All the Time in the World (14 page)

“I have a little time,” I say.

“Here's what I want to do for now,” Scotty says, and the way he says it, I sort of expect him to whip out some kind of presentational booklet. “I suppose I'll just tell you what I'm thinking, and then you'll have to be honest about what your thoughts are.”

“Okay,” I say.

He flags down the waiter and orders a glass of Cabernet. The waiter looks at me, and I'm tempted, but I shake my head.

“I want them here,” Scotty says. “I'm going to start … looking for someone to see, professionally. I still think they should spend the weekends with family, maybe Lila, maybe their grandparents, or other family, other people who love them so they know they still have a big support network.” He pushes his plate away, only half-eaten. “Even though it won't be quite the same as what they're used to.”

“Okay,” I say. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“But another reason I don't want to send them away is because I think that taking
you
away from them on top of everything else would be too hard. Would be a … a mistake. Other than her and me”—he doesn't say her name, and I'm trying to remember if he's said it at all in the last six weeks—“you have been the most consistent person in their lives for the last two years, for probably as long as George can remember.”

I'm at a complete loss for what to say. The acknowledgment makes my heart feel runny.

“But I don't want things to be too hard on you. I can certainly get a housekeeper to come and live with us full-time, but I'd rather have you, if you'll come. I'd rather have you move in, primarily to take care of the boys, and I can figure out how to make all the rest of the stuff, the running of the house stuff, work. And I would like to know, from you, if you think that might be possible, and what you would need, financially, for that to happen.”

I think of what my sister said about letting him make the first offer. I wish I weren't so uncomfortable around money. I suspect it has a little to do with pride and a lot to do with my upbringing. I was raised by parents who are meticulous about money, responsible with it and respectful of it. I was taught that if you need something, you earn it, and if someone gives it to you, then they have earned it and are being purposefully generous. Nothing Scotty has done since Gretchen died has seemed purposeful, and taking his money, however much or little it means to him, makes me feel like Scrooge McDuck. Or some kind of mercenary.

On the other hand, a job is a job, even if our situation is unique. I think again of how I'll have to maneuver things to get away for even a few hours for Everett's concert. If I am living in his house, how can I possibly keep these things from Scotty? If I am living in his house, in what ways am I accountable to him that I have never been before?

“I—I really have no frame of reference for what the appropriate arrangement is, financially,” I say. “And, you know, the parameters of living in your house. I might have to think about it.”

“But are you open to the idea, honestly?” he probes, not seeming to want to let me off the hook, and that is the Scotty I know, the Scotty that Gretchen always spoke of. Once he acknowledges that something exists, he doesn't stop until he has mined to the bottom of it, and right now, his target is somewhere on my person. “Can you even consider it, or are you thinking that I sound crazy, and you need a way to let me down easy? Because like I said, if you're not able to do the whole thing, I still want you to take care of the boys part-time. If you can. If it's not too much. I know it has been. A lot.”

I want some time to think before I play all my aces, but Scotty has folded his hands on the table in front of him, waiting for my answer.

“I don't think you sound crazy,” I say. “I am thinking about it. I want to think carefully though, so I don't say anything I can't, ah, take back.”

“Understood,” he says.

“Did you have a number in mind?” I ask.

He writes it down, and there's no hesitation when he does so. He must have been thinking about it. Or maybe he hasn't thought about it at all, and the lack of hesitation is a business strategy. Maybe he's expecting me to ask for more. I look at the number, and I want to react, but I don't. I can't imagine asking for more, even if he is buying my life from me for the foreseeable future.

“This is generous,” I say, and I mean it. Now is the time to tell him about the concert—now, so he can make any adjustments he wants, so he knows, so it's not an issue later—“I would also want to keep my apartment.” That's the end of the sentence. I don't say any of the other things I should say.

