Still Time Read online

  Also by Jean Hegland:

  The Life Within: Celebration of a Pregnancy

  Into the Forest

  Windfalls

  Copyright © 2015 by Jean Hegland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hegland, Jean.

  Still time : a novel / Jean Hegland. — First edition.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-62872-579-7 (hardcover : acid-free paper);

  ISBN 978-1-62872-617-6 (ebook)

  1. Parent and adult child—Fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Dementia—Patients—Care—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.E419S75 2015

  813'.54—dc23 2015014025

  Cover design by Georgia Morrissey

  Cover photo: Trevillion

  To the memories of John Heminge and Henry Condell:

  Reade him, therefore; and againe, and againe.

  JOHN SENSES SALLY’S SADNESS as soon as he enters the room.

  She is sitting on the sofa by the window, her head tipped to one side, her feet tucked under her as if she were a lass of sweet and twenty instead of a woman over sixty. But one glimpse of her hunched shoulders and the strained lines on her face tells him he cannot remember ever having seen her so forlorn.

  Shocked by this vision of a grief so private John might swear he’s had no inkling of it, he halts in the doorway, studying his wife. A sunset is gathering beyond the far green hills, a glorious mass of saffron, coral, and carnation clouds. Its rosy light burnishes her strong hands and silvered hair, but still she sits as if carved from marble, stricken and alone.

  “Sweeting,” John gasps, “my love.” Gimping across the floor as fast as his bad hip will allow, he eases down beside her.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks, cupping her hand in his. By way of a gentle joke, he adds, “What villain hath done thee wrong?”

  “Oh, John.” She gives him a grateful smile. But then she sinks back inside her misery for so long that the sun is resting on the horizon before she whispers, “We have to talk.”

  She seems to be speaking more to herself—or perhaps to the crimson sky—than to John, though he answers gallantly, “I trust we always will.”

  But instead of any of the discussion, debate, banter, or pillow talk that has served to make his time with her such delight, she launches into a bewildering thicket of reasons, facts, and explanations, a tangle so dense and prickly he finds he has to focus on her dear face and not her dire words.

  Speaking too swiftly for him to follow, she outlines their expenses and their debts, mentions her business loans and pollination contracts, his pension and retirement accounts, the taxes on their house, their insurance premiums. But the terms and numbers whine so much like mosquitoes around his head that he has to resist the urge to swat at them.

  From finances she skips to other things—stove burners left on, his tendency to wander, her sleepless nights—somehow binding all those disparate themes together and then investing them with a significance that eludes him no matter how he strains to attend.

  “I wish we had more savings,” she mourns, gazing dully at the ruddy clouds. “I wish I could retire. I wish we’d had longer together before this happened.”

  Her wishes stab him, leave him groping for a way to ease her pain. He gazes around the room, taking in the maple floors, the patterned carpets, the walls of books whose covers are more familiar to him than the veined and strangely wrinkled hand that strokes his wife’s arm. Outside the window, at the bottom of the yard, he spies a row of Sally’s hives, pale in the gloaming.

  “If you have a bee in your hand,” he offers, “what do you have in your eye?”

  But Sally makes no effort to guess, and when he suggests, “Beauty,” she answers with a smile so wan that it alone might stop his heart.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the bee holder,” he persists. “My beautiful bee holder,” he marvels, gazing into her face. But instead of matching her smile to his, a stricken pain crosses her expression, and she closes her eyes for a moment as if summoning extra strength.

  “What do you need?” he blurts. “What can I do?”

  “Oh, John,” she says again. Her voice is thick with gratitude, though the answer she offers him is enigmatical. She’s found a place to help them, she claims, somewhere he will be safe while she is away at work, where he can stay so she will be able to get the sleep her doctor has told her she has to have.

  Cupping his cragged face between her warm palms, she gazes directly into his eyes. “It’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve tried and tried to find another way. I really don’t believe we have a choice, but I want to make sure you agree.” She looks at him imploringly, willing his answer to match her desperate need.

  “For you,” John replies, partly to forestall her further explanations, partly to soothe the worry in her face, but mainly because it is the simple truth, “I would do anything.” He lifts her hand to his lips, bestows a kiss inside her calloused palm, then gently folds her fingers into a fist as if to keep his kiss cupped safe inside.

  “It’s a good place,” she continues in a rush. “I’ll visit every chance I get. I know they will take good care of you there.” She pauses for a moment, as if seeking further strength. “Can you do this?” she pleads. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  He is not certain exactly what she is asking of him, but it’s clear what answer she needs to hear, and he gives it to her willingly, agreeing because he loves her, because he wants anything that troubles her to go away.

