The Time Traveler's Wife, Page 36

  Henry says, "Wake up, Clare." I open my eyes. The television picture swerves around. A city street. A sky. A white skyscraper on fire. An airplane, toylike, slowly flies into the second white tower. Silent flames shoot up. Henry turns up the sound. "Oh my god," says the voice of the television. "Oh my god."

  Tuesday, June 11, 2002 (Clare is 31)

  CLARE: I'm making a drawing of Alba. At this moment Alba is nine months and five days old. She is sleeping on her back, on a small light blue flannel blanket, on the yellow ochre and magenta Chinese rug on the living room floor. She has just finished nursing. My breasts are light, almost empty. Alba is so very asleep that I feel perfectly okay about walking out the back door and across the yard into my studio.

  For a minute I stand in the doorway inhaling the slightly musty unused studio odor. Then I rummage around in my flat file, find some persimmon-tanned paper that looks like cowhide, grab a few pastels and other implements and a drawing board and walk (with only a small pang of regret) out the door and back into the house.

  The house is very quiet. Henry is at work (I hope) and I can hear the washing machine churning away in the basement. The air conditioner whines. There's a faint rumble of traffic on Lincoln Avenue. I sit down on the rug next to Alba. A trapezoid of sunlight is inches away from her small pudgy feet. In half an hour it will cover her.

  I clip my paper to the drawing board and arrange my pastels next to me on the rug. Pencil in hand, I consider my daughter.

  Alba is sleeping deeply. Her ribcage rises and falls slowly and I can hear the soft grunt she makes with each exhalation. I wonder if she's getting a cold. It's warm in here, on this June late afternoon, and Alba's wearing a diaper and nothing else. She's a little flushed. Her left hand is clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Maybe she's dreaming music.

  I begin to rough in Alba's head, which is turned toward me. I am not thinking about this, really. My hand is moving across the paper like the needle of a seismograph, recording Alba's form as I absorb it with my eyes. I note the way her neck disappears in the folds of baby fat under her chin, how the soft indentations above her knees alter slightly as she kicks, once, and is still again. My pencil describes the convexity of Alba's full belly which submerges into the top of her diaper, an abrupt and angular line cutting across her roundness. I study the paper, adjust the angle of Alba's legs, redraw the crease where her right arm joins her torso.

  I begin to lay in pastel. I start by sketching in highlights in white--down her tiny nose, along her left side, across her knuckles, her diaper, the edge of her left foot. Then I rough in shadows, in dark green and ultramarine. A deep shadow clings to Alba's right side where her body meets the blanket. It's like a pool of water, and I put it in solidly. Now the Alba in the drawing suddenly becomes three-dimensional, leaps off the page.

  I use two pink pastels, a light pink the hue of the inside of a shell and a dark pink that reminds me of raw tuna. With rapid strokes I make Alba's skin. It is as though Alba's skin was hidden in the paper, and I am removing some invisible substance that concealed it. Over this pastel skin I use a cool violet to make Alba's ears and nose and mouth (her mouth is slightly open in a tiny O). Her black and abundant hair becomes a mixture of dark blue and black and red on the paper. I take care with her eyebrows, which seem so much like furry caterpillars that have found a home on Alba's face.

  The sunlight covers Alba now. She stirs, brings her small hand over her eyes, and sighs. I write her name, and my name, and the date at the bottom of the paper.

  The drawing is finished. It will serve as a record--I loved you, I made you, and I made this for you--long after I am gone, and Henry is gone, and even Alba is gone. It will say, we made you, and here you are, here and now.

  Alba opens her eyes and smiles.

