Keeping Time: A Novel (20 page)

She was going to miss the boys; that much was certain. She would miss the boys and the family more than she ever could have imagined.
She had grown to love it here in a short time, being back amid the joys of living with a family: the daily beat of life, the promise of new days, the energy of children, the fulfillment of others sharing the same calendar. Richard was exhausted and rarely around but was as nice as can be. Elisabeth was mixed up, goofy, overwrought, and overwhelmed. She had been slow to start in those early days after the airport, with her mysterious disappearances deep in the night—which still remained a mystery although the activity itself appeared to have ceased—but she was very sweet, sympathetic, and kindhearted, and did her best. Pete, the high school senior, talked of girls and sports and would be off to college in the fall. Steve was the only one Daisy had never met; he was expected home within days. Daisy was disappointed that they wouldn’t overlap. And there was sweet Michael with all his noble attempts and determination, a different child entirely from the one who had picked her up at the airport. And Josh and David who had played for her night after night as she sipped her Cointreau in the living room, listening to them at the piano, interrupted more and more lately by Michael’s racing in with a Michael Baker question, a comment, or an update, never tiring of the quest. He tried so hard.

And now, despite all this, Daisy was going home. Dennis was now gone, living five hours away, and Lenny was soon to be married. Still, she had her house, her garden, her lawn, her friends. She loved them all. She did. But.

Daisy, pondering. Still pondering out on the deck when into the house walked Ann. Having heard?” Elisabeth, askingpphabck the news, coming to see Daisy off. Standing in the family room, keys hanging from one hand, her bag slung over her shoulder. Hurrying over to the couch to kiss Josh and David while they were watching a movie. They let her, obediently, although it was clear they were totally involved in
Star Wars
. Ann, asking them where their mother was. Two hands pointing upstairs, mumbling, “Vacuuming.” Ann, asking about Daisy. Two hands pointing out to the deck.

Ann, going off to find her daughter. Coming up from behind,
unheard over the vacuum, Ann tapped Elisabeth on the shoulder, shocking her. Elisabeth, flying out of her shoes. Turning off the vacuum with the tip of her toe.

Ann, leaning in conspiratorially, ready for a naughty snicker: “So she’s finally going, huh? You must be ready to uncork champagne.”

Elisabeth, feeling indignation collecting in her throat. Her mother’s behavior over the last few weeks was shameful. Daisy had taken the hearts of Elisabeth’s family’s by storm, but Ann hadn’t been anywhere near enough to witness it.

“Actually, Mom,” Elisabeth, saying, her voice not shielding her feelings, “we’re all begging her to stay.” Annoyed enough to add: “I guess you didn’t get the memo.”

Ann, unusually rebuffed, drawing her head in like a turtle’s. Looking at Elisabeth. Needing to replant herself. Not yet sure what to feel other than astonishment and—no stranger to her lately—left out.

Elisabeth, adding, “Why don’t you go talk to her while I finish. Since she’s leaving today, it might be a good time to find out why she came in the first place.”

Turning her back on her mother, toeing the vacuum back to life again, returning to the thoughts her mother had interrupted: the world of Heather Clarke, well-toned society gal. Wondering what her life must be like, Elisabeth suffering through the cold splash of her own inadequacies. She had Googled Heather, had seen pictures.

Ann, standing there, chastised, bewildered, with no idea why or when Elisabeth’s feelings for Daisy had changed so radically. She had no idea when Elisabeth had crossed a line, leaving Ann in a field of one. Turning, without a word, disappearing to find Daisy.

Ann, sliding open the glass doors, stepping out into the brilliant sunshine. There was no breeze to speak of. Gigantic, tall, puffy white clouds dotted the sky. Daisy was sitting at the table on the deck, looking serious, grave, and sober, contemplating the gigantic ash tree thirty feet away. She lit up when Ann stepped out, offering her a greeting of great warmth. She
held nothing against her. Daisy didn’t have a judgmental or critical bone in her body. She’d excised them long ago when it became clear that her mother was made up of little else.

Ann, lumbering over to the table, pulling out a chair. Sitting down.

