All the Time in the World (39 page)

 

PART FIVE

George

 

July, five months after

The weeks go by, and as they pass, the days even out, and I'm no longer thinking of them every waking minute. They are alarmingly present in my subconscious, however. I've been sleeping terribly for the past month while my mind untangles itself, continuing to dream in a way that is so vivid that I often confuse it with reality.

Last night I dreamt alternately of Patrick and a disastrous kids' birthday party where everything that could go wrong did. First, I was in Patrick's bed, waiting for him, and then I was knee-deep in the water of the boat basin, searching for Pup, while Matt sat on the grassy bank wearing a tiara and screaming. Then I was back in Patrick's bed, and he opened the door and invited the receptionist from his company into bed with us. I was back at the boat basin after that, and George had somehow gotten himself into a rowboat and was drifting out into deeper water, crying for his mom. The worst one of the night started off with Patrick cooking breakfast. When I came out to the kitchen, George was already in the booster seat being fed. A moment later, Matt came out fully dressed, ate his breakfast with no fuss, and we got off to school with barely a hiccup. When I got back from dropping them off, I expected to be alone, but Patrick was there, waiting for me, knowing that I wanted him to be. I walked in the door and said nothing. He picked me up with only one arm around my waist, and I buried my face between his shoulder and his neck. He carried me into the empty room across from Matt's, and he was devoted, even loving, and I took off all my clothes, and he took off all of his. We lay there, staring at each other, and all I could think was that I was glad we were in the guest room, and not in my apartment, or my room in Scotty's apartment, or on the kitchen table, or any other place that I'd have to look at on a regular basis, and Patrick said, “Let's see how long we can keep this up,” and I had to sit up suddenly because I knew Scotty was out in the kitchen, waiting for me to be ready so we could leave for Matt's birthday party, and I was afraid if I didn't get out there
right then
, he'd see me naked, in bed with his brother.

It takes me a few minutes, sitting up in my own bed, to register that the clock says 11:06. I'm awake, and I'm in my home, not theirs. The longer I am away from Park Avenue, from them, the more I sleep. It has been hard to maintain any kind of schedule.

I get out of bed, not bothering with anything more elaborate than sweatpants and flip-flops, and venture outside to obtain the largest cup of coffee I can talk the barista into. I walk up the promenade in Carl Schurz Park, toward Gracie Mansion. When I get to a relatively isolated spot, I sit down on a bench and stare across the river to Roosevelt Island. I think to myself that I'm a good swimmer, that I could make it across the river if I had to, current be damned.

These past few weeks have felt like treading water in the River Styx, and I have had to set limits for myself. One of the limits has been to remain steadfast, not to call any of them until I feel ready, but today, staring out at the water, I can see that this river is just a river. It leads to the ocean and not to Hades. The expressionist element that had overtaken every action, every thought, every motive in my last few weeks at Scotty's has lost its grip on my mind, and I have the impulse to call up all of my demons and name them Legion. I wonder where that random thought came to me from, and so I dial my grandmother. She knows these things.

“Gramma, it's Charlotte.”

“Hello, dear. I've been wondering how you are.”

“It's rough not working,” I say. “If I were any good at drawing, I'd sketch the inside of my apartment and title it ‘Purgatory.'” I think of Patrick when I say it.

“Taking some time to sort things out before you move on, in one direction or another,” she says. “I think that's a good idea, honey.”

“It's harder than I thought it would be.”

“I've lost my fair share of people who were close to me,” says Gramma. “That happens more and more when you get to a certain age. But I suppose this kind of loss never really gets any easier, no matter how common it becomes. I never feel quite prepared; it's like opening up a floodgate that can never be closed again, and you have to find a way to redirect the water.” Across the river, I can see the lighthouse in the park on the end of Roosevelt Island. To me, it's always seemed small, like a playground-sized lighthouse, meant for kids. But I have never been to Roosevelt Island, not once since I've lived in New York, and I realize that I have no idea how large or small that lighthouse actually is.