“Yes, of course, I will add that on at the end of each month.” He's not blinking at all now, not even at normal intervals. It seems possible at this moment, though the transaction is small, that I'm getting a glimpse of the head lion, the great global deal maker, that shrewd focus he must maintain in business. Or maybe I'm making that up too. If I am, my imaginings are getting the better of me.

“Okay,” I say, trying to replace this image with the faces of the kids I love.

“Okay, as in yes?”

“Yes,” I say. There isn't another answer that I can think of. Scotty looks relieved, and I have the urge to add “for now” to the end of the statement, but the moment has already passed us by, and he is asking for the check.

Valentine's Day

When we get back to the apartment from the hospital, getting the kids into bed without waking them up is a stressful production, involving lots of miming and other forms of silent communication with Patrick.

I am terrified of waking them, terrified of their questions, terrified of irrevocably damaging their little minds if I say the wrong thing to them. But they're both excellent sleepers once they're down. We are able to get them into bed, and I even manage to get Georgie into pajama pants. He's incredibly particular about not having zippers and buttons dig into his skin while he's trying to sleep, and I don't want him to wake up and complain, or worse, call for his mom. On my way back down the hallway from his room, I almost bite it on a Matchbox car, catch myself on the washer, remember that my sweaters are in the dryer, retrieve them, and then start weeping for the loss of normalcy.

I collect myself before I come back out to the living room. The TV screen is blue. Wall-E and Eve have long since pledged eternity to each other, and the beanbag chairs are where I left them, with George- and Matt-shaped imprints in them. There is a partial chocolate cupcake overturned on the Oriental rug. I grab a stain remover and an old towel from the kitchen and get to work on the smudge before I notice Patrick on the couch, turning a glass around and around in his hands. He looks pale, and his eyes are bloodshot. He's looking at his glass, or maybe his knees, and it's not that I didn't think he had feelings; it's just that I never considered the possibility that I'd witness them.

I finish up with the stain, aware that the wrong move will make me responsible for dealing with his emotional state. He seems almost desperate to conceal how much he is hurting, and for a minute I wonder if he was a little bit in love with Gretchen, pining a little bit for her all these years. Gretchen's light was so bright. Probably most people who met her were a little bit in love with her.

“Patrick, have you eaten anything tonight?” I say, standing up.

“I honestly can't remember.”

“Are you hungry?” I press him. He's giving me a look that's similar to one Georgie gives me when he's afraid of something and doesn't want to admit it but wants me to read his mind and hold his hand. I want to do something for Patrick because I feel so sad, but something other than hold him and inhale his stupid pheromones. Those jackass pheromones cause too much trouble, and I hate them. Pheromones are the worst.

“I don't know. Not really,” he says.

“Me either,” I say. “But I make pretty good kid food. I was going to make an English muffin pizza for myself. Do you want one?”

“My mom used to make those,” he says, in a voice I can barely hear.

“Mine too,” I say. “I'll make an extra one, and you can eat it if you want to. Or not.” He gets up to pour himself another drink.

“Scotty never drinks the good stuff,” he says, maybe to keep himself from crying in front of me again. “I don't think he can even tell what the good stuff is. He probably gets it from clients.”

“Sure, probably,” I say, as I assemble the little pizzas and put them in the toaster oven.

“Have a drink with me,” he says, and for a minute I entertain this as a prelude to the thought of going home with him tonight, instead of alone to my apartment. I immediately hate myself and curse the circumstances that brought our paths together. The predictability of my pattern with men is laughable. First comes a moment where I'm off my game, then comes booze, then comes the shameful hunt for my underpants in the darkness of early morning.

“I can't hold my liquor,” I tell him.

“If I were talking to you at a bar right now, that would be music to my ears,” he says, and the gall of it is amazing, but I laugh anyway.

“You would never talk to
me
at a bar,” I say.

“Probably not,” he says.

“Anyway, I'm more of a wine drinker.” I raise the setting on the toaster oven, hoping the cheese will melt faster and also that I won't wreck them.

