The time traveler's wife (45 page)

"Lots of dead mouse moms before they
figured it out," Henry says.

"But it worked! Kendrick made it
work!"

Henry just says, "Yeah " and goes
back to reading. I open my mouth and then change my mind and walk out to the
studio, too excited to argue. It worked like magic. Like magic.

FIVE

Thursday, May 11, 2000 (Henry is 39, Clare is
28)

Henry: I'm walking down Clark Street in late
spring, 2000. There's nothing too remarkable about this. It's a lovely warm
evening in Andersonville, and all the fashionable youth are sitting at little
tables drinking fancy cold coffee at Kopi's, or sitting at medium-sized tables
eating couscous at Reza's, or just strolling, ignoring the Swedish knickknacks
stores and exclaiming over each other's dogs. I should be at work, in 2002, but
oh, well. Matt will have to cover for my afternoon Show and Tell, I guess. I
make a mental note to take him out to dinner. As I idle along, I unexpectedly
see Clare across the street. She is standing in front of George's, the vintage
clothing store, looking at a display of baby clothes. Even her back is wistful,
even her shoulders sigh with longing. As I watch her, she leans her forehead
against the shop window and stands there, dejected. I cross the street, dodging
a UPS van and a Volvo, and stand behind her. Clare looks up, startled, and sees
my reflection in the glass.

"Oh, it's you," she says, and turns.
"I thought you were at the movies with Gomez." Clare seems a little
defensive, a little guilty, as though I have caught her doing something
illicit.

"I probably am. I'm supposed to be at
work, actually. In 2002."

Clare smiles. She looks tired, and I do the
dates in my head and realize that our fifth miscarriage was three weeks ago. I
hesitate, and then I put my arms around her, and to my relief she relaxes
against me, leans her head on my shoulder.

"How are you?" I ask.

"Terrible," she says softly.
"Tired." I remember. She stayed in bed for weeks. "Henry, I
quit." She watches me, trying to gauge my reaction to this, weighing her
intention against my knowledge. "I give up. It isn't going to
happen."

Is there anything to stop me from giving her
what she needs? I can't think of a single reason not to tell her. I stand and
rack my brain for anything that would preclude Clare knowing. All I remember is
her certainty, which I am about to create.

"Persevere, Clare."

"What?"

"Hang in there. In my present we have a
baby."

Clare closes her eyes, whispers, "Thank you."
I don't know if she's talking to me or to God. It doesn't matter. "Thank
you," she says, again, looking at me, talking to me, and I feel as though
I am an angel in some demented version of the Annunciation. I lean over and
kiss her; I can feel resolve, joy, purpose coursing through Clare. I remember
the tiny head full of black hair crowning between Clare's legs and I marvel at
how this moment creates that miracle, and vice versa. Thank you. Thank you.

"Did you know?" Clare asks me.

"No." She looks disappointed.
"Not only did I not know, I did everything I could think of to prevent you
from getting pregnant again."

"Great." Clare laughs. "So
whatever happens, I just have to be quiet and let it rip?"

"Yep."

Clare grins at me, and I grin back. Let it rip.

SIX

Saturday, June 3, 2000 (Clare is 29, Henry is
36)

Clare: I'm sitting at the kitchen table idly
flipping through the Chicago Tribune and watching Henry unpack the groceries.
The brown paper bags stand evenly lined up on the counter and Henry produces
ketchup, chicken, gouda cheese from them like a magician. I keep waiting for
the rabbit and the silk scarves. Instead it's mushrooms, black beans,
fettucine, lettuce, a pineapple, skim milk, coffee, radishes, turnips, a
rutabaga, oatmeal, butter, cottage cheese, rye bread, mayonnaise, eggs, razors,
deodorant, Granny Smith apples, half-and-half, bagels, shrimp, cream cheese,
Frosted MiniWheats, marinara sauce, frozen orange juice, carrots, condoms,
sweet potatoes...condoms? I get up and walk to the counter, pick up the blue
box and shake it at Henry. "What, are you having an affair?"

