The Time Traveler's Wife

s gone to bed, and I open the drawers, I take out the bundles of letters and papers, and I begin to read.

A Letter to Be Opened in the Event of My Death

December 10, 2006



Dearest Clare,

As I write this, I am sitting at my desk in the back bedroom looking out at your studio across the backyard full of blue evening snow, everything is slick and crusty with ice, and it is very still. It's one of those winter evenings when the coldness of every single thing seems to slow down time, like the narrow center of an hourglass which time itself flows through, but slowly, slowly. I have the feeling, very familiar to me when I am out of time but almost never otherwise, of being buoyed up by time, floating effortlessly on its surface like a fat lady swimmer. I had a sudden urge, tonight, here in the house by myself (you are at Alicia's recital at St. Lucy's) to write you a letter. I suddenly wanted to leave something, for after. I think that time is short, now. I feel as though all my reserves, of energy, of pleasure, of duration, are thin, small. I don't feel capable of continuing very much longer. I know you know.

If you are reading this, I am probably dead. (I say probably because you never know what circumstances may arise; it seems foolish and self-important to just declare one's own death as an out-and-out fact.) About this death of mine--I hope it was simple and clean and unambiguous. I hope it didn't create too much fuss. I'm sorry. (This reads like a suicide note. Strange.) But you know: you know that if I could have stayed, if I could have gone on, that I would have clutched every second: whatever it was, this death, you know that it came and took me, like a child carried away by goblins.

Clare, I want to tell you, again, I love you. Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust. Tonight I feel that my love for you has more density in this world than I do, myself: as though it could linger on after me and surround you, keep you, hold you.

I hate to think of you waiting. I know that you have been waiting for me all your life, always uncertain of how long this patch of waiting would be. Ten minutes, ten days. A month. What an uncertain husband I have been, Clare, like a sailor, Odysseus alone and buffeted by tall waves, sometimes wily and sometimes just a plaything of the gods. Please, Clare. When I am dead. Stop waiting and be free. Of me--put me deep inside you and then go out in the world and live. Love the world and yourself in it, move through it as though it offers no resistance, as though the world is your natural element. I have given you a life of suspended animation. I don't mean to say that you have done nothing. You have created beauty, and meaning, in your art, and Alba, who is so amazing, and for me: for me you have been everything.

After my mom died she ate my father up completely. She would have hated it. Every minute of his life since then has been marked by her absence, every action has lacked dimension because she is not there to measure against. And when I was young I didn't understand, but now, I know, how absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird. If I had to live on without you I know I could not do it. But I hope, I have this vision of you walking unencumbered, with your shining hair in the sun. I have not seen this with my eyes, but only with my imagination, that makes pictures, that always wanted to paint you, shining; but I hope that this vision will be true, anyway.

Clare, there is one last thing, and I have hesitated to tell you, because I'm superstitiously afraid that telling might cause it to not happen (I know: silly) and also because I have just been going on about not waiting and this might cause you to wait longer than you have ever waited before. But I will tell you in case you need something, after.

Last summer, I was sitting in Kendrick's waiting room when I suddenly found myself in a dark hallway in a house I don't know. I was sort of tangled up in a bunch of galoshes, and it smelled like rain. At the end of the hall I could see a rim of light around a door, and so I went very slowly and very quietly to the door and looked in. The room was white, and intensely lit with morning sun. At the window, with her back to me, sat a woman, wearing a coral-colored cardigan sweater, with long white hair all down her back. She had a cup of tea beside her, on a table. I must have made some little noise, or she sensed me behind her...she turned and saw me, and I saw her, and it was you, Clare, this was you as an old woman, in the future. It was sweet, Clare, it was sweet beyond telling, to come as though from death to hold you, and to see the years all present in your face. I won't tell you any more, so you can imagine it, so you can have it unrehearsed when the time comes, as it will, as it does come. We will see each other again, Clare. Until then, live, fully, present in the world, which is so beautiful.

It's dark, now, and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.

