Page 72 of Life Out of Order

“Oh,” I say, “please don’t worry about it. I’m used to waiting. My husband was very, um, time-challenged.”

“You are way more patient than I am. My husband is always late, it makes me crazy.”

“Henry usually couldn’t help it.” I want to change the subject; thinking about Henry makes me feel uncomfortable, as though I’m cheating on him. We take refuge in the menus. After a few minutes I ask her what she’s thinking of having.

“I’m a vegetarian, so it’s nice to see all the meat-free items. I’m a big fan of beets, I’ve got to try the borscht. And the pumpkin piroshki, I have to have something with pumpkin.”

“That sounds very colorful. I’ll have borscht and latkes. I’m not that into pumpkin.”

“Are you vegetarian?” Beck looks hopeful.

“No, but I’d feel self-conscious eating meat in front of you.”

“Hmm, okay, you don’t have to do that, but I won’t encourage you to eat it, either.”

The waiter appears and we order our meals, along with vodka. I’m not much of a drinker, but it’s a specialty of the house. I wonder if I am making Beck as nervous as she makes me. I’ve been to this restaurant many times—it’s near the Art Institute, and it has been here for years. I feel safe here. The decor is very red: The curtains, carpet and upholstery are all crimson, there are mirrors and chandeliers, white linen tablecloths and dark wood. Beck glances around, and I realize that she’s the only Black person in the restaurant.

“I’ve never been in here before,” she says. “I walk by it every day.”

“I used to come here a lot,” I say. “Not so much lately. When I was pregnant I liked to eat heavy stews and lots of borscht.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“Alba is eight.”

“Oh, she’s young! How old was she when . . . ?” Beck realizes that she’s jumped in at the deep end.

I do my best to sound unfazed. “. . . Henry died? She was five.” The scene flashes in my mind: the blood, Alba’s face . . . I try to quell it. The waiter appears and gives me a chance to compose myself. He places vodka in front of us, along with black bread and pickles. He explains the ritual: Inhale the smell of the bread, sip the vodka, eat the pickles, take a bite of bread, repeat. We do this. The vodka produces a warm rush; I feel a bit dizzy. Beck makes a woo! sort of sound. I take a deep breath. She smiles at me and I smile back.

Beck says, “How is Alba doing?”

“She’s mostly okay. I think she’s more resilient than I am, to be honest.” I don’t know how to say, Alba sees Henry often. For her he isn’t really gone, like he is for me. I don’t know how to tell Beck about the time-travel thing. I’m so conditioned to keep it a secret that I feel intensely guilty whenever I consider telling.

Beck says, “I wonder if this is how it will be for the rest of our lives, every time we meet someone new? We’ll have to show all our damage, put all our uncomfortable business out there like we don’t mind what anybody thinks?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve been a hermit since Henry died. I haven’t made any new friends, I haven’t even been keeping in touch with my old friends very well.”

“Charisse told me you met Henry when you were six years old?”

“Yeah.” I wonder what else Charisse has told Beck? I kind of hope that Charisse has already told her everything, but I know that’s cowardly of me.

Beck says, “Jasper and I met in grad school, at MIT. He’s very—mercurial. He just swept me right off my feet. We got married six months after we met. Big mistake, but you can’t just go back and warn yourself, so I’ve been trying to find my own way ever since.”

I think of all the times Henry and Alba have done just that—circled back in time to warn me or help me—and I don’t like to think of what might have happened otherwise.

“Did you and Jasper want to have kids?”

“We had a daughter. She died at birth.”

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” I flash back to my miscarriages and feel for her.

“Thank you. We never got past it. But we just dived back into our work, that’s where we were our best selves together. Jasper would have been a good father. Losing the baby was hard for both of us, but I’m not sure he will recover. He seems so lost.” Beck sighs. “I’m sorry, that’s a heavy subject.”

“Please don’t apologize.”

Our borscht arrives and we exclaim over its intense purpleness. It’s such a pleasure to eat pretty colors. I say, “You and Jasper were working together? What happened when you separated?”

“Chaos. The projects we’re working on can’t be divided easily, so right now we’re still trying to collaborate remotely. I’m not sure how much longer that’s going to be possible.”