Keeping Time: A Novel Read online

  Doing what she had to do.

  Stepping out of her shoes, into the mud. Tak their things.e closeing over at the helm so he could move to the bow. Holding tight to the handlebar, her stockinged feet in the warm squishy mud, watching him sink down to his knees, trying to disengage the branches from under the mower. They were really jammed in; as hard as he tried to pull them free, they wouldn’t come.

  Daisy, trying to push down on the bar, thinking that lowering the back wheels would raise the front for him. Managing only to get the back wheels deeper into the mud. Daisy, trying to lift the handlebar, needing to unsink the back wheels she had just sunk farther. Finding that the only thing that lifting the handlebar did was sink her deeper into the mud. Her knobby anklebones joining her feet, disappearing deep into the mysteries of the soggy earth. If she lifted them, the wheels would sink farther; if she lifted the wheels, she would sink farther.

  She had to laugh—almost—but wouldn’t dare. Patrick was too overwrought, concentrating his efforts so absolutely. And getting nowhere.

  Patrick, finally noticing that she was stuck, too. Getting up, his knees with soaking brown spots, dripping mud. Coming around to her side, saying, “I think I’m going to have to lift you out.”

  Daisy, laughing. Nodding. Giving him the go-ahead. Patrick, hoisting her up. Lucky for him that she was a tiny woman, but with both her feet firmly planted in the mud, she was much heavier. Patrick, lifting. Daisy, wanting to help, trying to pull herself up, instead knocking him over.

  Both going down. In a flash. Into the mud. Scrambling to disentangle themselves from each other and the mess. Covering themselves in mud as they slipped, slopped, and crawled on their hands and knees over to the safety of the grass. The lawnmower, still revving. The back wheels, spinning, spraying mud at them.

  Reaching the grass. Mud splattered on their hair, their faces, down the length of their bodies. To their feet. Both of them, laughing—at themselves and at the sight of the other. Laughing till tears ran down their faces. Patrick, pulling Daisy up, his hands under her armpits. Daisy, grabbing her shoes. The two of them stumbling out of the mud toward the house, leaving the lawn mower behind, its engine still running, its wheels spinning.

  Daisy, saying to Patrick, “I’ll get towels.”

  Patrick, nodding. Following her in.

  Leaving her shoes at the door, hurrying down the hall. Patrick, standing in the doorway, afraid to track mud through the house. Daisy, returning with towels, handing him one. Patrick, drying himself off.

  Daisy, asking him, “Can I make you a cup of tea? Nice and hot.”

  Patrick, shaking his head. “No, thank you.”

  “It’s no problem. You could probably use one.”

  “No, really. Look, I’m sorry about all that.” Wiping the mud off his face. “The grass was just impossible to get through. I had to push really, really hard.” Shrugging helplessly. “I guess I slid. That’s how I ended up in your flower bed. I’m really sorry.”

  Daisy, “Not to worry. Whatever was there will grow back.” Her hair, soaking, mottled, sticking to her head. Her face, a mud bath. “I’m sorry the job was so impossible. You certainly didn’t sign on for all this.”

  “No, I guess not.” Sheepishly. Laughing a little as he compared what he had been expecting with what he got. tell her she couldbaha

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a tea? It’ll take only a minute. A cup would do you good.”

  “I don’t think so.” Shaking his head again. “I should be going. It’s starting to rain again, and it’s probably not going to let up. I’m sorry that I won’t be able to finish the job.”

  “Won’t you come back when it stops?”

  “I can’t. I’m going on holiday tomorrow. I’ll be gone till August.”

  Daisy’s face, falling. The lawn was looking worse than before; not even half done, a zigzagged line of mown grass amid high grass. Before it had looked like a slovenly, uncaring woman lived in the house, now it looked like a lunatic did.

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick, saying. “Really I am.”

  Daisy, “Let me get my purse.” Hurrying off. Returning with a heap of cash.

  Patrick, “Thank you. I guess I should go get the mower. I can’t just leave it there.”

  “But it’s stuck, remember?”

  “Right.”

  The two of them standing there, thinking. Looking away from each other. Daisy, looking down. Catching sight of what she had forgotten.