Henry





DASEIN




Saturday, July 12, 2008 (Clare is 37)


CLARE: Charisse has taken Alba and Rosa and Max and Joe roller skating at the Rainbo. I drive over to her house to pick Alba up, but I'm early and Charisse is running late. Gomez answers the door wearing a towel.

"Come on in," he says, opening the door wide. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure." I follow him through their chaotic living room to the kitchen. I sit at the table, which is still littered with breakfast dishes, and clear a space large enough to rest my elbows. Gomez rambles around the kitchen, making coffee.

"Haven't seen your mug in a while."

"I've been pretty busy. Alba takes all these different lessons, and I just drive her around."

"You making any art?" Gomez sets a cup and saucer in front of me and pours coffee into the cup. Milk and sugar are already on the table, so I help myself.

"No."

"Oh." Gomez leans against the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around his coffee cup. His hair is dark with water and combed back flat. I've never noticed before that his hairline is receding. "Well, other than chauffeuring her highness, what are you doing?"

What am I doing? I am waiting. I am thinking. I am sitting on our bed holding an old plaid shirt that still smells of Henry, taking deep breaths of his smell I am going for walks at two in the morning, when Alba is safe in her bed, long walks to tire myself out enough to sleep. I am conducting conversations with Henry as though he were here with me, as though he could see through my eyes, think with my brain.

"Not much."

"Hmm."

"How 'bout you?"

"Oh, you know. Aldermanning. Playing the stern paterfamilias. The usual."

"Oh." I sip my coffee. I glance at the clock over the sink. It is shaped like a black cat: its tail twitches back and forth like a pendulum and its big eyes move in time with each twitch, ticking loudly. It's 11:45.

"Do you want anything to eat?"

I shake my head. "No, thanks." Judging from the dishes on the table, Gomez and Charisse had honeydew melon, scrambled eggs, and toast for breakfast. The children ate Lucky Charms, Cheerios, and something that had peanut butter on it. The table is like an archeological reconstruction of a twenty-first-century family breakfast.

"Are you dating anybody?" I look up and Gomez is still leaning on the counter, still holding his coffee cup at chin level.

"No."

"Why not?"

None of your business, Gomez. "It never occurred to me."

"You should think about it." He sets his cup in the sink.

"Why?"

"You need something new. Someone new. You can't sit around for the rest of your life waiting for Henry to show up."

"Sure I can. Watch me."

Gomez takes two steps and he's standing next to me. He leans over and puts his mouth next to my ear. "Don't you ever miss...this?" He licks the inside of my ear. Yes, I miss that. "Get away from me, Gomez," I hiss at him, but I don't move away. I am riveted in my seat by an idea. Gomez picks up my hair and kisses the back of my neck.

Come to me, oh! come to me!

I close my eyes. Hands pull me out of my seat, unbutton my shirt. Tongue on my neck, my shoulders, my nipples. I reach out blindly and find terrycloth, a bath towel that falls away. Henry. Hands unbutton my jeans, pull them down, bend me back over the kitchen table. Something falls to the floor, metallic. Food and silverware, a half-circle of plate, melon rind against my back. My legs spread. Tongue on my cunt. "Ohh..." We are in the meadow. It's summer. A green blanket. We have just eaten, the taste of melon is still in my mouth. Tongue gives way to empty space, wet and open. I open my eyes; I'm staring at a half-full glass of orange juice. I close my eyes. The firm, steady push of Henry's cock into me. Yes. I've been waiting very patiently, Henry. I knew you'd come back sooner or later. Yes. Skin on skin, hands on breasts, push pull clinging rhythm deeper yes, oh--

"Henry--"

Everything stops. A clock is ticking loudly. I open my eyes. Gomez is staring down at me, hurt? angry? in a moment he is expressionless. A car door slams. I sit up, jump off the table, run for the bathroom. Gomez throws my clothes in after me.

As I'm dressing I hear Charisse and the kids come in the front door, laughing. Alba calls, "Mama?" and I yell "I'll be out in a minute!" I stand in the dim light of the pink and black tiled bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. I have Cheerios in my hair. My reflection looks lost and pale. I wash my hands, try to comb my hair with my fingers. What am I doing? What have I allowed myself to become?

