All the Time in the World (9 page)

“And then the guy at the next table offered to do it, but we were pretty sure—” Scotty goes on.

“—that you wouldn't want a stranger touching your food,” Gretchen finishes. “So it's just wrapped in foil.”

“I promise to eat it right away, so your efforts were not in vain,” I say, squatting down to peer under the couch for the missing shoe.

“How were they?” Gretchen asks.

“I didn't speak a word to either of them from the time you left.” I rescue Iron Man's helmet and two refrigerator magnets from underneath the couch. “They both fell asleep out here. I'm glad they got pj's on before dinner.”

“I hope you didn't throw out your back carrying Matthew to bed,” she says.

“I guess we'll see tomorrow when I wake up,” I say, finally locating my shoe inside the Play-Doh bin. I put it on quickly and edge toward the door.

“Why don't you take the morning off? We can take them to school tomorrow, and then maybe you can sleep in and pick up George at noon, at North-Mad. Does that sound okay?” Gretchen is struggling to unwind a scarf from around her neck.

“Are you sure?” I say. “I don't mind taking them.”

“No, you should stay home. Drink your four cups of coffee in bed, for a change,” she says.

“You mock my caffeine intake now,” I tell her. “But the boys know the truth about what happens when Charlotte has no coffee.”

“Viola Swamp?” Scotty takes Gretchen's purse from her and sets it down. He puts his hands into the tangle of her scarf as she holds hers out to the side in a gesture of laughing surrender.

“More like the Hulk,” I say. I pull my new hat down over my ears, zip up my jacket, and grab my backpack, which contains, among other things, three bottles of hand sanitizer, a library book I thought was lost but was magically found by George, and my ukulele. “Thank you again for my hat.”

“You're so welcome,” Gretchen says. “Oh! Babe, it's an infinity scarf.” She takes it off over her head and stretches the circle of fabric between her hands, and we laugh at Scotty's baffled expression.

“I'm pretty sure there's a ‘how many advanced degrees does it take' joke in there somewhere,” I say. “Good night, you guys.”

“Scotty will walk you down to get a cab,” says Gretchen.

“It's really okay,” I say. “It's only—”

“Nine blocks away, yeah, we know,” she says. “It's almost two in the morning. Scotty will get you a cab. See you tomorrow.” She walks into the kitchen, and Scotty watches her go, and the way he is watching her makes me uncomfortable, for a reason I can't put my finger on.

“I'll be out in a minute, all right?” he says. I step outside the front door to wait in the hall. This is so silly. I'd be fine on my own. I might even walk.

I can hear Scotty start to say something, right by the door which I didn't pull shut, thinking he'd be right out. I'm about to push it open and ask him to repeat himself when I hear, “But you know how much I fucking
love
you, right? You do know
that
.” He definitely isn't talking to me.

“It's not about that. It's about you leaving me alone again. You don't even seem to care, you might as well have said it's
easy
—”

“That's
not
what I said—”

“Let me tell you something about complexity, Scotty,” Gretchen says, sounding blurry, which I'd rather attribute to the half-open door than anything having to do with emotion or inebriation. “This morning some kid
pushed
Matthew on the playground while we were waiting for the doors to open—just pushed him, totally on purpose, with
aggression
, and he's looking at me like, ‘I know I'm not supposed to hit back, Mom, but what do I do now?' and the look he was giving me was just so incredulous, like accusatory almost, like, how could I have let that happen and still have rules like ‘no hitting?'”

I want to pull the door shut, but I'm afraid they'll notice the click, so I reach out to turn the knob, one tense millimeter at a time.

“And I'm trying to explain it to him, telling our
five-year-old
that things aren't always black and white. Things aren't always SIMPLE.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Jesus, I picked the wrong word, obviously.”

“But is that really what you think? God, Scotty. You always do this.”

“Do what? I can't even follow your—”

“You leave me alone. I'm always alone!”

“Jesus Christ. Okay. I'm going to walk Charlotte out, and then we'll talk, okay?”

