All the Time in the World (5 page)

“Sure. What do you want them to be?”

“Somewhere over the hawk's nest.”

“Weird, weird, you weirdo,” I say, and as we approach George, he plops himself into the stroller and starts trying to fasten the straps with his little mittened paws.

“And it can be all about that rat. And his little fly friends,” says Matt.

“Gross, you're gross!” I say, and he runs over to the slide and starts walking backward up the silvery slope. “We're going in one minute!” I call.

“What Matt looking at?” asks George.

“Oh, just something gross,” I say, but that's not enough for George. He hops back out of the stroller and marches over to the fence, trailed by Sahina.

I start to go with them, but I feel a hand on my arm. “What they look at?” asks G/D/Bridget.

“A dead rat,” I say. She tightens her grip on my arm.

“It's okay, they see it,” she says. “Better to see it. Better to understand.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I don't want George to have nightmares.”

“Nightmares okay,” she says. “Nightmares happening.”

“
I
might have nightmares,” I tell her. “It's pretty gross.”

“I should see this gross thing,” she says walking over with me to retrieve the kids. “If Sahina has nightmare, I should have it too.”

*   *   *

WHEN I GET
back to the McLeans' apartment with the boys and Little L, it's about five minutes until five. I decide to stick the kids on a bench in the lobby to wait for Ellerie instead of taking them upstairs.

I text Gretchen. “Hey. We're here but in the lobby, waiting for L's mom. Ok?”

“Cool. Have fun!!!!” says her answering text.

“Matt's babysitter?” says Little L.

“Yes, love?”

“Do you have any more snacks?”

“I do,” I tell her. “But it's almost time for dinner, so I can't give you any snacks unless your mommy says okay.”

“Can you call her?”

“I don't have her number, sweetie.” As I say it, I realize the true absurdity of that statement. “We can ask her when she gets here. She'll be here soon.”

She pouts but doesn't say anything. I am distracted by a squirming Georgie, so I collect the hats and mittens from the boys. I turn around just in time to see Little L tear into Matt's granola bar and take a bite.

Matt and George can't quite believe it. They heard me say no, and they know Little L heard me too. She is staring at me while she chews, daring me to say something to her, and I'm amazed at her audacity. Somehow I know that Matt and George, while they might sometimes defy me or their parents, would never disobey an adult they barely knew. My heart has gone out to Little L in the past. She has clearly never had mutual respect modeled for her. I use this to calm me down in the present as I hold out my hand for the granola bar. “Ellerie, I'm going to need you to give that back to me, sweetheart. We need to get Mommy's permission before we eat anything so close to dinner.”

Little L looks at me and takes another bite. I want to grab it right out of her hands and make her sit in the corner, but instead I squat down and get in her face. “I'm going to count to three.” She avoids my eyes. “One … two—”

“Ellerie Maxwell Covington, what are you eating, young lady?” Ellerie Senior is standing in the doorway with several shopping bags from Ralph Lauren dangling off her wrists, which are resting on her hips.

“Matt's babysitter gave it to me because I was hungry,” Little L replies without missing a beat.

I refuse to be outmaneuvered by a five-year-old, and so I say, “Elle, please tell your mother the whole story.” Little L is silent, and Ellerie is waiting for an explanation so I say, “I thought we should probably wait and see what you thought, but I guess she must have been hungry—”

Matt has no patience for my diplomacy. “She grabbed it out of the stroller,” he says, and the elder Ellerie gives him a look that can only be described as withering.

“Well, it doesn't really matter. I know what a nightmare she can be, of course, but her father lets her get away with it, so she thinks she's entitled.” As her mother goes on, I'm doing my best not to look down at Little L, but I can't help feeling sorry for the wee swiper, who apparently lives in the middle of a loveless, competitive igloo. “In the future though, Charlotte, I really don't like her to have any snacks after three thirty.” In the future? The implication of this statement snaps me back into the present. This is not my life forever, I say to myself. This is not my real life. In fact, this cannot be my life long enough to be sent on another playdate with the Elleries.

