23 | Fears

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The black dots had faded when I opened my eyes again.  A lemon flavored candy wafer was dissolving on my tongue, leaving a chalky residue.  I was lying on my back on a smooth, hard bench and Pete was gently shaking my shoulder and saying my name.  The small crowd that had gathered around me retreated when I sat up and chewed the rest of the thin wafer.  Pete was kneeling in front of me.

"Keep these, just in case," a petite older woman said to Pete, tucking the multicolored roll of candy into his hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking up into my eyes.

"I think I fainted," I said.  I squeezed my eyes shut.  I feared that with any more eye contact, it could happen again.

"You did."

"You literally made me faint."  I sighed.  "Do you realize how ridiculously good looking you are?  It's overwhelming.  Between this place and your face and the light from the chandelier behind you, I must've thought I died and went to heaven."

"I'm sorry," he said while trying to suppress a smile.

"You should be.  Walking around looking like you do.  It's hazardous."  I popped another candy from the waxed paper wrapping.  Wintergreen.  The taste of his toothpaste.  "Then you kiss me like that?  Are you trying to kill me?  I'm hungry.  I guess the Cracker Jacks at the game didn't cut it.  I never ate breakfast either."

"Neither did I.  We fast before communion on Sunday."

"Is it supposed to be more effective when taken on an empty stomach?"

"Something like that.  Come on, let's get some dinner."

We took the streetcar back to his uncle's restaurant, where we were seated at a private corner booth with a white linen tablecloth and napkins.  The polished silver gleamed in the flickering candlelight.  It was still light outside, but the heavy drapery and maroon walls and carpeting enveloped the room in moody darkness.

"So, tell me what you've been doing for the past few weeks."

"Is this a trick question?" I asked.

"What makes you think it's a trick question?"

"I've been careful not to talk about," I paused and glanced around us.  There was no one within listening range. "I haven't talked about when I'm from, because you said you didn't want me to, and now you're asking me to describe a few weeks?  How am I supposed to work around that?  I can be vague, I guess.  I went to work, hung out with my friends, did some summertime things."

"What I meant before is that I don't want to know about what's happening in the world.  I only care about what's happening in your world.  Where do you work?  What are your friends like?"

"I have a summer job at the marina in town.  I haul kayaks and canoes around, pull dead geese and ducks out of the water, pump gas into boats, pump human waste out of boats, and shuttle boaters to and from the local bars.  My friend, Sophie, is the smartest person I know.  And she's gorgeous.  I'm actually glad you'll never meet her, because you'd drop me for her in a second."  He began to protest, but I cut him off because it was the truth and there was no point in denying it. "And Laura is sweet and funny, but in a quiet way that makes me feel like a member of an elite group that knows how hilarious she can be.  Kaitlin is a romantic, free-spirit type.  She plays guitar and writes her own songs.  That's about it.  Quality over quantity, I guess."

"What kind of 'summertime things' have you been doing?"

"Swimming, eating ice cream, napping in the sunshine."  I forced a placid smile to hide behind.

"That's it, huh?"

"Last night you wanted me to forget about my real life, now I have to tell you all about it?  I can't keep up."

"I didn't mean-"

The waiter appeared and set our plates on the table.  Pete had ordered whatever his uncle recommended, which turned out to be steak, mashed potatoes and green beans.  I sighed.

"I know.  I'm sorry.  I think I'm just hangry...I mean, angry because I'm hungry."

"Got it." He lowered his eyes, and then glanced back up at me through his dark eyelashes.

As I jabbed my fork into the potatoes, I thought about how happy I'd been the night before.  I had temporarily forgotten about my real life and everyone that was a part of it.  And after talking about my friends and thinking about home, it made that momentary blip of perfect contentment feel like betrayal. 

"Do you really want to know what I've been up to?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, "I really do."                   

"I've been visiting colleges.  Starting to work on my college applications.  Trying to decide what to do with my life."

"And what have you decided?"

"I haven't. I can't."

"I'm sorry if I seem like a dope here, but why are you thinking of going to college?  Is your family...uh...well-to-do?"

"Not exactly.  It's that, well, I kind of have to go, if I want a decent job someday." He frowned.  "I mean, I don't think I'm cut out for the skilled trades.  I think eventually I might want to go to law school."

"You want to be a lawyer?" His eyes popped.

