All the Time in the World (3 page)

“That not how it goes!”

“How does it go?” But he refuses to sing it himself. “Hey, what else could we drink besides orange juice and ginger ale and milk?”

“Chalk-lit milk?”

“Yeah, definitely. Or maybe water?”

“Fuzzy water. Die-ah Coke.”

“Who likes Diet Coke?”

“Tahr-lette.” After two years and four months of not speaking, just as speech therapy and autism evaluations were being contemplated, George had decided that he had plenty to say, in full sentences, no less. Now that he's three, he rarely runs out of things to talk about.

“Who likes coffee?”

“Daddy.”

“Just Daddy? Doesn't someone else like coffee? Someone whose name rhymes with Par-lette?”

“Tahr-lette?”

“Ding ding ding! Right on, little dude. What does Mommy like?”

“Milk-sakes!”

“Milkshakes? Dream on! Anything else?”

“Iced tea. Wine.”

“Wine? Mommy likes wine?”

“Yes, and me like wine.”

“You like wine? Really? Georgie likes wine? Does Matty like wine?”

“No. Me and Mommy and Daddy like wine. Matt like apple juice.”

“That's true; he does like apple juice.”

“And Matt not like white milk.”

“Do we have to put chocolate in it to get him to drink it?”

“Yes.”

Once we're out of Starbucks, I secure my coffee and jog the last block up to school, tilting the stroller back so that George will laugh and feel like he's flying. When we arrive, I park the stroller amid a sea of similar vehicles in the school lobby and set him free from his constraints. “You want to get out, bug?”

“No.”

“But we have to go up and get Matt in a minute.”

“Me tay in the troller,” he says. “You carry me?”

“I'll carry you up the stairs, but you have to walk down, okay?”

“You hold me?” he says.

“On the way up.”

“On the way down?”

“Maybe,” I say, but I don't look him in the face while I say it, because he can always tell when I'm avoiding the truth, which reminds me again of Everett.

Last night, after leaving him to fend for himself in my kitchen, I put my head close to the hot water running out of the bathroom sink, inhaling the steam. I could tell that Everett was struggling to understand my response, or lack of it, to his news, but I couldn't tell him any of the things that were going through my mind, the things from our past that his news had brought forth. There were only two people other than me who knew anything about it, and I wasn't ready to let him into that group. I locked the door to the bathroom, sat down on the floor, and pulled out my phone to text them.

“S.O.S.”

“Where are you?” came the reply from my sister Jane.

“On the bathroom floor.”

“Very Elizabeth Gilbert of you,” said our other sister, Claudia.

“Why??” said Jane.

“Having a rough day. Will explain soon. Everett is here. I'm hiding.”

“I love you and you can get through anything!!!!” said Jane.

“Use your body to distract him, then make a run for it,” said Claudia.

“I love both of your kitten-faces,” I typed back. “Okay, I'm going back out there.”

I changed out of my pajamas and opened the door to the bathroom, preparing an elaborate mea culpa about the lateness of the hour and my relative crankiness, but Everett didn't seem in a hurry to demand an explanation. “It was pretty pointless of you to get dressed just for me,” he says. I should have known that the order of his priorities would work to my advantage.

“Tahr-lette, these not for inside,” says George, pulling on my pant leg. He holds up his mittened hands, and I feel bad for letting my thoughts slide elsewhere. He's right; it's abnormally hot in here, as a glut of mommies and nannies deck the lobby. Among the Puerto Rican nannies and the Caribbean nannies and the Dominican nannies are the occasional French au pairs and grad-student babysitters. I count myself among the latter category, as there isn't really a slot for women in their late twenties with two advanced degrees and no current plans to use either one of them.

Also present today are both of the Class Mommies. Jillian, mother of Aaron and Ainsley (twins), is the alpha mommy. She is, without a doubt, the queen bee, a fairy princess among mortals. She has long, perfectly layered hair, walks miles in heeled boots every day, and dons a Carolina Herrera coat that makes me long to win the Powerball. It's possible the word
vivacious
was invented to describe her. The worst part is, there is no evidence to suggest even a hint of insincerity in her demeanor. She is the quintessential woman.