“I would have called to ask you,” I say, “but I don't have your number. I should probably get that from you if you want them to play together in the future.”

“Oh, it's okay. Gretchen has my number. She can call me if there's any need. Say thank you to Matt, Ellerie.”

“Thank you, Matt,” says Little L, and they both sort of half wave with their backs turned as they walk out the door.

As we head toward the elevator, Matt rolls his eyes and says, “What a WEIRDO.” He presses the button for our floor.

“What a weirdo,” Georgie echoes as the doors slide shut.

When we get into the apartment, Gretchen is cooking and video chatting with her sister. She waves to us and continues her conversation. I wipe the kids' hands and faces and unzip them. Once I free them, they start running around the living room, acting crazy. Gretchen points with her sauce spoon at a Banana Republic bag on the kitchen table and mouths, “For you!” at me.

I shake my head at her, and she mouths, “It was on sale!” and then throws the bag at me. I catch it and unwrap a beautiful off-white cashmere winter hat, which I know I'll knock off into a mud puddle the minute I get outside.

“Thank you,” I mouth back, even though I know she probably bought it because she feels bad for assuming I could stay late without asking. “Bath?” I mouth, and she nods. I write, “You're the best. I loooooove presents” on a Post-it note and give it to her so she'll feel better, and she smiles as I exit the kitchen.

“Me hold it!” Georgie is screaming right in Matt's face as Matt holds a blue light saber out of his reach.

“I had it first!” Matt screams back.

“No, me, I did,” I say. “
I
had it first. I've been keeping the Sith Lords down at heel all afternoon. Didn't you see me swinging it at them? I think maybe I got one.”

“I had it first,” Matt insists, but he's giving me that blinky look that says he's not so sure.

“It's the blue one, right? I'm pretty sure I cut one of those Darth guys to ribbons with it earlier. And left the pieces in the bathtub.”

“No, you didn't,” says Matt, uncertain as to whether he should fear me or follow me.

“See for yourself.” I corral the two wild monkeys back through the hall and into the tub.

July, two years before

It's been a few months since I started working for Gretchen and Scotty. The boys and I tumble our exhausted, dirty selves through the door after an excursion in Central Park, during which I was convinced I had lost Georgie about five times. Playing hide-and-seek by the Delacorte Clock (at Gretchen's suggestion) shouldn't have been terribly stressful, as there are only, like, three possible hiding spots, but George is inexplicably the best hide-and-seeker I've ever met, and each time I was ready to notify the nearest park official, he would come tearing in from some unknown location. So it's with the slightly sick stomach of an adrenaline overdose that I'm herding the boys in the door, only to find Gretchen looking out the living room window with Matt's red Mickey Mouse binoculars. She whirls around, totally caught in the act, and dissolves into laughter because she knows that I know what she's doing.

“Did you see Pale Male, Mommy?” Matt is excited as he scoots over to join his mother next to the window.

“No sightings yet, honey. Here, do you want to try?” She sets him up with the binoculars, while mouthing to me, “He's in the kitchen!” A few weeks earlier, we had discovered, by way of preschool reconnaissance, that a certain A-list celebrity lived in the building across from theirs. Through a bit of stalking under the ruse “looking for Pale Male” (a hawk who lives on the edge of Central Park but serves us as a very effective code name), we had actually had a few sightings into the celebrity's kitchen. Gretchen loves celebrities and always seems to know more about them than anyone else, and it's hard not to get caught up in her hilarious enthusiasm.

Georgie has been patient in the stroller for a few moments, but now he is ready to get out. He squirms and points and bucks the stroller a little, which I'm having trouble convincing him is a bad idea. I let him out, and he is on his way to join Matt, but not before he displays his streak of methodical independence (or perhaps, Pavlovian impulse) in executing the “coming home” routine. He takes off his shoes and jacket and holds out his hands for me to wipe them with a wet towel. Matt is still wearing both his shoes and coat, and I will have to be clever about removing them without incurring what we like to call his “transitional wrath.”

