Keeping Time: A Novel (7 page)

“Mom, that’s crazy. Did you tell her not to come?”

“No. But I didn’t tell her
to
come either. I didn’t write back.”

“Mom! Come on!” Josh, yelling from the front door. “I’ve got to start practicing.”

“Get in the car. I’ll be right there.&

ELEVEN

DAISY, MAKING HER way into the house, barely fitting through the front door, struggling with two overly full shopping bags in each hand, containing shoes, two new pairs; three new skirt sets; a pretty pale pink robe with matching slippers. She hadn’t felt so thrilled in a long time. Enjoying every aspect of the preparation for her trip, ignoring worries that she still hadn’t heard back from Ann. Preparing herself so that when she did hear back, she would be ready to hop on the first available flight.

To New York, of all places, a place she had never been. She had never wanted to go after the disappearance of Michael. Whenever Paul had suggested going, and he had many times over the years, Daisy always came up with an excuse not to.

Pushing through the doorway with visions of New York, Manhattan, the skyline, the Empire State Building, Times Square, Broadway swirling in her head. Hoping she’d have a chance to see all those things while she was there. Needing to check how far Long Island was from Manhattan and where exactly Port Washington was, the town Ann lived in.

Hurrying to her bedroom. To start packing.

DENNIS, PULLING INTO his mother’s driveway. Hurrying up the front path to her rose–framed yellow door. Her roses, consistently thriving, healthy. Rain was beginning to fall, the first in two days. The weather forecast once again predicting a deluge.

Up her front steps two at a time. Ringing the bell, shielding the papers in his hand from the rain. Hunching his shoulders forward. Protecting them. They were the reason for the visit.

The door opening. Daisy, smiling as she let him in. She knew why he was there; the smile was a put-on. Inside she was sick, sick, sick. Starting to lose her resolve again. Starting to think she really couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sell the house.

“Come in, Dennis. I’ll make you a tea. I see the rain is starting again.”

“No, no thanks. I only have a few minutes. I have to get back to work. We have some deadlines that are going to be murder to meet.”

Following her into the kitchen. Taking a seat at the table. Placing the papers in front of him. Lining them up tidily.

Daisy, putting the kettle on. “Lucky we had those two dry days. I was able to get the grass cut.” Thinking, finally it looked like a sane woman lived there.

“Who’d you get to do it?”

“No one,” Daisy, saying, proudly. “I did it myself. It was no trouble at all.” No trouble if you didn’t count all that had happened before yesterday, and didn’t count that it had taken her more than six hours, on her hands and knees on the ground with a pair of household.listoffigures { font-size: itDaisy Phillips scissors clipping the grass almost blade by blade before getting the lawn mower to do its job.

“Really?” Dennis, unbelieving. “No trouble at all?” Naturally thinking of all that had happened before yesterday. Wondering how she could honestly claim it was no trouble at all. “Now, Mum—”

“Perhaps you can do it while I’m gone,” Daisy, breaking in. “Just once or twice—if the rain lets up.”

Dennis, running his hand over his eyes, rubbing them. “You’re not still thinking of going to New York, are you?”

“Indeed I am.”

Dennis, sighing, “When?”

Daisy, not answering at once. She had still not heard back from Ann, but was determined to go with or without her cousin’s house to stay in. “Soon.” The water starting to boil, the kettle to whistle. Daisy, turning off the heat, carefully pouring the water into her teacup. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a nice hot cup of tea? It’ll do you good.”

Dennis, shaking his head. “How soon? Do you have dates worked out? What does your cousin say?”

“My passport is in good order, and I’ve done all my shopping and packing. I imagine I’ll be gone a month.” Putting the kettle back on the hob, sitting down to her tea.

“A month? Really? That long?”

“I imagine so. Yes. Perhaps even longer.” She had no idea where Michael Baker lived; she had only his return address from letters sixty years old. She had no idea whether he was dead or alive or how to find him. Or how to find any children he may have had. “I’m buying an open-ended ticket.” Stirring a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. The spoon making its familiar, cozy, homey sound as it hit the inside of the teacup on every rotation.