  SECRET

  Sunday, October 12, 2003 (Clare is 32, Henry is 40)

  CLARE: This is a secret: sometimes I am glad when Henry is gone. Sometimes I enjoy being alone. Sometimes I walk through the house late at night and I shiver with the pleasure of not talking, not touching, just walking, or sitting, or taking a bath. Sometimes I lie on the living room floor and listen to Fleetwood Mac, the Bangles, the B-52's, the Eagles, bands Henry can't stand. Sometimes I go for long walks with Alba and I don't leave a note saying where I am. Sometimes I meet Celia for coffee, and we talk about Henry, and Ingrid, and whoever Celia's seeing that week. Sometimes I hang out with Charisse and Gomez, and we don't talk about Henry, and we manage to enjoy ourselves. Once I went to Michigan and when I came back Henry was still gone and I never told him I had been anywhere. Sometimes I get a baby-sitter and I go to the movies or I ride my bicycle after dark along the bike path by Montrose beach with no lights; it's like flying.

  Sometimes I am glad when Henry's gone, but I'm always glad when he comes back.

  EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

  Friday, May 7, 2004 (Henry is 40, Clare is 32)

  HENRY: We are at the opening of Clare's exhibit at the Chicago Cultural Center. She has been working nonstop for a year, building huge, ethereal bird skeletons out of wire, wrapping them in translucent strips of paper, coating them with shellac until they transmit light. Now the sculptures hang from the high ceiling, and squat on the floor. Some of them are kinetic, motorized: a few beat their wings, and there are two cock skeletons slowly demolishing each other in a corner. An eight-foot-tall pigeon dominates the entrance. Clare is exhausted, and ecstatic. She's wearing a simple black silk dress, her hair is piled high on her head. People have brought her flowers; she has a bouquet of white roses in her arms, there's a heap of plastic-wrapped bouquets next to the guest book. It's very crowded. People circle around, exclaim over each piece, crane their heads back to look at the flying birds. Everyone congratulates Clare. There was a glowing review in this morning's Tribune. All our friends are here, and Clare's family has driven in from Michigan. They surround Clare now, Philip, Alicia, Mark and Sharon and their kids, Nell, Etta. Charisse takes pictures of them, and they all smile for her. When she gives us copies of the pictures, a few weeks from now, I will be struck by the dark circles under Clare's eyes, and by how thin she looks.

  I am holding Alba's hand. We stand by the back wall, out of the crowd. Alba can't see anything, because everyone is tall, and so I lift her on to my shoulders. She bounces.

  Clare's family has dispersed and she is being introduced to a very well-dressed elderly couple by Leah Jacobs, her dealer. Alba says, "I want Mama."

  "Mama's busy, Alba," I say. I am feeling queasy. I bend over and set Alba on the floor. She puts her arms up. "No. I want Mama." I sit on the floor and put my head between my knees. I need to find a place where no one can see me. Alba is pulling my ear. "Don't, Alba," I say. I look up. My father is making his way to us through the crowd. "Go," I tell Alba. I give her a little push. "Go see Grandpa." She starts to whimper. "I don't see Grandpa. I want Mama." I am crawling toward Dad. I bump into someone's legs. I hear Alba screaming, "Mama!" as I vanish.

  CLARE: There are masses of people. Everyone presses at me, smiling. I smile at them. The show looks great, and it's done, it's up! I'm so happy, and so tired. My face hurts from smiling. Everyone I know is here. I'm talking to Celia when I hear a commotion at the back of the gallery, and then I hear Alba screaming, "Mama!" Where is Henry? I try to get through the crowd to Alba. Then I see her: Richard has lifted her up. People part to let me through. Richard hands Alba to me. She locks her legs around my waist, buries her face in my shoulder, wraps her arms around my neck, "Where's Daddy?" I ask her softly. "Gone," says Alba.