"Maybe?   I think there's power in understanding the law, which can be used to defend the powerless.  Basically I want to make some positive impact on the world, make people's lives better somehow.  But I'll probably never do anything because I'll spend my life incapacitated by indecision."  I set down my fork and balled my hands into tight fists under the tabletop.  "I lay awake at night afraid of making the wrong decisions, of choosing the wrong school or the wrong major.  I don't know if I should do something that will make me comfortable financially or if I should follow my passion?  I don't even know what that is yet!   Maybe I should become an environmental lawyer.  Maybe I should go into politics?  But what if I go to law school and accumulate a ton of debt from student loans and then I hate practicing law and freak out and quit and then I'm in debt until I die?  What if I become a politician and I'm at a rally one day, or just, like, leaving my house and I get shot by someone who doesn't agree with me?  Because that's been known to happen.  I think I want to start by studying environmental science.  Maybe.  What if I never make up my mind or can't find a job and I'm forty and I still live with my mom?"

The tightness in my chest that I felt when I thought about my future was returning, in the wrong time and place.  I'd revealed too many things that I didn't want Pete to know about me.  Everything that I thought I'd left behind for a few days.

Pete blinked hard.  "That's a lot to think about.  But you're a smart girl, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"What makes you think I'm smart?" I asked too defensively.

"Um, the way you talk.  The way your eyes show that you're thinking about something all the time."

"I get good grades in school.  But sometimes I think that's all meaningless.  Maybe all it shows is that I can memorize really well and I do the homework because I have a fear of getting into trouble or disappointing people.  Sometimes I want to save the world and other times I want to work in a crayon factory then come home and bake cookies and watch tv, because I'll never be able to change anything anyway."

"Nah, it sounds like you're going to be a career girl."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You want to have a big career, instead of getting married and having kids."

"I can do all those things, if I want."

Pete focused on my plate.  "Do you want me to cut your steak for you?"

"No thanks, I don't eat meat.  I'm a vegetarian."

"Why?"

I sighed heavily and launched into my canned response to this tired question. "Because meat production is horrible for the environment.  Producing one pound of beef uses like two thousand gallons of water, livestock generates over one million tons of manure per day that contaminates the groundwater and cow farts are responsible for fifteen percent of greenhouse gas emissions.  I could go on, but I'm already veering into impolite dinner conversation."  I swallowed hard and reached for my water.  It felt like there was something stuck in my throat and the tightness in my chest was worsening.  "So, is Stan your father's brother or your mother's brother?"  I asked in a strained voice.  I lifted my water glass to my lips with a shaking hand.

"My father's older brother.  And my godfather."

"Is your dad's family from Palmer?"

"No, he grew up in the city.  The rest of his family lives here.  He met my mother, who is from Palmer, when she was in nursing school at Harper Hospital."

"Do you see them very much?  Your dad's side of the family?"

"No, not after my dad died.  But every year my Uncle Stan would bring me to the city around my birthday to go to a Tigers game."

"When's your birthday?"

"It's on Tuesday."

"Oh my gosh! Wait, was this your birthday game? Were you supposed to go with your uncle?"

"Yeah. But he didn't mind. I called him yesterday to ask him if I could take you."

"You should have gone with him," I insisted.   "It doesn't seem right.  I shouldn't be changing things like this."

"Don't worry too much about it," he said lightly.

"But maybe if I change something small now, it will have some huge catastrophic effect later."  My thoughts were spiraling out of control.  I didn't want to change history.  I shouldn't have that kind of power.  Nobody should.

"Or maybe," Pete leaned forward on his elbows and whispered conspiratorially, "it won't."

As we left the restaurant, after saying goodbye and thanking Uncle Stan, Pete walked to the passenger side of his truck, so I instinctively went to the driver's side.

"Are you driving?" he asked with a wry smile as he held the passenger door open for me.

"Oh, I guess not.  You walked to that side, so...I'm still not really used to this," I said as I circled the truck.

"Not used to what?"

"Having doors opened for me and all that."

"Your boyfriends back home don't open doors for you?"

I scoffed.  "There are no boyfriends.  But even if there were, guys in the future have figured out that girls are capable of opening their own doors.  Usually."

"That's not what it means," Pete said once he settled into the driver's seat. "It's a polite gesture.  Maybe the guys you know don't have any manners."

We stopped at a gas station where a friendly attendant in a khaki shirt and black bowtie pumped the gas, washed the windshield and checked under the hood.  Pete paid the attendant and as he walked away, I heard another man's voice ask, "Check your brake fluid?" as he opened the driver's side door.

"No thanks, it's okay," Pete said.

Then I noticed he wasn't wearing the khaki uniform.  Through his black glasses frames, he stared past Pete and right at me.  The urgency in his expression was startling and sensing something was wrong, I reached for Pete, but the man grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him onto the ground.

"Hey!" I yelled as I scrambled across the seat.  He pushed me back as he sat in the driver's seat and started up the truck.  As I reached for the door handle, he stretched across me to grab my arm.  "Let me out!" I screamed.

