.

*   *   *

LATER, WHILE I'M
sitting alone with Patrick waiting for this day to be over, I will turn to him, and I will ask him how old Gretchen is. Is, not was, because I will not yet be able to stand that tense. He will comment that it's funny that I don't know their exact ages, and he will answer that she is thirty-six, and I will nod and leave the room as quickly as possible. Tears will come leaking out, even though what I really want to do is gasp and sob and be the worst mess, thinking of all the things she had left to do. I will be relentless in my thought cycle, and the bottom line will be this: what if Gretchen, like me, was still making excuses for why her
real life hadn't yet started
at the tail end of her twenties? If that were the case, she would have only really lived for a few years
.
My heart will beat fast to the rhythm of these thoughts all throughout the rest of the evening, and when I get home, I will fall into a shallow sleep on my tear-wet pillow, and I will dream of all the things that no one will say about me if I die tomorrow.

 

PART TWO

Matthew

 

April, six weeks after

“The thermometer says you're not sick. See?” I show Matt the display on the side of the thermometer, even though I know he has no idea what he's looking at. “You don't have a fever.”

“I really don't feel good. I'm tired. My head hurts,” Matt says, giving me an exaggerated wince-face.

George is trying valiantly to scale the end of Matt's bed to join his brother, but Matt keeps pushing covers and animals in George's direction, causing minor avalanches that prevent any progress. If Matt stays home from school, George will try to stay home too. He will throw fits. He has declared his great distaste for going anywhere or doing anything without his brother. I've been contemplating moving his bed into Matt's room. For now, we've settled for a crude tin-can telephone system between their rooms that has been the cause of many a late-night close encounter with a string booby trap.