Part II: A Past That Is Also a Future — FIVE - The Time Traveler's Wife

Thursday, May 11, 2000 (Henry is 39, Clare is 28)

Henry: I’m walking down Clark Street in late spring, 2000. There’s nothing too remarkable about this. It’s a lovely warm evening in Andersonville, and all the fashionable youth are sitting at little tables drinking fancy cold coffee at Kopi’s, or sitting at medium-sized tables eating couscous at Reza’s, or just strolling, ignoring the Swedish knickknacks stores and exclaiming over each other’s dogs. I should be at work, in 2002, but oh, well. Matt will have to cover for my afternoon Show and Tell, I guess. I make a mental note to take him out to dinner.

As I idle along, I unexpectedly see Clare across the street. She is standing in front of George’s, the vintage clothing store, looking at a display of baby clothes. Even her back is wistful, even her shoulders sigh with longing. As I watch her, she leans her forehead against the shop window and stands there, dejected. I cross the street, dodging a UPS van and a Volvo, and stand behind her. Clare looks up, startled, and sees my reflection in the glass.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says, and turns. “I thought you were at the movies with Gomez.” Clare seems a little defensive, a little guilty, as though I have caught her doing something illicit.

“I probably am. I’m supposed to be at work, actually. In 2002.”

Clare smiles. She looks tired, and I do the dates in my head and realize that our fifth miscarriage was three weeks ago. I hesitate, and then I put my arms around her, and to my relief she relaxes against me, leans her head on my shoulder.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Terrible,” she says softly. “Tired.” I remember. She stayed in bed for weeks. “Henry, I quit.” She watches me, trying to gauge my reaction to this, weighing her intention against my knowledge. “I give up. It isn’t going to happen.”

Is there anything to stop me from giving her what she needs? I can’t think of a single reason not to tell her. I stand and rack my brain for anything that would preclude Clare knowing. All I remember is her certainty, which I am about to create.

“Persevere, Clare.”

“What?”

“Hang in there. In my present we have a baby.”

Clare closes her eyes, whispers, “Thank you.” I don’t know if she’s talking to me or to God. It doesn’t matter. “Thank you,” she says, again, looking at me, talking to me, and I feel as though I am an angel in some demented version of the Annunciation. I lean over and kiss her; I can feel resolve, joy, purpose coursing through Clare. I remember the tiny head full of black hair crowning between Clare’s legs and I marvel at how this moment creates that miracle, and vice versa. Thank you. Thank you.

“Did you know?” Clare asks me.

“No.” She looks disappointed. “Not only did I not know, I did everything I could think of to prevent you from getting pregnant again.”

“Great.” Clare laughs. “So whatever happens, I just have to be quiet and let it rip?”

“Yep.”

Clare grins at me, and I grin back. Let it rip.