25 | Sunk

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I listened to the gentle patter of raindrops on the roof and stared out at the river while I waited for Pete on a bench in a gazebo.  He had to work that day and we planned to meet for lunch in the park.  I nervously smoothed the fabric of my new blue dress over my legs as I waited and tapped my toes on the floor.

Pete had arranged for me to spend the night before at Joan's house, since his mom was on high alert.  Joan did her best to make my stay comfortable, but the weight of unasked questions hung heavily between us.  She didn't ask me where I lived and why I couldn't stay there or why I had trouble doing things.  I didn't ask her where her mom was or why her sister Lois snuck into the house in the middle of the night to dig through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.   When Joan left for her job as a cashier at the drug store, I left, too.

I wandered up and down side streets in Palmer and came across a brick building I hadn't seen before called The Marquette Inn.  There was a courtyard in the back with beautiful gardens that drew me in, but after ducking through a trellis of white and purple morning glories and walking through an aisle of roses I found something disturbing.

In the center of the courtyard, there was a black bear pacing in a metal cage.  It was smaller than I'd expect a bear to be, with dull fur that was worn away in patches on its feet.  I stepped closer, expecting her to startle, bear her teeth or roar, but she only laid down on the concrete floor and chewed her paws.  When I crouched down near the cage, the bear lazily raised her head and watched me with dim, weary eyes.  Raindrops began to fall on us and I left her to search for shelter.

I'd spent the rest of that rainy morning killing time in the public library searching for answers that I knew couldn't be found.  Standing at a lectern with an oversized dictionary, I'd ask a question in my head, close my eyes, flip some of the slippery, almost transparent pages and jab my finger at the book.

How can I stay here with Pete without ruining my life back home?

Honky-tonk (hon'ke tonk') n.  1.  a cheap disreputable, noisy cabaret or nightclub 2.  a bar, esp. one where country music is played

Let's try this again.  How can I stay here in 1953 for a few months without messing up my life?

Parenthesize (-siz') 1. a) to insert (a word, phrase, etc.) as a parenthesis b) to put into parentheses (see PARENTHESIS, sense 2)  2. to place a parenthesis within

When it was obvious my dictionary oracle wasn't going to solve my dilemma, I sat on a chair tucked away in the shelves, thumbing through a biography that I had no intention of actually reading, letting my eyes jump to the first word I noticed on each page. If I strung the words together, I thought maybe I'd have a solution.  But that strategy was just as useless.

I considered going back home to tell everyone a lie about becoming an exchange student for the school year. I could leave a note saying I'd decided to travel alone for a while, but that was about as bad as simply disappearing; my mom and dad would have a missing person report filed as soon as they found the note. I'd be eighteen in October and technically could be on my own, but leaving for that long with no reasonable explanation would put my relationships, my future, everything at risk. There was no way around it.

I'd woken up that morning feeling suddenly undecided. Once I fell asleep in Lois's old bed, I had a dream that was familiar as it unfolded, like a buried memory resurfacing. I was on Grandpa Walt's old boat with my dad, Grandpa and Jason. The boat was navy blue with two teal stripes along the top edge and a little cabin underneath. It smelled like sun-warmed vinyl cushions, damp beach towels and Coppertone. We were anchored after spending an afternoon swimming and tubing in a shallow area of the river near Stag Island, and I was in the cabin playing with Barbies.

The sound of the waves slapping against the hull grew louder, the sun stopped streaming through the narrow windows, and I wobbled out from the cabin.  Grandpa was trying to start up the engine, but there was only clicking and wheezing.  Dad was in the swiveling chair next to him, looking at the sky and muttering a lot of swear words.  Dark grey clouds were taking over the sky as the blue water gradually turned the same menacing color. 

I sat across from Jason in one of the back corner seats, grabbed a metal rail and looked past the motor toward Stag Island.  The island came to a sandy point at the South end and I stared at that spot to try to avoid looking at the huge waves around us.  The boat was being tossed side to side and each time we crashed into a rising grey wave I imagined the boat tipping over.  Tears started to drip down my cheeks. 

I could hardly hear Dad talking into the staticky radio over the sounds of thunder and wind.  Water splashed onto the floor and I started to feel sick from watching the water rush back and forth as we rocked.  I didn't want to bother Dad or Grandpa, so I kneeled on the seat and leaned over the side to throw up.  Then the boat jolted and I went over the edge and headfirst into the water.

If the waves were mountains then I was in the valley.  My life jacket carried me up to the peaks and down again.  They crashed over my head and I screamed.  Water in my eyes and water in my mouth.  I couldn't see the boat anymore, but I could see the trees on the island.  Then suddenly the waves were smaller and the sun came out again.

