THE EPISODE OF THE MONROE STREET

PARKING GARAGE

Monday, January 7, 2006 (Henry is 43)

HENRY: It’s cold. It’s very, very cold and I am lying on the ground in snow. Where am I? I try to sit up. My feet are numb, I can’t feel my feet. I’m in an open space with no buildings or trees. How long have I been here? It’s night. I hear traffic. I get to my hands and knees. I look up. I’m in Grant Park. The Art Institute stands dark and closed across hundreds of feet of blank snow. The beautiful buildings of Michigan Avenue are silent. Cars stream along Lake Shore Drive, headlights cutting through night. Over the lake is a faint line of light; dawn is coming. I have to get out of here. I have to get warm.

I stand up. My feet are white and stiff. I can’t feel them or move them, but I begin to walk, I stagger forward through the snow, sometimes falling, getting back up and walking, it goes on and on, finally I am crawling. I crawl across a street. I crawl down concrete stairs backwards, clinging to the handrail. Salt gets into the raw places on my hands and knees. I crawl to a pay phone.

Seven rings. Eight. Nine. ‘“Lo,” says my self.

“Help me,” I say. “I’m in the Monroe Street Parking Garage. It’s unbelievably fucking cold down here. I’m near the guard station. Come and get me.”

“Okay. Stay there. We’ll leave right now.”

I try to hang up the phone but miss. My teeth are chattering uncontrollably. I crawl to the guard station and hammer on the door. No one is there. Inside I see video monitors, a space heater, a jacket, a desk, a chair. I try the knob. It’s locked. I have nothing to open it with. The window is wire reinforced. I am shivering hard. There are no cars down here.

“Help me!” I yell. No one comes. I curl into a ball in front of the door, bring my knees to my chin, wrap my hands around my feet. No one comes, and then, at last, at last, I am gone.

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

FRAGMENTS

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, September 25, 26, and 27, 2006 (Clare is 35, Henry is 43)

CLARE: Henry has been gone all day. Alba and I went to McDonald’s for dinner. We played Go Fish and Crazy Eights; Alba drew a picture of a girl with long hair flying a dog. We picked out her dress for school tomorrow. Now she is in bed. I am sitting on the front porch trying to read Proust; reading in French is making me drowsy and I am almost asleep when there is a crash in the living room and Henry is on the floor shivering, white and cold—“Help me,” he says through chattering teeth and I run for the phone.

Later:

The Emergency Room: a scene of fluorescent limbo: old people full of ailments, mothers with feverish small children, teenagers whose friends are having bullets removed from various limbs, who will brag about this later to admiring girls but who are now subdued and tired.

Later:

In a small white room: nurses lift Henry onto a bed and remove his blanket. His eyes open, register me, and close. A blond intern looks him over. A nurse takes his temperature, pulse. Henry is shivering, shivering so intensely it makes the bed shake, makes the nurse’s arm vibrate like the Magic Fingers beds in 1970s motels. The resident looks at Henry’s pupils, ears, nose, fingers, toes, genitals. They begin to wrap him in blankets and something metallic and aluminum foil-like. They pack his feet in cold packs. The small room is very warm. Henry’s eyes flicker open again. He is trying to say something. It sounds like my name. I reach under the blankets and hold his icy hands in mine. I look at the nurse. “We need to warm him up, get his core temperature up,” she says. “Then we’ll see.”

Later:

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

“How on earth did he get hypothermia in September?” the resident asks me. “I don’t know,” I say. “Ask him.”

Later:

It’s morning. Charisse and I are in the hospital cafeteria. She’s eating chocolate pudding. Upstairs in his room Henry is sleeping. Kimy is watching him. I have two pieces of toast on my plate; they are soggy with butter and untouched. Someone sits down next to Charisse; it’s Kendrick. “Good news,” he says, “his core temp’s up to ninety-seven point six. There doesn’t seem to be any brain damage.”

I can’t say anything. Thank you God, is all I think.

“Okay, um, I’ll check back later when I’m finished at Rush St. Luke’s,” says Kendrick, standing up.

“Thank you, David,” I say as he’s about to walk away, and Kendrick smiles and leaves.

Later:

Dr. Murray comes in with an Indian nurse whose name tag says Sue. Sue is carrying a large basin and a thermometer and a bucket. Whatever is about to happen, it will be low-tech.