Ellerie, mother of Ellerie (whom the rest of us refer to as Little L), is the beta mommy. Naming her daughter after herself might have been an indicator into the true depth of her insecurity, or maybe she imagines she has created another generation of herself, in order to correct any imperfections in the current version. Possibly both are true. But whatever the case, she wears her negative, grasping heart on her sleeve, and even her Chloé handbag can't seem to make her feel better about her life.

As I am liberating Georgie's fingers from his mittens, I can hear her perpetually defensive voice lodging a complaint to the mommy contingent (the nannies and mommies rarely cross-pollinate in this environment). The edges of that voice never seem to dull down, and for a moment I wonder if age will ever soften it, or if it will just quit one day, abruptly, having reached its capacity for abuse.

I read in the newspaper this morning that the White House has released some unclassified documents outlining their recent policy on targeted drone strikes on terrorist leaders, even those born in America. I'm oddly excited by the topic—not that I have a passionate opinion one way or the other—but simply that this has been reported and is bound to whip up a controversy. Do we have the right to execute American citizens without due process? Or is national security a greater issue? Do we need to trust our leaders to gather an appropriate amount of evidence before they carry out the strike? If I were a high school teacher, I would drop my lesson plan for the day and hold a great debate. This is an issue I would love to hear argued, supported, even complained about.

But that isn't what I hear in the lobby of North Madison Primary and Preschool (affectionately known as North-Mad). “… needs to put her foot down about it. It's not just the sugar; it's the dyes! And, poor things, they don't know better. They want the sweet things, and they want to be able to do what all their friends are doing! I mean I don't want to be the one to throw the word
discrimination
into the mix…”

I'd venture a guess that Ellerie hasn't seen the news today. Drone strikes probably didn't come up on
Good Morning America
, either.

The two other mommies look a little dazed, but Jillian nods as if she's considering the information seriously. “Is it happening often enough that you think the headmistress ought to know? Maybe we could speak to the lead teacher and see if she can do something? Ainsley loves fruit roll-ups. She was delighted. But Aaron said he didn't eat it; he had a cheese stick instead. At least we know they have options.”

“Well, Ellerie came home crying, and if it's going to be such an affective issue, then I say we need to all come together and ask that something be done…”

Perhaps George senses that I'm about to commit a huge faux pas and make a face at another nanny, because he chooses that moment to lurch forward in the stroller. As the straps are unbuckled, he is no longer properly restrained, and I throw my arm out to catch him about a second before his nose hits the ground.

I hoist him up onto my hip. He has that look in his eyes, that look that says things could go either way. To sob with terror or to laugh with adventure? I know that I alone will be the deciding factor, so I say to him, in a voice that doesn't project relief or fear or any other negative emotional cues, “Whoops! Got to be careful there, crazy-pants,” and kiss him on the cheek.

The kindergarten doors open then, and as George and I march up the stairs with the tide of grown-ups, Jillian smiles at me and says, “Good catch!” I think she looks relieved to have been distracted from Ellerie's rant.

One of Matt's classmates, Sahina, has a nanny whose English I can never understand, which has made for many an awkward exchange of pleasantries. She approaches me as I am adjusting the ear flaps on Matt's tiny hat, moving them out of his eyes. I'm pretty sure she's German, and her name is either Bridget or Digit—I could swear she says Digit, but Bridget makes more sense. “You want Sahina playdate?”

I'm not sure what she's asking me, so I say, “We're going to the playground inside the park at Seventy-Sixth. Would you like to come with us?”

“Okay,” she says. “We play with Ellerie too.”

“I really appreciate this, Gidget,” says Ellerie Senior. (Gidget, really?) “Oh, are you guys going with Matt and George? Great! Charlotte, is it okay if I pick up Ellerie at your house around five? It's much closer than Sahina's on the West Side.”

