The Forgotten Hours(78)
“Okay.” Zev started to walk down Hester and then turned around. “Katie?”
“Yeah?” she said.
He pulled his leather jacket around him more tightly. “Nothing,” he said. His smile was grim, and she couldn’t blame him. The night had certainly not unfolded as he’d expected. “I wish you didn’t have to go right now. But yeah. I hope it goes well. Maybe I’ll get to meet your grandfather one day.”
Why did she feel as though she couldn’t take a full breath? The idea of losing herself to someone was no longer what frightened her most, she thought as she climbed the steps toward her apartment. It was the question of whether she could be vulnerable in that way while at the same time being a good mother. Her own mother had stumbled badly, and Katie still didn’t quite know where her father had taken the wrong step. It seemed that parenthood turned you into both a hero and a patsy, torn by competing impulses. And the question was if she wasn’t up to it, if she really wasn’t ready for motherhood—not now—could Zev still love her?
She rested a hand lightly on the flat of her stomach. It was time to ask her father some questions too. The door was ajar and the radio set on low to Jazz 88. Fresh, mismatched sheets were stretched out over the old couch, and her father lay there fully clothed with his shoes off.
“That was nice,” Katie said, hanging up her denim jacket. “I’m so glad you got to meet Zev.”
When he didn’t respond, she went over to the couch. He was fast asleep; his mouth hung open slightly, and his face, even in repose, was as fierce and tender as it had always been. But with his eyes closed he was stripped of something; she couldn’t be sure what it was. She reached down to touch his shoulder. “Dad?” she said.
He rolled his head to the side and brought his arms up over his chest. The skin on his neck sagged, and she was hit with the realization that as his child she would never know him fully. Gently, she raised his dead legs to the couch and pulled the sheet and blanket up over him.
There was no need to rush things. Tomorrow she would fly to the UK and take care of her grandfather. After that, she would turn to everything else—her father, her lover, herself. In what order exactly, she didn’t know, but did it matter? Probably not.
35
On the plane, David was full of chatter about his understudy work at the Broadmore; it was good to see him opening up when for so many years he had been like a moth confused by the interplay of light and dark, easily crushed. The joy of discovering something he was good at was visible in his quickened cadence, the serious pull of his mouth. They settled in, talking a bit about their father, about how he seemed, his look and demeanor, but not all that much. They had no habit of sharing concerns or fears, no vocabulary for doubt. It was what they had learned among the silences and turmoil of their teenage years. After throwing up twice in the minuscule, water-splattered airplane toilet, Katie decided to tell David about being pregnant. His eyes widened, and in the rush of his surprise he sounded like a child, and then—just like a child—he lost interest as quickly as if he were turning a page in a book. It was a relief to have that news turn out to be, somehow, so very ordinary. After a few hours in the air, he crashed hard, sleeping with his head twisted awkwardly, undisturbed by the flight attendant bringing food or the heavyset man struggling to sidle his way toward the aisle.
The road into London from Heathrow wove above the streets on an elevated highway from which the billboards and office buildings seemed to be close enough to touch. Once the black cab reached the outer suburbs, morning traffic thickened into a writhing snake. The road narrowed down to the A4 and became the London Road, shooting through identical brick row houses with tiny front lawns, remarkably clean of litter, overhung with the pall of exhaust.
The cab headed straight for their hotel on Marylebone Road. There was a tidy familiarity to England that Katie found comforting. Weaving through central London, she was struck once again by its orderliness, the way everything had its place. Patterns everywhere you looked: in the multicolored bricks scalloped along the rooftops; in the fluted iron railings bordering front lawns; in the rows of trees, all pruned just so, leaves supple and ever rustling. There was far more sky visible than in New York, and when the sun came out, it was so vast and shocking that the streets glinted with surprise. One ray of sunshine, and Londoners shed their coats and jackets with joyful exuberance, as if they’d suddenly found themselves transported to a beach in Majorca—a whole country for which a simple change of weather led to a transformation of personality.
They showered and drank some coffee but wasted no time walking over to the nursing home. Grumpy was sitting in a chair by the window. He wore clunky glasses that made his eyes look twice their normal size and held knitting needles in his fleshy fingers. The window was cracked open, and a stream of air whistled in, ruffling the blanket laid over knees as giant and misshapen as boulders.
“Sunshine! Boyo!” he said, his face brightening. “What a fabulous treat!”
“Am I seeing correctly, Grumps? You, knitting?” Katie asked, peeling off her jean jacket. “Are we in some kind of alternate universe?”
Harry Amplethwaite held up a long, thin scarf that snaked over his armrest and onto the floor. “Nothing like fashion accessories to spiff up a dull wardrobe. As your grandmother always said, idle hands are the devil’s work. And if I’m working, it means blood’s still pumping through my veins.”