“Good morning, Mr. DeTamble, Mrs. DeTamble. We’re going to rewarm your feet.” Sue sets the basin on the floor and silently disappears into the bathroom. Water runs. Dr. Murray is very large and has a wonderful beehive hairdo that only certain very imposing and beautiful black women can get away with. Her bulk tapers down from the hem of her white coat into two perfect feet in alligator-skin pumps. She produces a syringe and an ampoule from her pocket, and proceeds to draw the contents of the ampoule into the syringe.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Morphine. This is going to hurt. His feet are pretty far gone.” She gently takes Henry’s arm, which he mutely holds out to her as though she has won it from him in a poker game. She has a delicate touch. The needle slides in and she depresses the plunger; after a moment Henry makes a little moan of gratitude. Dr. Murray is removing the cold packs from Henry’s feet as Sue emerges with hot water. She sets it on the floor by the bed. Dr. Murray lowers the bed, and the two of them manipulate him into a sitting position. Sue measures the temperature of the water. She pours the water into the basin and immerses Henry’s feet. He

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gasps.

“Any tissue that’s gonna make it will turn bright red. If it doesn’t look like a lobster, it’s a problem.”

I watch Henry’s feet floating in the yellow plastic basin. They are white as snow, white as marble, white as titanium, white as paper, white as bread, white as sheets, white as white can be. Sue changes the water as Henry’s ice feet cool it down. The thermometer shows one hundred and six degrees. In five minutes it is ninety degrees and Sue changes it again. Henry’s feet bob like dead fish. Tears run down his cheeks and disappear under his chin. I wipe his face. I stroke his head. I watch to see his feet turn bright red. It’s like waiting for a photograph to develop, watching for the image slowly graying into black in the tray of chemicals. A flush of red appears at the ankles of both feet. The red spreads in splotches over the left heel, finally some of the toes hesitantly blush. The right foot remains stubbornly blanched. Pink appears reluctantly as far as the ball of the foot, and then goes no farther. After an hour, Dr. Murray and Sue carefully dry Henry’s feet and Sue places bits of cotton between his toes. They put him back in bed and arrange a frame over his feet so nothing touches them.

The following night:

It’s very late at night and I am sitting by Henry’s bed in Mercy Hospital, watching him sleep. Gomez is sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, and he is also asleep. Gomez sleeps with his head back and his mouth open, and every now and then he makes a little snorting noise and then turns his head.

Henry is still and silent. The IV machine beeps. At the foot of the bed a tent-like contraption raises the blankets away from the place where his feet should be, but Henry’s feet are not there now. The frostbite ruined them. Both feet were amputated above the ankles this morning. I cannot imagine, I am trying not to imagine, what is below the blankets. Henry’s bandaged hands are lying above the blankets and I take his hand, feeling how cool and dry it is, how the pulse beats in the wrist, how tangible Henry’s hand is in my hand. After the surgery Dr. Murray asked me what I wanted her to do with Henry’s feet. Reattach them seemed like the correct answer, but I just shrugged and looked away.

A nurse comes in, smiles at me, and gives Henry his injection. In a few minutes he sighs, as the drug envelopes his brain, and turns his face toward me. His eyes open so slightly, and then he is asleep again.

I want to pray, but I can’t remember any prayers, all that runs through my head is Eeny-meeny miney moe, catch a tiger by the toe, if he hollers, let him go, eeny meeny miney moe.

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

Oh, God, please don’t, please don’t do this to me. But the Snark was a boojum. No. Nothing comes. Envoyez chercher le medecin. Qu’avez-vous? Ilfaudra aller a Chapital. Je me suis coupe assez fortement. Otez le bandage et laissez-moi voir. Out, c’est une coupure profunde.

I don’t know what time it is. Outside it is getting light. I place Henry’s hand back on the blanket. He draws it to his chest, protectively.

Gomez yawns, and stretches his arms out, cracking his knuckles. “Morning, kitten,” he says, and gets up and lumbers into the bathroom. I can hear him peeing as Henry opens his eyes.

“Where am I?”

“Mercy. September 27, 2006 ”

Henry stares up at the ceiling. Then, slowly, he pushes himself up against the pillows and stares at the foot of the bed. He leans forward, reaching with his hands under the blanket. I close my eyes.