Daisy, smiling. Saying a cheerful, “Good morning.” Asking Ann if she could get her a cup of tea, gesturing to her own. Ann, shaking her head, murmuring a polite “No, thank you.” On her very best behavior, keeping a cork wedged tightly in place. The two, embarking on a polite conversation about the weather. Ann, explaining that usually the humidity this time of year was intolerable but that Daisy had gotten lucky. They talked about the landscaping, Ann only pretending interest when Daisy compared English and American shrubbery.

Ann, saying that she’d like that cup#use close after all, but coffee, not tea. Asking Daisy if she minded if she just ran in to make herself a cup.

Daisy didn’t mind. She got up herself, using the opportunity to make herself more tea.

Following Ann back into the kitchen. Putting the kettle on. The two women, standing in silence, watching the kettle heat up.

The silence, becoming awkward. Neither woman knew what to say. Finally, with difficulty, Ann, saying, “Before you go, Daisy, I owe you at least this.” Daisy, curious, nodding. Ann, taking a deep breath. “I know I haven’t been very nice to you. I’m sorry. I just can’t help it. Every time I try to move us into the future, the past keeps coming in and knocking my good intentions out of the way.”

Daisy, blinking at her. “The past?”

“Look,” Ann, saying, “let’s just be honest here.”

Daisy, “Yes, of course, but I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I’m sorry.”

Ann, eyeing her warily, saying, “I’m talking, of course, about what your mother did to me, to us—me and my mother.” Swallowing. “It still makes me sick to think about it.” Taking hold of her stomach.

Daisy, stupefied. “My mother?”

“Yes, your mother.”

“What my mother did to you? How could she have done anything to you? You’ve never even met.”

Ann, studying her closely. “You really have no idea?”

Daisy, mystified, shaking her head. “All I know about you is that your mother used to send us sugar, flour, and rice during the war.”

Ann, “And some thanks she got for doing it.”

The kettle, reaching its boil. Whistling. Bringing their attention back to it. Both going to turn off the flame at the same time. Daisy, getting there first.

“Why? What did my mother do to you? I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know that when I was six my father left us? He ran off with another woman, leaving me and my mother with nothing.”

Daisy, shaking her head. This was news to her.

“You don’t know that my mother, an immigrant in this country, with no family here other than his, had to sell what little we had to buy us passage back to Liverpool? That we went back with only what we had on our backs? You don’t know that when we got there, your mother—my mother’s older and only sister, the only family she had—turned us away? That she wouldn’t open her doors to us but instead made your father take us back to the docks, dumping us there in the cold and fog. That he told my mother that your mother said that she’d made her bed when she married an American, and that now she and her ‘fat daughter’ had to lie in it.” Ann, taking a breath.

Daisy, aghast, horrified. Her mouth, hanging open. Finally she was getting Ann. Finally she was understanding. “Oh, no.” Feebly. “I’m so sorry, Ann. My mother was a terrible person, really she was.” Shaking her head. “I didn’t know any of that, none of it. I never even heard that your mother came back.” Daisy, reaching out to pat Ann’s shoulder. “It must be awful#atT close just to look at me. I’m so sorry. And here I was with no idea.”

Ann, “If that’s the case, then I should be the one apologizing to you. I’m so sorry. I assumed you knew. I thought for sure you would have heard. You were a teenager at the time.”

“When was this?”

“I was in first grade. It was May, 1945.”

Pieces slipping together. “No wonder.” Daisy, pouring the water into her teacup and Ann’s coffee carafe. “My mother and I were not speaking at that time. I had fallen in love with an American soldier, you see, and my mother wouldn’t let me love him. She hated Michael. She hated me for loving him. She tried to break off our courtship. She cheered when he stopped writing to me. I’ve always believed that she had something to do with stopping his letters but could never see how. For all the crying I did, she never once showed me an ounce of sympathy or kindness.” And then, saying it, saying it aloud without shame: “I hated her.”

Ann, “Maybe that was why she was so violent about my mother’s marital disaster involving an American.”

“Or why she was so opposed to her daughter’s talking about marrying one.”

Both women, sifting new information.

“I hope you believe me,” said Daisy. “It’s the truth. I knew nothing of what you just told me.”

Ann, “Goodness, I’m so sorry then. I owe you a huge apology for my behavior while you’ve been here. I tried to be nice, I really did, but I couldn’t do it. The bile would rise in my throat, and I’d have to turn away. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course I do.” Daisy, taking Ann’s hand in hers. Creating a new reality for themselves. “Come, let’s sit at the table and have our coffee and tea. We have a lot of catching up to do and very little time to do it. I’m going home tonight, as you’ve heard.”

