"I know of Ben. My mom used to go to Ben when she was having chemo."
"Oh." I review the situation, searching for things I can safely mention.
"Whatever Ben gave him really put him in the Slow Zone."
"We're trying to find something that will help Henry stay in the present."
"He seems a little too inanimate for daily use."
"Yeah." Maybe a lower dosage?
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Aiding and abetting Mr. Mayhem. Marrying him, no less."
Henry calls my name. I get up. Gomez reaches out and grabs my hand.
"Clare. Please--"
"Gomez. Let go." I stare him down. After a long, awful moment he drops his eyes and lets me go. I hurry down the hall into my room and shut the door.
Henry is stretched out like a cat, diagonally across the bed face down. I take off my shoes and stretch out beside him.
"How's it going?" I ask him.
Henry rolls over and smiles. "Heaven." He strokes my face. "Care to join me?"
"No."
Henry sighs. "You are so good. I shouldn't be trying to corrupt you."
"I'm not good. I'm afraid." We lie together in silence for a long time. The sun is shining now, and it shows me my bedroom in early afternoon: the curve of the walnut bed frame, the gold and violet Oriental rug, the hairbrush and lipstick and bottle of hand lotion on the bureau. A copy of Art in America with Leon Golub on the cover lies on the seat of my old garage-sale armchair partially obscured by A rebours. Henry is wearing black socks. His long bony feet hang off the edge of the bed. He seems thin to me. Henry's eyes are closed; perhaps he can feel me staring at him, because he opens his eyes and smiles at me. His hair is falling into his face and I brush it back. Henry takes my hand and kisses the palm. I unbutton his jeans and slide my hand over his cock, but Henry shakes his head and takes my hand and holds it.
"Sorry, Clare," he says softly. "There's something in this stuff that seems to have short-circuited the equipment. Later, maybe."
"That'll be fun on our wedding night."
Henry shakes his head. "I can't take this for the wedding. It's too much fun. I mean, Ben's a genius, but he's used to working with people who are terminally ill. Whatever he's got in here, it plays like a near-death experience." He sighs and sets the pill bottle on my nightstand. "I should mail those to Ingrid. This is her perfect drug." I hear the front door open and then it slams shut; Gomez leaving.
"You want something to eat?" I ask.
"No thanks."
"Is Ben going to make that other drug for you?"
"He's going to try," Henry says.
"What if it's not right?"
"You mean if Ben fucks up?"
"Yeah."
Henry says, "Whatever happens, we both know that I live to be at least forty-three. So don't worry about it."
Forty-three? "What happens after forty-three?"
"I don't know, Clare. Maybe I figure out how to stay in the present." He gathers me in and we are quiet. When I wake up later it is dark and Henry is sleeping beside me. The little bottle of pills shines red in the light of the LED display of the alarm clock. Forty-three?
Monday, September 27, 1993 (Clare is 22, Henry is 30)
CLARE: I let myself into Henry's apartment and turn on the lights. We're going to the opera tonight; it's The Ghosts of Versailles. The Lyric Opera won't seat latecomers, so I'm flustered and at first I don't realize that no lights means Henry isn't here. Then I do realize it, and I'm annoyed because he's going to make us late. Then I wonder if he's gone. Then I hear someone breathing.
I stand still. The breathing is coming from the kitchen, I run into the kitchen and turn on the light and Henry is lying on the floor, fully clothed, in a strange, rigid pose, staring straight ahead. As I stand there he makes a low sound, not like a human sound, a groan that clatters in his throat, that tears through his clenched teeth.
"Oh, God, oh, God." I call 911. The operator assures me they'll be here in minutes. And as I sit on the kitchen floor staring at Henry I feel a wave of anger and I find Henry's Rolodex in his desk and I dial the number.
"Hello?" The voice is tiny and distant.
"Is this Ben Matteson?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Clare Abshire. Listen, Ben, Henry is lying on the floor totally rigid and can't talk. What the fuck?"
"What? Shit! Call 911!"
"I did--"
"The drug is mimicking Parkinson's, he needs dopamine! Tell them--shit, call me from the hospital--"
"They're here--"
"Okay! Call me--" I hang up, and face the paramedics.
