"Shhhh. Mama's sleeping."
"Okay" Alba whispers, loudly. "Teddy wants blue Jell-O." I hear Clare groan and start to get up in the other room. "Cream of Wheat?" I cajole. Alba considers. "With brown sugar?" Okay. "You want to make it?" I slide off the bed. "Yeah. Can I have a ride?"
I hesitate. My legs really hurt, and Alba has gotten a little too big to do this painlessly, but I can deny her nothing now. "Sure. Hop on." I am on my hands and knees. Alba climbs onto my back, and we make our way into the kitchen. Clare is standing sleepily by the sink, watching coffee drip into the pot. I clamber up to her and butt my head against her knees and she grabs Alba's arms and hoists her up, Alba giggling madly all the while. I crawl into my chair. Clare smiles and says, "What's for breakfast, cooks?"
"Jell-O!" Alba shrieks.
"Mmm. What kind of Jell-O? Cornflake Jell-O?"
"Nooooo!"
"Bacon Jell-O?"
"Ick!" Alba wraps herself around Clare, pulls on her hair. "Ouch. Don't, sweetie. Well, it must be oatmeal Jell-O, then." "Cream of Wheat!"
"Cream of Wheat Jell-O, yum." Clare gets out the brown sugar and the milk and the Cream of Wheat package. She sets them on the counter and looks at me inquiringly. "How 'bout you? Omelet Jell-O?"
"If you're making it, yeah." I marvel at Clare's efficiency, moving around the kitchen as though she's Betty Crocker, as though she's been doing this for years. She'll be okay without me, I think as I watch her, but I know that she will not. I watch Alba mix the water and the wheat together, and I think of Alba at ten, at fifteen, at twenty. It is not nearly enough, yet. I am not done, yet. I want to be here. I want to see them, I want to gather them in my arms, I want to live—
"Daddy's crying" Alba whispers to Clare.
"That's because he has to eat my cooking" Clare tells her, and winks at me, and I have to laugh.
NEW YEAR'S EVE, TWO
Sunday, December 31, 2006 (Clare is 35, Henry is 43) (7:25p.m.) Clare: We're having a party! Henry was kind of reluctant at first but he seems perfectly content now. He's sitting at the kitchen table showing Alba how to cut flowers out of carrots and radishes. I admit that I didn't exactly play fair: I brought it up in front of Alba and she got all excited and then he couldn't bear to disappoint her.
"It'll be great, Henry. We'll ask everyone we know."
"Everyone?" he queried, smiling.
"Everyone we like ," I amended. And so for days I've been cleaning, and Henry and Alba have been baking cookies (although half the dough goes into Alba's mouth if we don't watch her). Yesterday Charisse and I went to the grocery store and bought dips, chips, spreads, every possible kind of vegetable, and beer, and wine, and champagne, little colored hors d'ouvres toothpicks, and napkins with Happy New Year printed in gold, and matching paper plates and Lord knows what else. Now the whole house smells like meatballs and the rapidly dying Christmas tree in the living room. Alicia is here washing our wineglasses. Henry looks up at me and says, "Hey, Clare, it's almost showtime. Go take your shower." I glance at my watch and realize that yes, it's time. Into the shower and wash hair and dry hair and into underwear and bra, stockings and black silk party dress, heels and a tiny dab of perfume and lipstick and one last look in the mirror (I look startled) and back into the kitchen where Alba, oddly enough, is still pristine in her blue velvet dress and Henry is still wearing his holey red flannel shirt and ripped-up blue jeans.
"Aren't you going to change?"
"Oh—yeah. Sure. Help me, huh?" I wheel him into our bedroom.
"What do you want to wear?" I'm hunting through his drawers for underwear and socks.
"Whatever. You choose." Henry reaches over and shuts the bedroom door. "Come here."
I stop riffing through the closet and look at Henry. He puts the brake on the wheelchair and maneuvers his body onto the bed.
"There's no time" I say.
"Right, exactly. So let's not waste time talking." His voice is quiet and compelling. I flip the lock on the door. "You know, I just got dressed—"
"Shhh." He holds out his arms to me, and I relent, and sit beside him, and the phrase one last time pops into my mind unbidden.
(8:05p.m.)
Henry: The doorbell rings just as I am knotting my tie. Clare says nervously, "Do I look all right?" She does, she is pink and lovely, and I tell her so. We emerge from the bedroom as Alba runs to answer the door and starts yelling "Grandpa! Grandpa! Kimy!" My father stomps his snowy boots and leans to hug her. Clare kisses him on both cheeks. Dad rewards her with his coat. Alba commandeers Kimy and takes her to see the Christmas tree before she even gets her coat off.