George tugs on Matt's hand to indicate that he would like to try the binoculars. Matt ignores him. George taps on the binoculars and points to himself. Nothing. George smacks Matt in the back of the knees, causing him to buckle and drop the binoculars, which George quickly retrieves. Matt wails, more of a loud whine really, and much more a noise you'd expect from a two-year-old than a four-year-old. I am both impressed with the effectiveness of Georgie's tactic and annoyed with Matt's helplessness, but I know I should ignore those instincts and give George a time-out for employing the use of force.

“Give me the binoculars, please,” I say. I wish Gretchen had witnessed the incident and could therefore dole out the consequences, but she has moved to the kitchen to make something in the blender.

“Charlotte, Georgie hit me! He hit me in the—”

“I know, Matt, I saw him. George, please give me the binoculars.”

Georgie points out the window and then puts the binoculars to his face.

“George, it's not nice to hit people. Please give them to me.” I take them out of his hands, and he sits down on the floor and scream-cries in fury.

“I want to look for Pale Male!” Matt tries to grab the binoculars from me, but I hold them out of reach. “I had them first, Charlotte!”

“Why do you think George hit you, Matt? It's not nice to ignore people. You need to answer when people ask questions, love.”

“He
didn't
ask, he never
asks
—”

“That's not really the point, honey—”

“But I HAD THEM FIRST!”

Gretchen appears. “Actually, I think
I
had them first. Come here, boys,” she says, heading back to the window. “Look. See the building with the water tower that has red letters? That's where we saw his girlfriend-bird. You look first Matt, and Mommy will hold them. See it?”

“I see the red letters!”

“Now let George look.” She stands behind George at the windowsill with her hands on either side of him so he won't fall. “See, George?”

Georgie points.

“Yes, that's it. You see it?” He nods.

“Okay, now look around at the other buildings and see if you can see Pale Male. Okay? Matt gets the binoculars until Mommy says switch, and then you switch, or the binoculars go away.” I hand the binoculars to Matt, and Gretchen is laughing as we walk into the kitchen. “It's the cranky hour, huh?”

“Looks that way,” I say. “So, you saw him? I'm so mad we weren't here! Was he cooking?”

“He was washing dishes! Can you believe it?”

“That is awesome.”

“Scotty suggested I walk around naked to get his attention.”

“That's so funny! You should do it.”

“I'll be sure to give you the heads up so you can keep the kids out a little longer,” she says. “Hey, speaking of naked, would you mind giving them a bath before you go? They didn't have one yesterday.”

“And they've been rolling around in the dirt,” I say. “We rolled down a hill.”

“Switch!” Gretchen calls.

“We already switched,” Matt calls back, and indeed, George is holding the binoculars, albeit the wrong way. At eighteen months, he hasn't quite grasped the concept of binoculars, but if Matt thinks something is important, Georgie insists on a turn as well. I'm about to correct his grip, but I see Matt rotate them gently in George's pudgy hands, and I decide to stay out of it.

“One more turn for each of you, and then Charlotte's going to give you a bath,” Gretchen says. “Any requests for dinner?”

“Pancakes!”

“Not breakfast food.”

“Tacos?”

“Great idea, Matty.” She takes the binoculars and sends the kids off toward the bathroom. I follow them down the hall, and I know the minute we step outside the invisible Mommy-radius, because they are immediately at odds again.

February, the day before Valentine's Day

I am brushing Georgie's hair after the current bath while wearing my new Banana Republic hat, as I imagine this is the only opportunity I'll get to wear it in pristine condition before it meets its demise in the weather outside. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his little stuffed golden retriever, Pup. George's Pup is the essence of joy itself. If George needs a way to express the true violence of love he's feeling in his little soul—for anything, for anyone—he simply beams a smile in a way his face can hardly contain and says “Pup!” It's been one of his communication standards since he began speaking nine and a half months ago, and I hope it never ends.