All the Time in the World (21 page)

“It's just another way for them to tell me they think there's something wrong because he doesn't speak,” she says. The more upset she appears, the quieter her voice gets. “The thing is,” says Gretchen, “he does communicate. You know, of course. He has his own way of saying what he needs, but it's not assertive or loud or territorial most of the time. Unless, I don't know, he's overtired or it's really escalated. And I know that's not common in two-year-olds.” She's getting teary again, and I grasp for the right thing to say, but I can't catch the appropriate words.

“And Scotty,” she says, and I can see that set to her jaw starting to re-emerge. “He's so freaking optimistic about everything. He says the same things over and over, affirms me so often that it's like he doesn't even have an opinion.”

From our position in the hallway, I can see into the kitchen. There Matt stands in front of the open refrigerator. George points at something on a shelf that is too high for him. Matt holds up a carton of strawberries. George shakes his head no.

“We thought he might have hearing problems. Did I ever tell you that? He went through all these tests as a baby,” says Gretchen.

“I think I remember a few of them,” I say, stepping on the peg to fold the stroller.

“One of the doctors we saw said something that stuck with me. He was Israeli, formerly a medic in their army. I don't know why that's relevant, but I guess it felt significant at the time,” she says. “Anyway, this doctor said that there were probably a lot of doctors in New York City that would send us to other doctors, to child specialists, and if the problem wasn't physical, they would go to great lengths to prove it was mental. Miss Annabelle thinks I ought to have him tested. Again.”

“For what?”

“Who knows? It obviously makes her uncomfortable, that he isn't talking. She wants to classify him in some way, so she can make a plan for what to do, and I guess I can try to understand that. But that Israeli doctor said he thought George would start speaking as soon as he felt like he had no other option. Whenever things come up where I can see potential for words to be needed urgently, I try to see how long I can let it go. Even when it gets hard to watch. But of course, she's known him for less than a month.”

“Do you and, I mean, does Scotty think that's a good idea … also? More testing?”

“I wish I knew,” says Gretchen, pulling a tissue out of her purse and dabbing her eyes every few seconds, letting no tear escape. “He says he trusts my instincts. It's like he's left me alone to deal with this thing, and it's so fucking
isolating
. You know what I mean?” She wipes her eyes and inhales sharply. “Oh God, Charlotte, I'm so sorry. I don't mean to dump this on you.”

“Well, shame on Miss Annabelle,” I say. “It doesn't seem appropriate to casually mention to a mom on her way out of the classroom that she thinks she hasn't done enough for her child.”

“Exactly. Thank you,” she says, then gives me a small smile. “Yikes, I swore at her. The teacher. Scotty's going to kill me. We'll probably have to buy the school new terrace equipment or something.”

I laugh in surprise and turn back to watch the boys. Matt looks impatient, but he continues to hold up snacks for George to examine, until George settles on green grapes. George carries the grapes carefully to the table and climbs up into a chair that doesn't afford him much of a view over the table.

“You know what? He told me to have faith, that doctor—the Israeli guy,” says Gretchen. “Not like the way my mother would say it. He just said, ‘Have faith,' and that was that. I guess I was hoping that I could surround George, and myself, with people who would keep the faith with us.” She pats my hand, like I'm the one who needs to be comforted.

We walk together into the kitchen. Gretchen's phone buzzes. She looks down at the text, presumably from Scotty. “Now he's super worried about the missed calls from me, and I've forgotten all about calling him. Because we have our Charlotte to help us get through the day, don't we, boys?”

“Our Pahr-lette,” says Matt. Georgie points to Matt's portion of grapes and then to his own empty bowl. He puts out his hand, hopefully. Matt sighs but breaks off a stem and puts it in front of his brother.

“Our Schmar-lette,” I say.

“Try not to think I'm too much of a basket case, won't you, Schmar-lette?” Gretchen says.

“I think you're kind of B-A-D-A-S-S,” I say.

“Can we keep you forever?” Gretchen asks, and I know she is mostly joking, but I know, too, that at the heart of every joke is the truth, and the thought is satisfying and worrisome.

