(Henry is 36, Clare is 12) "Is your wife a time traveler too?" "Nope. Thank God." "Why 'thank God'? I think that would be fun. You could go places together." "One time traveler is enough. It's dangerous, Clare." "Does she worry about you?" "Yes," I say softly. "She does." I wonder what Clare is doing now, in 1999. Maybe she's still asleep. Maybe she won't know I'm gone. "Do you love her?" "Very much," I whisper. We lie silently side by side, watching the swaying trees, the birds, the sky. I hear a muffled sniffing noise and glancing at Clare I am astonished to see that tears are streaming across her face toward her ears. I sit up and lean over her. "What's wrong, Clare?" She just shakes her head back and forth and presses her lips together. I smooth her hair, and pull her into a sitting position, wrap my arms around her. She's a child, And then again she isn't. "What's wrong?" It comes out so quietly that I have to ask her to repeat it: "It's just that I thought maybe you were married to me."
(Clare is 17) A few nights later, I am sitting by Grandma's bed, reading Mrs. Dalloway to her. It's evening. I look up; Grandma seems to be asleep. I stop reading, and close the book. Her eyes open. "Hello," I say. "Do you ever miss him?" she asks me. "Every day. Every minute." "Every minute," she says. "Yes. It's that way, isn't it?"
Comments 535
Reply
"Is your wife a time traveler too?"
"Nope. Thank God."
"Why 'thank God'? I think that would be fun. You could go places together."
"One time traveler is enough. It's dangerous, Clare."
"Does she worry about you?"
"Yes," I say softly. "She does." I wonder what Clare is doing now, in 1999. Maybe she's still asleep. Maybe she won't know I'm gone.
"Do you love her?"
"Very much," I whisper. We lie silently side by side, watching the swaying trees, the birds, the sky. I hear a muffled sniffing noise and glancing at Clare I am astonished to see that tears are streaming across her face toward her ears. I sit up and lean over her. "What's wrong, Clare?" She just shakes her head back and forth and presses her lips together. I smooth her hair, and pull her into a sitting position, wrap my arms around her. She's a child, And then again she isn't. "What's wrong?"
It comes out so quietly that I have to ask her to repeat it: "It's just that I thought maybe you were married to me."
Reply
( ... )
Reply
A few nights later, I am sitting by Grandma's bed, reading Mrs. Dalloway to her. It's evening. I look up; Grandma seems to be asleep. I stop reading, and close the book. Her eyes open.
"Hello," I say.
"Do you ever miss him?" she asks me.
"Every day. Every minute."
"Every minute," she says. "Yes. It's that way, isn't it?"
Reply
( ... )
Reply
Leave a comment