Page 171

Caralora rocks Voltairine and sings to her. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are! Her eyelids droop, soon the baby sleeps. The park is quieter now, evening is coming. We pack up, and they drive me to their home, an apartment on Logan Boulevard, where I sleep on their sofa bed, wake up to Voltairine cooing and patting my face, and vanish in the middle of breakfast, back to Zach, who longs for a child, who will be a devoted uncle. I can’t wait for him to meet Voltairine, but when he asks why I’m so exuberant I just smile and put a finger to my lips. “You’ll find out soon,” I say, kissing him. “It’ll be worth the wait, you’ll see.”

Always Again

Thursday, July 24, 2053 (Clare is 82, Henry is 43, Beck is 77)

Beck: Clare and I are both early birds, in these long light summer days at our lake house in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, but she gets up with the dawn and I usually wake about an hour later. She likes to have a little alone time before breakfast.

Neither of us are chatty people in the morning. We sit together at the long table in the dining room, watch the ducks and loons on the lake, and eat our oatmeal. Sometimes Clare has a sketchbook in her lap; she might draw a dream she had, or write lists or notes to herself. I like to do crosswords. Our mornings are very peaceful.

This morning I was dozing in bed a little longer than usual. I could feel that the day was going to be very hot, and I wanted to put it off for a few more minutes and just lie there and savor the cool of the bedroom. I was thinking that it would be a good day to go for a swim. I could see our swimsuits hanging over the bathtub where we’d left them last night—we’d been rowing the boat around the lake in the dark, drinking pinot grigio and singing old Beyoncé songs. It’s surprising how many of those we still know all the words to. And then we went for a little dip. The lake is so warm these days and there are hardly any mosquitoes anymore, which is frightening but also convenient when you want to go for a swim in a lake surrounded by woods.

As I lay there dozing I heard noises in the house: a door creaking, a chair scraping the floor, then quick footsteps, then nothing. I got up quietly, put on my glasses and my robe and went down the dark hall to the brilliantly sunny dining room. The door was open, but I didn’t go in.

There was a man with Clare, standing with his back to me, a white-haired man, but I could see that he was not an old man. He was tall and thin and quite naked; of course I knew who he was. I’d seen him once before, years ago. He and Clare stood embracing silently. She saw me and I just smiled and went away back down the hall, through the house and out the front door as quiet as I had come. I walked down the shore, and now I’m standing at the edge of our property, looking out over the water, waiting for Clare.

Well, I say to Henry in my head, you were with her for a long time and I have been with her for a longer time and between us she’s had an interesting life. I’m sorry you died so young. I wonder what my life would have been like if you’d lived? I’ll never know you, nor you me. I think we would have liked each other. I hope, if Alba ever told you who I really am, that you were generous enough to be happy for Clare. Love is in short supply in this world. You and Clare and I, we were lucky in love. You were there with us all the time, every day. But I learned not to mind you. And I don’t mind you being here now, because I know she’s been waiting for you a long time, and this is goodbye. To my own surprise I feel sad. I’ve always imagined that when today finally arrived I’d feel relieved, glad, unburdened—but Clare has looked forward to this for half of her life. I’m sad that Henry will be gone, permanently gone. How strange, to miss someone I never knew.

Eventually Clare appears, walking slowly until she is standing beside me. She takes my hand carefully, because we both have arthritis.

“He finally came, then?” I say.

“He did,” Clare says.

“Was it what you thought it’d be like?”

“Better, but I’d hoped he would stay longer.”

“I’m sure he wished he could,” I say. “Did you ask him all your questions?”

“No.”

“Not one?”

“I just let him go,” Clare says.

We stand there for a while and then I say, “Shall we walk back to the house?” We walk back to the house. Clare is subdued. As we are about to go inside I ask her, “Are you all right?”

“It really did finally happen. He came.”

“I’m glad for you,” I say. “So glad.” I turn to her, about to say something else, but Clare is crying. I wrap my arms around her and she cries harder; we stand together shaking with her sobs.

I say, “He’s still there, in the past, he’s never gone, Clare.”

“I know. I know. That’s what makes it hard.” She laughs an embarrassed small laugh and says, “Look at me, I’m a mess. We should go inside.” I hand her a Kleenex. She blows her nose, and we walk into the lake house, our house. “Let’s have some breakfast,” Clare says. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

At the Lake House

Friday, June 19, 2054, and Saturday, June 20, 2054 (Clare is 83, Beck is 78)

Beck: It’s almost eleven o’clock, and we are out on the lake in the rowboat. The moon is full tonight and so bright that we can see our lake house amid the pines, lit up as if it’s on a city street. Everything casts deep shadows, and Lily Lake reflects the moon with mirror precision. I can see Clare in the middle of the boat, enveloped by her shining white hair; I can see my own hands’ deep creases; I could read my palms in the moonlight if I knew or believed any of that nonsense. Anyway, I know my future—I don’t need any hints.

Clare leans forward with her glass extended and I pour a little wine into it. “Thanks, Beck,” she says, and we lapse back into silence.

It’s a still night, the lake is smooth, and we are close enough to shore that I can hear the water lapping around our pier. A long freight train passes unseen in the distance.

“We’ve been here a long time,” Clare says.

“Do you want to go in? It’s getting late,” I say.