  The watch. Still on her wrist. Making her panic. Quickly inspecting it. Relieved to see it was still working. Daisy, suddenly clear about one thing: A watch inscribed by Arthur Rubinstein should not be rolling around in the mud. A watch inscribed by Arthur Rubinstein was too valuable to be treated with anything less than the utmost care. Daisy, marveling at what it had already been through. Awestruck that she had removed it, and the baby blankets, only one day before they would have been completely submerged under water, and although the baby blankets would have been able to recover such an assault, the watch could not have. Daisy, thinking, imagine after being boxed up for more than half a century, she had somehow managed to rescue it the very day before its ruin.

  ut to be pills

  EIGHT

  DENNIS, HEADING TO his mother’s house to explain all the things the electrician and repair crew had done. Getting there just as Patrick was leaving, before Daisy had a ch that he couldplCrance to clean up. As a result, seeing his mother dripping in mud. Seeing the zigzag of the cut grass. Seeing the lawn mower stuck in the flower garden. Seeing his mother giggling at the situation.

  Leaving him flabbergasted, more certain than ever that he was right. Asking her if she now agreed that she was unable to manage the house on her own.

  Daisy, laughing daintily. Saying, “Yes, I believe I do. I give up. You win. The Carillion wouldn’t be so bad, really, so you can go ahead and sell the house.” Turning away. Walking into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Wiping mud off her cheek and shoulders.

  Dennis, following her in. Daisy, saying she would give up the house, but she didn’t want any part of the selling. She didn’t even want to be around while it was happening, but she had come up with a solution for that.

  She had made up her mind.

  She was going to the U.S. By herself.

  Telling Dennis that much.

  Not telling him the rest. Not saying that she was going to return the watch to Michael, or his children if he had any, and if it turned out he was dead. She had decided that the watch was too valuable to hang on to any longer. Now that she knew it had been engraved by Arthur Rubinstein, she couldn’t keep it. It should never have been boxed up in her cellar for as long as it had been, and it never would have if she had known. But when Michael slipped it on her girlish wrist—amid kisses, tears, and vows—she’d had no idea who Arthur Rubinstein was. She had never even heard of him. She didn’t know that he was one of the greatest piano virtuosos of the twentieth century. It was not until much later that she heard of him, but by then the watch was safely packed away, out of view and out of her mind. For the longest time after Michael’s disappearance she had avoided anything to do with the piano—she couldn’t even hear a chord without feeling ill—but she had kept the grand piano. She got it, not her sister, after her parents died. The very one that Michael had played remained in her living room to this day. The watch had waited a long time to be rediscovered, but now that it had been, she had to return it. It belonged with Michael and his family, not Dennis or Lenny.

  “You’re not talking sensibly, Mum. You can’t go to the United States alone.” Dennis, beside himself. “It’s impossible.”

  Daisy, laughing lightly. “No, it’s not.” Wondering if he had always had so little faith in her. And, if not, when exactly it had begun. When had she crossed some unwritten threshold into an incompetent, doddering old age? Wondering, too, if Paul would have thought like him or if he would have been like Lenny—who, she was sure, was going to be happy when he heard.
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  That is if he ever got around to calling her back.

  “Why? Why do you want to go?” Dennis, fully agitated. Both of his hands on the table, palms down, ten fingers thumping like pistons. “Where will you stay? What will you do?” Irritated. Frustrated. Totally thrown.

  “I have a cousin in New York. On Long Island. I’ and face drip

  NINE

  ANN PATTERSON, READING DAISY’S LETTER, standing in the kitchen, a field of noise and activity. Six of her seventeen grandchildren, the preschoolers, were on the loose. Two of the younger ones were using her thick legs as goalposts. Ann, rereading the letter twice. She would have read it again but a whiff from the oven reminded her that she had two trays of chicken nuggets and a tray of french fries ready to be pulled. Quickly refolding the letter, hurrying to rescue the food from near certain charring.

  She didn’t get another chance to look at the letter until around nine that night, settling down heavily in the recliner in the finally quiet house to watch TV, moments after the eldest of her five daughters, Elisabeth—harried and exhausted, rather more so than usual because her husband, Richard, was away on business, on top of which Elisabeth had had to work later than usual—had gone home after picking up her three youngest sons, Michael, Josh, and David. Ann, unfolding the letter, reading it again. Thinking.

