All the Time in the World (33 page)

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, something's wrong. I found Pup. Remember, George's little dog? I looked everywhere for it, all over the apartment. And now, three months later, I find it in Matt's room. Hidden underneath his mattress.”

Scotty doesn't say anything.

“I haven't said anything to him yet. He doesn't know that I know.”

Silence.

“Scotty, you're still there, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “I'm, God, I'm relieved. I thought maybe something—”

“You're relieved?”

“I'm glad that no one is in the hospital, is all I meant.”

“Well, Matt might be, when I'm through with him.” I shouldn't have said that. You can't say things like that about a child that's not your own.

“I'm so sorry that you have to deal with this,” he says. I don't even feel frustrated with him when he says it, only mildly confused, because I am certain in my current frame of mind that I will
not
be dealing with this. “I wish I were home with you guys.”

“Me too,” I say.

“Maybe you should take the dog and put it away,” says Scotty. “I think he should have a chance to realize that it's gone. He should know that the hammer's about to drop, be afraid it's going to come down hard.”

“How do we know he won't just forget about him until you get here?” I say.

“Should we call Dr. O'Neill?” He means me.

“I can look up the number for you,” I say.

“I have to think about this,” he says. By that, I know he means he wants his wife to do this for him. And so do I.

Someone, probably my sister, is beeping in on my other line, and I'm thrilled for the excuse.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay. Talk later.” He hangs up. I could answer Claudia's call, but I hit ignore, knowing that she's acting as Jane's proxy.

My phone dings with her voice mail. I dial in to listen to the message, and her voice is hard, like it can sometimes be, full of scorn. “You know I'm going to get you one of these days, and you're going to have to apologize for ignoring me and hanging up on Jane.” I hold the phone away from me, like I can hold her off forever that way. “I will stalk you. I bet you wish you could turn off your phone, but I know you can't. So get ready to see my name every five minutes.” She hangs up.

I group text them: “Please don't worry. Everything ok!!! Had a moment. Working it out with them. Will fill you in when there's something to tell.”

Ten seconds later, I get two replies, two beeps, one right after the other. “Liar,” says Jane, and “Throne of lies!!!” says Claudia. I want to make that wordless whine noise that Matt makes.

“Charlotte,” says Mae from the doorway, startling me. I forgot she was here. “I thought I heard you back here.” She doesn't ask me why I'm sitting on the floor, probably because she's such an empath that she's invented a reason that's far more legitimate than the actual reason. “I'm so sorry to have to do this. I'm really … Well, I'm needed at home, and I wondered if perhaps you could get along without me for a few days. I hate to do this, really—”

“It's fine,” I say, interrupting her and then feeling like a jerk. “I mean, of course, you should go if you need to, Mae. Is it Simon? Is he okay?”

“He's fine, physically. He wanted to come out here, in fact, but I wasn't sure it was the best—well. I think it would be better if I went back home to him. Unless you think you'll have too much trouble on your own.”

“No, you should go if he needs you. We'll be okay here.”

Mae steps out of the doorway, all the way into Matt's room to join me. “I … I didn't mean to eavesdrop…”

I fill her in on Pup. She's caught me in one of my increasingly frequent moments of weakness. I'm too worn down to try and censor myself, so I tell her, and I try not to worry too much that I'm influencing her feelings about the situation with my own.

“Well,” she says. She pats me on the back. “Well, Charlotte. Of course that would make you uncomfortable. And with Scotty away, my, my. It seems rather sinister, doesn't it? Like he has no feelings.”

I'm holding Pup between my knees, petting his stuffed golden head.

“You know,” says Mae. “A friend of mine, a child psychologist, once told me that children have no idea that minds are separate. They are dismissive when you ask them how school was, or what they ate for lunch, or what they've been up to, because they think you already know. And if they're doing something naughty, they'll think you know about it too. I imagine that's why Georgie always tells us right away if he thinks he's done something we might not like, and why Matt can be withholding. Perhaps he thought you already knew and were okay with it. They believe in a, a collective consciousness, I suppose.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I mean, it makes sense.”

