ave short-circuited the equipment. Later, maybe."
"That'll be fun on our wedding night."
Henry shakes his head. "I can't take this for the wedding. It's too much fun. I
mean, Ben's a genius, but he's used to working with people who are terminally
ill. Whatever he's got in here, it plays like a near-death experience." He sighs and
sets the pill bottle on my nightstand. "I should mail those to Ingrid. This is her
perfect drug." I hear the front door open and then it slams shut; Gomez leaving.
"You want something to eat?" I ask.
"No thanks."
"Is Ben going to make that other drug for you?"
"He's going to try," Henry says.
"What if it's not right?"
"You mean if Ben fucks up?"
"Yeah."
Henry says, "Whatever happens, we both know that I live to be at least
forty-three. So don't worry about it."
Forty-three? "What happens after forty-three?"
"I don't know, Clare. Maybe I figure out how to stay in the present." He
gathers me in and we are quiet. When I wake up later it is dark and Henry is
sleeping beside me. The little bottle of pills shines red in the light °f the led
display of the alarm clock. Forty-three?
Monday, September 27, 1993 (Clare is 22, Henry is 30)
Clare: I let myself into Henry's apartment and turn on the lights. We're going to
the opera tonight; it's The Ghosts of Versailles. The Lyric Opera won't seat
latecomers, so I'm flustered and at first I don't realize that no lights means Henry
isn't here. Then I do realize it, and I'm annoyed because he's going to make us
late. Then I wonder if he's gone. Then I hear someone breathing.
I stand still. The breathing is coming from the kitchen, I run into the kitchen
and turn on the light and Henry is lying on the floor, fully clothed, in a strange,
rigid pose, staring straight ahead. As I stand there he makes a low sound, not like
a human sound, a groan that clatters in his throat, that tears through his clenched
teeth.
"Oh, God, oh, God." I call 911. The operator assures me they'll be here in
minutes. And as I sit on the kitchen floor staring at Henry I feel a wave of anger
and I find Henry's Rolodex in his desk and I dial the number.
"Hello?" The voice is tiny and distant.
"Is this Ben Matteson?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Clare Abshire. Listen, Ben, Henry is lying on the floor totally rigid and can't
talk. What the fuck?"
"What? Shit! Call 911!"
"I did-"
"The drug is mimicking Parkinson's, he needs dopamine! Tell them- shit, call
me from the hospital-"
"They're here-"
"Okay! Call me-" I hang up, and face the paramedics.
Later, after the ambulance ride to Mercy Hospital, after Henry has been
admitted, injected, and intubated and is lying in a hospital bed attached to a
monitor, relaxed and sleeping, I look up and see a tall gaunt man in the doorway
of Henry's room, and I remember that I have forgotten to call Ben. He walks in
and stands across from me on the other side of the bed. The room is dark and the
light from the hallway silhouettes Ben as he bows his head and says, "I'm so
sorry. So sorry."
I reach across the bed, take his hands. "It's okay. He's going to be fine. Really"
Ben shakes his head. "It's completely my fault. I should never have made it for
him."
"What happened?"
Ben sighs and sits down in the chair. I sit on the bed. "It could be several
things," he says. "It could be just a side effect, could happen to anybody. But it
could be that Henry didn't have the recipe quite right. I mean, it's a lot to
memorize. And I couldn't check it."
We are both silent. Henry's monitor drips fluid into his arm. An orderly walks
by with a cart. Finally I say, "Ben?"
"Yes, Clare?"
"Do something for me?"
"Anything."
"Cut him off. No more drugs. Drugs aren't going to work."
Ben grins at me, relieved. "Just say no."
"Exactly." We laugh. Ben sits with me for a while. When he gets up to leave,
he takes my hand and says, "Thank you for being kind about it. He could easily
have died."
"But he didn't."
"No, he didn't."
"See you at the wedding."
"Yes." We are standing in the hall. In the glaring fluorescent light Ben looks
tired and ill. He ducks his head and turns, and walks down the hall, and I turn
back to the dim room where Henry lies sleeping.
TURNING POINT
Friday, October 22, 1993 (Henry is 30)
Henry: I am strolling down Linden Street, in South Haven, at large for an hour
while Clare and her mother do something at the florist's. The wedding is
tomorrow, but as the groom I don't seem to have too many responsibilities. Be
there; that's the main item on my To Do list. Clare is constantly being whisked
away to fittings, consultations, bridal showers. When I do see her she always
looks rather wistful.
It's a clear cold day, and I dawdle. I wish South Haven had a decent bookstore.