  A cousin Daisy. Her mother’s sister’s daughter, her aunt Meredith’s daughter.

  Ann, thinking hard, trying to find and gather crumbs of information about Cousin Daisy. Ann, knowing her mother had left England when she married Ann’s father, knowing her mother had had a sister, Meredith, knowing Meredith had had two daughters, Doreen and Daisy. But Ann had only been to England on that one dreadful, fateful trip when she was six and had met her aunt Meredith—a trip she would never forget. She had never met Daisy or Doreen, who were teenagers at the time. After that trip, communications abruptly stopped. Ties, broken and forgotten. Her mother, gone now eleven years.

  And here this Cousin Daisy was asking if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition to stay a few weeks while she took care of some very important business in New York. Saying she would come just as soon as Ann gave her the okay and would stay only long enough to complete the business. She hoped it wouldn’t be more than a few weeks.

  Ann, rereading the letter again, shuddering. Torn. In two even pieces, not shreds. On the one hand, she was sort of interested in meeting this cousin. It might be nice to try to resurrect family connections, to reconnect, to try again after all those decades.

  On the other hand, it would be an imposition. It was hard for Ann to imagine another set of legs, another mouth emitting sounds, another belly to fill. The house was big enough, and there were plenty of spare bedrooms. It was just that there were already so many people using it as a home base. Usually by the time the various family members had cleared out for the day,. Taking it all initDaisy Phillips it was almost time to head off to bed. She needed to be up early to receive the first round of grandchildren. How could she possibly have the time or energy for a houseguest? And how would a houseguest be able to stand the unrelenting noise, chaos, disorder, high volume, high voltage?

  And what if Daisy was just like her mother?

  Ann, sighing. She would just have to tell Daisy the truth. Write to her and explain that as much as she would like to meet her, she took care of seven grandchildren five days a week, and three more on top of that in the afternoons, and spent most of her days in the car, loading and unloading children, picking them up and dropping them off. She would tell this Cousin Daisy about the wall-sized bulletin board required to keep all the various schedules straight. Maybe she would even provide a photograph of it and say that while she was not trying to discourage Daisy from coming—although she was certainly doing exactly that, or at the very least encouraging some other kind of arrangement—a hotel stay maybe, or a briefer visit—she wanted her to know in advance that her available time for her would be quite limited.

  Not to mention that the guest bathroom was out of commission until her son-in-law, Joe, got a chance to finish the renovation of it. Two women having to share a bathroom for several weeks? Well, Daisy might not like that.

  Ann, leaning back, closing her eyes. Thinking she should get up and beg#x201C;And it&

  TEN

  DAISY WAS SPARED. She never would hear that Ann didn’t want her because Ann never did get around to writing that letter. She put it out of her mind, the letter and all the conflicting emotions that went with it, until it was discovered more than a week later by her eldest daughter, Elisabeth.

  The day after Elisabeth got formally placed in a new category proclaimed by her gynecologist to explain a host of irritating symptoms. Irregularities stretching back at least half a year. No longer deniable. Elisabeth’s new status: perimenopause. Up at dawn after another lousy night of sleep. Sweating in her pajamas again. Her bed sheets. The word lolling around her mind all night. A distasteful word that invaded her thoughts day and night.

  Still, she had a job to do. Up by 6:30. Showered and dressed by 7:30 in a beige suit, a size or two larger than she would care t in Chessexha home ando admit, not yet having come to terms with even the smaller size she had recently blown through. Throwing on a copper-colored silk blouse, a string of pearls; her fine, light brown hair quickly blown dry and tied back. Her serious, if tired, expression combined with the way she carried herself made her look every bit the successful CPA she was—even down to the way the wrinkles were forming around her eyes from years of peering at numbers on narrow lines of tax returns, spreadsheets, IRS regulations, computer screens.

