She reads it again, the words whirring through her, awakening her veins, better than caffeine. A curious thing happens. Anger doesn’t alight. It will again, Clio knows this, but these moments, as they tumble past, don’t contain vitriol and bitterness. Just longing. Now it’s soothingly simple: she’s just a daughter who has lost her mother and misses her deeply.
Clio looks up. Henry comes toward her wrapped up in his robe, his hair glistening wet and dark, carefully combed. His blue eyes beam as he sits on the edge of the bed next to her. “You slept hard,” he says, sweeping a strand of hair from her eyes.
She smiles. “I did. I can’t remember the last time I slept that well.”
“Good,” he says. One word. Good.
A knock on the door.
“Breakfast,” he says, popping up. “Hope you’re hungry.”
She is. She’s more ravenous than she’s been in many months. She slips into the bathroom but watches through the crack as silver steaming trays float by and through the other door, their door. The empty shelf is tucked into the corner of the room, where it will stay. She will fill it with Eloise’s books.
She throws cold water on her face and blots it dry. Dregs of makeup from the wedding linger defiantly on her lashes and under her eyes. She wraps up in her own robe, the one that matches his. She knots the sash tightly and looks in the mirror again. She sees something: a true smile.
In the new place—what will be their home—Henry stands by the triplet windows, his silhouette framed by sunshine that spills in from the street. She walks over and stands with him for a moment. Looks out. The trees sway in a slight wind.
It’s December again.
He turns to her. “Good morning, my Clio.”
“Good morning, my Henry,” she says.
Plates upon plates of food await them. Eggs and bacon and French toast and exotic fruit, and it all looks good, worth tasting. There are plenty of chairs, but Clio settles on a square of carpet by the coffee table and begins to eat. He sits with her on the floor, feeds her cubes of cantaloupe.
Side by side, they sit like this and eat in silence, trading sections of the Sunday New York Times. Over the pages of her newspaper, she steals glances at him to remember that this is real.
It is.
She stands and walks around the place, the place she didn’t really see a week ago because she was so stunned, so scared, so riddled with panic. On the wall hangs a Currier and Ives print of Central Park.
Henry comes up behind her, drapes his arms around her chest.
“I was hoping you might give me a private tour,” he whispers in her ear.
“Let’s go,” Clio says, grabbing his hand. They dress.
Outside the hotel entrance, pigeons peck at a piece of poppy-seed bagel.
“So,” he says. “What are our thoughts on pigeons?”
“Our thought is that despite conventional wisdom and widespread disgust, they are brilliant birds. Considered to be among the most intelligent. They can do things only humans and primates were thought to be able to do. They can pass the mirror test.”
“The mirror test?” Henry asks eagerly.
“A pigeon can recognize its own reflection in a mirror. It’s the only non-mammal species that can do this. They can also recognize all twenty-six letters in the alphabet.”
“Incredible.”
She nods.
Say hello hello to the pigeons.
They hold hands as they walk toward the park. They enter on Eighty-First Street and pass the Delacorte Theater, where they saw Shakespeare in the Park in August, then wind along the Great Lawn toward Turtle Pond. She leads him to the dock, to the spot where she meets her walkers each week, and they stand together gazing out over the water. In the distance, a pair of Mallards swims, leaving behind them a gentle wake.
Then the Ramble, the labyrinthine heart of the park. She thinks of the passion-filled, metaphor-laden journal notes she wrote so many years ago. Hiding and seeking. Lost and found. City and wild. Humans and nature. It was about these things and so much more: getting out here, experiencing something, seeing, feeling.
Rambling.
“So what’s the scoop for winter in these parts? Pretty quiet birding time?” Henry says.
“A little quiet, but maybe my favorite season here. When there are no leaves on the trees, it’s easy to spot the owls and the hawks. And there are these thistle and sunflower feeders in Evodia Field that attract lots of birds . . . Hairy and Downy Woodpeckers, White-breasted Nuthatches, Carolina Wrens, Fox Sparrows, Blue Jays, Northern Cardinals, Common Redpolls, Black-capped Chickadees, Tufted Titmice. And on the Harlem Meer and the Lake, you’ll see Hooded Mergansers and Pied-billed Grebes and Ruddy Ducks and Wood Ducks. And it’s pretty remarkable to see this place in a snowstorm.”
She points at the walkway near Bow Bridge. “Years ago, five Long-eared Owls perched in that tree right there. They stayed for weeks. Huge crowds gathered. It was pretty incredible. Rumor has it there’s a crew this year too.”