April, seven weeks after

The morning after Matt's epic tantrum, I wake up when my alarm goes off, startled, feeling like I haven't slept at all. Matt is next to me, with his head on my pillow and his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. It was one of those nights that felt like fever dreaming and waking up every half hour with some new, urgent thought, which fled the moment I tried to wrap my mind around it. Matt is still sleeping. He looks peaceful. I hate to wake him up.

The night was long, but it's morning now, despite my fear that it might never come again.

 

PART THREE

Scotty

 

April, eight weeks after

“Stick to yoga pants,” says Claudia. I had turned my laptop the other direction so we could continue to video chat while I changed, so I'm not sure how she's onto me, but I stop in the act of pulling a skirt up over my hips and come back around to face her.

“Really?”

“Those aren't your normal clothes. You always look uncomfortable when you wear something that's meant to impress someone.”

“What I would normally wear has crumbs all over it, and tiny holes that George manages to find and stick his fingers through. I need at least a slight upgrade.”

“But it's Jess,” she says, and I'm jealous of the amount of disdain she's able to inject into that one syllable. “We don't care what she thinks.”

“After I see her, I'm meeting with their doctor, their psychologist,” I say. I finish pulling up the skirt and then put on a jacket that may or may not match. “Matt's having trouble in school. And trouble adjusting in general.”

“Shouldn't their father be meeting with the doctor?”

“He's coming too,” I say, before I can stop myself.

“So the kids are in Connecticut, and you and Scotty are going in to meet with the psychologist? Oh Lord. You'd better be grateful you've got me on the line and not Jane.”

“Why?” I put my coffee mug into the microwave, to reheat what's left of it. “What would Jane say?”

“She would tell you to stop being so easy. And then she would try to soften the blow with a follow-up statement, like, ah, you're being ridiculously generous, and what if one day, they're not equally generous to you, and then you get hurt?”

“Geez,” I say. “Jane really knows how to poke at the heart of things.”

“She sure does.”

I pull the collar out from under my jacket and use my image on the computer as a mirror to adjust it. “Hey, what would Oprah say to me, do you think?”

“She would say you have to teach people how to treat you.”

“What about Jay Carney? What would he say?”

“He would tell you to keep up the good work and then casually segue into an anecdote about how the president captured Osama bin Laden with his bare hands.”

“Ha! And what would Claudia have to say, if she weren't so busy being on my side?”

“Claudia would tell you to watch yourself. You don't want to find yourself acting like a stand-in.”

“A stand-in. Ouch.” I have to find my way to Brooklyn and try to remember how to be
me
—not the flipper of pancakes, the master of stroller folding, the mender of scraped elbows, the enforcer of bedtimes—just me, Charlotte. “I love you very much, Claud-monster,” I say, holding one finger up to the screen.

She puts her finger up too, against mine on the screen. “As much as you love Jay Carney?”

“No. Not that much,” I say. She sticks out her tongue at me, and that's how she is frozen as I close out the chat screen.

February, six days after

I wake up before the sun on the morning of Gretchen's funeral. I spent an hour the night before agonizing over what to wear, only to find that when I get out of bed, I no longer want to wear it. Twenty minutes pass. I sit on the edge of my bed in the dark. I want the boys to be able to feel their emotions. I want them to know that I will be here for them. I don't want the emotions of everyone around them to scare them. And very little of that is within the bounds of my control.

At the last minute, I decide on an outfit that's not really in season but feels appropriate. I grab my winter coat and flat boots and scoot out of the apartment.

When I get to the McLeans' building, Shel, the doorman, is engulfed in a sea of people, all dressed in black, all talking. No one seems to know which apartment number they're going to. I see Aunt Lila's daughter and deduce they must be members of Gretchen's family. Shel looks relieved to see me, like maybe I can help sort this out. I wonder why no one mentioned to him that a whole lot of people would be descending on the apartment.

“Good morning, Miss Charlotte,” he says.

“Good morning, Shel. I think it's okay if these folks come up with me, as long as it's okay with you,” I say.

“Everyone going to a wake with Mr. and Mrs. McLean?” Shel asks, and I am horrified. I haven't yet had to bear the news of the tragedy in person to anyone.