An answer comes, of sorts: You are the traveler now.

Saturday, July 26, 2008 (Clare is 37)

CLARE: Alba's reward for being patient at the galleries while Charisse and I look at art is to go to Ed Debevic's, a faux diner that does a brisk tourist trade. As soon as we walk in the door it's sensory overload circa 1964. The Kinks are playing at top volume and there's signage everywhere: "If you're really a good customer you'd order more!!!"

"Please talk clearly when placing your order."

"Our coffee is so good we drink it ourselves!"

Today is evidently balloon-animal day; a gentleman in a shiny purple suit whips up a wiener dog for Alba and then turns it into a hat and plants it on her head. She squirms with joy. We stand in line for half an hour and Alba doesn't whine at all; she watches the waiters and waitresses flirt with each other and silently evaluates the other children's balloon animals. We are finally escorted to a booth by a waiter wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and a name tag that says SPAZ. Charisse and I flip open our menus and try to find something we want to eat amidst the Cheddar Fries and the meatloaf. Alba just chants the word milkshake over and over. When Spaz reappears Alba has a sudden attack of shyness and has to be coaxed into telling him that she would like a peanut butter milkshake (and a small order of fries, because, I tell her, it's too decadent to eat nothing but a milkshake for lunch). Charisse orders macaroni and cheese and I order a BLT. Once Spaz leaves Charisse sings, "Alba and Spaz, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G..." and Alba shuts her eyes and puts her hands over her ears, shaking her head and smiling. A waiter with a name tag that says BUZZ struts up and down the lunch counter doing karaoke to Bob Seger's Old Time Rock and Roll.

"I hate Bob Seger," Charisse says. "Do you think it took him more than thirty seconds to write that song?"

The milkshake arrives in a tall glass with a bendable straw and a metal shaker that contains the milkshake that couldn't fit into the glass. Alba stands up to drink it, stands on tiptoe to achieve the best possible angle for sucking down a peanut butter milkshake. Her balloon wiener dog hat keeps sliding down her forehead, interfering with her concentration. She looks up at me through her thick black eyelashes and pushes the balloon hat up so that it is clinging to her head by static electricity.

"When's Daddy coming home?" she asks. Charisse makes the sound that one makes when one has accidentally gotten Pepsi up one's nose and starts to cough and I pound her on the back until she makes hand gestures at me to stop so I stop.

"August 29th," I tell Alba, who goes back to slurping the dregs of her shake while Charisse looks at me reproachfully.

Later, we're in the car, on Lake Shore Drive; I'm driving and Charisse is fiddling with the radio and Alba is sleeping in the back seat. I exit at Irving Park and Charisse says, "Doesn't Alba know that Henry is dead?"

"Of course she knows. She saw him" I remind Charisse.

"Well, why did you tell her he was coming home in August?"

"Because he is. He gave me the date himself."

"Oh." Even though my eyes are on the road I can feel Charisse staring at me. "Isn't that...kind of weird?"

"Alba loves it."

"For you, though?"

"I never see him." I try to keep my voice light, as though I am not tortured by the unfairness of this, as though I don't mourn my resentment when Alba tells me about her visits with Henry even as I drink up every detail.

Why not me, Henry? I ask him silently as I pull into Charisse and Gomez's toy-littered driveway. Why only Alba? But as usual there's no answer to this. As usual, that's just how it is. Charisse kisses me and gets out of the car, walks sedately toward her front door, which magically swings open, revealing Gomez and Rosa. Rosa is jumping up and down and holding something out toward Charisse, who takes it from her and says something, and gives her a big hug. Gomez stares at me, and finally gives me a little wave. I wave back. He turns away. Charisse and Rosa have gone inside. The door closes.

I sit there, in the driveway, Alba sleeping in the back seat. Crows are walking on the dandelion-infested lawn. Henry, where are you? I lean my head against the steering wheel. Help me. No one answers. After a minute I put the car in gear, back out of the driveway, and make my way toward our silent, waiting home.

