Ken Grimwood - Replay

"I was in a children’s clothing shop in New Rochelle. Buying baby clothes. My little boy, Christopher—he’s three—was with me. And then I felt my belly and I knew, and … I just broke down. I started sobbing, and of course that frightened Christopher. He started to cry and call out, 'Mommy, Mommy'…"

Pamela’s voice cracked, and she dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. Jeff took her hand, stroked it until she regained her composure.

"This is Kimberly that I’m carrying," she said at last, quietly. "My daughter. She’ll be born in March. March eighteenth, 1976. It’ll be a beautiful day, more like late April or early May, really. Her name means from the royal meadow, and I always used to say she brought the springtime with her."

"Pamela…"

"I never thought I’d see them again. You can’t imagine—not even you can imagine what this has been like for me, what it still is like, and will be for the next eleven, almost twelve, years. Because I love them more than ever, and this time I know I’m going to lose them."

She started to weep again, and Jeff knew there was nothing he could say to make it easier. He thought of what it would be like to hold his daughter Gretchen in his arms again, to watch her playing in the garden of the house in Dutchess County, all the while aware of the very day and hour when she would disappear from his life again. Impossible bliss, incalculable heartbreak, and never a hope of separating one from the other. Pamela was right; the unbearable, ever-constant wrenching of those paired emotions was beyond even his acutely developed empathetic powers.

After a time she excused herself from the table, went to stanch the tears in private. When she returned her face was dry, her light makeup newly applied and immaculate. Jeff had ordered a fresh glass of wine for her, another drink for himself.

"What about you?" she asked dispassionately. "When did you come back this time?"

He hesitated, cleared his throat. "I was in Miami," he said. "In 1968."

Pamela thought that over for a moment, gave him a perceptive look. "With Linda," she said. "Yes." "And now?"

"We’re still together. Not married, not yet, but … we live together."

She smiled a wistful, knowing smile, ran her finger along the rim of the wineglass. "And you’re happy."

"I am," he admitted. "We both are."

"Then I’m glad for you," Pamela said. "I mean that."

"It’s been different this time," he elaborated. "I had a vasectomy, so she’ll never have to go through the difficulties she once had with pregnancy. We may adopt a child. I could handle that; I did before, when I was married to Judy, and it wasn’t the same as … You know what I mean." Jeff paused for an instant, regretting having raised the issue of children again, then went on hurriedly. "The financial security has helped our relationship considerably," he said. "I haven’t bothered to go all-out with the investments, but we’re quite comfortable. Very nice house on the ocean; we travel a lot. And I’m writing now, doing some very rewarding work. It’s been a kind of healing process for me, even more so than the time I spent alone in Montgomery Creek."

"I know," she said. "I read your book; it was quite moving. It helped me put away so much of what went wrong between us the last time, all that bitterness."

"You—That’s right, I keep forgetting you’ve been replaying for two months already. Thank you; I’m glad you liked it. The one I’m working on right now is about exile; I’ve interviewed Solzhenitsyn, Peron … I’ll send you an advance copy when it’s done."

She lowered her eyes, put a hand to her chin. "I’m not sure that would be a good idea."

It took Jeff a moment to catch her meaning. "Your husband?"

Pamela nodded. "It’s not that he’s an overly jealous man, but … Oh, God, how can I say this? It would require too many explanations if you and I remained in touch, started writing and phoning and seeing each other. Don’t you see how awkward that would be?"

"Do you love him?" Jeff asked, swallowing hard.

"Not the way you obviously love Linda," she said, her voice steady but cool. "Steve’s a decent man; he cares for me in his own way. But mainly it’s the children I’m thinking of. Christopher’s only three, and Kimberly’s not even born yet. I couldn’t take them away from their father before they even had a chance to know him." A sudden fire of anger flared in her eyes, but then she dampened it. "Even if you wanted me to," she added.

"Pamela…"

"I can’t resent your feelings for Linda," she said. "We’ve been apart too long for me to turn possessive, and I know how much it must mean to you to have that work out positively, after the problems you and she had the first time."

"That doesn’t change anything about the way I feel for you."

"I know," she said gently. "It has nothing to do with us, but it’s real, and right now it takes priority for you. Just as I need this time with my children, my family; I need it desperately."

"You’re not still angry about—"

"Everything that happened last time, with Russell Hedges? No. Not angry at you; we both set that in motion and did what we thought was best. There were so many times, during those last few months particularly, that I wanted to turn to you, apologize for having blamed you … but I was stubborn. I couldn’t handle all the guilt I felt. I had to saddle someone else with it to protect my own sanity, and that should have been Hedges, not you. I’m sorry."

"I understand," he told her. "I did then, too, though it was difficult."

The longing in her eyes, the deep regret, mirrored his own emotions. "It’ll be even harder now," she said, covering his hand with her smooth palms. "It’s going to take a lot of understanding, on both our parts."

The gallery was on Chambers Street in TriBeCa, the Triangle Below Canal Street, which had replaced Soho as Manhattan’s primary artists' enclave. Since the mid-eighties, though, the same process that had led to the exodus from Soho had begun anew in TriBeCa: Trendy bars and restaurants were sprouting on the side streets off Hudson and Varick, the prices in the shops and galleries had begun to reflect the spending power of their uptown patrons, and loft space was at a premium. Soon the young painters and sculptors and performance artists whose presence had set in motion the flowering of this once-desolate corner of the city would be driven out to some new bohemia, some thoroughly undesirable, and thus affordable, sector of this congested island. Jeff spotted the understated brass plaque that identified the Hawthorne Gallery, and led Linda through the doorway of the renovated building that had once been a tenement next to an industrial warehouse. They came into an elegantly sparse reception area, white walls and ceiling, a low black sofa facing a curved black desk. The only decoration was a surprisingly delicate piece of hanging ironwork, its elongated slender swirls like a distillation and extension of the intricate iron filigree typical of the gates and balconies of old New Orleans.

"May I help you?" asked the whippet-thin young woman behind the desk.

"We’re here for the opening," Jeff said, handing her the embossed invitation.

"Certainly," she said, consulting a printed list and crossing off their names. "Go right in, won’t you?"

Jeff and Linda walked past the desk, into the main gallery space. The walls were the same stark white, but devoted to the display of what might have seemed a riot of images, had their placement not been subject to such careful design. The one huge room had been subdivided here and there into intimate little alcoves suited to quiet study of the contemplative pieces they contained, while at the other extreme the full grandeur of the larger works was enhanced by the openness of the areas in which they were exhibited.