“I have one more question,” Alice said.
“Just one?” Leonard laughed, and then coughed. He pointed at the television. “It’s all questions.”
“It’s always my birthday. When I go back. Why? Nothing happens, I mean, nothing major. For me, I mean.” Alice examined her fingernails.
“Not for me to know,” Leonard said. He looked so tired. “But I can tell you this—the day that you were born, that was when I became the best version of myself. I know that sounds cheeseball, but it’s true. Before you came scampering out, I was pretty happy thinking only about myself, all day long.” Leonard smiled. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you about this.”
“About being a selfish cheeseball?” Alice asked. Even now, she couldn’t help it—the joking, the teasing.
“About what it feels like to go back. It was just—” Leonard’s voice started to waver. He cleared his throat a few times and shook his head. “It was when I felt the most love. In my whole life. You remember when we went to that wedding and the bride told her husband that she was going to love him more than any children they would ever have?”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Yes.” She’d been eleven, swigging unlimited Shirley Temples in a velvet party dress.
“Well, I mean, obviously they’re still married and I got divorced. But I never felt anything close to the love that I had for you with Serena. Or Debbie.” At this, Leonard put a finger to his lips. “And that day, whoosh. There it was, all of it at once. Like when an oil derrick hits, and it all goes shooting into the sky. Maybe that’s it. I know I wasn’t always the best parent, but I tried. We did okay, right?”
“We did great, Dad. We did great.” The hospital made noises—cart wheels on the smooth floor, someone’s cough or shout, a nurse’s hello, laughter behind the desk—but Alice didn’t hear them. She closed her eyes for a moment and thought about everything she’d had on her sixteenth birthday—a father she loved and wanted to spend time with, who also trusted her to be alone. A best friend. A crush. Alice wondered if the day changed over the course of your life. Maybe there was a day in her forties, fifties, sixties that would be so full of love, so full, period, that a ninety-year-old Alice would go there instead. But Leonard wouldn’t be there, because no matter what she did, by then, he would be gone. It might not be someone else’s best, but it was hers, for now.
“What is Time Brothers,” said a contestant, hand still on the button, their face flushed with the satisfaction of knowing they were right.
Part Six
57
There were birds on Pomander—pigeons, sure, but also noisy swallows and sometimes even some barking seagulls who had wandered the short block and a half up the hill from the Hudson. They were congregating on the fire escape, having their daily meeting about worms and wind and bread crumbs. Alice listened for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. From her bed, she could see a sliver of gray sky in between the buildings behind them. She sat up in one fluid motion, her enormous yellow T-shirt riding up her rib cage as she stretched her arms overhead.
Leonard was in the same spot as usual, eating breakfast at the table. There was a folded newspaper beside him, and Ursula sat sentry at the window, as if she were waiting for Alice to appear.
“Knock, knock,” Alice said, clucking her tongue to get her father’s attention. He looked bemused to see her up so early. He didn’t know how often she was up, she was up, she was up.
“Happy birthday, little vagabond,” Leonard said. He ruffled Alice’s hair the way he had when she was a kid and came up to his waist. Alice didn’t cry, but she did swallow hard, several times in a row.
She had a plan.
58
The SAT class was pointless and so Alice skipped it. Leonard didn’t even put up a fuss. Alice looked through her drawers for her tape recorder and brought it with them to City Diner, where they had grilled cheeses and two orders of french fries.
“Tell me about your cousins,” Alice asked. “Who was your elementary school nemesis? Who was your first kiss? What was Mom like when she was young?”
Leonard laughed into his coffee cup. But then he answered her questions, one at a time. There was a cousin called Eggs who’d ended up as a bookie; there was a girl named Priscilla who had broken his pencils in half; there was Priscilla again, a few years later; there was Serena at twenty-two, blond and effortless. Every now and then Leonard would pause and say, “Are you sure you really want to hear all this?” But Alice would nod vigorously and point to the tape recorder. “Keep going.”