Page 83 of Life Out of Order

“Henry wouldn’t have been minded about the brown, it’s the lady part that would have surprised him.”

“My lady parts aren’t all that surprising.”

“Ha. No, he never mentioned meeting you.”

“So, we’re good to go, then? I’ll bring my toothbrush and you’ll clear out a drawer for me?”

“. . . Sure. Yes.” Clare doesn’t sound convinced.

“Does Henry show up randomly in your life?” It shames me that I haven’t thought of this before. In my cosmos, dead is dead.

“He used to, when I was a kid. I know of a few occasions in the future—Alba has told me, or Henry mentioned that he’d seen me—but I don’t know exactly when, and some of these meetings are a long time from now. But there might be some I don’t know about.”

“I think I would have a hard time relaxing, if Jasper was going to parachute into my bedroom anytime he pleased.”

Clare laughs. “I hadn’t thought about it quite like that.”

I turn out the light. “Is it like being haunted?” I ask.

“Maybe?” Clare turns onto her side, and I spoon around her. She says, “I’ve been waiting for Henry since I was a child. It’s hard to stop.”

“I bet it is. Do you want to stop?”

“You’re here now. I’d like to live in the present, with you.”

“That sounds good,” I say. “I’d like that, too.”

Nothing more is said about it, but a few days later Clare says, “Would you like to come over for lunch on Saturday? And meet Alba?” She sounds serious, even formal, as though she’s asking me to marry her, which maybe she is, and I understand that it is time to get real.

A Muse in the Machine

Saturday, June 5, 2010 (Alba is 8, Clare is 39, Beck is 34)

Alba: Mama is nervous. I wasn’t nervous before, but her nervousness is catching. Her friend Beck is coming over for lunch. Mama bought a new cookbook because Beck only eats vegetables. Last night Mama stayed up late making soup I can’t remember how to pronounce and now Kimy is here and we’re making fritters. I got to put the carrots and beets through the food processor. Kimy brought her big pot over and I’m helping her make carrot-beet balls and fry them while Mama gets dressed. I rubbed the beets all over my hands, it’s pretty! We set off the smoke alarm twice! Kimy and I are both too short to reach the smoke detector even if we stand on a chair, so Kimy opened the back door, and now the house is windy but at least it isn’t all smoky. I can’t remember Mama ever cooking for anyone but me, Daddy or Kimy, and usually if Kimy comes over she’ll cook because she’s better at it. Mama kind of hates to cook and I don’t understand why we aren’t meeting her friend in a restaurant like we usually do. Kimy is wearing one of her Sunday dresses even though it’s Saturday. Usually on Saturdays we do something fun, like seeing Rosa or Nadia, or going to a movie. I’ve never met Beck before so I don’t know if she is fun. I wonder if we can do Saturday things tomorrow instead?

I go upstairs to ask Mama. “If things go well with Beck,” she says, “you and Nadia and Colin might be able to go roller-skating later this afternoon. Could you set the table, Alba?” Mama has ironed a tablecloth and some napkins that belonged to my grandma who I never met. I fold the napkins into triangles, the way Mama showed me, and set them at our places. I put Beck in the seat across from me that’s empty. Kimy always sits in Daddy’s seat, across from Mama. I like our china, it has gray roses painted on it; it reminds me of black-and-white television. I put out plates, bowls for the soup, spoons and forks and knives, wineglasses and water glasses. It’s very fancy. I hope Beck likes soup because there is a lot of it.

Mama comes downstairs and she looks like she’s going out, she’s wearing makeup and shoes with pointy toes. I’m wearing my favorite dress, it’s violet and has big pockets. Mama braided my hair. We are all fancy. Mama says, “Alba, your hands—” but the doorbell rings and Beck is here.

I thought she would be taller but she’s the same height as Mama. They don’t kiss or anything, they just sort of hug and Beck says, “Hello, Alba,” and I say hello back to her but I feel funny and it comes out in a small voice. I put my hands in my pockets so Mama won’t make me wash them.

Beck is wearing a dress made of green, swishy, shiny fabric, like a mermaid would wear. Her glasses are made of silver, and her earrings are pearls. She’s holding a bunch of white flowers and a grocery bag which she gives to Mama. She looks like a regular person, not too weird. She looks nice. I guess I thought it would be like we already know each other because Older Alba has been telling me about Beck and I thought maybe Mama would have told Beck about me. But I don’t know what to say to her. I can’t remember what I’m not supposed to know. We’re just standing here not saying anything and then Beck says, “It’s nice to finally meet you,” and she holds out her hand, but my hands are purple and Beck pulls her hand away, like she’s afraid of me.

Beck: I’m not a genius of chitchat under the most favorable circumstances, and I never know what to say to kids. Clare has coached me on Alba’s favorite TV shows and music. Kimy, who I’ve met once before, is here to ease things along. Clare gave me a hint on how to talk to Alba about time travel, which was mostly not to talk about it. When the door opens and I see Clare standing there with her daughter—who of course is a young girl, not the woman I met that night at the Russian restaurant—Alba suddenly becomes real to me. She stands almost hidden behind Clare, peering at me, half smiling; a tall, coltish girl with long black braids, straight, serious eyebrows, gray eyes, a few freckles. Clare says, “Come in, Beck,” and hugs me. Once I’m in the house there are awkward introductions and I offer to shake hands. Alba steps forward and places hers in mine; she’s red halfway to her elbow and I think her hand is bloody—I recoil, but then realize it’s not red but actually magenta. Beet red.

Alba looks panicked so I say, “What a pretty color!”

“I’m very fond of purple,” Alba says, sounding apologetic.

“So am I,” I assure her.

“We’re having beet and carrot fritters for lunch,” she says. “Mama says you like vegetables?”

“I do. Something smells good; I hear you’ve all been cooking for days?” We make our way into the kitchen. Clare puts the calla lilies I brought into a vase. Kimy unwraps the box of chocolates. Clare offers me a drink, and when I accept, pours herself, Kimy and me each a glass of pinot grigio. Alba has 7-Up, with ice, in a wineglass. A timer rings, startling us all. Kimy turns to ladle soup into bowls. Clare dons huge yellow mitts, reaches into the oven and removes a cheesecake. Alba watches them from the dining room. She holds her wineglass by the stem, pinkie out, her outrageous beet-colored hands adding an element of incongruous violence.

Clare and Kimy bustle lunch onto the table, and we sit down to eat. There’s a hesitation, and I wonder if they are wondering if I think we should say grace. Alba sits across from me, sizing me up. Kimy says, “Let’s eat before it all gets cold,” and we laugh because the soup is vichyssoise, cold and creamy, like a savory potato-leek milkshake.

“Mama says you have a cat?” Alba asks me politely.