Page 87 of Life Out of Order

“No,” I tell him, “she stays over sometimes when they’re having a field trip. He’s taking her downtown tomorrow bright and early to have her violin worked on by the luthier.”

“Oh. What’s wrong with it?”

“She’s just having a new bridge fitted.” This errand actually took place yesterday, but I don’t want to mention Beck. I wonder if Beck is listening to my half of this conversation. Two doors and a short hallway suddenly seem like not enough. Henry is worrying about Alba’s violin, second-guessing the purchase of it, which is very recent for him. I get up and walk to Alba’s room, sit on her bed. I put my tea on the floor and remind myself not to kick it. Blue Teddy is wedged between her pillow and the wall; I extract him and put him in his rightful place at the center of an assembly of Most Favored Toys at the foot of Alba’s bed. “I’m in Alba’s room,” I tell Henry. “She left Blue Teddy here, and Richard hasn’t called in a panic. That’s a first.”

He laughs softly. “Sometimes I worry she’ll still be toting Blue Teddy everywhere when she’s old and gray.”

“Have you seen Alba old?” I ask.

“No. Have you?”

“Yes,” I assure him. “I’ve seen her in her sixties.” It’s ease of mind, to know that Alba will make it that far. It’s what stops me from spiraling into a panic every time she disappears for days.

Henry says, “That must be strange. My dad is sixty-nine, in my present. It’s difficult to imagine Alba being his age, even though I’ve seen her almost my age.”

“You’ve seen me old,” I say.

“I have,” Henry says, startled. “How did you know?”

“You wrote me a letter. Or, you will write a letter.”

“Will I?”

“It’s one of my most treasured possessions. No pressure.”

Henry laughs, and the sound takes me back to before, to our shared life. I am suddenly intensely happy, but at the same time I have a presentiment of the empty feeling I will have in a few minutes, when this phone call ends and Henry is gone again. Henry says, “Clare? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” It’s difficult to get the words out.

“You sound a little shaky. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. You know.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Listen, I meant to—” There’s a muffled sound, perhaps the receiver hitting the carpet?

“I’m listening,” I say to the empty room where Henry was, just a moment ago. But he’s gone. I love you, is what I wanted to hear, to say.

I hang up, stand up (I almost kick over my tea but remember not to, and pick up the mug carefully), and walk back to the kitchen, where I find Beck sitting at the table, eyes closed, her head cradled on her folded arms. I was so lost in the past, just now, that the present flew out of my mind completely. Fortunately, Beck doesn’t see my lapse. She opens one eye, then the other. “Was that him?”

“Yes.”

Beck sits up. I put my mug in the sink, place the phone on the table, pull a chair around to sit next to her at the table. Without her makeup, Beck looks softer, younger than her daytime self. She’s wearing white pajamas, a turquoise blue bathrobe with kimono sleeves and a silk scarf with a cherry blossom pattern wrapping her hair. She looks like a sleepy empress. She’s worried, but trying not to show it. It’s still dark outside. Beck has opened the window, and a warm breeze comes in, scented with hydrangeas and uncollected garbage.

After a while I think I should say something. “He doesn’t have very much time left. There won’t be many more of these calls. I hope you can understand. It’s just a little bit of my life that I’m living out of order.”

Beck says, “Do you think there’s an alternate timeline where Henry didn’t die? And we never met, or we met and we were just friends?”

I reply, “If that time exists, we don’t know or care what we missed. But here and now, I love you. It doesn’t mean I love Henry less, and I miss him—I miss him most when he shows up for half an hour in his future like this, because for him all that sadness is right there and I can hear it. His death is so close. We can both feel our time running out.”

“It seems wrong to think of Henry as dead when you were just talking to him,” Beck says.

“I know. I catch myself thinking that he’s just—away. Then I remember, and that hurts.”

Beck nods. “That’s sort of how it is with Jasper. Though he’s not dead, I’ve been grieving him, and then, when I haven’t thought about him in a while, he calls. But it does seem less world ending since I met you.” Beck offers her hand, palm up. I slide mine over hers, and we sit together, listening to birds waking, invisible but insistent.

We both yawn at once. “Let’s go back to bed,” I say. “I want to get the rest of my sleep before Alba gets home.”

Back in bed, we lie side by side, hands clasped. “You said you love me?” Beck asks.