Henry begins to scream.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006 (Clare is 35, Henry is 43)

CLARE: Henry has been home from the hospital for a week. He spends the days in bed, curled up, facing the window, drifting in and out of morphine-laced sleep. I try to feed him soup, and toast, and macaroni and cheese, but he doesn’t eat very much. He doesn’t say much, either. Alba hovers around, silent and anxious to please, to bring Daddy an orange, a newspaper, her Teddy; but Henry only smiles absently and the small pile of offerings sits unused on his nightstand. A brisk nurse named Sonia Browne comes once a day to change the dressings and to give advice, but as soon as she vanishes into her red Volkswagen Beetle Henry subsides into his vacant-lot persona. I help him to use the bedpan. I make him change one pair of pajamas for another. I ask him how he feels, what he needs, and he answers vaguely or not at all. Although Henry is right here in front of me, he has disappeared.

I’m walking down the hall past the bedroom with a basket of laundry in my arms and I see Alba through the slightly open door, standing next to Henry, who is curled up in bed. I stop and watch her. She stands still, her arms hanging at her side, her black braids dangling down her back, her blue turtleneck distorted from being pulled on. Morning light floods the room, washes everything yellow.

“Daddy?” Alba says, softly. Henry doesn’t respond. She tries again, louder. Henry turns toward her, rolls over. Alba sits down on the bed. Henry has his eyes closed.

“Daddy?”

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“Hmm?”

“Are you dying?”

Henry opens his eyes and focuses on Alba. “No.” “Alba said you died.”

“That’s in the future, Alba. Not yet. Tell Alba she shouldn’t tell you those kinds of things.” Henry runs his hand over the beard that’s been growing since we left the hospital. Alba sits with her hands folded in her lap and her knees together.

“Are you going to stay in bed all the time now?”

Henry pulls himself up so he is leaning against the headboard. “Maybe.” He is rummaging in the drawer of the nightstand, but the painkillers are in the bathroom.

“Why?”

“Because I feel like shit, okay?”

Alba shrinks away from Henry, gets up off the bed. “Okay!” she says, and she is opening the door and almost collides with me and is startled and then she silently flings her arms around my waist and I pick her up, so heavy in my arms now. I carry her into her room and we sit in the rocker, rocking together, Alba’s hot face against my neck. What can I tell you, Alba? What can I say?

Wednesday and Thursday October 18 and 19, and Thursday, October 26, 2006 (Clare is 35, Henry is 43)

CLARE: I’m standing in my studio with a roll of armature wire and a bunch of drawings. I’ve cleared off the big work table, and the drawings are neatly pinned up on the wall. Now I stand and try to summon up the piece in my mind’s eye. I try to imagine it 3-D. Life size. I snip off a length of wire and it springs away from the huge roll; I begin to shape a torso. I weave the wire into shoulders, ribcage, and then a pelvis. I pause. Maybe the arms and legs should be articulated? Should I make feet or not? I start to make a head and then realize that I don’t want any of this. I push it all under the table and begin again with more wire.

Like an angel. Every angel is terrifying. And yet, alas, I invoke you, almost deadly birds of the soul... It is only the wings that I want to give him. I draw in the air with the thin metal,looping and weaving; I measure with my arms to make a wingspan, I repeat the process, mirror-reversed, for the second wing, comparing symmetry as though I’m giving Alba a haircut, measuring by eye, feeling out the weight, the shapes. I hinge the wings together, and then I get up on the ladder and hang them from the ceiling. They float, air encompassed by lines, at the level of my breasts, eight feet across, graceful, ornamental, useless.

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

At first I imagined white, but I realize now that that’s not it. I open the cabinet of pigments and dyes. Ultramarine, Yellow Ochre, Raw Umber, Viridian, Madder Lake. No. Here it is: Red Iron Oxide. The color of dried blood. A terrible angel wouldn’t be white, or would be whiter than any white I can make. I set the jar on the counter, along with Bone Black. I walk to the bundles of fiber that stand, fragrant, in the far corner of the studio. Kozo and linen; transparency and pliancy, a fiber that rattles like chattering teeth combined with one that is soft as lips. I weigh out two pounds of kozo, tough and resilient bark that must be cooked and beaten, broken and pounded. I heat water in the huge pot that covers two burners on the stove. When it is boiling I feed the kozo into it, watching it darken and slowly take in water. I measure in soda ash and cover the pot, turn on the exhaust hood. I chop a pound of white linen into small pieces, fill the beater with water, and start it rending and tearing up the linen into a fine white pulp. Then I make myself coffee and sit staring out the window across the yard at the house.