“I was wondering about something,” I say. “Nothing serious, just a quote that popped into my head. I think it's left over from Sunday school, or something.”

“What is it, Charlotte-love?”

“Something about naming your demons. Or the name of the demon was Legion, or that was the devil's name. Something like that. Do you know that one?”

“It's from the Gospel,” says Gramma. “Two of the Gospels, in fact. Mark and Luke. There was something similar in Matthew but nothing about the name Legion. It's an exorcism story. The demons came out of the man and showed themselves to Jesus and said they were called Legion. Is that what you're thinking of?”

“Yes,” I say. “It got in my head.”

“Are you thinking of exorcising some demons?”

“I guess I was thinking I might try. I mean, if you give something a name, it loses power, right?” I say.

“In essence,” says Gramma. “I've never found that I had a talent for naming the right things, though. I'll go along, thinking I'm so self-aware, thinking I know the right name to give the thing that ails me. And then I'm taken quite by surprise when it rears its ugly head again, and it turns out I haven't called it by the correct name. Like a whack-a-mole, always popping back up. Incidentally, I can never remember the right name for whack-a-mole when I need to, either.”

“Do you find yourself referring to whack-a-mole in everyday conversation?”

“You'd be surprised. Saying it to you right now, it came out so naturally. But somehow, when I need to think of it urgently, the name always eludes me.”

“It's the
mole
that always eludes me,” I say. “I suck at whack-a-mole.”

“You get that from your grandfather. He had the most difficult time multitasking. You have to be three moves ahead to get those little suckers,” says Gramma.

“What happened to that demon? To Legion?” I ask.

“I believe it was a whole gaggle of demons, and together they were called Legion. They begged Jesus not to send them back to hell, and of course, being a man of compassion, he agreed to let them possess a herd of cows. Or pigs, actually. Swine. And when the demons entered into them, they ran down a large hill and drowned themselves.”

“Poor pigs,” I say. “Thanks, Gramma. You're better than Wikipedia.”

“I must be absolutely glorious,” she says. “Love you, dear heart.”

We hang up. I have to shield my eyes from the glare off the river as I walk home, feeling sorry for the fictional pigs and thinking about how Jane and Claudia would mock my sensitivity if they knew. Before I can put so much thought into it that I end up paralyzed, I dial Scotty's cell phone, prepared to leave a message since I know he'll be at work. I run down the hill. I jump. I am suspended, over the water.

“Hi,” he says, picking up after only a ring and a half. I can hear Georgie singing in the background, one of the
Star Wars
themes, at the top of his lungs.

“Hi,” I say. “You're not at work.”

“I took the week off,” he says.

“You took the
week
off?”

Scotty's laugh sounds echoey, like he's switched me to speakerphone. “Yes.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, wow. Is it totally weird if I ask you what you're wearing?”

“Is it totally weird if I tell you a cowbell G-string?”

“Ha! I have trouble picturing you in anything other than a suit, that's all.”

“What's happening with you?” he asks.

“Not too much,” I say.

“Are you busy?”

“Like, in my life?”

“I meant right now,” he says. “Although I would also like to hear about how you're busy in your life.”

“No, I'm not busy right now.”

“I would love to see you. We all would. We'll be here for most of the day. If you can come, I'll send a car over to pick you up.”

“I don't need—”

“I'm joking about the car.”

“Well. Nobody thinks you're funny,” I say, and I let the feeling stretch out over the line. There is a
thing
between Scotty and me that hasn't been named, and therefore hasn't been cast out, and furthermore, I can't force a name onto the thing, no matter how hard I try. I know what it's
not
called, and I know that I've never had it with anyone else. We've been carrying this fragile thing between us, and we don't know what to call it, and we're both afraid to drop it.

“I'll be glad to see you guys,” I say, and I walk faster, turning away from the river and heading back up the road toward my apartment. “I miss you.”

“We miss you, too.”

