All the Time in the World (18 page)

“What's
World of Warcraft
?” Aaron asks at the top of his lungs.

“Shh, buddy. Never mention it around Mommy, and maybe I'll let you in on the secret.” Aaron pulls on his father's hand, clearly inspired by all this talk of running. “Nice to meet you guys,” he says, letting his son drag him off in the direction of the dessert table.

“Nice to meet you too.” George is wielding my instrument as if it were a croquet mallet. There are traces of bile in the back of my throat, as if I've been punched in the stomach instead of barely engaged in a conversation about how pleasant it is that I make music for the kids.

I snap out of it when I see Gretchen giving me the thumbs-up from across the room and pointing to Scotty's phone, where my antics have been immortalized.

“I didn't know you had an entire arsenal,” Patrick says. He and George are still sitting on the floor. George pulls the ukulele closer to him.

“Do you want to go ahead and get my autograph now, before I decide to go international?” I say, sitting down next to him. George picks at the ukulele strings, at his most careful since he sees that he has my full attention back and knows the instrument will disappear with one wrong move.

“It's nice that you play with them,” says Patrick after a while, as we sit there on the floor with our backs to the otters. Georgie puts down the instrument and crawls into my lap, and I let him dissolve there, my little balm of Gilead. “Scotty would play with me sometimes, but Max was too old, and my parents never did. Do you feel sorry for me?”

“Do you feel sorry for yourself?” I say.

“Never,” he says, and I'm sure he means it. “I don't blame them. Playing with kids is B-O-R-I-N-G.”

“Sometimes,” I say. “Even if you really, really like the kid.” I tighten my arms around George.

“You know, today's my birthday,” says Patrick, and I'm surprised. It affects me, this declaration that today is his birthday, even though I'm not sure why. But I have an instinct that he hasn't told many other people, and this, of all the things he's ever said, makes me think,
Bless your heart
, as my grandmother would say. “My birthday is the second, four days before Matt's. It's been fun, sharing my birthday with a little kid. It makes the family celebrations more interesting.”

“I know,” I say. “Holidays are better with kids around. They get so excited. Fourth of July, St. Patrick's Day…”

“Halloween,” he says.

“Martin Luther King, Jr. Day,” I say.

“Celebrated with civil disobedience by children everywhere,” he says.

“Well,” I say and kiss him on the cheek, then wonder what would possess me to kiss him on the cheek. “Happy Birthday, Patrick.”

George is mostly in my lap, but his feet are stretched out into Patrick's lap, and Patrick's shoulder is warm against my shoulder. We sit there together on the floor for a while longer, side by side, listening to the unique ambient noise of the Whale Room combine with the dull roar of little voices.

April, seven weeks after

I'm not sure how I expected things to change after our conversation in the Indian cathedral, but I did, and they don't. Scotty still comes home well after the kids are in bed. He's still a zombie in the morning. The kids are still having their own personal difficulties, daily. The only difference is that now I live there, in a sea of hearts that have not even begun to find their way back to unbroken.

Scotty and I had our conversation last Wednesday. I moved a few things in over the weekend, and now it's a week after the decision was made—the decision that I thought would change everything—and I am wondering when I'm going to start to feel less exhausted, like I'm fighting fewer battles.

The apartment is large and incredibly old New York. The moldings and the baseboards and the archways in the living room have history visibly embedded in them, even though Gretchen's taste was modern and a little on the delicate side. I've always been amazed at the number of glass tables and painted porcelain bowls that have managed to survive the occupancy of two little boys.