  Borrowing words from The Winter’s Tale, he tells her again what he told her at their wedding, “‘I cannot be Mine own, nor any thing to any, if I be not thine.’” As the sun sinks to an incarnadine shard and ribbons of lavender fret the crimson clouds, he marvels yet again how perfectly the lines William Shakespeare wrote four centuries earlier for that young pup Prince Florizel fit what John is feeling now, as a man of seventy, half a world and four centuries distant from where that romance about severed families and second chances was first performed.

  But Sally only sighs. Bending her head over their clasped hands, she whispers, “I’m afraid this will be so hard for you.”

  “I will be the pattern of all patience,” he promises. Patting her hand, he vows, “I will endure.”

  Water wobbles in her eyes. With his finger, he daubs her tears. With his finger, he traces the path of a smile up her cheek, coaxes her mouth to follow.

  For a long time they sit together inside the same silence, watching as the firmament glows with colors so strange and pure they seem to have been transported from another world.

  “There’s one more thing,” Sally says when the final rim of sun has vanished behind
the darkening hills, leaving a ruby ocean gleaming in its wake.

  “Only one?” he quips.

  “I’d like to get in touch with Miranda.”

  “Mir—?”

  “Your daughter,” she offers hastily, thus helping to forestall the vertiginous spin that has already begun in his chest and brain, that panic he feels more and more of late, when the simplest things—things he knows that he should know—seem to careen beyond his grasp.

  “Daughter,” he echoes cautiously while half-formed images flicker in his mind—solemn toddler, howling infant, a child with a crayon in her hand.

  Sally urges, “I really think Miranda needs to know what’s happening.”

  “Miranda,” John repeats, giving every syllable of the name that Shakespeare fashioned from the Latin word for “wonder” its due, striving to subject even that single word to the kind of close scrutiny he has always taught his students is the best first step to studying any text. “Miranda.”

  “It could be good for both of you,” Sally offers, “to be back in touch. I know you two’ve had your troubles. But London was ten years ago. A lot has changed since then. Miranda’s a grown-up now, and you—” Catching herself mid-sentence, she reaches down to give John’s knee a playful waggle. “You’re getting old. Don’t you think it’s time to try again?”

  A scowling teenager shoulders her way into John’s mind, lavender hair bristling from her scalp as if she were an electrified porcupine. “I told you already,” she snarls from the far side of the London taxi. “There’s nothing more to say.”

  “I don’t want to barge in where I don’t belong,” Sally continues while that hoyden glowers from her corner of the cab. “I’ve never met Miranda, and of course I can’t promise anything, but I know you’ve missed her, and I really wonder if you two don’t deserve another chance.”

  “Chance,” John muses, offering the word like bait to the ocean inside his mind, waiting to see what it might net. The lines that come, though broken, are still luminous, yet another present from a lifetime of devoted study. a chance which does redeem all sorrows comfort you with chance I, That have this golden chance and know not why

  But before he can identify which characters speak those words and in what plays, before he can think what those lines might possibly illuminate for him now, the sulking urchin has vanished from his ken, and in the sky the unworldly colors are fading, too, the rose muddying to rust, the delicate corals and lilacs graying into the inky welkin like thoughts dissolving.

  “Is that okay, John?” Sally persists when it appears he is lost in those dimming clouds. “Would you mind if I tried to call Miranda?”

  “I tried.” He frowns. “I called her, but—”

  “Can’t you try again?”

  He gropes in the shadows of his vanishing past, trying to find the plot or identify the motivations that might explain his current circumspection. “She cursed me,” he announces in bitter wonder when the truth of it finally wafts into his awareness. “It’s too late now,” he tells the darkening world.

  “Not yet.” Sally grabs his hands and pulls them to her heart. “There’s still time. You and Miranda could still forgive and—” She hesitates for a second, suddenly appears as abashed as if she had been about to say something untoward or even obscene.

  “Forget,” John offers when it seems she is unable to complete that simple cliché. “Forget is the word you’re looking for, my love.”

  HE’S IN A ROOM. A plain clean room. A quiet clean cube of a room with a shining vinyl floor, pale green walls, still, odorless air. It’s a room near monastic with its single bed, its simple dresser, two doors leading nowhere he would ever care to go. He is sitting in a strange clean room in the leather armchair he recognizes from his study at home—the same worn chair that has accompanied him through so many years and moves, so many other wives and former lives. He is sitting in his own familiar chair, looking out a wide window onto a green expanse of close-cropped grass bordered by an ivy-curtained wall.

  It’s a place he’s never been—or seen, or dreamed—in all his life.

  What country, friends, is this? That’s what Viola asks, when, half-drowned by the storm that split her ship and doubtless killed her brother, she crawls from the surf onto some alien shore. Viola, John recalls, the sprightly heroine of Shakespeare’s marvelous dark comedy Twelfth Night. Not Shakespeare’s masterpiece, of course—since for the Elizabethans masterpiece would have meant the piece of work an apprentice used to gain admittance to his guild—but a magnum opus nonetheless, yet one more capstone for a career so wondrous it can only be called a miracle.