Later, after the ambulance ride to Mercy Hospital, after Henry has been admitted, injected, and intubated and is lying in a hospital bed attached to a monitor, relaxed and sleeping, I look up and see a tall gaunt man in the doorway of Henry's room, and I remember that I have forgotten to call Ben. He walks in and stands across from me on the other side of the bed. The room is dark and the light from the hallway silhouettes Ben as he bows his head and says, "I'm so sorry. So sorry."
I reach across the bed, take his hands. "It's okay. He's going to be fine. Really"
Ben shakes his head. "It's completely my fault. I should never have made it for him."
"What happened?"
Ben sighs and sits down in the chair. I sit on the bed. "It could be several things," he says. "It could be just a side effect, could happen to anybody. But it could be that Henry didn't have the recipe quite right. I mean, it's a lot to memorize. And I couldn't check it."
We are both silent. Henry's monitor drips fluid into his arm. An orderly walks by with a cart. Finally I say, "Ben?"
"Yes, Clare?"
"Do something for me?"
"Anything."
"Cut him off. No more drugs. Drugs aren't going to work."
Ben grins at me, relieved. "Just say no."
"Exactly." We laugh. Ben sits with me for a while. When he gets up to leave, he takes my hand and says, "Thank you for being kind about it. He could easily have died."
"But he didn't."
"No, he didn't."
"See you at the wedding."
"Yes." We are standing in the hall. In the glaring fluorescent light Ben looks tired and ill. He ducks his head and turns, and walks down the hall, and I turn back to the dim room where Henry lies sleeping.
TURNING POINT
Friday, October 22, 1993 (Henry is 30)
HENRY: I am strolling down Linden Street, in South Haven, at large for an hour while Clare and her mother do something at the florist's. The wedding is tomorrow, but as the groom I don't seem to have too many responsibilities. Be there; that's the main item on my To Do list. Clare is constantly being whisked away to fittings, consultations, bridal showers. When I do see her she always looks rather wistful.
It's a clear cold day, and I dawdle. I wish South Haven had a decent bookstore. Even the library consists mainly of Barbara Cartland and John Grisham. I have the Penguin edition of Kleist with me, but I'm not in the mood. I pass an antiques shop, a bakery, a bank, another antiques shop. As I walk by the barber shop I peer in; there's an old man being shaved by a dapper little balding barber, and I know at once what I'm going to do.
Little bells clang against the door as I walk into the shop. It smells of soap, steam, hair lotion, and elderly flesh. Everything is pale green. The chair is old and ornate with chrome, and there are elaborate bottles lining dark wooden shelves, and trays of scissors, combs, and razors. It's almost medical; it's very Norman Rockwell. The barber glances up at me. "Haircut?" I ask. He nods at the row of empty straight-backed chairs with magazines neatly stacked on a rack at one end of the row. Sinatra is playing on the radio. I sit down and leaf through a copy of Reader's Digest. The barber wipes traces of lather from the old man's chin, and applies aftershave. The old man climbs gingerly from the chair and pays up. The barber helps him into his coat and hands him his cane. "See you, George," sa
ys the old man as he creeps out. "'Bye, Ed," replies the barber. He turns his attention to me. "What'll it be?" I hop into the chair and he steps me up a few inches and swivels me around to face the mirror. I take a long last look at my hair. I hold my thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Cut it all off." He nods his approval and ties a plastic cape around my neck. Soon his scissors are flashing little metal on metal noises around my head, and my hair is falling to the floor. When he is done he brushes me off and removes the cape and voila, I've become the me of my future.
GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME
Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare is 22) (6:00 a.m.)