To say that the apartment has wings makes it seem larger than it is, but by Manhattan standards, it's huge. There is a formal area in the middle, which reminds me of a Victorian parlor, with archways on two sides, and it is surrounded by a living room and a large kitchen that wrap around it and into each other. It's a bizarre setup that makes me think the architect was envisioning a spiral, with all the other rooms as offshoots. To the left and right of the central area are two long hallways with additional rooms, and that is where I got the idea of “wings”; off on the left, there is a smaller kitchen, family room, and guest bedroom, bathroom, and small office suite on one side (Gretchen and I had always joked that it was the maid's quarters, which now I'm not so quick to laugh at, since I'll be living in it), and a master suite with a bedroom and bathroom, closets, and a larger office, which Gretchen had ironically referred to as her “sewing room.” Off to the right are four bedrooms, and one and a half bathrooms. The kids are in the right wing, but Scotty suggested I take the maid's quarters in the left so I'd have my own bathroom. I never thought I would live on Park Avenue, let alone in an apartment like this.

Georgie is asleep in the stroller as we walk to get Matt. When I transferred him from his bed, I hadn't had the heart to pry Chickie out of his grip, even though we have always made it a policy not to take the animals out of the boys' rooms. I make a mental note to do a Chickie check at several points along our journey. I still have Pup's blood on my hands, after all, and I don't want a repeat of that situation. I don't know if either of our little hearts could take it.

I leave Georgie sleeping in the lobby, under the watchful eyes of one of the assistant teachers, and walk into the kindergarten classroom to retrieve Matt. He sees me, but he sits there at his table anyway. What used to be transitional wrath has turned into flat-out refusal, and I'm not surprised that he doesn't have the desire to summon the energy to stand up and get his stuff together. We're all so tired, every one of us.

“Matt,” I say. “It's getting kind of empty in here. George is sleeping, so you get to decide what we're doing today if you hurry up and get your stuff on.” He scoots his chair back but doesn't get up. I don't want to fight with him, but deal making is getting us into a dangerous pattern, so I wait.

A boy named Yuri pokes Matt as he passes by on his way to join his nanny and several other nanny–little boy pairs. “Matt, are you going to the playground?” he asks, then adds, “We're not going,” in a voice that makes me feel sure that they
are
going. I wonder why the kid is deliberately being tricky.

“I don't know,” says Matt, glaring at him, and then stands up to get his stuff.

When we make it back to the lobby, George is awake and crying. The assistant teacher is squatting down next to him, trying to comfort him, and when he spots me and Matt coming out of the classroom, he cries even harder and presses against the stroller restraints. The assistant teacher is trying desperately to unhook them, but the extra pressure George is exerting is making it impossible.

“Maaaaaatttt,” he is wailing. “Matty, Matty, Matt, Maaaaaaatttt.”

I bend down to relieve the poor teacher. If George doesn't calm down, he'll never get out of this bear trap of a vehicle. “Lovebug,” I say. “Matt's right here. See him?” Matt might as well be filing his nails, for all the interest he is displaying.

“Want to get ooooouuuuut,” George wails.

“Ok, little bear, I'm gonna get you out. But I need you to sit still for one minute while I undo the straps. Okay?”

He is too upset though. There is no hearing me in his state. We have attracted a bit of that attention where you know people are watching but politely turning their eyes away, and I'm sure no one feels the non-eyes more intensely than George.

I finally get one of the straps undone, and he wiggles his way out the side and runs to where Matt is standing. Matt stands there, unmoved, as George throws his arms around him. I need to get them both out the door before this melts down any further.

“Come on, guys, let's take the stairs,” I say. I walk out the door. I carry the stroller down to the bottom, and once we're all there, George is much quieter but still hanging on to Matt, who might as well be made of stone.

“What do you guys feel like doing today?” I ask once we're safely on the sidewalk.

“I want to go home,” says Matt.

“We go to that tore with candles?” George suggests. “And we can sah-mell the candles? And remember, it have the cards? They play music—the cards,” he adds, as if I need convincing.

“Why don't we stop and get a snack on the way to that store?” I say.

“I don't want to go to that store,” says Matt.

“Well, why don't we get a snack and then decide?” I say. “That coffee shop up the block has good snacks.”

“We can get a treat?” asks Matt. He's suspicious of an afternoon treat.

“Maybe,” I say. “Let's see what they have.”