“Regardless,” says Mae, sitting down on the edge of Matt's bed noiselessly, without squeaking the bed frame, as I would. “I'm sure that even if he was keeping the secret on purpose, there are lots of deeper reasons that he would do so. It's been much easier for George to endure the loss than it has been for Matt. Oh, he misses her. They both do. But somehow, George has had an easier time accepting this world, this place here on the other side of Gretchen's … ah, existence. Matt is holding on to whatever he can. As I recall, Pup was quite a presence in this family. Maybe Matt couldn't bear to give up another one.”

There was a time, not so long ago, when I wasn't so emotionally naked. I have this thought as tears run down my face, tears that I resent, tears that don't feel like they are allowed to belong to me.

“Thank God you care so much,” says Mae, like she's just read the scrolling banner that's thrumming through my brain,
I wish, I wish, I wish I didn't care so much. “
Thank God you're here, that it's you right now, even though I know it can't be you forever. You know, people are moving away from God, from religion, because it's—I guess it's
trendy
and much, much easier to serve your own needs than the needs of others, as God calls us to do. I don't know if you believe in God or a higher power. But even if you don't, I have seen you be compelled to act in a way that puts the needs of others before your own. There are many people who could have done all the wrong things in your position, and here you are, trying to do what's right, reaching out, like the hand of God. I want you to know that I see that. I know that. The world has been so dark, but I am grateful that your light has been here to shine on us.”

All I can do is stare at her through my inappropriate tears, stare and stare, as every hateful thought I've had, every horrible urge I've had to squash in the last few months, bubbles up. If she can't see what's in front of her, see the me who's actually standing there, then she's delusional. She and her God, they're both beyond reason.

Mae leaves the next day, holding me tightly as she hugs me good-bye. Scotty calls, and the sound on the line is faraway and staticky, even though I know, in theory, that overseas calls aren't supposed to be that way anymore. This time there is no mention of Pup, or Matt specifically, of phone calls to Dr. O'Neill, or sleepless nights, or eagerness to get home. He offers again to send family members over to help me, this time mentioning that Ashley Lynn is willing to bring her three youngest kids and stay with me while he is away. I promptly decline, horrified at the thought of having three extra kids hanging around, vulnerable to the damage I might accidentally inflict on them while we're eating breakfast or making sticker pictures.

“What about Patrick?” says Scotty.

“You mean, to stay?”

“Maybe just to check in and see what he can help out with. Take some of the pressure off.”

“It's up to you.”

“You're the one who will be most affected. I'd rather it be up to you.”

“It's fine, I guess.”

He says good-bye and hangs up. He probably feels that he's done his best by sending in a ringer. But I wonder what it is in Berlin that could be so important to pull him away, or if it's actually something here in this house, pushing him.

When the boys get home from school, I stick them in front of the TV and talk myself out of all the wicked things I am imagining. Methodically, like a list: I will not feed the kids Pizza Hut every night until Scotty gets home. I will not wait until they go to bed and then drink myself to sleep every night until he gets home. I will not send them off to Lila's. I will not set up playdates for them every day. I will not let them eat cake in place of breakfast until he gets home.

My phone rings, snapping me out of it, and I'm about to push the ignore button. I've been doing this automatically for the last thirty-six hours as Jane and Claudia bombarded me with calls and texts. This time, I happen to look, and it's Everett calling. I pick it up, in the most pathetic bid for freedom ever, as there is no one here to witness it. He barely bothers with a greeting, which I take to mean he's still pissed at me for that day I ditched him for Scotty. He's describing which door to use as the entrance and coordinating the timing of something. I feel like he's tracking footprints through the mud in my brain until I remember Jess and the armory.

“You're sure you can make it?”

“Well,” I say, “I'm not sure. I'm so sorry. I have the boys—their dad is in—he's overseas.”

“Can't you get them a babysitter?”

