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Authors: Emily Gray Tedrowe
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March 20. That was the best she could do, piecing together a narrative from the jagged holes of the day. It was a Saturday, damp and overcast. Melissa had been invited to a birthday party at an ice rink in Mamaroneck, and by the time Rachel had gotten back from dropping her off, it was close to noon, and she and Bob were due at Lila’s meet by 2 pm.
“What are you doing?”
Bob was in the garage when she pulled in, still wearing his faded corduroys and a stained windbreaker. His hair, thick and unruly, curled down over his collar.
He held up the stick end of a broom, mock-heroically. “Gutter time.”
“Oh, my. What have I done to deserve this ?” Unclogging the mess of leaves and twigs gumming up one corner of the back drainpipe had been something he’d been talking about, off and on, for weeks.
“You haven’t asked how much I charge.”
“I see.”
“I’m wildly expensive. My tools are known as the industry standard.” Bob hooked a thumb through a belt loop and gave his pants a tug.
Rachel reached out to gently brush a fluff of dust from his eyebrow. “Is that so.”
“Booked solid through the spring. You’re lucky I could even find time for you. Ma’am.”
“Find time for me, huh?” Rachel moved closer, pushing one of her thighs between Bob’s legs.
“Unhand me, Mrs. B! That kind of thing won’t get your drains clear!” When she lingered, Bob swept her out of the way with the broom, pushing harder against her ass—swatting, even—as she resisted, laughing. As she left, she could hear him singing some James Taylor handyman song, the one he warbled during all home repair projects.
How many minutes elapsed? That’s the way they always asked, the medical team. “Elapsed.” As a consequence, Rachel’s visual memory of the day always stamps a timer on the bottom of theframe, one that immediately runs up the seconds, the milliseconds, as she watches herself putter around the house, after leaving Bob. There was a phone call, though she can’t remember who. She knows she poured a second cup of coffee, for she found it, rimmed with white mold, three days later, sitting on her dresser. Down in the basement, she had folded the girls’ clothing into two teetering piles, and she had put in a load of towels, snatching one back out for her own use. Ticking, ticking, upward. Back upstairs, would she have heard the ladder bumping and scraping against the back wall? Only if she’d stopped in Melissa’s room, whose window overlooked that side of the yard. And had she? Had she? If Rachel wasn’t able to remember, that same afternoon, in the trauma unit of the hospital, weeks and months later she certainly wouldn’t be any closer to knowing.
Nor how long she had been in the shower. Several people seemed very intent on this point—the woman driving the ambulance, and that first surgeon. So, how long did a shower take? She definitely hadn’t shaved her legs, so there was that. But she did own, that winter, a certain hot-oil type of hair conditioner that needed to be applied for ten minutes before rinsing. Occasionally, Rachel liked to use that time to zone out in the shower, an objective justification—see the instructions, right on the tube!—for a lengthy, luxurious water waste. So, had she used it, March 20? In any reconstruction of her hurry that afternoon, their perpetual fear of missing Lila’s first dive, Rachel can’t imagine that she did. But it was impossible to know for sure. By now, she was familiar with the way memory worked, its own sly insertions into a long lost sequence of events. Ticking, ticking. In any case, she had blown her hair dry and put on her clothes.
A gust of cold air, the first sign. Confused, she had stopped on the stairs. Why was the front door open? Swinging, banging, wide open. A creeping unease. She shut it and went back down the front hallway when something caught her eye. Bob, in the living room. Flung back on the couch, way back. The clock, still ticking at
“What are you doing?”
Bob was in the garage when she pulled in, still wearing his faded corduroys and a stained windbreaker. His hair, thick and unruly, curled down over his collar.
He held up the stick end of a broom, mock-heroically. “Gutter time.”
“Oh, my. What have I done to deserve this ?” Unclogging the mess of leaves and twigs gumming up one corner of the back drainpipe had been something he’d been talking about, off and on, for weeks.
“You haven’t asked how much I charge.”
“I see.”
“I’m wildly expensive. My tools are known as the industry standard.” Bob hooked a thumb through a belt loop and gave his pants a tug.
Rachel reached out to gently brush a fluff of dust from his eyebrow. “Is that so.”
“Booked solid through the spring. You’re lucky I could even find time for you. Ma’am.”
“Find time for me, huh?” Rachel moved closer, pushing one of her thighs between Bob’s legs.
“Unhand me, Mrs. B! That kind of thing won’t get your drains clear!” When she lingered, Bob swept her out of the way with the broom, pushing harder against her ass—swatting, even—as she resisted, laughing. As she left, she could hear him singing some James Taylor handyman song, the one he warbled during all home repair projects.
How many minutes elapsed? That’s the way they always asked, the medical team. “Elapsed.” As a consequence, Rachel’s visual memory of the day always stamps a timer on the bottom of theframe, one that immediately runs up the seconds, the milliseconds, as she watches herself putter around the house, after leaving Bob. There was a phone call, though she can’t remember who. She knows she poured a second cup of coffee, for she found it, rimmed with white mold, three days later, sitting on her dresser. Down in the basement, she had folded the girls’ clothing into two teetering piles, and she had put in a load of towels, snatching one back out for her own use. Ticking, ticking, upward. Back upstairs, would she have heard the ladder bumping and scraping against the back wall? Only if she’d stopped in Melissa’s room, whose window overlooked that side of the yard. And had she? Had she? If Rachel wasn’t able to remember, that same afternoon, in the trauma unit of the hospital, weeks and months later she certainly wouldn’t be any closer to knowing.
Nor how long she had been in the shower. Several people seemed very intent on this point—the woman driving the ambulance, and that first surgeon. So, how long did a shower take? She definitely hadn’t shaved her legs, so there was that. But she did own, that winter, a certain hot-oil type of hair conditioner that needed to be applied for ten minutes before rinsing. Occasionally, Rachel liked to use that time to zone out in the shower, an objective justification—see the instructions, right on the tube!—for a lengthy, luxurious water waste. So, had she used it, March 20? In any reconstruction of her hurry that afternoon, their perpetual fear of missing Lila’s first dive, Rachel can’t imagine that she did. But it was impossible to know for sure. By now, she was familiar with the way memory worked, its own sly insertions into a long lost sequence of events. Ticking, ticking. In any case, she had blown her hair dry and put on her clothes.
A gust of cold air, the first sign. Confused, she had stopped on the stairs. Why was the front door open? Swinging, banging, wide open. A creeping unease. She shut it and went back down the front hallway when something caught her eye. Bob, in the living room. Flung back on the couch, way back. The clock, still ticking at
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