“Yes,” I say. “We
are
going to a wake, Shel. I'm so sorry no one told you. Gretchen—Mrs. McLean—was hit by a car last week. And she died.”

Shel takes off his hat slowly and puts it on his chest. After a moment, he crosses himself and says “Amen. God rest her.”

“Can you buzz Mr. McLean and let him know we're on our way?” I say. And I shepherd the wavering mass of sad people into the elevator. As the doors close, Shel picks up the phone to call Scotty.

When we get to the top floor, Patrick is standing there with the door open. He hugs and murmurs his way through the shuffling crowd, and as soon as they're all in, but before I can get in, he steps outside of the apartment, into the foyer. He leans over, and I think he's going to kiss my cheek, but really he kisses the corner of my mouth and only separates his face from mine about an inch before asking, “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” I say, stepping back.

“George has been asking for you.”

“Not Matt?”

“Matt hasn't said much of anything.”

My eyes tear up, and I can't really see. I feel Patrick take my hands. “That is. I don't know what that is. It's so far past sad. I don't know.”

“I know,” he says, and I would do anything, anything, to be able to stay here, even with Patrick, anything other than walking through those doors and into the house of motherless children.

I harden my resolve and drop his hands. “We should go in,” I say, and he holds the door open for me.

The first person on the other side of the door is Mae, and today her eyes are teary, and I'm relieved. She hugs me, and I hear her catch her breath in my ear, and she's speaking, but I'm not listening, because over her shoulder, I can see Matthew.

He has on jeans and a little suit jacket, with a button-up shirt underneath. He's sitting on the edge of the couch, holding his tie in his hands, twisting it around and around. Vaguely, I register that Mae is saying something about his suit pants and shoes being put on right before we leave so they don't get messed up, and I try to tune in for the information about where we need to be and when. George, I see, is wearing his full suit already. We all know how meticulous he is about not getting messy. He is sitting on the floor at Matt's feet, playing with his trucks, trying to see how high he can stack them before they fall over.

“It's up to you, Charlotte. Use your discretion. There's a vestibule outside the door to the sanctuary, and you can always take them out there, or even outside on the lawn if it's not too windy. Whatever you think best.”

“Is it…” I don't know how to ask this. “Will they, I mean, are we going to be able to see her?”

“No, the casket will be closed.” Mae seems short of breath, and she has a hand on her chest, as if to measure the air in and out. “Her face is too—too swollen, really, and a little discolored. She doesn't really, not really—she doesn't really look like herself.”

“Are there calling hours?”

“This morning. They are not terribly formal. Father Gregory will be there, and people can come in and say prayers over the casket and offer condolences to Scotty and the family. There won't be any time for that after the service—I thought it best we get right over to the cemetery. Scotty's not in … great shape. Father Gregory has offered to stay by his side.”

“I've never met Father Gregory,” I say, like it matters.

“He flew in from Chicago. We attended his parish when Gretchen was growing up, and he married the two of them,” says Mae. “The cars are coming at nine, so we should probably be outside at eight forty-five.”

“If it's okay with you,” I say, “I might walk with them. Georgie can ride in the stroller. I think it's only six or seven blocks from here.”

She hesitates for a moment, and I wonder if she wants to ask me how many streets we have to cross between here and the church. “Sure, it might be good for them to have a walk.”

“Great,” I say. “We can leave when you guys go outside to the cars. How many people are going with you?”

“I think this is it,” Mae says. I should have been more specific. I can't tell how many people are in the apartment. There are six who came in with me. Mae and Simon. Scotty and the boys. Patrick. Are Scotty and Patrick's parents here? I've never met Jeanne and George McLean, but as I walk further into the living room, I spot a couple who are older than the rest of the crowd but younger than I would have guessed for Scotty's parents, sitting across from Matt and George. Grampa George occasionally zooms a car or truck back toward his little namesake after a particularly disastrous tower collapse, but other than that, they don't seem to be speaking to anyone or moving much. They look frigid, stately. Old money. Not at all like they've ever engaged in an act that would have spawned Scotty, let alone Patrick or Uncle Max, the older one.