She leads him to her bench. Their bench. They sit for a while. They don’t say much even though there’s much to say. They just sit, their legs touching, dappled by sun. People pass, kind-faced strangers who clutch coffees and papers and phones and dreams. People somewhere between here and there, then and when.
“Oh, that day. That first day on this good, green bench,” he says. “I was a world-class wreck, wasn’t I?”
Clio nods, remembers. “There’s poetry in the wreckage.”
Henry laughs. “Indeed there is.”
The sun continues to shine. Birds sing. Sirens croon in the distance.
For Clio, a singular thought alights, bold, quiet, unbidden: I’m home.
The air is fresh and full. She breathes it in and out and looks up at the San Remo, the austere and brooding building where she’s lived all these years, these complex and important years, and wonders what it will be like to move on, to have a fresh view of the world. She thinks of Smith. As Clio and Henry left the wedding last night, they walked by Smith and Tate on the street. The two were lost in an embrace, blind to the world. Clio wonders if he’s up there this morning, next to Smith in bed. The thought makes her smile.
Friends. A dance of moments and memories, a tumble of years and tears and talks and walks, of sameness and difference, closeness and distance, words and silence, secrets and survivals big and small, a swirl of I’m okay and I’m a mess and It is what it is. And it is.
Time passes, as it does. An uncertain amount. Wordlessly Clio stands, pulls Henry up too.
“Let’s go home,” she says.
“Home, huh?” he says, beaming. “I like the sound of that.”
And she leads him along, under her trees and through her birds. Her mind tangles with memories and questions and then she feels it, the subtle but also unmistakable sensation of emptying, of letting go. Hand in his hand, one foot in front of the other, she is going forward for once.
They exit the park where they entered. Wait for the green light to cross.
She leads Henry along her shortcut by the planetarium, and this is when she sees it: the blurry object near the foliage that flanks the ground-level entrance to the Rose Center.
“Wait. What was that?” she says, dropping Henry’s hand, sneaking toward to the blooming Mahonia japonica plant to take a closer look. “What in the world?”
“What is it?” Henry says. “What do you see?”
“Come,” Clio whispers emphatically, waving him over. “Come.”
He comes to her and she points at the small blur hovering over the bushes.
“A hummingbird, Henry. On the first of December.”
She studies the tiny creature. It’s no more than four inches long, with its rapierlike bill. It hovers insectlike, remaining stationary in midair. Then it flies backward, straight up and down, side to side. Its colors are grand: kelly green above, white below, strongly washed with red on its sides, flanks and under-tail coverts. The center of its throat is a pure
, unmarked white, which suggests she’s an immature female.
“You see the bright plumage?” she whispers. “It’s often a trick of the sun. In some species, the coloring doesn’t actually derive from pigmentation in the feather structure, but rather from these prismlike cells found in the topmost layers of the feathers. When sunlight hits these cells, it breaks into wavelengths that reflect to us in various degrees of intensity. So, if we change position, a muted-looking bird might suddenly look fire-engine red or bright green.”
“So, it’s all about the light we see things in. All about perspective,” he says.
“Exactly.”
Clio snaps a quick photo with her phone, sends it to her museum colleagues.
Clio: Probable immature female rufous spotted in shrubbery at AMNH 81st Street entrance. Confirm ID. Could also be Allen’s or broad-tailed?
She looks up at the blue sky and then into Henry’s blue eyes. And then she settles her gaze back on the bird, the bird that buzzes around the nectar-filled plant. She’s careful to keep enough distance, not to disturb the small creature. She knows how quickly word will spread, but for now, it’s just the three of them.
“As far as I know, this is the first vagrant in a while to show up in New York State. She was probably on the way to Mexico and miscalculated the angle of her southern flight path and ended up here. A small navigational error can amount to a big mistake.”
“So, she got lost?” Henry says, breaking it down.
“Yes,” Clio says, and laughs.
He laughs with her.
We haven’t laughed enough yet. We will. We will laugh at it all.
She thinks of her mother, feels with every bit of her being that Eloise is behind this. Around them, the world goes on.
“Can you believe it?” she whispers, looking up at him.
“I can,” he says through a smile, throwing his arm around her. “What will happen? Do you think she’ll survive?”
Clio leans into him. Buries her face in his chest. Inhales.
“I do,” she says. “I think she’ll make it. She’ll do what she has to do.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I must thank three brilliant women who read multiple drafts of this book and whose encouragement kept me going: Brettne Bloom, Lucia Macro, and Christine Pride. This book would not exist without their imaginative guidance.