At that moment:

HENRY: My mother is sitting on the foot of my bed. I don’t want her to know about my feet. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. “Henry?” she says. “I know you’re awake. C’mon, buddy, rise and shine.” I open my eyes. It’s Kimy. “Mmm. Morning.”

“It’s 2:30 in the afternoon. You should get out of bed.” “I can’t get out of bed, Kimy. I don’t have any feet.”

“You got wheelchair,” she says. “Come on, you need a bath, you need a shave, pee-yoo, you smell like an old man.” Kimy stands up, looking very grim. She peels the covers off of me and I lie there like a shelled shrimp, cold and flaccid in the afternoon sunlight. Kimy browbeats me into sitting in the wheelchair, and she wheels me to the door of the bathroom, which is too narrow for the chair to pass.

“Okay,” Kimy says, standing in front of me with her hands on her hips. “How we gonna do this? Huh?”

“I don’t know, Kimy. I’m just the gimp; I don’t actually work here.” “What kind of word is that, gimp?”

“It’s a highly pejorative slang word used to describe cripples.”

Kimy looks at me as though I am eight and have used the word fuck in her presence (I didn’t know what it meant, I only knew it was forbidden). “I think it’s ‘sposed to be disabled, Henry.” She leans over and unbuttons my pajama top.

“I’ve got hands” I say, and finish the unbuttoning myself. Kimy turns around, brusque

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

and grumpy, and turns on the tap, adjusts the temperature, places the plug in the drain. She rummages in the medicine cabinet, brings out my razor, shaving soap, the beaver-hair shaving brush. I can’t figure out how to get out of the wheelchair. I decide to try sliding off the seat; I push my ass forward, arch my back, and slither toward the floor. I wrench my left shoulder and bang my butt as I go down, but it’s not too bad. In the hospital the physical therapist, an encouraging young person named Penny Featherwight, had several techniques for getting in and out of the chair, but they all had to do with chair/bed and chair/chair situations. Now I’m sitting on the floor and the bathtub looms like the white cliffs of Dover above me. I look up at Kimy, eighty-two years old, and realize that I’m on my own, here. She looks at me and it’s all pity, that look. I think fuck it, I have to do this somehow, I can’t let Kimy look at me like that. I shrug out of my pajama bottoms, and begin to unwrap thebandages that cover the dressings on my legs. Kimy looks at her teeth in the mirror. I stick my arm over the side of the tub and test the bath water.

“If you throw some herbs in there you can have stewed gimp for supper.” “Too hot?” Kimy asks.

“Yeah.”

Kimy adjusts the faucets and then leaves the bathroom, pushing the wheelchair out of the doorway. I gingerly remove the dressing from my right leg. Under the wrappings the skin is pale and cold. I put my hand at the folded-over part, the flesh that cushions the bone. I just took a Vicodin a little while ago. I wonder if I could take another one without Clare noticing. The bottle is probably up there in the medicine cabinet. Kimy comes back carrying one of the kitchen chairs. She plops it down next to me. I remove the dressing from the other leg.

“She did a nice job,” Kimy says.

“Dr. Murray? Yeah, it’s a big improvement, much more aerodynamic.”

Kimy laughs. I send her to the kitchen for phone books. When she puts them next to the chair I raise myself so I’m sitting on them. Then I scramble onto the chair, and sort of fall/roll into the bathtub. A huge wave of water sloshes out of the tub onto the tile. I’m in the bathtub. Hallelujah. Kimy turns off the water, and dries her legs with a towel. I submerge.

Later:

CLARE: After hours of cooking I strain the kozo and it, too, goes into the beater. The longer it stays in the beater, the finer and more bone-like it will be. After four hours, I add retention aid, clay, pigment. The beige pulp suddenly turns a deep dark earth red. I drain it into buckets and pour it into the waiting vat. When I walk back to the house Kimy is in the kitchen making the kind of tuna fish casserole that has potato chips crumbled over it.

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

“How’d it go?” I ask her.

