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

Friday, May 7, 2004 (Henry is 40, Clare is 32)

Henry: We are at the opening of Clare’s exhibit at the Chicago Cultural Center. She has been working nonstop for a year, building huge, ethereal bird skeletons out of wire, wrapping them in translucent strips of paper, coating them with shellac until they transmit light. Now the sculptures hang from the high ceiling, and squat on the floor. Some of them are kinetic, motorized: a few beat their wings, and there are two cock skeletons slowly demolishing each other in a corner. An eight-foot-tall pigeon dominates the entrance. Clare is exhausted, and ecstatic. She’s wearing a simple black silk dress, her hair is piled high on her head. People have brought her flowers; she has a bouquet of white roses in her arms, there’s a heap of plastic-wrapped bouquets next to the guest book. It’s very crowded. People circle around, exclaim over each piece, crane their heads back to look at the flying birds. Everyone congratulates Clare. There was a glowing review in this morning’s Tribune. All our friends are here, and Clare’s family has driven in from Michigan. They surround Clare now, Philip, Alicia, Mark and Sharon and their kids, Nell, Etta. Charisse takes pictures of them, and they all smile for her. When she gives us copies of the pictures, a few weeks from now, I will be struck by the dark circles under Clare’s eyes, and by how thin she looks.

I am holding Alba’s hand. We stand by the back wall, out of the crowd. Alba can’t see anything, because everyone is tall, and so I lift her on to my shoulders. She bounces.

Clare’s family has dispersed and she is being introduced to a very well-dressed elderly couple by Leah Jacobs, her dealer. Alba says, “I want Mama.”

“Mama’s busy, Alba,” I say. I am feeling queasy. I bend over and set Alba on the floor. She puts her arms up. “ No. I want Mama.” I sit on the floor and put my head between my knees. I need to find a place where no one can see me. Alba is pulling my ear. “Don’t, Alba,” I say. I look up. My father is making his way to us through the crowd. “Go,” I tell Alba. I give her a little push. “Go see Grandpa.” She starts to whimper. “I don’t see Grandpa. I want Mama.” I am crawling toward Dad. I bump into someone’s legs. I hear Alba screaming, “Mama!” as I vanish.

Clare: There are masses of people. Everyone presses at me, smiling. I smile at them. The show looks great, and it’s done, it’s up! I’m so happy, and so tired. My face hurts from smiling. Everyone I know is here. I’m talking to Celia when I hear a commotion at the back of the gallery, and then I hear Alba screaming, “Mama!” Where is Henry? I try to get through the crowd to Alba. Then I see her: Richard has lifted her up. People part to let me through. Richard hands Alba to me. She locks her legs around my waist, buries her face in my shoulder, wraps her arms around my neck, “Where’s Daddy?” I ask her softly. “Gone,” says Alba.