Keeping Time: A Novel (12 page)

Daisy, seated not far from the Olympic-sized built-in swimming pool at a marble-topped cast-iron picnic table, part of a fabulously expensive outdoor garden set that came complete with an outrageously costly woven couch and loveseat, both of which exploded with bright orange-striped pillows, all of high-quality fabrics. Low-hanging candlelight. They were all elbow to elbow—Ann, her five daughters, their husbands, and their children. Daisy, doing her best to remember names and faces.

Most couldn’t make heads or tails of Daisy’s accent and had broken into private conversations. Ann, Elisabeth, her sisters, and her brothers-in-law
couldn’t, not really; they were successful# face, habck only to narrowly varying degrees. Daisy, commenting on the landscaping, knew the names and characteristics of every last thing growing in the garden.

Richard had little trouble with her accent, having the advantage of English clients, even some from western England who had similar accents. He understood Daisy, became her translator, and was charmed by her. Listening intently to all she said. Impressed by her wide knowledge of the plants—his trees, shrubs, bushes, and flowers. Abashed that he couldn’t tell a daffodil from a tulip and that he barely ever looked at his gardens. Asking her questions about home. About family.

“We all have long, miserable faces in our family.” Daisy, using her hands to pull her cheeks down to demonstrate. “We’re not miserable people. We only look like we are.”

Mosquitoes and lightning bugs moving in, taking over territory. Grown-ups lathering children in mosquito repellent. Daisy, mentioning that there were no mosquitoes in Liverpool. It went unheard. No one was listening, everyone buzzing around like the insects they were trying to avoid.

The grown-ups, moving indoors. The sisters and Ann, in the kitchen. Their husbands, except Richard who was cleaning the grill, standing in the living room in a circle, beer in hand, discussing the Mets. Records swapped, plays analyzed. Their backs to Daisy who sat unnoticed on the sofa, mostly forgotten.

Exhausted amid the chaos, noise, and boisterous activity of the children running in and out of the house, she had found a comfortable spot to settle in. Josh and David, in drying bathing suits, scratching fresh mosquito bites, and settling down on the other end of the sofa to play Game Boy Advance SP, their heads touching so that both could see the small screen.

Daisy, without warning, fell fast asleep. Her head, thrown unflatteringly back on the sofa; her mouth, wide open, facing the ceiling. Snoring.

The husbands noticing, turning away. Elisabeth and her sisters, after
finishing in the kitchen, drifting back into the living room, seeing Daisy. Turning away, averting their eyes. Ann, sighing, feeling strangely impatient at the sight.

Michael, “Looks like she&hers waiting f

TWENTY-ONE

LATER, DEEP IN THE NIGHT. Daisy’s internal clock telling her it was dawn. Time to get up.

Sitting up in bed with darkness all around. For the first few seconds, confusion. Patching together reality. Spotting a clock: 1:30 a.m. She had been asleep about three hours. Remembering how she had been brought to the room by Richard. What a nice man. Remembered sinking into the pillow. That was all.

Wondering where her toiletries were. Wanting to brush her teeth and use the loo. Spying the bag, pulling back the covers of the bed. Going to the canvas bag, the marmalade bag. It was better now but not perfect. Some areas were still sticky, but they were certainly better. Finding what she needed, trying to remember where the bathroom was. Richard had shown her. It was at the end of the hall, wasn’t it? But which way? Right or left? Hoping she wouldn’t have to creep around opening wrong doors before she found it.

Putting her hand on the doorknob, admiring it—an old round cut-glass knob that was unlike anything from home. A very nice doorknob. Turning it, pulling open the door. Standing, listening to the quiet, sleeping sounds of the house.

Peeking out into the dim light, looking for a memorable marker.
Padding, barefoot, silently, in her lightweight robe, making no noise as she crept along, not wanting to wake anybody. Three doors down she found it.

Then, creeping back to her room. Listening to her own quiet breath and to the night’s stillness in the house. But, hearing a sound in the quiet, a rustling of cotton. It was not her robe, she was sure. It was a sound from behind, from another hall.

Daisy, listening. Sure enough, hushed movement. Not wanting to have a conversation at that hour, hurrying noiselessly back to her room, closing the door with great care. Listening for sounds from the hallway.