Dennis, “It seems like a crazy time for you to be planning an open-ended trip, but I don’t suppose I can change your mind.”

“No, I don’t think you could, Dennis. My mind is quite made up.” Wishing she had received a positive word from Ann.

“Well, now then.” Dennis, clearing his throat, realigning the papers in front of him on the table. “On to the reason I’m here. These are the papers the agent needs to show your house. You just have to sign in a few places.” His finger targeting the first blank line.

Daisy, stirring her tea. The silver spoon sound ringing out merrily—
tink, tink
—in a nice little rhythm.

“Mum, I hate to be an insensitive boor, but I really haven’t got much time. Just sign here and one other place so I can get going. Please.”

Daisy, unable to take the pen from him. Staring at the forms, unable to move.

The phone, ringing.

So startling, Daisy jumped. Racing to pick up the phone.

Hearing, “Hello? Are you Daisy?” An unfamiliar voice. An American voice! Daisy’s heart, leaping with joy.

“Yes, this is Daisy.”

“Daisy, this is your cousin Ann. How are you?”

“Oh, Ann! Fine, I’m fine. How are you?” Daisy, giddy with glee. No time to wor tell her she coulder. Ann, ry that the news might not be good, that right there in front of Dennis she might hear that she couldn’t stay with her. Feeling only one thing: relief. Relief that Ann wasn’t dead and that she had called.

Looking at Dennis sitting stiff-backed at her table, showing equal parts exasperation and curiosity.

Ann, “I thought calling might be better than writing. I wanted to respond to you as soon as I could, not to keep you waiting.”

“Yes. Gorgeous. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry to say that, well, the situation is, well, I’ll just get right to it. I’m afraid that it would be very difficult for you to stay with me, but my daughter Elisabeth would love to have you. She has an extra room. She lives only five miles from me.”

Daisy, thrilled. Relieved. “Gorgeous.”

“Just let us know the date and time of your arrival. We’ll be happy to pick you up at the airport.”

“Gorgeous,” Daisy, repeating, barely thinking straight. “I was hoping to come in a few days if that would be okay.” Stumbling over her words. Turning back to face Dennis. Seeing him sitting at attention, tuned into her every word.

Ann, saying, “That would be fine. Take my telephone number, call me when you have the tickets and the times all sorted out.”

“Gorgeous,” Daisy, repeating, worrying that Ann was thinking she was a simpleton who knew only one word.

Ann was thinking no such thing, of course. She was thinking she should get off the phone to break up the fight brewing between Matthew and Brandon over a purple crayon—before one or both ended up in tears.

Daisy, taking the number, thanking Ann. A whole new Daisy returning to the table. Picking up her tea, sipping it happily, filling Dennis in on Ann’s end of the conversation.

Despite himself, Dennis, totally interested. He vaguely knew he had American cousins—his mother had mentioned it from time to time through the years—but he had never given them any thought. Now they suddenly had names: Ann, Elisabeth. They had just become real. He had to pull himself back to the reason he was there, finding that he would rather be thinking about these new cousins, this Ann and her daughter Elisabeth and to imagine them and their lives in New York. On Long Island.

But he had a job to do—two jobs to do: One in Liverpool, where he was desperately behind. The other right there in that kitchen, wh

TWELVE

DART MAN STRIKES AGAIN!

Ann, hearing it on the nightly news. On TV. While preparing a steak, salad, and mashed potatoes for herself, David, Josh, Michael and Pete for dinner. Suddenly wondering if it really
could
be Richard. Chastising herself immediately. No way. It was ludicrous. He was and always had been a model husband and father, hardworking, responsible, and kind, with never a bad word to say about anyone. Ann had no idea what had gotten into her daughter’s head—where and why this flight of fancy had taken hold—but she was sure she didn’t need it nesting in her own head, too.

