The time traveler's wife (48 page)

"Clare?" There's a sharp intake of
breath. "Clare?"

" Henry! Oh, God, I can't believe it! Come
home!"

"I'll try
"

"When are you from?"

"2001. Just before Alba was born." I
smile at Alba. She is leaning against me, holding my hand. "Maybe I should
come down there?"

"That would be faster. Listen, could you
tell this teacher that I'm really me?" "Sure—where will you be?"

"At the lions. Come as fast as you can,
Clare. It won't be much longer." "I love you."

"I love you, Clare." I hesitate, and
then hand the phone to Mrs. Cooper. She and Clare have a short conversation, in
which Clare somehow convinces her to let me take Alba to the museum entrance,
where Clare will meet us. I thank Mrs. Cooper, who has been pretty graceful in
a weird situation, and Alba and I walk hand in hand out of the Morton Wing,
down the spiral staircase and into Chinese ceramics. My mind is racing-What to
ask first? Alba says, "Thank you for the videos. Mama gave them to me for
my birthday." What videos? "I can do the Yale and the Master, and I'm
working on the Walters."

Locks. She's learning to pick locks.
"Great. Keep at it. Listen, Alba?"

"Daddy?"

"What's a CDP?"

"Chrono-Displaced Person." We sit
down on a bench in front of a Tang Dynasty porcelain dragon. Alba sits facing
me, with her hands in her lap. She looks exactly like me at ten. I can hardly
believe any of this. Alba isn't even born yet and here she is, Athena sprung
full blown. I level with her. "You know, this is the first time I've met
you."

Alba smiles. "How do you do?" She is
the most self-possessed child I've ever met. I scrutinize her: where is Clare
in this child? "Do we see each other much?"

She considers. "Not much. It's been about
a year. I saw you a few times when I was eight."

"How old were you when I died?" I
hold my breath. "Five." Jesus. I can't deal with this.

"I'm sorry! Should I not have said
that?" Alba is contrite. I hug her to me. "It's okay. I asked, didn't
I?" I take a deep breath. "How is Clare?"

"Okay. Sad." This pierces me. I
realize I don't want to know anything more.

"What about you? How's school? What are
you learning?"

Alba grins. "I'm not learning much in
school, but I'm reading all about early instruments, and Egypt, and Mama and I
are reading Lord of the Rings, and I'm learning a tango by Astor
Piazzolla."

At ten? Heavens. "Violin? Who's your
teacher?"

"Gramps." For a moment I think she
means my grandfather, and then I realize she means Dad. This is great. If Dad
is spending time with Alba, she must actually be good.

"Are you good?" What a rude question.

"Yes. I'm very good."

"Thank God. I was never any good at
music."

That's what Gramps says." She giggles.
"But you like music." I love music. I just can't play it, myself."
I heard Grandma Annette sing! She was so beautiful."

"Which recording?" I saw her for
real. At the Lyric. She was singing Aida."

He's a CDP, like me. Oh, shit. "You time
travel."

"Sure." Alba smiles happily.
"Mama always says you and I are exactly alike. Dr. Kendrick says I am a
prodigy" "How so?"

"Sometimes I can go when and where I
want." Alba looks pleased with herself; I'm so envious. "Can you not
go at all if you don't want to?"

"Well, no," She looks embarrassed.
"But I like it. I mean, sometimes it's not convenient, but...it's
interesting, you know?" Yes. I know.

"Come and visit me, if you can be anytime
you want."

"I tried. I saw you once on the street;
you were with a blond woman. You seemed like you maybe were busy, though."
Alba blushes and all of a sudden Clare peeks out at me, for just a tiny
fraction of a second.