“Real good. He’s in the living room.” There is a trail of water between the bathroom and the living room in Kimy-sized footprints. Henry is sleeping on the sofa with a book spread open on his chest. Borges“

Ficciones. He is shaved and I lean over him and breathe; he smells fresh, his damp grayhair sticking up all ways. Alba is chattering to Teddy in her room. For a moment I feel as though I’ve time traveled, as though this is some stray moment from before, but then I let my eyes travel down Henry’s body to the flatnesses at the end of the blanket, and I know that I am only here and now.

The next morning it’s raining. I open the door of the studio and the wire wings await me, floating in the morning gray light. I turn on the radio; it’s Chopin, rolling etudes like waves over sand. I don rubber boots, a bandanna to keep my hair out of the pulp, a rubber apron. I hose down my favorite teak and brass mold and deckle, uncover the vat, set up a felt to couch the paper onto. I reach down into the vat and agitate the slurry of dark red to mix the fiber and water. Everything drips. I plunge the mold and deckle into the vat, and carefully bring it up, level, streaming water. I set it on the corner of the vat and the water drains from it and leaves a layer of fiber on the surface; I remove the deckle and press the mold onto the felt, rocking it gently and as I remove it the paper remains on the felt, delicate and shiny. I cover it with another felt, wet it, and again: I plunge the mold and deckle down, bring it up, drain it, couch it. I lose myself in the repetition, the piano music floating over the water sloshing and dripping and raining. When I have a post of paper and felt, I press it in the hydraulic paper press. Then I go back to the house and eat a ham sandwich. Henry is reading. Alba is at school.

After lunch, I stand in front of the wings with my post of freshly made paper. I am going to cover the armature with a paper membrane. The paper is damp and dark and wants to tear but it drapes over the wire forms like skin. I twist the paper into sinews, into cords that twist and connect. The wings are bat wings now, the tracing of the wire is evident below the gaunt paper surface. I dry the paper I haven’t used yet, heating it on sheets of steel. Then I begin to tear it into strips, into feathers. When the wings are dry I will sew these on, one by one. I begin to paint the strips, black and gray and red. Plumage, for the terrible angel, the deadly bird.

A week later, in the evening:

HENRY: Clare has cajoled me into getting dressed and has enlisted Gomez to carry me out the back door, across the yard, and into her studio. The studio is lit with candles; there are probably a hundred of them, more, on tables and on the floor, and on the windowsills.

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Gomez sets me down on the studio couch, and retreats to the house. In the middle of the studio a white sheet is suspended from the ceiling, and I turn around to see if there’s a projector, but there isn’t. Clare is wearing a dark dress, and as she moves around the room her face and hands float white and disembodied.

“Want some coffee?” she asks me. I haven’t had any since before the hospital. “Sure,” I reply. She pours two cups, adds cream, and brings me one. The hot cup feels familiar and good in my hand. “I made you something,” Clare says.

“Feet? I could use some feet.”

“Wings,” she says, dropping the white sheet to the floor.

The wings are huge and they float in the air, wavering in the candlelight. They are darker than the darkness, threatening but also redolent of longing, of freedom, of rushing through space. The feeling of standing solidly, on my own two feet, of running, running like flying. The dreams of hovering, of flying as though gravity has been rescinded and now is allowing me to be removed from the earth a safe distance, these dreams come back to me in the twilit studio. Clare sits down next to me. I feel her looking at me. The wings are silent, their edges ragged. I cannot speak. Siehe, ich lebe. Woraus? Weder Kindheit noch Zukunft! werden weniger... Uberzahliges Dasein! entspringt reir Herzen. (Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future/ grows any smaller.. .Superabundant being/ wells up in my heart.)

“Kiss me,” Clare says, and I turn to her, white face and dark lips floating in the dark, and I submerge, I fly, I am released: being wells up in my heart.

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

FEET DREAMS

October/November, 2006 (Henry is 43)

HENRY: I dream that I am at the Newberry, giving a Show and Tell to some graduate students from Columbia College. I’m showing them incunabula, early printed books. I show them the Gutenberg Fragment, Caxton’s Game and Play of Chess, the Jensen Eusebius. It’s going well, they are asking good questions. I rummage around on the cart, looking for this special book I just found in the stacks, something I never knew we had. It’s in a heavy red box. There’s no title, just the call number, CASE WING f ZX 983.D 453, stamped in gold under the Newberry insignia. I place the box on the table and set out the pads. I open the box, and there, pink and perfect, are my feet. They are surprisingly heavy. As I set them on the pads the toes all wiggle, to say Hi, to show me they can still do it. I begin to speak about them, explaining the relevance of my feet to fifteenth century Venetian printing. The students are taking notes. One of them, a pretty blonde in a shiny sequined tank top, points at my feet, and says, “Look, they’re all white!” And it’s true, the skin has gone dead white, the feet are lifeless and putrid. I sadly make a note to myself to send them up to Conservation first thing tomorrow.

