 happen." We stand and think about what can happen.
I hesitate. "We could...." I let it hang.
"No. I can't." It's true. Clare can't. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.
I say, "Maybe it will be good. A happy accident."
Clare smiles, and I realize that she wants this, that she actually hopes that
seven will be our lucky number. My throat contracts, and I have to turn away.
Tuesday, February 20, 2001 (Clare is 29, Henry is 37)
Clare: The clock radio clicks on at 7:46 a.m. and National Public Radio sadly tells
me that there has been a plane crash somewhere and eighty-six people are dead.
I'm pretty sure I am one of them. Henry's side of the bed is empty. I close my
eyes and I am in a little berth in a cabin on an ocean-liner, pitching over rough
seas. I sigh and gingerly creep out of bed and into the bathroom. I'm still
throwing up ten minutes later when Henry sticks his head in the door and asks
me if I'm okay. "Great. Never better."
He perches on the edge of the tub. I would just as soon not have an audience
for this. "Should I be worried? You never threw up at all before."
"Amit says this is good; I'm supposed to throw up." It's something about my
body recognizing the baby as part of me, instead of a foreign body. Amit has
been giving me this drug they give people who have organ transplants.
"Maybe I should bank some more blood for you today." Henry and I are both
type O. I nod, and throw up. We are avid blood bankers; he has needed
transfusions twice, and I have had three, one of them requiring a huge amount. I
sit for a minute and then stagger to my feet. Henry steadies me. I wipe my mouth
and brush my teeth. Henry goes downstairs to make breakfast. I suddenly have
an overpowering desire for oatmeal.
"Oatmeal!" I yell down the stairs.
"Okay!"
I begin to brush out my hair. My reflection in the mirror shows me pink and
puffy. I thought pregnant women were supposed to glow. I am not glowing. Oh,
well. I'm still pregnant, and that's all that counts.
Thursday, April 19, 2001 (Henry is 37, Clare is 29)
Henry: We are at Amit Montague's office for the ultrasound. Clare and I have
been both eager and reluctant to have an ultrasound. We have refused
amniocentesis because we are sure we will lose the baby if we poke a huge long
needle at it. Clare is eighteen weeks pregnant. Halfway there; if we could fold
time in half right now like a Rorschach test, this would be the crease down the
middle. We live in a state of holding breath, afraid to exhale for fear of breathing
out the baby too soon.
We sit in the waiting room with other expectant couples and mothers with
strollers and toddlers who run around bumping into things. Dr. Montague's
office always depresses me, because we have spent so much time here being
anxious and hearing bad news. But today is different. Today everything will be
okay.
A nurse calls our names. We repair to an examining room. Clare gets
undressed, and gets on the table, and is greased and scanned. The technician
watches the monitor. Amit Montague, who is tall and regal and French Moroccan,
watches the monitor. Clare and I hold hands. We watch
the monitor, too. Slowly the image builds itself, bit by bit.
On the screen is a weather map of the world. Or a galaxy, a swirl of stars. Or a
baby.
" Bien joue, une fille," Dr. Montague says. "She is sucking her thumb. She is very
pretty. And very big."
Clare and I exhale. On the screen a pretty galaxy is sucking her thumb. As we
watch she takes her hand away from her mouth. Dr. Montague says, "She
smiles." And so do we.
Monday, August 20, 2001 (Clare is 30, Henry is 38)
Clare: The baby is due in two weeks and we still haven't settled on a name for
her. In fact, we've barely discussed it; we've been avoiding the whole subject
superstitiously, as though naming the baby will cause the Furies to notice her
and torment her. Finally Henry brings home a book called Dictionary of Given
Names.
We are in bed. It's only 8:30 p.m. and I'm wiped out. I lie on my side, my belly
a peninsula, facing Henry, who lies on his side facing me with his head propped
on his arm, the book on the bed between us. We look at each other, smile
nervously.
"Any thoughts?" he says, leafing through the book.
"Jane," I reply.
He makes a face. "Jane?"
"I used to name all my dolls and stuffed animals Jane. Every one of them."
Henry looks it up. "It means ' Gift of God.'"
"That works for me."
"Let's have something a little unusual. How about Irette? Or Jodotha?" He s
through the pages. "Here's a good one: Loololuluah. It's Arabic for pearl."
"How about Pearl?" I picture the baby as a smooth iridescent white ball.
Henry runs his finger downs the columns. "Okay: ' (Latin) A probable variant of
perula, in reference to the most valued form of this product of disease.'"
"Ugh. What's wrong with this book?" I take it from Henry and, for kicks, look
up " 'Henry (Teutonic) Ruler of the home: chief of the dwelling.'"
He laughs. "Look up Clare."
"It's just another form of ' Clara (Latin) Illustrious, bright.'"
