The time traveler's wife(147)
Clare: Henry holds up an onion and looks at me gravely and says, "This...is an onion." I nod. "Yes. I've read about them."
He raises one eyebrow. "Very good. Now, to peel an onion, you take a sharp knife, lay the aforementioned onion sideways on a cutting board, and remove each end, like so. Then you can peel the onion, like so. Okay. Now, slice it into cross-sections. If you're making onion rings, you just pull apart each slice, but if you're making soup or spaghetti sauce or something you dice it, like this.. "
Henry has decided to teach me to cook. All the kitchen counters and cabinets are too high for him in his wheelchair. We sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by bowls and knives and cans of tomato sauce. Henry pushes the cutting board and knife across the table to me, and I stand up and awkwardly dice the onion. Henry watches patiently. "Okay, great. Now, green peppers: you run the knife around here, then pull out the stem..."
We make marinara sauce, pesto, lasagna. Another day it's chocolate chip cookies, brownies, creme brulee. Alba is in heaven. "More dessert," she begs. We poach eggs and salmon, make pizza from scratch. I have to admit that it's kind of fun. But I'm terrified the first night I cook dinner by myself. I'm standing in the kitchen surrounded by pots and pans, the asparagus is overcooked and I burn myself taking the monkfish out of the oven. I put everything on plates and bring it into the dining room where Henry and Alba are sitting at their places. Henry smiles, encouragingly. I sit down; Henry raises his glass of milk in the air: "To the new cook!" Alba clinks her cup against his, and we begin to eat. I sneak glances at Henry, eating. And as I'm eating, I realize that everything tastes fine. "It's good, Mama!" Alba says, and Henry nods. "It's terrific, Clare," Henry says, and we stare at each other and I think, Don't leave me.
WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND
Monday, December 18, 2006/Sunday, January 2, 1994 (Henry is 43)
Henry: I wake up in the middle of the night with a thousand razor-toothed insects gnawing on my legs and before I can even shake a Vicodin out of the bottle I am falling. I double up, I am on the floor but it's not our floor, it's some other floor, some other night. Where am I? Pain makes everything seem shimmery, but it's dark and there's something about the smell, what does it remind me of? Bleach. Sweat. Perfume, so familiar—but it couldn't be—
Footsteps walking up stairs, voices, a key unlocking several locks (where can I hide?) the door opens, I'm crawling across the floor as the light snaps on and explodes in my head like a flashbulb and a woman whispers, "Oh my god." I'm thinking No, this just can't be happening, and the door shuts and I hear Ingrid say, "Celia, you've got to go" and Celia protests, and as they stand on the other side of the door arguing about it I look around desperately but there's no way out. This must be Ingrid's apartment on Clark Street where I have never been but here is all her stuff, overwhelming me, the Eames chair, the kidney-shaped marble coffee table loaded with fashion magazines, the ugly orange couch we used to—I cast around wildly for something to wear, but the only textile in this minimal room is a purple and yellow afghan that's clashing with the couch, so I grab it and wind it around myself, hoist myself onto the couch and Ingrid opens the door again. She stands quietly for a long moment and looks at me and I look at her and all I can think is oh, Ing, why did you do this to yourself? The Ingrid who lives in my memory is the incandescent blond angel of cool I met at Jimbo's Fourth of July party in 1988; Ingrid Carmichel was devastating and untouchable, encased in gleaming armor made of wealth, beauty, and ennui. The Ingrid who stands looking at me now is gaunt and hard and tired; she stands with her head tilted to one side and looks at me with wonder and contempt. Neither of us seems to know what to say. Finally she takes off her coat, tosses it on the chair, and perches at the other end of the couch. She's wearing leather pants. They squeak a little as she sits down.
"Henry."
"Ingrid."
"What are you doing here?"
"I don't know. I'm sorry. I just—well, you know." I shrug. My legs hurt so much that I almost don't care where I am. "You look like shit." "I'm in a lot of pain," "That's funny. So am I." "I mean physical pain."
"Why?" For all Ingrid cares I could be spontaneously combusting right in front of her. I pull back the afghan and reveal my stumps. She doesn't recoil and she doesn't gasp. She doesn't look away, and when she does she looks me in the eyes and I see that Ingrid, of all people, understands perfectly. By entirely separate processes we have arrived at the same condition. She gets up and goes into another room, and when she comes back she has her old sewing kit in her hand. I feel a surge of hope, and my hope is justified: Ingrid sits down and opens the lid and it's just like the good old days, there's a complete pharmacy in there with the pin cushions and thimbles.