I let go of the door and scoot to the other side of the vestibule so I'll have an easier time pretending I didn't hear anything.

“You'd better not be in bed when I get back, or else I can't be held responsible for my actions. You hear me? Do
not
get in that bed,” says Scotty. I hear Gretchen laughing at that, even in the midst of what is clearly an ongoing squabble, and I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend to text, even though it's off, as Scotty opens the door.

As we ride the elevator down, Scotty asks me little innocuous questions relating to things he's heard about my life from Gretchen. It's much more common that I hear him referred to in the third person than see him in the flesh, but if he were the subject of a trivia question, I bet I'd know the answer. I'm pretty sure the same is true for him of me, which puts us squarely in the realm of people who know much more about each other than they have ascertained from actually talking to each other. End-of-the-night small talk is usually awkward, but Scotty is too well-bred to be awkward. I answer his questions about my sister's new apartment in Boston and my recent foray into the culture of espresso, and I feel very fond of him. When we get to the ground floor, he does not hand me over to the doorman, because he and Gretchen have made it clear that they are personally invested in getting me safely into a cab, always. Because they are also very fond of me.

Scotty raises his arm and gets the attention of a cab quickly, thank God, because I am ready to drop. There are two types of women who are shuttled into taxis while simultaneously being palmed a wad of cash: babysitters and prostitutes. I almost laugh at this thought but stop for fear I might have to explain the joke.

“Eighty-First, by the river,” he tells the driver, and I glance at the money he's handed me.

“You guys can pay me at the end of the week like normal, if you want,” I say through the open door as he is about to shut it. I roll down the window.

“She will. This is for tonight,” he says.

“It's too much,” I say.

“We really appreciate it, Charlotte. Happy Valentine's Day.” He slaps the side of the cab, and the driver must understand this as some universal signal for “Step on it, pal,” because he is off like a shot. I count again what's in my hand, and for a moment I feel a little thrill, like maybe my discretion has just been bought.

Valentine's Day

I'm momentarily inert, torn between moving to comfort Georgie and going to stop Matt from running after Scotty. I have to go for Matt though, because he's the more imminent threat, and Eliza is frozen by the water fountain, in a fit of supreme unhelpfulness.

I catch Matt around the waist and hang on to him. I don't know what to say, so I wrap my arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him until he stops struggling and sags against me, and I can lead him back over to the chair where George sits, half-asleep and sobbing. I haul Georgie down off his chair and sit on the floor with him in my lap, pulling Matt down beside us and letting them both soak my second-to-last sweater with their tears.

I can't see what's going on through the window, but Eliza can, and I use her face as a barometer. She puts her hands over her mouth, and I gesture forcefully at her and mouth, “What?”

“They're wheeling her bed down the hall,” she says in a very low voice, and I appreciate her efforts not to alarm the boys. A moment later, Scotty is back through the doors, escorted by Rosie Ramsay and a comically burly orderly.

“I'm sorry, sir, but I need to go back in,” Rosie is saying. “I'll come out as soon as we have an update.”

The orderly posts himself in front of the double doors, and Scotty has nothing to do but stand in the middle of the room, unable to get where he wants to go.

“Daddy?” Matt scrambles up and pastes himself to Scotty's hip before I can catch him with my free arm. “Did you get to see Mommy?”

Scotty runs his hand through Matt's hair. Every so often, Matt will ask, “What's going on in there?” or simply, “Daddy?” Each time I watch Matt's face fall as he waits for an answer and doesn't get it is like a casual abrasion to my calm facade. It goes on this way for maybe ten minutes. I don't know if my composure can withstand much more, but every time I try to get up, Georgie tightens his grip on the front of my sweater.

The door to the outside opens then, and Patrick enters. His gait is almost identical to Scotty's, and the coloring is the same. He wears a similar suit. The first time I met Patrick, I thought they might be twins. Until Patrick opened his mouth, of course, and the four-year age gap bent over and showed its hindquarters.