Ann, “I’m so sorry I let your whole visit go by before bringing it up. What an idiot I am. I could shoot myself.” Allowing herself to be led by hand to the table.

Daisy, pulling a chair out for her. Scurrying back for their cups, saying, “Well, don’t do that. We have the whole rest of our lives to mend things.”

Ann, watching Daisy balancing the cups, saying, “Let me help.”

Daisy, hurriedly saying, “No, no. You just sit right where you are. Let everything inside you settle while I devote myself to trying to undo in some small way the cruelty of my mother—not that I ever can.” Placing the cups on the table. Settling across from Ann.

Ann, watching Daisy. Reaching over and squeezing her hand. “It won’t be difficult to start loving you now.”

The phone, ringing. Neither making a move to get it, assuming that someone else would. Still ringing. Ann, shouting for Josh or David to get it, guessing that Elisabeth couldn’t hear it over the vacuum. Neither Josh nor David, who usually raced for it, moved. No one upstairs was getting it, either. Ann, calling the boys again, louder.

The machine, picking it up.

Daisy and Ann, sitting right there, with no choice but to listen to the noises and gibberish com# it washabcking out of the answering machine. High-pitched, excitable, inscrutable. Grabbing their whole attention. Daisy and Ann, both sitting at the table in someone else’s kitchen, listening. Eyes locked. Stifling an urge to laugh together. Team players at last.

What was that, anyway, coming over the machine? Damned if either of them knew—until one of them did.

Daisy, almost dropping her teacup. Lurching out of her chair, spilling hot tea on her hand and the front of her dress. Racing across the room to grab the receiver. Barely registering the pain from the tea, pressing the receiver to her ear, saying, “Hulda?”

There was some confusion until Hulda realized that she was no longer leaving a message, that in fact it was a human ear on the other end of the line—Daisy’s, no less, the very person she had been hoping to speak to. Hulda, excitedly, “I remembered something! Something came to me. Something I remember now.”

Daisy’s stomach, stirring. Catching up to the surprise of hearing
Hulda on the phone, dying to hear what she would say. Daisy, concentrating, not letting Elisabeth’s sudden appearance in the room distract her. Ann, telling Elisabeth who was on the phone, someone named Hulda.

Elisabeth, exclaiming, “Hulda!” Wide-eyed and excited, briefly filling Ann in, in short staccato sentences.

“What?” Daisy, asking.

Hulda, saying, “I remembered the family. They lived on the second floor.” Hulda’s voice high, screechy, very excited. “The son was a pianist and a soldier. Michael. Very handsome, now that I think of it.”

Daisy’s stomach, lurching. A tidal wave cresting in her throat.

“I remember now that he said he had a sweetheart in England he’d be going back for as soon as he could afford it.”

“That was me!”

“Yes,” Hulda, saying, having already figured that out. “So, listen. There was a terrible tragedy, very sad. His parents died in a restaurant fire on Fourteenth Street in the city. George and Maria, I remember them now. I looked and found pictures and newspaper articles about the fire. I’ve been going through my closets ever since you left. I’m sorry it took so long. I have so many photographs and scrap papers and memorabilia and junk.” Chuckling self-effacingly. “But I remembered that this happened and thought it could be them.”

“Oh, my,” Daisy, picturing Michael. Such a terrible thing. “When did it happen? Does the newspaper say?”

“I have it right here on my lap … July 16, 1945.”

“That’s when he stopped writing to me! My last letter is dated July 15.
That
must be why!” Not because he had stopped loving me!
Not because he had stopped loving me
. Daisy’s heart, pounding in her chest.

Hulda, speaking again, “It says here he was just coming from a doctor’s appointment, apparently on his way to join them, when he saw the fire. He ran into the restaurant through flames to save them, injuring himself.”

“Oh, no,” Daisy, crying. “What happened to him?”

“It doesn’t say. It only says ‘injuring himself.’ It says the injuries put his plans# it washabck to be a concert pianist in doubt. In fact, that’s the title of the article: Tragic Fire Fells Parents and Dashes Hopes of Heroic Son, a Rising Musical Star.”