I am indebted to Lucia’s wonderful team at William Morrow, especially Liate Stehlik, Kelly Rudolph, Kaitlin Harri, Nicole Fischer, Leah Carlson-Stanisic, Serena Wang, and Aja Pollock. Thanks also to Sarah Burningham of Little Bird Publicity, Brettne’s lovely assistant Dana Murphy at The Book Group, and to Jenny Meyer.
I’m enormously grateful to the experts I consulted with while researching this book. Eleanor Sterling at the glorious American Museum of Natural History in New York was generous with her time and connected me with Ana Luz Porzecanski and Paul Sweet, who enlightened me about the ornithology world. Philippe Cheng shared the intricacies and wonders of photography with me. Libby Nelson educated me about the intriguing modern space of Co-Active Life Coaching. Rachel Yehaskel of Resourceful Consultants, LLC shed light on the work of a professional organizer. Gareth Russell helped me bring to life my dear Northern Irishman Henry Kildare. Jes Gordon lent me her party planning skills, this time for a fictional wedding. Durre Nabi and Lindsay Choudry talked with me about Pakistani culture and customs. Jennie Tarr Coyne and Patsy Tarr graciously welcomed me into their San Remo homes.
I wish to thank all of you who shared your firsthand experiences of bipolar disorder and other mental illnesses with me. You will remain anonymous here, but please know that I’m tremendoulsy grateful for your personal stories and hard-earned insights. I am also indebted to Dr. Lauren Weinstock and Dr. Brian Kurtz for their medical expertise.
Thank you to all of the wildly talented writers I’ve come to know over the past six years, both online and in real life, and to all the women who have joined me for my Happier Hours Literary Salons. Your friendship means the world to me.
Thank you to the wonderful Rowley family for your love and support. I lucked out in the in-law department. You are the best.
Thank you, Yolanda and Pat, for taking such tremendous care of our girls and our home while I’m writing.
Thank you to my favorite Donnelley women. To my sisters Inanna, Naomi, Ceara and Tegan and your families. To Mom, for teaching me to write and encouraging me to read and, above all, for showing me how to be a good mom to girls in this amazing urban jungle. To Dad, who read me Charlotte’s Web when I was a little girl, kindling my longtime affection for E. B. White. Many years later, I encountered White’s Here Is New York, a brilliant portrait of this city of mine, and an inspiration for this book. Dad, you are now fishing in distant waters, but your spirit infuses The Ramblers.
Finally, thank you to my husband and to my daughters. Bryan, you are my rock, my world, my rambler. My Rowlets, my sweet petites, there are no words to describe my love for you. You inspire me. You light a little fire under me. You fill my days with laughter and light. Everything I write is for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in New York City, AIDAN DONNELLEY ROWLEY graduated from Yale University and received her law degree from Columbia University. She is the author of a previous novel, Life After Yes, and the creator of the Happier Hours Literary Salons. She lives in Manhattan with her husband and three daughters.
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ALSO BY AIDAN DONNELLEY ROWLEY
Life After Yes
CREDITS
COVER DESIGN BY MUMTAZ MUSTAFA
COVER PHOTOGRAPHS: © MATT BURKE 2012 / GETTY IMAGES (BOW BRIDGE); © EVA _ MASK / SHUTTERSTOCK (BIRDS)
COPYRIGHT
Here Is New York © 1949 by E. B. White
Used by Permission. All rights reserved.
“New York” logo and “Best of New York” typeface used with permission from New York Media, LLC.
The Way You Look Tonight
from SWING TIME
Words by Dorothy Fields
Music by Jerome Kern
Copyright ©1936 UNIVERSAL-POLYGRAM INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING, INC. and ALDI MUSIC
Copyright Renewed
Print Rights for ALDI MUSIC in the U.S. Controlled and Administered by HAPPY ASPEN MUSIC LLC c/o SHAPIRO, BERNSTEIN & CO., INC.
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE RAMBLERS. Copyright © 2016 by Aidan Donnelley Rowley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Title page designed by Leah Carlson-Stanisic
Hummingbird art courtesy of Eva_Mask/Shutterstock, Inc.
EPub Edition February 2016 ISBN 9780062413338
ISBN 978-0-06-241331-4
16 17 18 19 20 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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* Based on the work of Jim McGuire et al., “A higher-level taxonomy for hummingbirds,” Journal of Ornithology 150.1 (2008) 155–165, doi: 10.1007/s10336-008-0330x.
* Many of these details have been culled from The Ramble in Central Park: A Wilderness West of Fifth by Robert A. McCabe.
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