Surprised instead to hear noises from outside, from the driveway. A car door, slowly opening. Daisy, crossing the room to the window. Peering out.

Elisabeth, slipping into the car, pulling quietly out of the driveway, backing into the deserted street. Driving away.

Daisy, wondering as she watched, until the red taillights piercing the blackness disappeared.

ELISABETH WASN’T SURE herself what had motivated her to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night, get in her car, go back over the Triboro Bridge, cross Central Park at Ninety-seventh Street, cruise down Broadway to Houston Street, then head east to the Williamsburg Bridge. But she had, and now she was gliding onto the bridge, a traffic-free bridge with wide-open lanes, oldies blasting on the radio, singing her head off, loud and proud at deafening volumes, the center lane all to herself. The glow of city lights was behind her, she had taken part in the mystery of city nights, had become part of its nightly playing out in the dark. Now that she had done it and was head#foha home anding home again, she knew what had motivated her to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night and into her car.

It was glorious, just glorious.

Releasing inner aspects that had been holed up too long. Drawing something from the inside out like a salve, something from her earlier self, from a time brimming with self-confidence and self-assurance. Reconnecting with another Elisabeth Jetty. One she liked better.

NO ONE HAD ASKED DAISY why she’d come to New York. She had expected they would. If they didn’t soon, she would have to bring it up herself. Eager to get started.

Sunday seemed too hectic. In the morning they all skittered off to church, except Richard, who was stuck on back-to-back business calls in his home office, from which he emerged yawning, tousled, and hassled. Rubbing his red-ringed eyes, giving Daisy a hasty “Good morning” before fleeing to make his appointment at the car garage for a mandatory annual New York State inspection due no later than today and a well-overdue oil change.

Elisabeth, bags under her eyes, wearing the same strange pants as before. The house was whirring. At one o’clock was Josh and David’s year-end piano recital. David would be playing Beethoven; Josh, Chopin. Elisabeth, ironing their white button-down shirts. Searching for two ties. Tracking down four black socks. Praying their shoes still fit since the last recital in January.

Pete had a baseball game; he wouldn’t be able to make his brothers’ recitals. Ann wouldn’t be there for the same reason. Elisabeth, hustling around the house looking for this and that, answering the phone that rang endlessly, making plans for the whole family, which she jotted down on the giant bulletin board in the kitchen. Distracted by everything that crossed her path, shouting orders to study to Michael every time she passed him.

Michael, looking up from his game saying, “You’re not really going to wear that to the piano recital.”

Elisabeth, looking down at her clothes, which were the same as before except a new shirt. Pleased that he had commented. Richard hadn’t said a word. Elisabeth, repeating her mantra: “When you change, Michael, I’ll change.” Hurrying off with a laundry basket riding her hip.

Daisy, sitting awkwardly, was clear now, at least, as to why Elisabeth was dressed the way she was. Pretending to read her book amid all the activity. Feeling unseen. Thrown a bit because no one had asked her what her business was and why she had come. Hoping someone would. Needing their input. Deciding to talk to Michael, alone on the sofa, across from where she sat. Asking pleasantly about school.

Michael, barely looking her way, saying, “It stinks,” rubbing his nose. His eyes on the screen, involved in a battle between his clones and the attacking enemy.

Daisy, trying again. “Are you performing in today’s recital?”

Michael, “Nah. I quit piano.” Groaning inwardly, anticipating the obligatory speech about regret or grabbing second chances. Strangely, it didn’t come. Daisy just turned away, humming quietly to herself. Michael waited a few seconds, but still it didn’t come.

Because Daisy wasn’t thinking about his decision regarding piano. She was wondering if this Michael would have any good ideas about how to find the other Michael. Wondering what this #bee closeMichael would do, how he would find someone not seen or heard from in sixty years. Young people usually had good ideas. They knew things. But he seemed reluctant to talk. Daisy, thinking she would try again later.

Lunch—all were called to the table. Daisy, truly hungry. She had missed some meals since she left. She ate heartily what was offered: a bowl of macaroni and cheese with the boys. Elisabeth was too busy hustling around the kitchen to sit and eat—emptying the dishwasher, scrubbing pots, cleaning countertops.