The scene he encounters must throw him for a loop, because he stops to take it in for a moment, and that's not the Patrick I remember. We're a sight, I'm sure; me on the floor, George splayed out on my lap, Eliza cowering by the water fountain, and Matt and Scotty frozen like some pathetic statue in the middle of the room. Narnia.

“Hi,” I say, because no one else is going to. “Thanks, it's good you, I mean, it's good you came.”

“I'm glad you called, Charlotte,” he says, as if no one else had thought to loop him in on the events of the day. “Hey, Eliza. Hi, kids.”

“Mommy's in the hospital,” Matt tells him.

“Is she with the doctor, buddy?”

“She's back there,” he says, pointing to the double doors.

“Do we know what's happening?” Patrick addresses the question to Scotty, but Scotty seems preoccupied with Matt, looking down at him with vague recognition, as if his name and relation are just out of reach.

“You know what?” says Patrick, pulling Matt over by the arm to where I sit with Georgie, who is still whimpering but losing the battle against his drooping eyelids. “I think maybe your dad needs some air. I'm sure Charlotte brought something for you to do, right, Charlotte?”

Eliza's expression doesn't change, but I can feel her solidarity from across the room, and it saves me from either saying or doing something childish and aggressive, like maybe kicking Uncle Patrick.

“I want to see Mommy,” says Matt.

“As soon as the doctor says it's okay, we'll see her,” I say. “I'm sorry. Do you want to play
Angry Birds
?”

“Okay,” says Matt.

Patrick puts his arm around his brother's shoulders and leads him outside. A moment later, he pokes his head back in. “Does either one of you have a lighter?” he asks, and Eliza and I stare at him. His ability to be inappropriate is so consistent. “Never mind. I'll ask someone out here,” he says and disappears again.

Just as quickly, he is back inside without Scotty. Eliza and I are equally baffled. Who is smoking? But we don't have time to give the moment its due consideration because Patrick is motioning to me, and I have to get to my feet holding George, which adds about thirty awkward maneuvers to the process of getting up.

“I don't know that it's the best idea for you guys to be here,” Patrick says.

“
Who
do you mean, Patrick?” I ask him.

“Don't you think it would make more sense for you to take the boys home? This can't be good for them,” he clarifies.

“Scotty asked us to meet him here, so we came. If he wants us to go, we will. I don't think he has a clear idea of what's going on yet. Do you?”

“Do you think he knew how serious it was when he asked you to come?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “We had no idea. But, I mean, I think he wants them to be able to see Gretchen, as soon as they can. Otherwise, they're going to be terrified, you know?”

Patrick gives me the most honest, sober look I've ever seen from him. He could almost be a decent guy with that look. “Well, whatever you think is best. You know the boys.” I'm right on the verge of cutting him some slack when he adds, “What is Eliza still doing here? Scotty says she made a bunch of phone calls already. She doesn't need to hang around.”

“I don't know, man. She's been pretty helpful. I guess she'll go when Scotty is sure he doesn't need her to do anything else.”

“She and I have a bit of a past,” says Patrick, as if he is confiding some delightful piece of intrigue to me, when in reality, all he is doing is confirming the accuracy of my recollection. “I guess it's a little awkward, but what the hell. It's not my call.”

Scotty comes back in then, smelling like smoke (Eliza and I finally do get to widen our eyes at each other at this) but looking somewhat calmer. He sits down, and Patrick sits next to him, and Eliza abandons her post by the water fountain and sits. I lay Georgie down on a chair again and take the iPad out of Matt's hand before it can slide out on its own. He is about to drop, so I stand him up and then help him lie down on a few adjoining chairs with his head in my lap.

“They took her back into surgery a little early,” Scotty says as soon as it's clear that Matt is sleeping. The sound of his voice is a surprising break in the ambient noise of the waiting room. “They didn't want to, but her liver is failing, and her organs were starting to shut down. That—that was what we could hear, the heart monitor—anyway, they need to try and stabilize the liver right away, and if they can do that, they'll try for the other organs.”