Even the library consists mainly of Barbara Cartland and John Grisham. I have the
Penguin edition of Kleist with me, but I'm not in the mood. I pass an antiques
shop, a bakery, a bank, another antiques shop. As I walk by the barber shop I
peer in; there's an old man being shaved by a dapper little balding barber, and I
know at once what I'm going to do.
Little bells clang against the door as I walk into the shop. It smells of soap,
steam, hair lotion, and elderly flesh. Everything is pale green. The chair is old
and ornate with chrome, and there are elaborate bottles lining dark wooden
shelves, and trays of scissors, combs, and razors. It's almost
medical; it's very Norman Rockwell. The barber glances up at me. "Haircut?" I
ask. He nods at the row of empty straight-backed chairs with magazines neatly
stacked on a rack at one end of the row. Sinatra is playing on the radio. I sit down
and leaf through a copy of Reader's Digest. The barber wipes traces of lather from
the old man's chin, and applies aftershave. The old man climbs gingerly from the
chair and pays up. The barber helps him into his coat and hands him his cane.
"See you, George," says the old man as he creeps out. '"Bye, Ed," replies the
barber. He turns his attention to me. "What'll it be?" I hop into the chair and he
steps me up a few inches and swivels me around to face the mirror. I take a long
last look at my hair. I hold my thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Cut it
all off." He nods his approval and ties a plastic cape around my neck. Soon his
scissors are flashing little metal on metal noises around my head, and my hair is
falling to the floor. When he is done he brushes me off and removes the cape and
voila, I've become the me of my future.
GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME
Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare is 22) (6:00 a.m.)
Henry: I wake up at 6:00 a.m. and it's raining. I am in a snug little green room
under the eaves in a cozy little bed-and-breakfast called Blake's, which is right on
the south beach in South Haven. Clare's parents have chosen this place; my dad is
sleeping in an equally cozy pink room downstairs, next to Mrs. Kim in a lovely
yellow room; Grandpa and Grams are in the uber-cozy blue master bedroom. I lie
in the extra-soft bed under Laura Ashley sheets, and I can hear the wind flinging
itself against the house. The rain is pouring down in sheets. I wonder if I can run
in this monsoon. I hear it coursing through the gutters and drumming on the roof,
which is about two feet above my face. This room is like a garret. It has a delicate
little writing desk, in case I need to pen any ladylike missives on my wedding
day. There's a china ewer and basin on the bureau; if I actually wanted to use
them I'd probably have to break the ice on the water first, because it's quite cold
up here. I feel like a pink worm in the core of this green room, as though I have
eaten my way in and should be working on becoming a butterfly, or something.
I'm not real awake, here, at the moment. I hear somebody coughing. I hear my
heart beating and the high-pitched sound which is my nervous system doing its
thing. Oh, God, let today be a normal day. Let me be normally befuddled,
normally nervous; get me to the church on time, in time. Let me not startle
anyone, especially myself. Let me get through our wedding day as best I can,
with no special effects. Deliver Clare from unpleasant scenes. Amen.
(7:00 a.m.)
Clare: I wake up in my bed, the bed of my childhood. As I float on the surface of
waking I can't find myself in time; is it Christmas, Thanksgiving? Is it third grade,
again? Am I sick? Why is it raining? Outside the yellow curtains the sky is dead
and the big elm tree is being stripped of its yellow leaves by the wind. I have
been dreaming all night. The dreams merge, now. In one part of this dream I was
swimming in the ocean, I was a mermaid. I was sort of new at being a mermaid
and one of the other mermaids was trying to teach me; she was giving me
mermaid lessons. I was afraid to breathe under water. The water got into my
lungs and I couldn't figure out how it was supposed to work, it felt terrible and I
kept having to rise up to the surface and breathe and the other mermaid kept
saying, No, Clare, like this.. .until finally I realized that she had gills in her neck,
and I did too, and then it was better. Swimming was like flying, all the fish were
birds...There was a boat on the surface of the ocean, and we all swam up to see
the boat. It was just a little sailboat, and my mother was on it, all by herself. I
swam up to her and she was surprised to see me there, she said Why Clare, I
thought you were getting married today, and I suddenly realized, the way you do in
dreams, that I couldn't get married to Henry if I was a mermaid, and I started to
cry, and then I woke up and it was the middle of the night. So I lay there for a
while in the dark and I made up that I became a regular woman, like the Little
Mermaid except I didn't have any of that nonsense about hideous pain in my feet
or getting my tongue cut out. Hans Christian Andersen must have been a very
strange and sad 