"That's good," he says.
I flip through the book randomly. "Philomele?"
"I like that," says Henry. "But what of the horrible nickname issue? Philly?
Mel?"
"Pyrene (Greek) Red-haired."
"But what if she isn't?" Henry reaches over the book and picks up a handful of
my hair, and puts the ends in his mouth. I pull it away from him and push all my
hair behind me.
"I thought we knew everything there was to know about this kid. Surely
Kendrick tested for red hair?" I say.
Henry retrieves the book from me. "Yseult? Zoe? I like Zoe. Zoe has
possibilities."
"What's it mean?"
"Life."
"Yeah, that's very good. Bookmark that."
"Eliza," Henry offers.
"Elizabeth."
Henry looks at me, hesitates. "Annette."
"Lucy."
"No " Henry says firmly.
"No," I agree.
"What we need" Henry says, "is a fresh start. A blank slate. Let's call her
Tabula Rasa."
"Let's call her Titanium White."
"Blanche, Blanca, Bianca..."
"Alba," I say.
" As in Duchess of?"
"Alba DeTamble." It rolls around in my mouth as I say it.
"That's nice, all the little iambs, tripping along..." He's flipping through the
book. " 'Alba (Latin) White. (Provencal) Dawn of day.' Hmm." He laboriously
clambers off the bed. I can hear him rummaging around in the living room; he
returns after a few minutes with Volume I of the oed, the big Random House
dictionary, and my decrepit old Encyclopedia Americana Book I, A to Annuals. '"A
dawn song of the Provencal poets.. .in honor of their mistresses. Reveilles, a
Vaurore, par le cri du guet-teur, deux amants qui viennent de passer la nuit ensemble se
separent en maudissant le jour qui vient trop tat; tel est le theme, non moins invariable que
celui de la pastourelle, d'un genre dontle nom est emprunte au mot alba, qui figure parfois
au debut de la piece. Et regulierement a la fin de chaque couplet, ou il forme refrain.' How
sad. Let's try Random House. This is better. 'A white city on a hill. A fortress.'"
He jettisons Random House off the bed and opens the encyclopedia. "AEsop,
Age of Reason, Alaska...okay, here, Alba." He scans the entry. "A bunch of now
wiped-out towns in ancient Italy. And the Duke of Alba."
I sigh and turn onto my back. The baby stirs. She must have been sleeping.
Henry is back to perusing the bed. "Amour. Amourous. Armadillo. Bazooms.
Goodness, the things they print these days in works reference." He slides his
hand under my nightgown, runs it slowly over her taut stomach. The baby kicks,
hard, just where his hand is, and he arts, and looks at me, amazed. His hands are
roaming, finding their way toss familiar and unfamiliar terrain. "How many
DeTambles can you fit in there?"
"Uh, there's always room for one more."
"Alba," he says, softly.
"A white city. An impregnable fortress on a white hill."
"She'll like it." Henry is pulling my underwear down my legs and over my
ankles. He tosses it off the bed and looks at me.
"Careful...," I tell him.
"Very careful," he agrees, as he strips off his clothes.
I feel immense, like a continent in a sea of pillows and blankets. Henry bends
over me from behind, moves over me, an explorer mapping my skin with his
tongue. "Slowly, slowly...." I am afraid.
"A song sung by the troubadours at dawn..." he is whispering to me as he
enters me.
"...To their mistresses," I reply. My eyes are closed and I hear Henry as though
from the next room:
"Just.. .so." And then: "Yes. Yes!"
ALBA, AN INTRODUCTION
Wednesday, November 16, 2011 (Henry is 38, Clare is 40)
Henry: I'm in the Surrealist Galleries at the Art Institute of Chicago, in the future.
I am not perfectly dressed; the best I could do was a long black winter coat from
the coat check room and pants from a guard's locker. I did manage to find shoes,
which are always the most difficult thing to get. So I figure I'll lift a wallet, buy a
T-shirt in the museum store, have lunch, see some art, and then launch myself
out of the building and into the world of shops and hotel rooms. I have no idea
where I am in time. Not too far out there; the clothing and haircuts are not too
different from 2001. I'm simultaneously excited about this little sojourn and
disturbed, because in my present Clare is about to have Alba at any moment, and
I absolutely want to be there, but on the other hand this is an unusually
high-quality slice of forward time travel. I feel strong and really present, really
good. So I stand quietly in a dark room full of spot-lit Joseph Cornell boxes,
watching a school group following a docent, carrying little stools which they
obediently sit on when she tells them to park themselves.
I observe the group. The docent is the usual: a well-groomed woman in her
fifties with impossibly blond hair and taut face. The teacher, a good-humored
young woman wearing light blue lipstick, stands at the back of the flock of
students, ready to contain any who get boisterous. It's 