He looks up at me defiantly as he rummages in
the freezer. "No, actually, I had an epiphany. I was standing in the
toothpaste aisle when it happened. Want to hear it?"

"No."

Henry stands up and turns to me. His expression
is like a sigh. "Well here it is anyway: we can't keep trying to have a
baby."

Traitor. "We agreed.. "

"...to keep trying. I think five
miscarriages is enough. I think we have tried."

"No. I mean—why not, try again?" I
try to keep the pleading out of my voice, to keep the anger that rises up in my
throat from spilling into my words. Henry walks around the counter, stands in
front of me, but doesn't touch me, knows that he can't touch me. "Clare. The
next time you miscarry it's going to kill you, and I am not going to keep doing
something that's going to end up with you dead. Five pregnancies.. .I know you
want to try again, but I can't. I can't take it anymore, Clare. I'm
sorry."

I walk out the back door and stand in the sun,
by the raspberry bushes. Our children, dead and wrapped in silky gampi tissue
paper, cradled in tiny wooden boxes, are in shade now, in the late afternoon,
by the roses. I feel the heat of the sun on my skin and shiver for them, deep
in the garden, cool on this mild June day. Help, I say in my head, to our
future child. He doesn't know, so I can't tell him. Come soon.

Friday, June 9, 2000/November 19, 1986 (Henry
is 36, Clare is 15)

Henry: It's 8:45 a.m. on a Friday morning and
I'm sitting in the waiting room of a certain Dr. Robert Gonsalez. Clare doesn't
know I'm here. I've decided to get a vasectomy. Dr. Gonsalez's office is on
Sheridan Road, near Diversey, in a posh medical center just up the way from the
Lincoln Park Conservatory. This waiting room is decorated in browns and hunter
green, lots of paneling and framed prints of Derby winners from the 1880s. Very
manly. I feel as though I should be wearing a smoking jacket and clenching a
large cigar between my jaws. I need a drink. The nice woman at Planned
Parenthood assured me in her soothing, practiced voice that this would hardly
hurt a bit. There are five other guys sitting here with me. I wonder if they've
got the clap, or maybe their prostates are acting up. Maybe some of them are like
me, sitting here waiting to end their careers as potential dads. I feel a
certain solidarity with these unknown men, all of us sitting here together in
this brown wooden leather room on this gray morning waiting to walk into the
examining room and take off our pants. There's a very old man who sits leaning
forward with his hands clasped around his cane, his eyes closed behind thick
glasses that magnify his eyelids. He's probably not here to get snipped. The
teenage boy who sits leafing through an ancient copy of Esquire is feigning
indifference. I close my eyes and imagine that I am in a bar and the bartender
has her back to me now as she mixes a good single-malt Scotch with just a small
amount of tepid water. Perhaps it's an English pub. Yes, that would account for
the decor. The man on my left coughs, a deep lung-shaking sort of cough, and
when I open my eyes I'm still sitting in a doctor's waiting room. I sneak a
look at the watch of the guy on my right. He's got one of those immense sports
watches that you can use to time sprints or call the mothership. It's 9:58. My
appointment is in two minutes. The doctor seems to be running late, though. The
receptionist calls, "Mr. Liston," and the teenager stands up abruptly
and walks through the heavy paneled door into the office. The rest of us look
at each other, furtively, as though we are on the subway and someone is trying
to sell us Streetwise. I am rigid with tension and I remind myself that this is
a necessary and good thing that I am about to do. I am not a traitor. I am not
a traitor. I am saving Clare from horror and pain. She will never know. It will
not hurt. Maybe it will hurt a little. Someday I will tell her and she will
realize I had to do it. We tried. I have no choice. I am not a traitor. Even if
I hurts it will be worth it. I am doing it because I love her. I think of Clare
sitting on our bed, covered in blood, weeping, and I feel sick.