  NATURE MORTE

  Sunday, July 11, 2004 (Clare is 33, Henry is 41)

  CLARE: Henry is sleeping, bruised and caked with blood, on the kitchen floor. I don't want to move him or wake him. I sit with him on the cool linoleum for a while. Eventually I get up and make coffee. As the coffee streams into the pot and the grounds make little exploding puffs, Henry whimpers and puts his hands over his eyes. It's obvious that he has been beaten. On
e eye is swollen shut. The blood seems to have come from his nose. I don't see any wounds, just radiant purple fist-sized bruises all over his body. He is very thin; I can see all his vertebrae and ribs. His pelvis juts, his cheeks are hollow. His hair has grown down almost to his shoulders, there is gray shot through it. There are cuts on his hands and feet, and insect bites everywhere on his body. He is very tanned, and filthy, grime under nails, dirt sweated into creases of his skin. He smells of grass, blood, and salt. After watching him and sitting with him for a while, I decide to wake him. "Henry," I say very softly, "wake up, now, you're home..." I stroke his face, carefully, and he opens his eye. I can tell he's not quite awake. "Clare," he mumbles. "Clare." Tears begin to stream from his good eye, he is shaking with sobbing, and I pull him into my lap. I am crying. Henry is curled in my lap, there on the floor, we shake tightly together, rocking, rocking, crying our relief and our anguish together.

  Thursday, December 23, 2004 (Clare is 33, Henry is 41)

  CLARE: It's the day before Christmas Eve. Henry is at Water Tower Place, taking Alba to see Santa at Marshall Field's while I finish the shopping. Now I'm sitting in the cafe at Border's Bookstore, drinking cappuccino at a table by the front window and resting my feet with a pile of bulging shopping bags leaning against my chair. Outside the window the day is fading and tiny white lights describe every tree. Shoppers hurry up and down Michigan Avenue, and I can hear the muted clang of the Salvation Army Santa's bell below me. I turn back to the store, scanning for Henry and Alba, and someone calls my name. Kendrick is coming toward me with his wife, Nancy, and Colin and Nadia in tow.

  I can see at a glance that they've just come from FAO Schwarz; they have the shell-shocked look of parents freshly escaped from toy-store hell. Nadia comes running up to me squealing "Aunt Clare, Aunt Clare! Where's Alba?" Colin smiles shyly and holds out his hand to show me that he has a tiny yellow tow truck. I congratulate him and tell Nadia that Alba's visiting Santa, and Nadia replies that she already saw Santa last week. "What did you ask for?" I query. "A boyfriend," says Nadia. She's three years old. I grin at Kendrick and Nancy. Kendrick says something, sotto voce, to Nancy, and she says, "Come on, troops, we have to find a book for Aunt Silvie," and the three of them go pelting off to the bargain tables. Kendrick gestures at the empty chair across from me. "May I?"

  "Sure."

  He sits down, sighing deeply. "I hate Christmas."

  "You and Henry both."

  "Does he? I didn't know that." Kendrick leans against the window and closes his eyes. Just as I think that he's actually asleep he opens them and says, "Is Henry following his drug regimen?"

  "Um, I guess. I mean, as closely as he can, considering that he's been time traveling a lot lately."

  Kendrick drums his fingers on the table. "How much is a lot?"

  "Every couple days."

  Kendrick looks furious. "Why doesn't he tell me these things?"

  "I think he's afraid you'll get upset with him and quit."

  "He's the only test subject I have who can talk and he never tells me anything!"

  I laugh. "Join the club."

  Kendrick says, "I'm trying to do science. I need him to tell me when something doesn't work. Otherwise we're all just spinning our wheels."

  I nod. Outside it has started to snow.

  "Clare?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Why won't you let me look at Alba's DNA?"

  I've had this conversation a hundred times with Henry. "Because first you'd just want to locate all the markers in her genes, and that would be okay. But then you and Henry would start to badger me to let you try out drugs on her, and that is not okay. That's why."

  "But she's still very young; she has a better chance of responding positively to the medication."

  "I said no. When Alba is eighteen she can decide for herself. So far, everything you've given Henry has been a nightmare." I can't look at Kendrick. I say this to my hands, tightly folded on the table.

  "But we might be able to develop gene therapy for her--"

  "People have died from gene therapy."