“I should probably talk to Gretchen,” I say.

“Oh, would you? Thanks so much! Have fun, baby!” Ellerie leaves Little L half-zipped, clutching a lunch box and a baggie of carrots, not knowing which adult is responsible for her.

I manage to hold Georgie and the hands of both Little L and Matt on the way down the stairs. If I trip, we're all done for. When we get downstairs, I look for G/D/Bridget and find her strapping Sahina into a stroller. She is way too big for a stroller, and Little L and Matt are exchanging glances.

Before either of them can make this judgment call out loud, I say, “Who wants a snack?”

“Me,” says Matt. George is silent. He never wants a snack. Little L looks like she wishes she could say “me,” but instead she purses her lips and digs her tiny fingers into her carrot bag.

“Elle,” I say. “I brought some veggie straws for Matt and George, but the only problem is, I brought too many. Would you like to help them eat some of their snack?” Little L nods. We all start down the street, and while Little L will not yet direct any of her questions to either me or Sahina's nanny, at least she is chattering to the other kids. It's cold out, but the sky is a brilliant blue, and I need my sunglasses. When we get to the playground, Matt and Little L go tearing off for the tallest slide, with Sahina not far behind. Georgie is slower to start. He digs around in the bottom of the stroller until he finds a different pair of mittens, then proceeds with the painstaking process of taking off his current mittens and replacing them with the new ones. G/D/Bridget is watching his progress with interest.

“I want them on the playground,” she says.

“Oh yeah? Okay.”

“Tomorrow is not nice out,” she continues. I take that to mean she's glad they can play outside today, because tomorrow the weather will be crappy.

“I'm happy they like this playground because it's small, and you can see the whole thing from one vantage point—from one place,” I say and then wonder what other innocuous things I can come up with to discuss. Little L, Sahina, and Matt have run by me at least ten times since we got here, back and forth and over and under and around again.

George and his little legs have done about three laps, and he keeps calling “MATT!” and then realizing that his brother is on the opposite side of the playground. I stand up. I'm pretty sure he's headed for a meltdown. Just as I reach him, he pauses by the gate. There's a cocker spaniel off his leash wandering by, and as he and George spot each other, they both amble to a slow halt. The dog waits while George approaches and squats down in front of him, staring into his eyes, communicating in silence. After about thirty seconds, George reaches out slowly and pets the dog around his ears. The dog licks his chin, and George stands up while the dog trots back to his owner, who is sitting on a bench chatting to her girlfriend.

“What wonderful dog manners he has,” the lady calls to me. “You've taught him very well.” It looked to me more like dog
whispering
, but it's not worth correcting her, or even correcting her assumption that he's my kid.

“Thanks,” I call back and turn my attention to George just in time to see him take a deep breath and holler “MAAAAATTTT!” louder than I would have thought possible.

Matt, Sahina, Little L, and every other kid on the playground stop what they are doing and look for the source of this primal sound, and Georgie takes the opportunity to run to Matt's side as if nothing happened. After a moment, things get back to normal, and Matt seems to be including his brother in whatever chase game they're playing.

“They work together; they figure how to make it work,” says G/D/Bridget, and this time I know what she means, and for a moment I'm overwhelmed with curiosity about the woman, where she's from, what makes her tick, what her life is like away from Sahina and the world of wobbly bridges and patterned, reusable Ziploc bags. And I wonder what she'd think of mine, if I told her that right now I'm feeling ill at ease and distracted, and not just because of sibling dynamics or having an extra kid foisted off on me.

Everett had opened his eyes this morning to find me watching him, like a creepy stalker or like someone with feelings for him that were stronger than my own. I had been thinking of all the times we had fallen into this routine of spending the night together, and of the reasons I had never allowed myself to try to make us into something else. The night I had premiered my silly first-year midterm, Five Concertos for Ukulele, was the first time, and after that, going home together seemed to make sense if neither of us was significantly attached. Our involvement had come and gone in waves since then, a pattern that had seemed more inconvenient to break than to let run its course.