“Everett. I am their babysitter.”

Everett always has something to say, even if it's mean and quippy, so his lack of response upsets me. I hear a thud from the TV room and hope it's not George falling off the couch.

“Let me see if I can work something out for Saturday,” I say. “I really want to try and go with you.”

“All right.”

“I will. I'll work something out.”

“Okay,” he says and hangs up.

I look at the clock and try to calculate the number of hours I have until Saturday at 5 p.m. It's less than forty-eight. I have only a minute to think strategically about the things I'll need to do to prepare; to think of what to say to Everett, let alone Jess, or find some armory-appropriate attire, or get a haircut, or do anything at all that is mine, that just belongs to me, seems out of the realm of possibility. Because here I am in an apartment that isn't mine, with two kids who don't have anyone but me, and it feels a lot like we're playing a high-stakes game of house in which none of the characters are named Charlotte.

*   *   *

“YOU KNOW, SUNDAY'S
my birthday,” Patrick says the following evening, sitting at the table and watching me clean up the kitchen.

“Oh, right. I guess I remembered that. Did you get your invitation to Matt's party next weekend?” I ask.

“Yes, I did. I'll be there.”

“Are you going out for your birthday?”

“I have to work most of the day.”

“On a Sunday? That's so silly,” I say. “Can you move your arms?”

He lifts his arm, and I wipe the table. “I'll come by that evening, after work, to check in,” he says. “You can cook for me, if you want.”

“I'm not sure you'll want to eat what I can cook.”

“Kid food? Always,” he says. I'm surprised he remembers that conversation, considering all the other memorable things about that night.

“Tiny hamburgers it is.” I sit down across from him at the table. “I have to ask you something, okay?”

“Finally,” he says, leaning forward. “I was wondering how long you'd hold out.”

I throw the rag at him, but he has quick reflexes, and he catches it. “Something serious, jackass.”

“I can't wait to hear it.”

“I need to go somewhere tomorrow in the late afternoon. Do you think you could take the boys for a little while? It will only be, like, two hours, tops.”

“Sure, I think I can handle it,” he says. “What, you mean you have a life outside these walls?”

“Ha. Not really.”

There's a crashing sound from another room, which causes both of us to jump, and I run halfway down the hallway before Patrick has a chance to speak. “It was our marble run,” he calls after me. I turn around and run right into him. He's followed me down the hallway. “The one I built with the boys after dinner. It was ill-proportioned, and it collapsed. It was only a matter of time.”

“Oh,” I say. “Oh. Thank God. Okay.”

“That freaked you out, huh?” he says. “You're pretty fast. Like a bunny.”

“The kids have been having trouble sleeping,” I say. “We've kind of been on high alert here at night.”

“Right. The black eye.”

“Exactly.” I turn my head to face down the hallway, listening for any sounds of distress or urgent calls for a drink of water, but nothing comes. I can't seem to shake the jumpy feeling, like I'm being startled over and over, like I'm not only unsure of what's coming next but if anything is coming at all. A minute passes, and I decide that they are fine. So far tonight, they are resting undisturbed.

We're standing close to Matt's door, and Patrick is on the side that leads back to the rest of the apartment. There's not enough space for me to get around him. He isn't moving. He looks like he's listening down the hall, as I am.

“I'm pretty sure they're getting ready to arm the Syrian rebels.” I say it in a whisper, nervous about Matt and his singular ability to hear only those things that no one wants him to hear.

“Who is? I thought the president said no to that last year,” says Patrick.

“I think he's going to change his mind,” I say. “Just the way I think the wind is blowing.”

Patrick grasps my arms, above the elbows. “Are you light-headed?”

“I don't know how I feel about it.” I consider leaning back while he grips my arms, to see how long he can hold me up without letting me pull him over. “Nobody wants another Vietnam, of course, but those pictures. Have you seen those pictures? The nine-year-old, holding a rifle and smoking a cigarette? God, I just—I look at them and I weep.”