"Let her out!  Take the truck!  Let her go!  She can't get out!"  Pete was back on his feet, jogging alongside the truck as it rolled into the street.  He grabbed onto the door through the open window and the carjacker brought his elbow down hard onto Pete's fingers.  I watched out the back window as we gained speed and left Pete running in the street as cars honked and swerved around him.

"Pull over!" I pleaded.  "You can still let me go.  I'll get out fast.  Please!"

The carjacker looked straight ahead and ignored me as he accelerated.  He passed two cars at once and jerked back into our lane just before crashing into the oncoming car that was blaring its horn.  I gripped the dashboard and really wished there was a seat belt, while feeling grateful that at least Pete's truck couldn't go over sixty miles per hour.

I continued begging hysterically until I realized it was pointless. Maybe I could work up the strength to open the door and get out if we stopped at a light, or I could climb out the open window.  The upcoming traffic light was yellow and I waited to see if he would stop or blow through the red light.  As we slowly rolled to a stop, I inched my hand toward the door handle. I had the door cracked open when he grabbed my wrist and hit the gas pedal. The cars in the cross traffic swerved and tires squealed as we sped through the intersection.

"Don't try that again," he snapped, before pressing his palm to his forehead and grimacing. The knot in my stomach tightened.  If he only wanted to steal the truck, he wouldn't have cared if I jumped out.

"Let me out and I won't!" I yelled as loud as I could.  I could see the pavement rushing by through the slightly open door and I had to decide if I would jump out and roll into the street or try to make him stop the truck.  Dizzying exhaustion swept over me and I was afraid my time travel-induced narcolepsy was kicking in, even though I hadn't travelled in days.  I was afraid that if I fell asleep I'd wake up in an even worse situation, or not at all.  I spotted a huge grassy area ahead.  A cemetery.  I thought if we crashed there, we might not hurt anyone.

I used every bit of energy I had to pounce on my kidnapper like a rabid cat.  With one hand jabbing at his eyes and the other fighting him for control of the steering wheel, we swerved across the opposing lane.  As the truck bounced over the grass, he shoved me away and I ripped his sleeve off as I fell.  There were tattoos scattered over his upper arm:  the head and scythe of a grim reaper, a rose, and four solid black bars.

The sound of metal scraping against metal snapped me back to attention as we crashed through a fence and skidded to a stop.  He gripped my forearm and I was hit with the sensation of being pulled down.  For an instant, half of my field of vision stayed the same- beyond the dashboard, white and grey tombstones in the grass- and in the other half the cemetery was enveloped in darkness, it smelled of rain and fresh dirt. 

I tried to wrestle out of his grip, kicking wildly until I made contact and the darkness faded to light. He let go of me, grabbed his throat and wheezed.  I'd kicked him in the neck with my heel.  Then his widened eyes closed and he shuddered.  I was so afraid I'd killed him that I froze, then he disappeared and I was alone. I looked in every direction to catch him running away to prove to myself that I hadn't just watched a person vanish, but there was nobody.  Only tombstones and flowers and trees, motionless in the warm, still day.

The driver's side door was closed.  A siren wailed in the distance.  Where was Pete?   A beige car pulled onto the grass nearby and a tall Black man jumped out and surveyed the damage.  Then Pete stepped out from the passenger side of the beige car and ran toward me.  The door flung open and Pete pulled me onto my feet and wrapped his arms around me.  He squeezed tight and as he murmured unintelligibly.

"Are you okay?" he asked eventually.

"I think so," I answered before I buried my face in his neck.  "What were you saying?"

"A prayer to St. Jude."

"Who's-"

"The patron saint of hopeless causes."

"You thought I was a hopeless cause?"

"For a minute there."  He took a deep breath and exhaled in relief.  "I've got it memorized, anyway.  I say a prayer to St. Jude for you- for us, actually- everyday."

The man who drove Pete jogged over and asked, "She alright?"

"Yeah.  Yeah, thank you." He swallowed hard. "I can't thank you enough."

The siren was getting closer.

"Okay, I'm gonna split."  He was out of sight by the time a police car arrived.

We told the police officer everything that happened and I described the man who almost kidnapped me, even though I knew they'd never find him.

Then the officer asked Pete, "Can you describe the man who witnessed what happened at the gas station and drove you here?"

Pete started, "He was a-"

"White guy," I blurted.  "Super...white.  Blonde hair, blue eyes.  Probably six feet tall. Khakis."  Pete looked at me like I was out of my mind, but nodded as I described a car that was nothing like the beige car the man drove.

Surprisingly, Pete's truck was fine other than a few scratches.  When we were back on the road, Pete took a ragged breath.

"You lied to the police," he said incredulously.  "Why?"

"Probably best to keep him out of it, just in case." Pete frowned. I pulled the high heels off my feet, tossed them on the floor and rested my throbbing head against the window.


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