  Outside, the sky above the wall that blocks his view is blue as eternity. It dizzies him to look on that much blue, just as it makes him dizzy to try to con where he is—so far from lecture hall, hotel room, or home—in what strange cell, walled in beneath what endless sky.

  What country, friends, is this?

  “It’s a good place.”

  It was Sally who said that. Sally, his own dear wife, his last and best, sitting beside him on the sofa in their living room, her sweet face knotted with feelings it troubled him to see. Sally, holding his hand so tenderly in both of hers, her voice tight with worry as she explained and outlined and proposed. Sally, searching his eyes for the assent she needed to find there.

  It was hard for him to follow her reasoning, hard even to identify the matter they were supposed to be discussing, but even so, he’d nodded solemnly, said, “Anything for you,” assured her he would be the pattern of all patience, that he would endure.

  But that was King Lear, roiling toward his madness. And he is John. John Wilson. John Hubbard Wilson, PhD, who has sworn to bear this strange shift in fortune for his own dear Sally’s sake.

  run through fire I will for thy sweet sake for your sake Am I this patient log-man wish, for her sake more than for mine own, My fortunes were more able to relieve her The lines and phrases come to him like breaths, like gifts—sometimes popping full-blown into his mind, sometimes meandering through his thoughts like smoke from smoldering incense, curling into meanings that shift and morph, luring him on, drawing him in, tantalizing and compelling him as he sits in this unfamiliar room, watching, waiting, remembering. Still trying to understand.

  “He who ends with the most understanding wins.” At a certain point in his Introduction to Shakespeare classes, John always announces that. And then, standing in easy command at the helm of the lecture hall, holding his students in thrall with that mix of passion and iconoclasm he has perfected over half a century, he will go on to explain, “It’s one of the most consistent lessons in all of Shakespeare’s work. We see it in his comedies where his characters have to learn about themselves before they can earn their partners and their rightful places in society. We see it in his romances, where his characters come to comprehend the power of forgiveness and life’s preciousness.

  “And we see it even more clearly in his great tragedies. King Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello—there’s no denying those guys live flawed lives and die unhappy deaths. But they do not die in their sleep. They do not die ignorant of either their own follies or of life’s worth. Instead, they die in the fullest possible knowledge of who they are, of what they lived for, of the mistakes that they have made. As Shakespeare reminds us time after time, we’re all gonna die. It’s what happens while we live that’s got to matter—what we learn, what we know, what we come to understand before we go.”

  Sometimes a memory envelops him. The clacketing of a typewriter. Rain pocking a dusty road. Another gust of laughter sweeping a lecture hall. Often those memories are shadowed things, wisps and ghosts that dissolve even as he tries to reach for them. But occasionally they arrive in his mind as precise as stories—memories polished by decades of remembering, their plots honed, their characters clear, their themes rich with meaning, remembrances so keen he sometimes feels he inhabits them more fully in retrospect than he ever did back when he was merely living them. He feels he can finally
do those memories justice, now that he has lived longer and learned more, now that he has come to see how fickle it all is, how ephemeral, how much there is to be known and noticed and understood.

  “I don’t know where to go,” a voice announces at his back. It is a woman’s voice, rough with age. Like one of the abused queens in King John or Richard III, it hints at hidden sorrows. Despite the pang in his bad hip, John twists around in his chair to watch as the speaker shuffles into the room through the wide doorway that opens onto a bland bright hall.

  “Is this where we are?” she demands. Her blouse sags from her jutting shoulders, her pant legs flap like sacks around her scrawny thighs.

  “Begone,” John growls. “Avaunt.”

  Ignoring him as if he were mere furniture, she circles the room until her attention is snagged by a pair of photographs that sit atop the dresser.

  “What are these doing here? We don’t even know these people,” she complains, snatching up the nearest picture, and frowning at the image it contains. As if to prove her point, she holds the photo out toward John, tilting it to reveal a school portrait of a child—a girl of eight or ten—her pigtails askew, her gap-toothed grin at odds with the pinch of worry in her brown eyes. Like an old bruise or a dimming sunset, the photograph’s colors have begun to fade, but even so, the sight of that grinning girl evokes in John a deep and complicated ache, provokes a yearning he can’t quite locate or explain.

  “Leave,” he commands, his voice that can captivate a lecture hall full of freshmen swelling with authority. “Depart.”

  Shifting the photograph so she can gaze into the schoolgirl’s eyes, the woman frets, “Why does everyone leave their messes for me? It’s not firm, it’s not defensible.”

  She sighs, “They brought me here to help me, my boys did.” Disregarding John, she speaks to the photograph, the peevishness melting from her expression the longer she studies the girl captured there. “They said I just needed a little extra …”

  Bewilderment fuddles her face. “Why am I here?” she asks the smiling paper girl. “I don’t remember.”