"That was Ingrid. I dated her before I met
your mom." I wonder what we were doing, Ing and I, back then, that Alba is
so discomfited by; I feel a pang of regret, that I made a poor impression on
this sober and lovely girl. "Speaking of your mom, we should go out front
and wait for her." The high-pitched whining noise has set in, and I just
hope Clare will get here before I'm gone. Alba and I get up and quickly make
our way to the front steps. It's late fall, and Alba doesn't have a coat, so I
wrap mine around both of us. I am leaning against the granite slab that
supports one of the lions, facing south, and Alba leans against me, encased in
my coat, pressed against my bare torso with just her face sticking out at the
level of my chest. It's a rainy day. Traffic swims along on Michigan Avenue. I
am drunk with the overwhelming love I feel for this amazing child, who presses
against me as though she belongs to me, as though we will never be separated,
as though we have all the time in the world. I am clinging to this moment,
fighting fatigue and the pulling of my own time. Let me stay, I implore my
body, God, Father Time, Santa, anybody who might be listening. Just let me see
Clare, and I'll come along peacefully.

"There's Mama ," says Alba. A white
car, unfamiliar to me, is speeding toward us. It pulls up to the intersection
and Clare jumps out, leaving it where it is, blocking traffic.

"Henry!" I try to run to her, she is
running, and I collapse onto the steps, and I stretch out my arms toward Clare:
Alba is holding me and yelling something and Clare is only a few feet from me
and I use my last reserves of will to look at Clare who seems so far away and I
say as clearly as I can "I love you," and I'm gone. Damn. Damn.

7:20p.m. Friday, August 24, 2001 (Clare is 30,
Henry is 38)

Clare: I am lying on the battered chaise lounge
in the backyard with books and magazines cast adrift all around me and a
half-drunk glass of lemonade now diluted with melted ice cubes at my elbow.
It's beginning to cool off a bit. It was eighty-five degrees earlier; now
there's a breeze and the cicadas are singing their late summer song. Fifteen
jets have passed over me on their way to O'Hare from distances unknown. My
belly looms before me, anchoring me to this spot. Henry has been gone since
eight o'clock yesterday morning and I am beginning to be afraid. What if I go
into labor and he's not here? What if I have the baby and he still isn't back?
What if he's hurt? What if he's dead? What if I die? These thoughts chase each
other like those weird fur pieces old ladies used to wear around their necks
with the tail in the mouth, circling around until I can't stand one more minute
of it. Usually I like to fret in a whirl of activity; I worry about Henry while
I scrub down the studio or do nine loads of wash or pull three posts of paper.
But now I lie here, beached by my belly in the early evening sun of our
backyard while Henry is out there.. .doing what-ever it is that he is doing.
Oh, God. Bring him back. Now. But nothing happens. Mr. Panetta drives down the
alley and his garage door screeches open and then closed. A Good Humor truck
comes and goes. The fireflies begin their evening revels. But no Henry. I am
getting hungry. I am going to starve to death in the backyard because Henry is
not here to make dinner. Alba is squirming around and I consider getting up and
going into the kitchen and fixing some food and eating it. But then I decide to
do the same thing I always do when Henry isn't around to feed me. I get up,
slowly, in increments, and walk sedately into the house. I find my purse, and I
turn on a few lights, and I let myself out the front door and lock it. It feels
good to be moving. Once again I am surprised, and am surprised to be surprised,
that I am so huge in one part of my body only, like someone whose plastic
surgery has gone wrong, like one of those women in an African tribe whose idea
of beauty requires extremely elongated necks or lips or earlobes. I balance my
weight against Alba's, and in this Siamese twin dancing manner we walk to the
Opart Thai Restaurant. The restaurant is cool and full of people. I am ushered
to a table in the front window. I order spring rolls and Pad Thai with tofu,
bland and safe. I drink a whole glass of water. Alba presses against my
bladder; I go to the restroom and when I come back food is on the table. I eat.
I imagine the conversation Henry and I would be having if he were here. I
wonder where he might be. I mentally comb through my memory, trying to fit the
Henry who vanished while putting on his pants yesterday with any Henry I have
seen in my childhood. This is a waste of time; I'll just have to wait for the
story from Himself. Maybe he's back. I have to stop myself from bolting out of
the restaurant to go check. The entree arrives. I squeeze lime over the noodles
and scoop them into my mouth. I picture Alba, tiny and pink, curled inside me,
eating Pad Thai with tiny delicate chopsticks. I picture her with long black hair
and green eyes. She smiles and says, "Thanks, Mama." I smile and tell
her, "You're welcome, so very welcome." She has a tiny stuffed animal
in there with her named Alfonzo. Alba gives Alfonzo some tofu. I finish eating.
I sit for a few minutes, resting. Someone at the next table lights up a
cigarette. I pay, and leave. I toddle down Western Avenue. A car full of Puerto
Rican teenagers yells something at me, but I don't catch it. Back at the ranch
I fumble for my keys and Henry swings the door open and says, "Thank
God," and flings his arms around me. We kiss. I am so relieved to see him
that it takes me a few minutes to realize that he is also extremely relieved to
see me.