  Preparing a quick breakfast for four of her five sons; the fifth, Steve, away at college. Fantasizing about having Richard home to help instead of on the 6:00 a.m. train to the city every day. She cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher. Ready to hit the road by 8:15 when her middle son, thirteen-and-a-half-year-old Michael, realized he couldn’t find his flash drive which he needed for his European History class. It not only had his project on it—he said he didn’t care about that, which was no surprise to Elisabeth who had neither seen him do it nor heard him mention it—but had his best friend’s project on it, too.

  Elisabeth and the boys turned the house upside down before her youngest, nine-year-old David, located it. For some reason found on the fireplace mantel instead of in an ordinary place such as the countless shirts, pants, jackets, or backpack pockets they’d check.

  The whole drama caused the boys to miss their buses, compelling Elisabeth to drive them to school, two separate schools. David, eleven-year-old Josh, and seventeen-year-old Pete—all except Michael, the guilty one—jabbering anxiously about being late, begging Elisabeth to go faster although she was locked in immovable traffic while the clock sped on, making her late for her meeting. In the tension, knocking over her coffee, spilling it all over the front seat of the SUV, covering everything within a two-foot radius, including her new suit, old shoes, and open briefcase. Several files, dozens of tax returns, and the tan leather would carry the smell of stale coffee till the end of their days.

  Elisabeth, arriving at work frazzled, harried, mentally jammed. As difficult as the early morning hours had been, finding there that things could get worse. Having been late to the meeting, her boss, Palmer, had injudiciously offered to cover for her. Apparently in no shape to do it. A liquid breakfast.

  Palmer’s boss had to deal with it. Once the clients had gone and Palmer had been sent home, Elisabeth was called in on the carpet. Asked to please close the door. Her heart, sinking fast at those words. A stern reprimand for being late. Followed by a general discussion regarding Palmer, what to do about him, and a thorough rundown of her upcoming deadlines and any of Palmer’s deadlines that she was aware of.

  Finally, Elisabeth, chastised, returned to her office, obediently getting busy behind her large desk, surrounded by pictures of Richard and the boys. None more recent than five years ago, in frames of various worth. Wondering if this was it.

 
Was it? Was this it? Was this all there was?

  Chin on her palm on her elbow on her desk. Longing for something to cheer her up. Giving in to her usual quick pick-me-up. Doing what she often did: logging onto PuppyFinder.com. To stare at the sweet faces of puppies. Today Yorkshire terriers; yesterday it had been beagles, before that collies. A brief run through all the puppies before reluctantly X’ing out. Forcing her way back into the grind of the day.

  In the meantime, Ann was at home with her grandchildren. All five of her daughters left one or more of their too far.

  Ann spent the morning as she always did: entertaining, reading to, painting with, coloring with, allowing thirty minutes of TV time to, and otherwise feeding, diapering, and occupying all seven children. She fed them breakfast at nine—each got cinnamon toast and a glass of juice—and then let them discover life on their own in the playroom while she had her tall coffee, the third of the day, and three pieces of whole wheat toast. Ready to act in a heartbeat if she needed to. Watching carefully over the children from her kitchen table. Admiring the way they interacted with one another at such young ages and how intently they focused on something they had never seen before.

  Lunch was macaroni and cheese in seven small bowls, one large one for her, and broccoli, which—and this always surprised her—they all liked. She took hers with melted butter; theirs was plain. Each child got a cup of milk.

  Ann had another tall coffee.

  At 3:15, David and Josh arrived and started their homework, enjoying the cookies and milk she gave them while she had another coffee, her fifth and last for the day. At 4:00, because it was a Tuesday, she piled the two grandkids she still had left into the Chrysler minivan—the others had already been picked up—to drive David and Josh to their piano lessons, dropping off one of the two other grandkids at home on the way.

  Ann, playing with four-year-old Brandon during the piano lessons, doing her best to keep him from getting too bored and out of control. Pulling a bag of pretzels out when all else started to fail. Keeping him happy until they piled back into the minivan and headed home, a full thirty-five-minute drive when traffic was not a problem—which never happened on Long Island. First swinging by the school to pick up Elisabeth’s Michael from baseball practice. He greeted her with a nonchalant wave, climbed into the minivan, remaining hooked up to his iPod—as usual. Lately.