The time traveler's wife(157)

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)