Saturday, September 3, 1990 (Henry is 27)

HENRY: Ingrid and I have lost the car and we are drunk. We are drunk and it is dark and we have walked up and down and back and around and no car. Fucking Lincoln Park. Fucking Lincoln Towing. Fuck.

Ingrid is pissed off. She walks ahead of me, and her whole back, even the way her hips move, is pissed off. Somehow this is my fault. Fucking Park West nightclub. Why would anyone put a nightclub in wretched yuppieville Lincoln Park where you cannot leave your car for more than ten seconds without Lincoln Towing hauling it off to their lair to gloat over it--

"Henry."

"What?"

"There's that little girl again."

"What little girl?"

"The one we saw earlier." Ingrid stops. I look where she is pointing. The girl is standing in the doorway of a flower shop. She's wearing something dark, so all I see is her white face and her bare feet. She's maybe seven or eight; too young to be out alone in the middle of the night. Ingrid walks over to the girl, who watches her impassively.

"Are you okay?" Ingrid asks the girl. "Are you lost?"

The girl looks at me and says, "I was lost, but now I've figured out where I am. Thank you," she adds politely.

"Do you need a ride home? We could give you a ride if we ever manage to find the car." Ingrid is leaning over the girl. Her face is maybe a foot away from the girl's face. As I walk up to them I see that the girl is wearing a man's windbreaker. It comes all the way down to her ankles.

"No, thank you. I live too far away, anyhow." The girl has long black hair and startling dark eyes; in the yellow light of the flower shop she looks like a Victorian match girl, or DeQuincey's Ann.

"Where's your mom?" Ingrid asks her. The girl replies, "She's at home." She smiles at me and says, "She doesn't know I'm here."

"Did you run away?" I ask her.

"No," she says, and laughs. "I was looking for my daddy, but I'm too early, I guess. I'll come back later." She squeezes past Ingrid and pads over to me, grabs my jacket and pulls me toward her. "The car's across the street," she whispers. I look across the street and there it is, Ingrid's red Porsche. "Thanks--" I begin, and the girl darts a kiss at me that lands near my ear and then runs down the sidewalk, her feet slapping the concrete as I stand staring after her. Ingrid is quiet as we get into the car. Finally I say, "That was strange," and she sighs and says, "Henry, for a smart person you can be pretty damn dense sometimes," and she drops me off in front of my apartment without another word.

Sunday, July 29, 1979 (Henry is 42)

HENRY: It's sometime in the past. I'm sitting on Lighthouse Beach with Alba. She's ten. I'm forty-two. Both of us are time traveling. It's a warm evening, maybe July or August. I'm wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt I stole from a fancy North Evanston mansion; Alba is wearing a pink nightgown she took from an old lady's clothesline. It's too long for her so we have tied it up around her knees. People have been giving us strange looks all afternoon. I guess we don't exactly look like an average father and daughter at the beach. But we have done our best; we have swum, and we have built a sand castle. We have eaten hotdogs and fries we bought from the vendor in the parking lot. We don't have a blanket, or any towels, and so we are kind of sandy and damp and pleasantly tired, and we sit watching little children running back and forth in the waves and big silly dogs loping after them. The sun is setting behind us as we stare at the water.

"Tell me a story," says Alba, leaning against me like cold cooked pasta.

I put my arm around her. "What kind of story?"

"A good story. A story about you and Mama, when Mama was a little girl"

"Hmm. Okay. Once upon a time--"

"When was that?"

"All times at once. A long time ago, and right now."

"Both?"

"Yes, always both."

"How can it be both?"

"Do you want me to tell this story or not?"

"Yeah..."

"All right then. Once upon a time, your mama lived in a big house beside a meadow, and in the meadow was a place called the clearing where she used to go to play. And one fine day your mama, who was only a tiny thing whose hair was bigger than she was, went out to the clearing and there was a man there--"

"With no clothes!"

"With not a stitch on him" I agree. "And after your mama had given him a beach towel she happened to be carrying so he could have something to wear, he explained to her that he was a time traveler, and for some reason she believed him--"

"Because it was true!"

"Well, yes, but how was she going to know that? Anyway, she did believe him, and then later on