All the Time in the World (41 page)

So I go through it. As I go, I play. I sing. I remember. I cry. I write.

The first day of May, the year before

We are late to take the kids to their haircut the day George starts to speak. The prospect of running with the stroller over to Lexington and down into the sixties is making me cranky. I hate running. I hate sweating. And I especially hate being in a rush. But George woke up late from his nap, Matt apparently needs to have a fifteen-minute bowel movement, and Gretchen is on the phone with Scotty, who is in Beijing and only has a short window of opportunity to talk to the family. Matt takes his turn to say hello to his dad while sitting on the toilet.

George is already zipped into his windbreaker and has his shoes buckled. I am trying to talk Matt into his windbreaker, and Gretchen keeps popping her head out of the guest room and mouthing “sorry!” at me. I decide to abandon my efforts with Matt and put on my own shoes and sweater. Gretchen comes skidding out, still holding the phone to her ear—I could swear she's saying “No,
you
hang up!” (and seriously, he's in
Beijing
)—and George keeps reaching out with both hands as I strap him into the stroller, but I don't know what he wants. I don't know what he's reaching for. Matt is finally zipped and is grudgingly settling onto the floor to put on his sneakers, and George is practically grunting with the effort to get to what he wants, and finally Gretchen stops running around and looks like she's about to hang up, when all of a sudden, George says, “MOMMY!”

Everyone stops moving. Matt stops putting on his shoes. Gretchen stops talking in midsentence. My backpack never makes it to my shoulder.

Gretchen is the one to break the silence. “Oh my goodness, can you hang on a minute, Scotty? Seriously, hold on.” She looks at George, and I can tell she's trying not to breathe the wrong way, because that's what I'm also trying not to do, and maybe even Matty. “Yes, honey?”

“Me have a turn to talk to Daddy?”

“Of course you can, sweetie. Hold on just for a minute.” She puts the phone to her ear. “Honey, you will not believe this. Guess who wants to talk to you?”

Gretchen puts the phone on speaker and hands it to George.

“Hello?” Scotty says.

“Daddy, you bringing a tiger from China? He live with us?”

Scotty doesn't say anything for a moment, and then, “Yes, I'm bringing some tigers home from China, George. But they're not real tigers, honey. They're just tiger toys. Were you worried about that?”

“You bringing a toy tiger for Matt and for me?” George asks.

“Definitely, there will definitely be tigers for both of you,” says Scotty, and he sounds choked up. When I look at Gretchen, she is brushing away her own tears, and I can't even begin to imagine what this means to them, even though my own heart feels more full than it ever has before.

“You bring a tiger for Mommy too?”

“Absolutely, baby George. You be sure and tell your mom that a tiger is coming for her,” says Scotty. “I can't wait to see you all. I'll be home tomorrow.”

George hands the phone back to Gretchen. “Do you want to say good-bye to Daddy, honey?”

“Bye, Daddy,” says George.

“Bye, son. Bye, Matty. Gretch, I love you so much. Love you, boys,” says Scotty.

“We love you too, so much,” says Gretchen. “See you tomorrow.” She hangs up. “I don't really feel like getting our hair cut today, do you?” she asks, looking at Matt, who agrees emphatically, as averse to change as ever. “What about you, George?”

“We have some pickles?” George asks, and I am so unused to the sound of his voice that I feel like laughing in surprise every time he speaks.

“Great idea,” says Gretchen. “Let's get some pickles!”

In the hallway, the boys fight over who gets to push the button for the elevator. Georgie is using words. Neither Gretchen nor I do a thing to stop the squabble. I think to myself, thank you, thank you for this moment; thank you for making me a part of it. I don't know who I'm thanking, but there is no word for how I feel other than grateful.

July, five months after

An hour after Patrick and the boys found Scotty and me on the floor of Gretchen's closet, we are standing in front of a brownstone embedded in a row of similar brownstones on Riverside Drive, above the Hippo Playground. Matt and George run up the stairs like they own the place.

Which, I realize all in one moment, they do.

“You bought this house,” I say to Scotty.

“Yes,” he says.

“You bought this house … just, bought it?”

“It took a little while to close,” says Patrick, turning the key in both locks.

We walk in the front door. I half turn to watch Scotty coming up the front steps through the little window beside the front door, and I have this fleeting moment when I expect to see Gretchen right behind him.

“What do you think?” asks Scotty as we all stand in the foyer and look around.

“It has nice bones,” I say.

“You don't know what that means, do you?”

“Hey, I watch HGTV. I know things.”

“I'm having it renovated. Maybe you can give the contractor some tips.”

“I would definitely go with columns, of some sort. Maybe Roman, maybe, you know Corinthian.”

“I'll tell him,” Scotty says. “His next project is replacing the old windows with floor-to-ceiling, energy-efficient ones.”

Matt finds this boring adult talk of windows a perfect opportunity to run up the stairs, followed by a more fastidious George, who is trying to move quickly while simultaneously squeezing the railing in a death grip. Patrick follows them, and I'm surprised by his supervisory instincts.

“The contractors don't have much more work to do here,” Scotty continues, gesturing to the recently painted walls, the blue tape around the baseboards, the new finish on the hardwood floors. “They'll probably be done by the time we start back up with school in September. Their major undertaking is going to be next door.”

“You also bought the house next door?” I say, this time with as much judgment as I can possibly impart in one sentence.

“Not the whole thing,” says Scotty. “We're renting the top two floors, at least until I can convince the owner to sell it to me. I figured we'd put a little work into renovating it, and see how long they hold out. It's for Mae and Simon. They're moving to New York, to be close. To help. Simon is retired, after all, and he can consult from anywhere. But, we've discussed it at length. And it seems logical.”