In my dream I am running. Everything is fine. I run along the lake, from Oak Street Beach, heading north. I feel my heart pumping, my lungs smoothly rising and falling. I am moving right along. What a relief, I think. I was afraid I’d never run again, but here I am, running. It’s great.

But things begin to go wrong. Parts of my body are falling off. First my left arm goes. I stop and pick it up off the sand and brush it off and put it back on, but it isn’t very securely attached and it comes off again after only half a mile. So I carry it in my other arm, thinking maybe when I get it back home I can attach it more tightly. But then the other arm goes, and I have no arms at all to even pick up the arms I’ve lost. So I continue running. It’s not too bad; it doesn’t hurt. Soon I realize that my cock has dislodged and fallen into the right leg of my sweatpants, where it is banging around in an annoying manner, trapped by the elastic at the bottom. But I can’t do anything about it, so I ignore it. And then I can feel that my feet are all broken up like pavement inside my shoes, and then both of my feet break off at the ankles and I fall face-first onto the path. I know that if I stay there I will be trampled by other runners, so I begin to roll. I roll and roll until I roll into the lake, and the waves roll me under, and I wake up gasping.

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

I dream that I am in a ballet. I am the star ballerina, I am in my dressing room being swathed in pink tulle by Barbara, who was my mom’s dresser. Barbara is a tough cookie, so even though my feet hurt like hell I don’t complain as she tenderly encases the stumps in long pink satin toe shoes. When she finishes I stagger up from my chair and cry out. “Don’t be a sissy,” says Barbara, but then she relents and gives me a shot of morphine. Uncle Ish appears at the door of the dressing room and we hurry down endless backstage hallways. I know that my feet hurt even though I cannot see them or feel them. We rush on, and suddenly I am in the wings and looking onto the stage I realize that the ballet is The Nutcracker, and I am the Sugar Plum Fairy. For some reason this really bugs me. This isn’twhat I was expecting. But someone gives me a little shove, and I totter on stage. And I dance. I am blinded by the lights, I dance without thinking, without knowing the steps, in an ecstasy of pain. Finally I fall to my knees, sobbing, and the audience rises to their feet, and applauds.

Friday, November 3, 2006 (Clare is 35, Henry is 43)

CLARE: Henry holds up an onion and looks at me gravely and says, “ This...is an onion.” I nod. “Yes. I’ve read about them.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Very good. Now, to peel an onion, you take a sharp knife, lay the aforementioned onion sideways on a cutting board, and remove each end, like so. Then you can peel the onion, like so. Okay. Now, slice it into cross-sections. If you’re making onion rings, you just pull apart each slice, but if you’re making soup or spaghetti sauce or something you dice it, like this..”

Henry has decided to teach me to cook. All the kitchen counters and cabinets are too high for him in his wheelchair. We sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by bowls and knives and cans of tomato sauce. Henry pushes the cutting board and knife across the table to me, and I stand up and awkwardly dice the onion. Henry watches patiently. “Okay, great. Now, green peppers: you run the knife around here, then pull out the stem...”

We make marinara sauce, pesto, lasagna. Another day it’s chocolate chip cookies, brownies, creme brulee. Alba is in heaven. “More dessert,” she begs. We poach eggs and salmon, make pizza from scratch. I have to admit that it’s kind of fun. But I’m terrified the first night I cook dinner by myself. I’m standing in the kitchen surrounded by pots and pans, the asparagus is overcooked and I burn myself taking the monkfish out of the oven. I put everything on plates and bring it into the dining room where Henry and Alba are sitting at their places. Henry smiles, encouragingly. I sit down; Henry raises his glass of milk in the air: “To the new cook!” Alba clinks her cup against his, and we begin to eat. I sneak glances at Henry, eating. And as I’m eating, I realize that everything tastes fine. “It’s good, Mama!”

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Alba says, and Henry nods. “It’s terrific, Clare,” Henry says, and we stare at each other and I think, Don’t leave me.

The Time Traveler’s Wife Audrey Niffenegger

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 805