"Where have you been?" Henry demands.
"Opart. Where have you been?"

"You didn't leave a note, and I came home,
and you weren't here, and I thought you were at the hospital. So I called, but
they said you weren't—"

I start laughing, and it's hard to stop. Henry
looks perplexed. When I can say something I tell him, "Now you know how it
feels."

He smiles. "Sorry. But I just—I didn't
know where you were, and I sort of panicked. I thought I'd missed Alba."
"But where were you?"

Henry grins. "Wait till you hear this.
Just a minute. Let's sit down." "Let's lie down. I'm beat."
"Whadja do all day?" "Laid around."

"Poor Clare, no wonder you're tired."
I go into the bedroom and turn on the air conditioner and pull the shades.
Henry veers into the kitchen and appears after a few minutes with drinks. I
arrange myself on the bed and receive ginger ale; Henry kicks off his shoes and
joins me with a beer in hand.

"Tell all."

"Well." He raises one eyebrow and
opens his mouth and closes it. "I don't know how to begin."
"Spit it out."

"I have to start by saying that this is by
far the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me." "Weirder than
you and me?"

"Yeah. I mean, that felt reasonably
natural, boy meets girl..." "Weirder than watching your mom die over
and over?"

"Well, that's just a horrible routine, by
now. It's a bad dream I have every so often. No, this was just surreal."
He runs his hand over my belly. "I went forward, and I was really there,
you know, coming in strong, and I ran into our little girl, here."

"Oh, my god. I'm so jealous. But
wow."

"Yeah. She was about ten. Clare, she is so
amazing—she's smart and musical and just...really confident and nothing fazed
her
       
"

"What does she look like?"

"Me. A girl version of me. I mean, she's
beautiful, she's got your eyes, but basically she looks a lot like me: black
hair, pale, with a few freckles, and her mouth is smaller than mine was, and
her ears don't stick out. She had long curly hair, and my hands with the long
fingers, and she's tall
          
She was
like a young cat."

Perfect. Perfect.

"I'm afraid my genes have had their way
with her
         
She was like you in
personality, though. She had the most amazing presence...I saw her in a group
of schoolchildren at the Art Institute and she was talking about Joseph
Cornell's Aviary boxes, and she said something heartrending about him.. .and
somehow I knew who she was. And she recognized me."

"Well, I would hope so." I have to
ask. "Does she—is she—?"

Henry hesitates. "Yes," he finally
says. "She does." We are both silent. He strokes my face. "I
know." I want to cry.

"Clare, she seemed happy. I asked her—she
said she likes it." He smiles. "She said it was interesting!"

We both laugh, a little ruefully at first, and
then, it hits me, and we laugh in earnest, until our faces hurt, until tears
are streaming down our cheeks. Because, of course, it is interesting. Very
interesting.

BIRTHDAY

Wednesday, September 5-Thursday September 6,
2001 (Henry is 38, Clare is 30)

Henry: Clare has been pacing around the house
all day like a tiger. The contractions come every twenty minutes or so.
"Try to get some sleep," I tell her, and she lies on the bed for a
few minutes and then gets up again. At two in the morning she finally goes to
sleep. I lie next to her, wakeful, watching her breathe, listening to the
little fretful sounds she makes, playing with her hair. I am worried, even
though I know, even though I have seen with my own eyes that she will be okay,
and Alba will be okay. Clare wakes up at 3:30.