HENRY: I wake up at 6:00 a.m. and it's raining. I am in a snug little green room under the eaves in a cozy little bed-and-breakfast called Blake's, which is right on the south beach in South Haven. Clare's parents have chosen this place; my dad is sleeping in an equally cozy pink room downstairs, next to Mrs. Kim in a lovely yellow room; Grandpa and Grams are in the uber-cozy blue master bedroom. I lie in the extra-soft bed under Laura Ashley sheets, and I can hear the wind flinging itself against the house. The rain is pouring down in sheets. I wonder if I can run in this monsoon. I hear it coursing through the gutters and drumming on the roof, which is about two feet above my face. This room is like a garret. It has a delicate little writing desk, in case I need to pen any ladylike missives on my wedding day. There's a china ewer and basin on the bureau; if I actually wanted to use them I'd probably have to break the ice on the water first, because it's quite cold up here. I feel like a pink worm in the core of this green room, as though I have eaten my way in and should be working on becoming a butterfly, or something. I'm not real awake, here, at the moment. I hear somebody coughing. I hear my heart beating and the high-pitched sound which is my nervous system doing its thing. Oh, God, let today be a normal day. Let me be normally befuddled, normally nervous; get me to the church on time, in time. Let me not startle anyone, especially myself. Let me get through our wedding day as best I can, with no special effects. Deliver Clare from unpleasant scenes. Amen.
(7:00 a.m.)
CLARE: I wake up in my bed, the bed of my childhood. As I float on the surface of waking I can't find myself in time; is it Christmas, Thanksgiving? Is it third grade, again? Am I sick? Why is it raining? Outside the yellow curtains the sky is dead and the big elm tree is being stripped of its yellow leaves by the wind. I have been dreaming all night. The dreams merge, now. In one part of this dream I was swimming in the ocean, I was a mermaid. I was sort of new at being a mermaid and one of the other mermaids was trying to teach me; she was giving me mermaid lessons. I was afraid to breathe under water. The water got into my lungs and I couldn't figure out how it was supposed to work, it felt terrible and I kept having to rise up to the surface and breathe and the other mermaid kept saying, No, Clare, like this...until finally I realized that she had gills in her neck, and I did too, and then it was better. Swimming was like flying, all the fish were birds... There was a boat on the surface of the ocean, and we all swam up to see the boat. It was just a little sailboat, and my mother was on it, all by herself. I swam up to her and she was surprised to see me there, she said Why Clare, I thought you were getting married today, and I suddenly realized, the way you do in dreams, that I couldn't get married to Henry if I was a mermaid, and I started to cry, and then I woke up and it was the middle of the night. So I lay there for a while in the dark and I made up that I became a regular woman, like the Little Mermaid except I didn't have any of that nonsense about hideous pain in my feet or getting my tongue cut out. Hans Christian Andersen must have been a very strange and sad person. Then I went back to sleep and now I am in bed and Henry and I are getting married today.
(7:16 a.m.)
HENRY: The ceremony is at 2:00 p.m. and it will take me about half an hour to dress and twenty minutes for us to drive over to St. Basil's. It is now 7:16 a.m., which leaves five hours and forty-four minutes to kill. I throw on jeans and a skanky old flannel shirt and high-tops and creep as quietly as possible downstairs seeking coffee. Dad has beat me to it; he's sitting in the breakfast room with his hands wrapped around a dainty cup of steaming black joe. I pour one for myself and sit across from him. Through the lace-curtained windows the weak light gives Dad a ghostly look; he's a colorized version of a black and white movie of himself this morning. His hair is standing up every which way and without thinking I smooth mine down, as though he were a mirror. He does the same, and we smile.
(8:17 a.m.)
CLARE: Alicia is sitting on my bed, poking me. "Come on, Clare," she pokes. "Daylight in the swamp. The birds are singing," (quite untrue) "and the frogs are jumping and it's time to get up!" Alicia is tickling me. She throws off the covers and we are wrestling and just as I pin her Etta sticks her head in the door and hisses "Girls! What is all this bumping. Your father, he thinks a tree fell on the house, but no, it is you sillies trying to kill each other. Breakfast is almost ready." With that Etta abruptly withdraws her head and we hear her barging down the stairs as we dissolve into laughter.
(8:32 a.m.)
HENRY: It's still blowing gales out there but I am going running anyway. I study the map of South Haven ("A shining jewel on the Sunset Coast of Lake Michigan!") which Clare has provided me with. Yesterday I ran along the beach, which was pleasant but not something to do this morning. I can see six-foot-tall waves throwing themselves at the shore. I measure out a mile of streets and figure I will run laps; if it's too awful out there I can cut it short. I stretch out. Every joint pops. I can almost hear tension crackling in my nerves like static in a phone line. I get dressed, and out into the world I go.