“Perfect,” he says, and without batting an eye uncorks what I'm sure is a great bottle of some vintage that would be orgasmic to a sommelier and will probably mean nothing more than a buzz to me.

He pours me a glass, and I bring the little pizzas to the table. We eat and drink without speaking, and I feel like my chest is bruised on the inside. I try to distract myself by thinking of other things. Massive school shootings. Humanitarian aid held up on its way to Syria. Exploited children in Indian mines.

None of these things, however, can work me into a turmoil equal to what I'm feeling now.

I finish, take our dishes into the kitchen, and suddenly feel like my eyeballs are made of shards of ice. Gretchen's coffee mug is on the counter, a partial errand list in her handwriting is on the refrigerator, a compact from her purse is in the mail basket. The calendar has pictures taped to it, pictures of a woman who is immortal in them.

It's as I'm about to drop a pile of mail with her name all over it into the recycle bin that I catch myself. What am I going to do, erase her existence from this apartment before the rest of the family gets home? Impossible. I put the mail back in the basket, under her compact. There is nothing to be done.

There is nothing I can do.

I load the dishwasher and wash the kids' cupcake plates by hand. I may have been standing in front of the dishwasher for more than five minutes, having trouble deciding whether or not to run it three-quarters of the way full, when I hear a key in the latch, and I know that Patrick's and my brief hiatus from dealing with reality is about to be over.

Scotty comes in first, and he looks shell-shocked. Those are the only words I can think of to describe how he appears when he walks through the door. Mae and Simon come in after him, and Simon is carrying both of their overnight bags and Scotty's briefcase. He looks subdued, like maybe he is all cried out and needs to replenish the water supply in his body before he can live through any more emotions. Somehow, I wish Mae looked more like that.

Simon sets down his load and joins Patrick at the table. No one speaks for a while. Everyone stands where they are.

Finally, Scotty asks, “Did they wake up at all?” He is not looking at me, but who else would he be talking to?

“No,” I say. “I don't think they will.”

Silence again. It is so silent right now, more silent than I could ever have imagined. This is a home where I have rarely heard silence, but now it is screaming at us.

“Are you going to send them to school tomorrow?” I ask, and my voice sounds harsh, not at all gentle, as I'd intended. Probably a by-product of the huge lump in my throat. But I have to ask because it seems that no one will be instructing me on how to proceed.

“No,” he says. “No, we probably won't send them back to school until after, after her—” and here his voice breaks a little, a side effect of unshed tears.

“Until after her funeral, probably,” says Mae. It's irrational, but the way she's holding it together is making me crazy. “We'll call to let you know when the services are, Charlotte. I'm sure the boys will want to spend time with you after this weekend. Simon and I can take care of them until we figure out … what's next.”

“I have to go to bed now,” Scotty says abruptly. “I'm sorry. I need to go to bed. Whichever guest room you like is fine with me, Mae. Patrick, will you please walk Charlotte down and get her a cab?” He starts to reach for his wallet, but Patrick stops him.

“Don't worry about it, Scott,” he says, and I don't know if I've ever heard anyone call him Scott, except Gretchen when she was purposely being obnoxious. Patrick puts his hands on both sides of Scotty's face. “I'll be back first thing in the morning. Call me tonight if you're up.” Scotty walks away without saying anything. I wonder if he'll actually sleep.

It takes me a minute to make sure all my stuff is gathered and the boys' things are put away. Patrick waits by the door.

The moment we get outside, he flags down a taxi, displaying a similar talent to his brother's for calling one up out of thin air. He looks at me as he holds the door open.

“Are we going to your place or mine?”

April, the year before

Gretchen and Scotty are out on a date night, and I have gotten the boys ready and into bed with no fuss. I'm mentally patting myself on the back for my babysitting genius as I dish out a pile of the Mediterranean food that Gretchen ordered for me onto a plate. I'm about halfway through the stack of
Newsweek
s I've been neglecting for the last month when I hear noises coming from the foyer.