"Mr. DeTamble." I rise, and now I
really feel sick. My knees buckle. My head swims, and I'm bent over, retching,
I'm on my hands and knees, the ground is cold and covered with the stubble of
dead grass. There's nothing in my stomach, I'm spitting up mucous. It's cold. I
look up. I'm in the clearing, in the Meadow. The trees are bare, the sky is
flat clouds with early darkness approaching. I'm alone. I get up and find the
clothes box. Soon I am wearing a Gang of Four T-shirt and a sweater and jeans,
heavy socks and black military boots, a black wool overcoat and large baby blue
mittens. Something has chewed its way into the box and made a nest. The clothes
indicate the mid-eighties. Clare is about fifteen or sixteen. I wonder whether
to hang around

and wait for her or just go. I don't know if I
can face Clare's youthful exuberance right now. I turn and walk toward the
orchard. It looks like late November. The Meadow is brown, and makes a rattling
noise in the wind. Crows are fighting over windfall apples at the edge of the
orchard. Just as I reach them I hear someone panting, running behind me. I
turn, and it's Clare.

"Henry—" she's out of breath, she
sounds like she has a cold. I let her stand, rasping, for a minute. I can't
talk to her. She stands, breathing, her breath steaming in front of her in
white clouds, her hair vivid red in the gray and brown, her skin pink and pale.
I turn and walk into the orchard.

"Henry—" Clare follows me, catches my
arm. "What? What did I do? Why won't you talk to me?"

Oh God. "I tried to do something for you,
something important, and it didn't work. I got nervous, and ended up
here."

"What was it?"

"I can't tell you. I wasn't even going to
tell you about it in the present. You wouldn't like it."

"Then why did you want to do it?"
Clare shivers in the wind. "It was the only way. I couldn't get you to
listen to me. I thought we could stop fighting if I did it." I sigh. I
will try again, and, if necessary, again.

"Why are we fighting?" Clare is
looking up at me, tense and anxious. Her nose is running.

"Have you got a cold?"

"Yes. What are we fighting about?"

"It all began when the wife of your
ambassador slapped the mistress of my prime minister at a soiree being held at
the embassy. This affected the tariff on oatmeal, which led to high
unemployment and rioting—"

"Henry."

"Yes?"

"Just once, just once, would you stop
making fun of me and tell me something I am asking you?" "I
can't."

Without apparent premeditation, Clare slaps me,
hard. I step back, surprised, glad. "Hit me again."

She is confused, shakes her head. "Please,
Clare."

"No. Why do you want me to hit you? I
wanted to hurt you."

"I want you to hurt me. Please." I
hang my head.

"What is the matter with you?"

"Everything is terrible and I can't seem
to feel it."

" What is terrible? What is going
on?"

"Don't ask me." Clare comes up, very
close to me, and takes my hand, one pulls off the ridiculous blue mitten,
brings my palm to her mouth, and bites. The pain is excruciating. She stops,
and I look at my hand, Blood comes slowly, in tiny drops, around the bite mark.
I will probably get blood poisoning, but at the moment I don't care.

"Tell me." Her face is inches from
mine. I kiss her, very roughly. She is resistant. I release her, and she turns
her back on me.

"That wasn't very nice," she says in
a small voice.

What is wrong with me? Clare, at fifteen, is
not the same person who's been torturing me for months, refusing to give up on
having a baby, risking death and despair, turning lovemaking into a battlefield
strewn with the corpses of children. I put my hands on her shoulders. "I'm
sorry. I'm very sorry, Clare, it's not you. Please."

She turns. She's crying, and she's a mess.
Miraculously, there's a Kleenex in my coat pocket. I dab at her face, and she
takes the tissue from me and blows her nose.

"You never kissed me before." Oh, no.
My face must be funny, because Clare laughs. I can't believe it. What an idiot
I am.

"Oh, Clare, Just—forget that, okay? Just
erase it. It never happened. Come here. Take two, yes? Clare?"

She tentatively steps toward me. I put my arms
around her, look at her. Her eyes are rimmed red, her nose is swollen, and she
definitely has a bad cold. I place my hands over her ears and tip her head
back, and kiss her, and try to put my heart into hers, for safekeeping, in case
I lose it again.