Daisy, uncomfortable doing nothing while Elisabeth was a whirlwind of great magnitude in close proximity. Looking over, watching her a moment, then asking, “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

Elisabeth, looking up from scrubbing maple syrup off the maple cabinetry. Blinking at Daisy quizzically, as if she were parsing some foreign language. But this time it wasn’t the language, it was the concept. She smiled, relaxing her shoulders.

Saying, “No, thanks. I wouldn’t have time to enjoy it. But you go right ahead if you like. I think I have tea bags.” Throwing the sponge into the sink. Heading for the cupboard to explore.

Daisy, bounding to her feet. “Please, Elisabeth, let me. I know where they are. I found them this morning.”

Elisabeth, halting. Surprised.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Daisy, quick to add, “I was up early. I found all I needed.”

Elisabeth, feeling admonished. “How thoughtless of me not to show you last night. I’m sorry you had to rummage around in here on your own.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I was fine. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re no bother,” Elisabeth, pleasantly, thinking that that was the understatement of the year. No one, it seemed, had bothered with her one whit. Time to correct that blunder. She would sort through how and why it had occurred at some later time. Perhaps. “Is there anything else you need? Anything else I can show you or get you?” Seeing herself and her family through Daisy’s eyes. Feeling like crap.

“Oh, no, I’m fine.” Daisy, involuntarily picturing a bottle of Cointreau.

Elisabeth, suddenly noticing the volume of the computer games in the family room. “I’m sorry. The boys can’t be out of my sight for a minute.” Flying out of the room.

Daisy could hear the shouting. Elisabeth, yelling at David and Josh to stop watching Michael’s video games, to get to the piano and run through their pieces. The boys, racing for the piano, arguing about who would go first. Elisabeth, screaming at Michael to start studying. Following him up the stairs, reminding him about a test he should be studying for, one he would be having the next day.

Daisy, picking up her lunch bowl, washing it. Hearing someone at the piano playing Chopin. Stopping. Listening. Such exquisite music. Whoever it was played beautifully. Stealing a peek at who was playing.

Josh. Eleven years old and playing like that. David, pacing the floor behind him, waiting for his turn to practice. Daisy, standing in the doorway, soaking up the moment; the music flowing through her.

When Elisabeth returned, Daisy was sitting near the piano, rapt as Josh played. Elisabeth, asking Daisy if she would like to join them at the piano recital. Doubting she would, but not sure what else tell her she coulday. Ann, to do with her. Elisabeth had been watching to see if Daisy was making any plans, hoping Daisy would ask about trains to the city, tours, information about shows or other Manhattan attractions, or maybe ask to use the phone, but she didn’t. She was simply sitting here or there, looking content, hands clasped neatly in her lap—leaving Elisabeth confused.

Daisy, saying yes, she would love to go to the recital, that it would be gorgeous. Certain it would be. These boys could really play. Daisy, more than content to be a part of the musical equation: the vital receiving end. Plus, the boys looked adorable in their suits.

Daisy, also supposing it was possible they might pass a shop along the way that sold Cointreau.

THE PIANO RECITAL was in a local church. Elisabeth parked, popped out, and hurried inside. She had had to return home for David’s music. Before he had left the house he insisted he didn’t need the music, that he had the piece memorized. Three blocks from the church he changed his mind.

Elisabeth had to drop Daisy and the boys off and then turn back into choking traffic and roads loaded with mobs of Sunday afternoon shoppers.

Mere seconds before the recital was to begin, she made it back to the
church. Searching the rows until she found them. Only seconds before, Richard had hurried in, having gotten held up at the garage with his inspection and oil change. Elisabeth sank into the empty seat next to him, relieved that she had made it in time—that
they
had made it in time, because she had not come back alone.

When she went into the house for David’s music, she found Michael splayed out on the couch playing video games, as far from studying at his desk as she was from being an astronaut. As a result, here he was now, sitting three seats from Daisy, his textbook opened, ready to be ignored, whispering to his mother, “Doesn’t she have anything better to do?”

Elisabeth, seated between Michael and Richard. Richard next to Daisy.

Michael, saying, “Like she came to New York for this.” Looking over at Daisy, with her back erect, hands clasped primly on her lap. Rolling his eyes. “What
did
she come for anyway?”