“You've been so busy,” I say, and it comes out the way it would if I were inspecting a macaroni collage designed by one of the kids.

Matt and George are on the landing, and I watch Patrick waver between standing above them or below them, trying to assess where the greatest risk lies. “He's been a huge help,” says Scotty. “He hasn't left me alone for a minute, which I thought I would hate, but I don't.”

I think of George and Matt, Jane and Claudia, Scotty and Patrick, and then strangely, of Lila. I have no desire to see that woman again, though I probably won't be able to avoid it for my entire life. But there's a part of my heart that holds her and wishes that she, out of everyone, did not have to suffer the loss of her specific Gretchen.

Matt is running up to see what the highest number of stairs he can jump from is. George watches him, frowning, and I can't tell if he is afraid to try it himself and resents that Matt can fling himself off so freely, or if he genuinely thinks that Matt's an idiot and might seriously injure himself.

“You'll be official Upper West Siders,” I say.

“Don't go spreading it around and ruining my downtown reputation,” calls Patrick.

“There's nothing left to ruin.” Scotty unbuttons his shirt near the collar. It's hot in here; no central air just yet.

“You're moving in too?” I say, as Patrick comes over to join us.

“Sounds like a sitcom minus the humor, if you ask me,” Scotty says. He walks over to put the kibosh on the stair-flinging game, leaving me with Patrick. I think of parasailing, jumping out of planes, cliff diving. I think of that day I sat with Scotty in the Indian cathedral and chose this weird, nonmarital but somehow for-better-or-for-worse relationship with all of them, and what will happen to it if I follow my instincts with his brother.

“You've become quite the helicopter parent,” I say. “These guys must be keeping you busy.”

“Mostly with chase games. What is it with little kids and needing to be chased?”

“Those games are the worst,” I say.

“I'll have my own entrance, you know,” he says, and his eyes are not on my face anymore. “Through the basement. I promise to hide a key somewhere easy enough so that you're not discouraged but hard enough so that I can be sure you're not just acting out of convenience.”

“I've been thinking about what you said to me, about her,” I say. “The end was so … it was so hideously
mundane
.” Stampeding feet pound through the ceiling directly above our heads. Patrick brushes the corners of my eyes with his thumbs. He knows I don't want the boys to see me crying. “What happened was so large, so planet altering to us. The universe is not the same. And the people who read it in the newspapers—they probably shook their heads and thought, what a shame. It's so sad she had two little kids. And then they ate their breakfasts, and got on the train, and went back to normal.”

“I'm sure they did,” he says.

“Nothing that we do will go unnoticed,” I say, lowering my voice as I hear Georgie's little footsteps at the top of the stairs.

“We would have to be pretty sure,” he whispers.

Scotty and the boys appear on the landing. “It's getting dark,” Scotty says. “We should get going if we want to walk.”

“Tars coming out,” George says. Matt is quick to jump down his throat, of course.

“You can't really see stars in New York City, Georgie. The lights are too bright.”

I don't want George to feel bad, even though Matt is right. I try to move us on quickly. “I wonder how many miles we would have to drive outside the city to see them?” I say.

“I don't know,” says Scotty. “I think you can sometimes see them here, especially later at night when it's really dark.”

A short while later, we have almost made our way through Central Park. We take turns carrying George and exchanging the hands we're holding, on our way back to the East Side.

Georgie, currently aided by the security of Scotty's hand, is doing little hops on the walking path. Matt runs up ahead of us, stopping every once in a while to let us catch up.

“This is what it takes for you to let me walk you home,” says Patrick. “An entire entourage.”

“I'm walking
you
home,” I say.

“Do categories, Charlotte,” says Matt, already bored with walking.

“I thought that was a drinking game,” says Patrick.

“Okay,” I say. “The category is planets.”

“Plants?” Matt is not impressed.

“No,
planets
. Like Pluto.”

“Pluto isn't a planet; it's a dwarf planet.”

“Geez, the things they teach you in kindergarten,” says Scotty.

“Okay, so, like Mercury,” I say.

“That one's boring!”

“You're a stinker.” I poke Matt. “How about things that creep you out?”

“Okay! Um, spiders.”

George is frowning in concentration, and I know he's trying hard to keep up. “What you mean, that creepy?”

“Um, like, things that ick you out a little. Things you don't like.”

“Quash?”

“No, baby, not squash,” I say. “Things that are scary, that you stay away from.”

“Eels?”

“Sure Georgie, like eels. Eels is a good one.”

“Your turn, Charlotte,” says Matt, like he's been waiting ten years.

“Hmm. Dogs whose eyes are the same color as their fur. Matty?”

“Like, when Mommy sticks her fingers in her eyes.”

“You mean when she would put in her contacts?”

“Yeah. Gross.”

“Yeah, you're right, gross,” I say.

“Things that are creepy?” says Patrick. “How about that scene in romantic comedies where the girl teaches the guy to dip his French fries in a milkshake like it's some new special thing that no one's ever heard of.”

“That
is
creepy,” says Scotty. “I was going to say toys that talk by themselves.”

I let them take over the game. Matt and George can't get a word in edgewise once Patrick and Scotty get started. The light lowers to the particular hue of dusk, and we walk each other home.

 

About the Author

C
AROLINE
A
NGELL
grew up in Endwell, N.Y., the daughter of an electrical engineer and a public school music teacher. She has a B. A. in musical theater from American University, and currently lives and works in Manhattan. As a playwright and director, she has had her work performed at regional theaters in New York City and in the Washington, D.C., area.
All the Time in the World
is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates
here
.