  Kendrick is silent. The noise level in the store is overwhelming. Then from the babble I hear Alba calling, "Mama!" I look up and see her riding on Henry's shoulders, clutching his head with her hands. Both of them are wearing coonskin caps. Henry sees Kendrick and for a brief moment he looks apprehensive and I wonder what secrets these two men are keeping from me. Then Henry smiles and comes striding toward us, Alba bobbing happily above the crowd. Kendrick rises to greet him, and I push the thought away.

  BIRTHDAY

  Wednesday, May 24, 1989 (Henry is 41, Clare is 18)

  HENRY: I come to with a thud and skid across the painful stubble of the Meadow on my side, ending up dirty and bloody at Clare's feet. She is sitting on the rock, coolly immaculate in a white silk dress, white stockings and shoes, and short white gloves. "Hello, Henry," she says, as though I have just dropped in for tea.

  "What's up?" I ask. "You look like you're on your way to your first communion."

  Clare sits up very straight and says, "Today is May 24, 1989."

  I think fast. "Happy birthday. Do you happen to have a Bee Gees outfit squirreled away somewhere around here for me?" Without deigning to reply Clare glides off the rock and, reaching behind it, produces a garment bag. With a flourish she unzips it to reveal a tuxedo, pants, and one of those infernal formal shirts that require studs. She produces a suitcase containing underwear, a cummerbund, a bow tie, studs, and a gardenia. I am seriously alarmed, and not forewarned. I ponder the available data. "Clare. We're not getting married today or anything insane like that, are we? Because I know for a fact that our anniversary is in the fall. October. Late October."

  Clare turns away while I am dressing. "You mean you can't remember our anniversary? How male."

  I sigh. "Darling, you know I know, I just can't get at it right now. But anyway. Happy Birthday."

  "I'm eighteen."

  "Heavens, so you are. It seems like only yesterday that you were six."

  Clare is intrigued, as always, with the notion that I have recently visited some other Clare, older or younger. "Have you seen me when I was six lately?"

  "Well, just now I was lying in bed with you reading Emma. You were thirty-three. I am forty-one at the moment, and feeling every minute." I comb through my hair with my fingers and run my hand over my stubble, "I'm sorry, Clare. I'm afraid I'm not at my best for your birthday." I fasten the gardenia through the buttonhole of the tuxedo and start to do up the studs. "I saw you at six about two weeks ago. You drew me a picture of a duck."

  Clare blushes. The blush spreads like drops of blood in a bowl of milk.

  "Are you hungry? I made us a feast!"

  "Of course I'm hungry. I'm famished, gaunt, and considering cannibalism."

  "That won't be necessary just yet."

  There is something in her tone that pulls me up. Something is going on that I don't know about, and Clare expects me to know it. She is practically humming with excitement. I contemplate the relative merits of a simple confession of ignorance versus continuing to fake it. I decide to let it go for a while. Clare is spreading out a blanket which will later end up on our bed. I carefully sit down on it and am comforted by its pale green familiarity. Clare unpacks sandwiches, little paper cups, silverware, crackers, a tiny black jar of supermarket caviar, Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies, strawberries, a bottle of Cabernet with a fancy label, Brie cheese which looks a bit melted, and paper plates.

  "Clare. Wine! Caviar!" I am impressed, and somehow not amused. She hands me the Cabernet and the corkscrew. "Um, I don't think I've ever mentioned this, but I'm not supposed to drink. Doctor's orders." Clare looks crestfallen. "But I can certainly eat... I can pretend to be drinking. I mean, if that would be helpful." I can't shake the feeling that we are playing house. "I didn't know you drank. Alcohol. I mean, I've hardly ever seen you drink any."

  "Well, I don't really like it, but since this is a momentous occasion
I thought it would be nice to have wine. Champagne probably would have been better, but this was in the pantry, so I brought it along."

  I open the wine and pour us each a small cup. We toast each other silently. I pretend to sip mine. Clare takes a mouthful, swallows it in a businesslike fashion, and says, "Well, that's not so bad."

  "That's a twenty-something-dollar bottle of wine."

  "Oh. Well, that was marvelous."