Plopping a heap of mashed potatoes on each plate, wondering if Elisabeth had heard the news and, if she had, what she had thought. Hoping that by now she had found it completely irrelevant to her life.

She hadn’t.

When Elisabeth saw the news on the Internet, she was knee-deep in a corporate tax return that was days behind; four and a half minutes into a telephone conversation with Michael’s European History teacher, Mrs. Caulfield, about his latest frightening grade; and her concern about what he was going to get on the state Regents exam. The teacher was mystified as to why her top student had tanked so thoroughly and so quickly.

“Has something been going on at home recently, Mrs. Jetty, that could be affecting him?” Mrs. Caulfield, asking politely. Afraid to pry.

“Now let me think,” Elisabeth, stalling for time. “Um.” Could it be that his father was Dart Man? Could that turn an A student into a nincompoop? “Well,” Elisabeth, saying. Thinking that even before Richard might have started shooting darts at women, he hadn’t been home before Michael went to bed more than three times since Christmas. It’s June now. Could that be it? Or was it that Richard, who once coached Michael’s baseball games, had gone to exactly one of them all season? Or that Richard had his nose glued to his BlackBerry every weekend? Or that when he wasn’t staring at the BlackBerry, he was staring at the TV? Could that be what had been turning Michael, the former ace student, into a dolt? The former gifted classical pianist into a pop music iPod-addicted groupie? The former history buff into a pop culture devotee? The former healthy, happy family participant, who had always had time for his younger brothers, into an antisocial lockbox?

Or could it be that Elisabeth was stretched so thin that she was afraid shredded wheat was more together than she was? Was that what might be troubling Michael? Long ago when she and Richard had started having all their children, he had been working reasonable hours and she had been part time, but as the family costs increased—college tuitions, music lessons, property taxes, and so on—Richard had had to join the frenzied rat race of law firm partnership, and Elisabeth had had to go back to working full time. And to make matters worse, she h, not having any idea what itDaisy Phillipsated her job—now more than ever, because they had just fired Palmer and handed her all his clients. If she had to do another one of his tax returns, she’d die. She was sure of it.

She should have gone to art school. It was her mother’s fault that she didn’t. But who could blame her mother? Her father abandoned his family when Ann was six. And Ann’s husband went and died on her, leaving her with five daughters to raise on her own. Naturally, she had advised her daughters to take the safest paths.

“Um,” Elisabeth, aware the teacher was waiting, aware that she had to say something. “I don’t know.” Feebly. Thinking, “I don’t know where to
begin.”
Feeling so tired. Sleep had become a luxury for the young. It was as if she had grown out of it, leaving her with drenched night garments.

“I just don’t know what to do here,” Mrs. Caulfield, scratching her head.

Elisabeth, thinking that that made two of them.

“Other than scheduling a mandatory meeting between him and the school psychiatrist, which I’ve already done, and allowing him to retake the final. I’ve never done that before, not once in my twenty-two years of teaching, but I’ve never seen this before, either. On Monday I’ll let him retake the final, a different one.”

“Thank you,” Elisabeth, holding her head in her hands.

“You’re welcome. Now, the Regents is next week. What he gets on it can’t be undone. It will be on his high school transcript permanently. And a fifty-nine going in? A fifty-nine on his final exam? I’ve spoken to his other teachers. They all report the same thing. Something must be going on with him. You must have noticed it at home.”

Elisabeth, looking down at the half-finished overdue corporate tax return on her desk, the one she was supposed to have finished three days ago. Closing her eyes, wanting it all to go away, or back to where it once was. To freeze the time when all her boys were still small and their problems were small, too. To a time when she had had all the answers.

“You must have noticed a widespread falling off of all his grades.”

A kaleidoscope of tests, rushing into Elisabeth’s head: fifth-grade tests, seventh-grade tests, ninth-grade tests, twelfth-grade tests; Josh’s, David’s, Michael’s, Pete’s; math, science, language arts, reading, Spanish, French, history. All of them swirling around at a dizzying pace.