June, four weeks earlier

For the better part of a week, I do nothing but lie in my bed and eat the food that Jane cooks for me. I have no energy, not even to cry. After a few days, my sisters force me out of bed and into the shower and make me put on real clothes for the first time since I left Scotty's house.

“Gross. No way,” says Claudia.

I blow a raspberry at her, like I'm twelve, and turn to Jane. “Come on, Janie. You'd help me out, right?”

“Well, aw, I guess so, sure,” says Jane. “I guess I would try to do something.”

“Hell no,” says Claudia. “If I opened the door one morning, and you had turned into a giant cockroach, I would
not
try to figure out what to feed you. I'd slam the door and buy a giant can of Raid.”

“MEAN,” I say. “You're the meanest, meanest,
meanest
girl I know.” Claudia pours more seltzer into my glass. She and Jane are splitting one of my larger bottles of Yellowtail, but Jane has decreed that I have to stay sober.

“You're in danger of shutting off all of your feelings,” she says. “Like you do when you don't know how to handle something. I guarantee that no one in that Pup situation was as attached to that stuffed animal as you were.”

“Of all the things to make you come unglued.” Claudia sits up straight and reaches behind her to stretch out her shoulders. “A stuffed animal.”

“It's not the freaking animal itself,” I say. “It's what he represents.”

“Okay, fine, but what now?” says Jane. “You're never going back to that house? You can't work anything out with Scotty? You're never going to see Matt and George again?”

“It's like … it's like Gretchen died, and I'm not me anymore,” I say. “I didn't try to be her, but somehow I lost me. And Scotty let me do it because he's in pain, and I was there. I didn't really have a choice, when it started.”

“You did have a choice,” says Claudia. “Getting into it with them in the first place was a choice.”

Jane rearranges the pillows at the head of my bed into a more logical order as we finish our drinks. “But you only got halfway into it with Patrick.”

“Patrick only got it halfway into you.” Claudia thinks she's pretty hilarious.

“That thing with Patrick was the worst attempt at retaliation ever,” I say.

“Retaliation?” says Jane. “It might be more than that.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.” Jane and Claudia look at each other. “What?” I ask. “What did you do?”

“We might have stolen your phone,” says Claudia.

“One of us may have stolen your phone,” corrects Jane.

“Give me my phone right now,” I say. “You horrible, horrible sluts.”

Two days later, they're getting ready to leave, but all of us are dawdling.

“When I die,” says Claudia, “I want one thing.”

“For everyone to use your death as an excuse to call off work for a week and party?” says Jane.

“Hmm. Not a bad idea. Two things, maybe.”

“What's the first one?”

“I want everyone to fucking
mourn
me. None of this ‘celebrate the good times, she'd want you to move on' bullshit. No. I mean, by all means, celebrate. But I want to be toasted at every holiday. I want people to cry. I want people to think of all the things they loved about me. Otherwise, why was I even here?”

“Okay,” says Jane, really seriously. “I promise to be incredibly sad and never move on if you die, Claud-hopper.”

“Me too,” I say, and they hug me at the same time.

“I'm sad that you're sad,” says Claudia. “I hope we feel better soon.”

“Me too,” I say again.

“So you'll make your list,” says Jane. “And you'll text it to us. Right?” They have insisted, after hearing the story of how things ended with Jess, that I start moving again on my career, and making a list is the first step, according to Jane. Claudia threatened to stage a sit-in until I did so, but Jane convinced her to leave and catch their respective planes (after I insinuated that the mortar on Jane's backsplash might end up a slightly different shade if she let it sit too long without finishing). I'm sure Jane meant for me to find it later, but I've already uncovered the list of grief counselors within a twenty-block radius that she wrote out and left for me.

Three group hugs later, I put my sisters in a taxi and send them off to JFK, and there is suddenly nothing here to distract me, no kids, no sisters, no job. I sit in front of my crappy piano and put my hands on the keyboard, but I don't play. Not ten minutes have passed, but I dial Jane and have her put me on speaker in the taxi.