The rain is a slap in the face. I am drenched immediately. I soldier slowly down Maple Street. It's just going to be a slog; I am fighting the wind and there's no way to get up any speed. I pass a woman standing at the curb with her bulldog and she looks at me with amazement. This isn't mere exercise, I tell her silently. This is desperation.
(8:54 a.m.)
CLARE: We're gathered around the breakfast table. Cold leaks in from all the windows, and I can barely see outside, it's raining so hard. How is Henry going to run in this?
"Perfect weather for a wedding," Mark jokes.
I shrug. "I didn't pick it."
"You didn't?"
"Daddy picked it."
"Well, I'm paying for it," Daddy says petulantly.
"True." I munch my toast.
My mother eyes my plate critically. "Honey, why don't you have some nice bacon? And some of these eggs?"
The very thought turns my stomach. "I can't. Really. Please."
"Well, at least put some peanut butter on that toast. You need protein." I make eye contact with Etta, who strides into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a tiny crystal dish full of peanut butter. I thank her and spread some on the toast.
I ask my mother, "Do I have any time before Janice shows up?" Janice is going to do something hideous to my face and hair.
"She's coming at eleven. Why?"
"I need to run into Town, to get something."
"I can get it for you, sweetie." She looks relieved at the thought of getting out of the house.
"I would like to go, myself."
"We can both go."
"By myself." I mutely plead with her. She's puzzled but relents.
"Well, okay. Goodness."
"Great. I'll be right back." I get up to leave. Daddy clears his throat.
"May I be excused?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you." I flee.
(9:35 a.m.)
HENRY: I'm standing in the immense, empty bathtub struggling out of my cold, soaked clothes. My brand new running shoes have acquired an entirely new shape, reminiscent of marine life. I have left a trail of water from the front door to the tub, which I hope Mrs. Blake won't mind too much.
Someone knocks on my door. "Just a minute," I call. I squoosh over to the door and crack it open. To my complete surprise, it's Clare.
"Fuck me," replies Clare. I swing the door wide.
Clare walks in, sits on the bed, and starts taking off her shoes.
"You're not joking?"
"Come on, O almost-husband mine. I've got to be back by eleven." She looks me up and down. "You went running! I didn't think you'd run in this rain."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures." I peel off my T-shirt and throw it into the tub. It lands with a splat. "Isn't it supposed to be bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?"
"So close your eyes." Clare trots into the bathroom and grabs a towel. I lean over and she dries my hair. It feels wonderful. I could do with a lifetime of this. Yes, indeed.
"It's really cold up here," says Clare.
"Come and be bedded, almost-wife. It's the only warm spot in the whole place." We climb in.
"We do everything out of order, don't we?"
"You have a problem with that?"
"No. I like it."
"Good. You've come to the right man for all your extrachronological needs."
(11:15 a.m.)
CLARE: I walk in the back door and leave my umbrella in the mud room. In the hall I almost bump into Alicia.
"Where have you been? Janice is here."
"What time is it?"
"Eleven-fifteen. Hey, you've got your shirt on backward and inside out."
"I think that's good luck, isn't it?"
"Maybe, but you'd better change it before you go upstairs." I duck back into the mud room and reverse my shirt. Then I run upstairs. Mama and Janice are standing in the hall outside my room. Janice is carrying a huge bag of cosmetics and other implements of torture.
"There you are. I was getting worried." Mama shepherds me into my room and Janice brings up the rear. "I have to go talk to the caterers." She is almost wringing her hands as she departs.
I turn to Janice, who examines me critically. "Your hair's all wet and tangled. Why don't you comb it out while I set up?" She starts to take a million tubes and bottles from her bag and sets them on my dresser.
"Janice." I hand her the postcard from the Uffizi. "Can you do this?" I have always loved the little Medici princess whose hair is not unlike mine; hers has many tiny braids and pearls all swooped together in a beautiful fall of amber hair. The anonymous artist must have loved her, too. How could he not love her?
The Time Traveler's Wife Page 24
