Keeping Time: A Novel (5 page)

Daisy, running out of the house. Hurrying over to the flower bed. Patrick’s face, a mess of emotions.

“Can’t you get it out?” Daisy, calling. Making sure not to sound accusatory, though she had to yell over the sound.

Patrick, shaking his head. “It’s really stuck, Mrs. Phillips.”

Daisy, seeing that not only was it really stuck in the mud, but also stuck in brambles. The front wheels were deep into the bush, with twigs and gnarled branches sticking out from under the body of the mower. “Let me help you,” Daisy, yelling.

“Maybe if you could take over for me at the back, I could lift the front and unjam it.”

Daisy, nodding. Moving to take his spot. Noticing that he was sunk three inches into the mud, realizing that she would be, too. Looking down at her shoes. They were not a ratty old knockabout pair, but ones she cared about.

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.

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.