He doesn't exactly agree, but we start to head in that direction. George has opted to walk instead of ride. He can probably keep better tabs on Matt's and my whereabouts if he's independently mobile.

“Mommy let us get that juice,” says George. “That pink juice. Remember, and we got the juice, we got pink and Mommy got green? Remember, Matt?”

“I don't remember that,” says Matt.

“We ask Mommy if we can have that pink juice, Tahr-lette?”

“How about we ask the person at the counter if they have the pink juice,” I say.

“We call Mommy on the phone and ask her?”

“I'm sorry, honey,” I say, hating myself as much as Georgie probably hates this repeated message. “I can't call Mommy on the phone. I bet we can find it, though, if we ask someone at the coffee shop.”

“Me call Mommy?” George asks. “And I can use your phone?”

I steel myself to give the same unacceptable answer, but Matt beats me to the punch. “Mommy is dead. She doesn't live on earth, so you can't call her on the phone, Georgie.”

“Matty,” I say, but what am I going to scold him for? His harsh tone?

“Where Mommy lives now?” Georgie asks, trying not to cry.

“She lives with God. She likes God's house better, so that's where she lives now,” says Matt, as if he's already explained this concept a million times to a crowd full of imbeciles.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask.

“Gramma.”

I am at a loss. I didn't hear this conversation firsthand, and while I'm certain that's not how Mae explained it, I have no idea what she
did
say. What can I possibly tell them? If there's one thing that I don't get to decide here, it's what these two kids think about God.

“We call her and ask her to come back?” says George, and I am completely, totally, one-hundred percent inadequate as a guardian right at this moment.

“Here we are,” I say. “Those brownies look great. Anybody want one?”

February, four days after

In the days leading up to Gretchen's funeral, there is a frustrating lack of information coming my way as I sit alone in my apartment and fret. It's hard to figure out what to do with myself. I mostly wake up late, watch TV, order takeout, and find as many excuses as I can not to leave my apartment. If I'd had the wherewithal to put Patrick's number in my phone, I'd stoop to texting him, but as it stands, the only numbers I have saved are Eliza's and Gretchen's.

What would happen if I called Gretchen's phone or sent a text? Was anyone thinking about what to do with her phone? Was anyone going to be able to check her voice mail, go through her contacts and notify them, get the pictures off of it?

I call my family members. My mom tells me I should come home for a few days, or that she could come and stay with me, but I decline both. The last thing I need is to feel like I have to entertain someone, even though I know her intention is to take care of me, and besides, I would have to work up the energy to clean my apartment if she were going to see it. My dad calls, my grandmother calls, Jane calls, and Claudia calls, and I know that my mom is behind the relentless display of support. I tell them to leave me alone. They all ignore me and call anyway, and I'm grateful.

The weekend passes, and on Monday I get a call from Mae. “We're holding services on Wednesday,” she tells me. “There will be a viewing in the morning with a mass to follow and then a sunset graveside memorial. I'll understand if you're busy, Charlotte, but we thought it might be good for the boys to have someone be consistently responsible for them, in case…” I look around my apartment. There is a pile of takeout containers in the sink, and the entire contents of my pajama drawer are strewn around the floor, in varying states of cleanliness. I wonder what it looks like in their apartment. “In case Scotty is having a hard time. There will be a lot of family around. There has been a lot of family here, but the boys have been asking for you.”

“Of course I'll be there,” I say. “I'm glad you called. How are they? I mean, how have they been? Do they understand what's … what's happening?”

“They know that Mom is gone, and people are sad. I think Matthew has a handle on what it means, but it may take George a little longer to adjust. He thinks that she'll be back as soon as the doctor fixes her.” My heart is breaking, breaking.

“I'll meet you at the apartment on Wednesday.” I am standing up in the middle of the room, between the piano and the kitchen island, poised to move if she says the word. “What time should I be there?”

“Bless you, Charlotte,” Mae says. “This will be a nice bit of good news to tell them, that they can play with you on Wednesday. Is eight o'clock too early?”