The time traveler's wife(152)

"Hello, Henry," says Dad, smiling, leaning over me and suddenly it hits me: tonight my life will flash before my eyes. We've invited everyone who matters to us: Dad, Kimy, Alicia, Gomez, Charisse, Philip, Mark and Sharon and their kids, Gram, Ben, Helen, Ruth, Kendrick and Nancy and their' kids, Roberto, Catherine, Isabelle, Matt, Amelia, artist friends of Clare's, library school friends of mine, parents of Alba's friends, Clare's dealer, even Celia Attley, at Clare's insistence...The only people missing have been unavoidably detained: my mother, Lucille, Ingrid...Oh, God. Help me. (8:20 p.m.)





Clare: Gomez and Charisse come breezing in like kamikaze jet fighters. "Hey Library Boy, you lazy coot, don't you ever shovel your sidewalks?"

Henry smacks his forehead. "I knew I forgot something." Gomez dumps a shopping bag full of CDs in Henry's lap and goes out to clean the walks. Charisse laughs and follows me into the kitchen. She takes out a huge bottle of Russian vodka and sticks it in the freezer. We can hear Gomez singing "Let It Snow" as he makes his way down the side of the house with the shovel.

"Where are the kids?" I ask Charisse.

"We parked them at my mom's. It's New Year's; we figured they'd have more fun with Grandma. Plus we decided to have our hangovers in privacy, you know?" I've never given it much thought, actually; I haven't been drunk since before Alba was conceived. Alba comes running into the kitchen and Charisse gives her an enthusiastic hug. "Hey, Baby Girl! We brought you a Christmas present!"

Alba looks at me. "Go ahead and open it." It's a tiny manicure set, complete with nail polish. Alba is open-mouthed with awe. I nudge her, and she remembers.

" Thank you, Aunt Charisse."

"You're welcome, Alba."

"Go show Daddy," I tell her, and she runs off in the direction of the living room. I stick my head into the hall and I can see Alba gesturing excitedly at Henry, who holds out his fmgers for her as though contemplating a fingernailectomy. "Big hit," I tell Charisse. She smiles. "That was my trip when I was little. I wanted to be a beautician when I grew up." I laugh. "But you couldn't hack it, so you became an artist."

"I met Gomez and realized that nobody ever overthrew the bourgeois capitalist misogynist corporate operating system by perming its hair."

"Of course, we haven't exactly been beating it to its knees by selling it art, either." "Speak for yourself, babe. You're just addicted to beauty, that's all."

"Guilty, guilty, guilty." We wander into the dining room and Charisse begins to load up her plate. "So what are you working on?" I ask her.

"Computer viruses as art."

"Oooh." Oh, no. "Isn't that kind of illegal?"

"Well; no. I just design them, then I paint the html onto canvas, then I have a show. I don't actually put them into circulation."

"But someone could."

"Sure." Charisse smiles wickedly. "I hope they do. Gomez scoffs, but some of these little paintings could seriously inconvenience the World Bank and Bill Gates and those bastards who make ATM machines."

"Well, good luck. When's the show?"

"May. I'll send you a card."

"Yeah, when I get it I'll convert our assets into gold and lay in bottled water"

Charisse laughs. Catherine and Amelia arrive, and we cease to speak of World Anarchy Through Art and move on to admiring each other's party dresses. (8:50 p.m.)





HENRY: The house is packed with our nearest and dearest, some of whom I haven't seen since before the surgery. Leah Jacobs, Clare's dealer, is tactful and kind, but I find it difficult to withstand the pity in her gaze. Celia surprises me by walking right up to me and offering her hand. I take it, and she says, "I'm sorry to see you like this."

"Well, you look great," I say, and she does. Her hair is done up really high and she's dressed all in shimmery blue.

"Uh-huh," says Celia in her fabulous toffee voice. "I liked it better when you were bad and I could just hate your skinny white self."

I laugh. "Ah, the good old days."

She delves into her purse. "I found this a long time ago in Ingrid's stuff. I thought Clare might want it." Celia hands me a photograph. It's a photo of me, probably from around 1990. My hair is long and I'm laughing, standing on Oak Street Beach, no shirt. It's a great photograph. I don't remember Ingrid taking it, but then again, so much of my time with Ing is kind of a blank now.

"Yeah, I bet she would like it. Memento mori." I hand the picture back to her. Celia glances at me sharply. "You're not dead, Henry DeTamble."

"I'm not far from it, Celia."