Something slipped against my arm and there were hands on my life jacket. I was being rescued.  But the hands were small like mine and they didn't lift me up; they pulled on me until there was a sputtering boy's face inches from mine.  His lips were blue and his skin was pale and his eyes were brown and wide.  And I knew him.  And then I woke up.

If my dream was a buried memory, then our paths had crossed improbably years before that summer.  Which meant maybe a small part of me believed in fate and the possibility that I was supposed to be a part of that boy's life somehow.

"Hey," Pete said warily, as he appeared holding a picnic basket and blanket, his hair and shoulders dampened with rain.  He shook out the blanket and laid it on the wood floor of the gazebo.  We both sat and I stretched my skirt over my crossed legs as he opened the basket.  "I brought BLTs. Well, you get an LT. But I put an extra tomato on it." With an apologetic smile, he handed me a sandwich wrapped in paper.

"Thank you, that sounds perfect. So, I've been thinking about the thing you asked me."

"I shouldn't have asked you that," he said. "You can't put your life on hold for me.  You don't belong here.  And you won't feel safe."   When he turned to look at me, something was missing.  The affection was still there, but the glimmer in his eyes was muddled.  "You have to go back and do everything you want to do," he continued. "Finish high school.  Go to college."

"What will you do?"  I asked, as I lifted a corner of the spongy, unnaturally white bread. The thick slices of tomatoes were red and juicy and would have been appealing if I didn't have a sinking sensation in my stomach.

"Nick and Jimmy and I have been planning to drive out to California and back before Jimmy has to report for service.  We're supposed to leave in a week."

"A road trip sounds fun.   But what about once you're back home?"

"More of the same, I suppose."  He pulled back the paper on his sandwich and took a bite.

"That time you told me about, at Stag Island, when you...when you-"

"Almost drowned?"

"Yeah, that.  How much of that do you remember?"

Say you remember a girl, I thought.  If you remember a girl, I'm not leaving you.

Please don't say you remember a girl.  If you do, I can't leave you.

He frowned. "Not much. I try not to remember it."

"Yeah, no.  Of course.  Sorry."  A flood of disappointment.  And relief.

We barely spoke until he packed everything up, except for his umbrella, which he opened and handed to me. 

"What now?"  I asked.  I watched my shaking hand grip the umbrella handle.  It's over, I thought.  This is it.

"I'll see you after work.  You never told me you'd stay longer than a few days.  I shouldn't have asked for more." He pecked me on the cheek and dashed out into the rain.

In search of a dry place to spend the afternoon, I crossed the street and walked along the storefronts.  The wet sidewalk was empty until a woman and young boy stepped out of the candy store.  She swiftly opened an umbrella as he clutched a small white paper bag and they continued in the opposite direction.

As I passed the 'Soda Fountain' lettering on the window, there was an urgent tapping on the glass. I involuntarily snapped my head in its direction and found myself face to face with Liz.  She was sitting at a tall counter facing the window and smiled sweetly as she gestured for me to come inside, her piercing blue eyes narrowing as I hesitated.

I couldn't get the door to budge, so I stepped back to look to Liz for help.  She cocked her head and pointed to something beyond where I was standing.  The woman and boy were walking back toward the shop, backwards, and very quickly, like a video in reverse.  In two blinks the woman was closing the umbrella in front of me and then holding the door open for the boy.  He ambled backwards through the doorway, halted briefly, and began walking forward again, picking up where I first saw them.  I passed through the door while it was open and then watched them continue down the sidewalk as they had done a few seconds before.

There was a jingle as the door swung shut, but the soda jerk behind the counter didn't look up.  He whistled a tune as he wiped down the shining taps and syrup pumps.  The store was empty except for the three of us.

"Have a seat," Liz said, patting the green vinyl seat of the stool beside her.

"What was that?"  I asked as I sat down.

"What was what?"

"Those people, they moved in reverse.  Did you do that?"

"I was helping you get inside," she said innocently.

"You could have just gotten up and opened the door."

She exaggerated a careless shrug, then pushed a thick fluted glass in front of me filled with a deep rose colored liquid.  I sat down and eyed it with trepidation.

"I got you a raspberry soda."

"Thanks," I muttered.  I crossed my arms and watched the carbonated bubbles rise.

"Listen, I really have been trying to help you, but you haven't given me a chance.  I can probably answer some questions you might have."

"Why would you be able to help me?"

She flattened her palms on the countertop and then clenched her fists.

"I came here from 1994."

She didn't look up to see my reaction, which was to open and close my suddenly dry mouth.  I took a sip of the soda.

"Who's the President in 1994?"  I asked.

"Bill Clinton."  A slight smile flickered on her sullen face.  "He's probably only seven or eight years old right now though."

"Whoa.  Okay.  I do have some questions then.  But first, did you make me run in slow motion last time I saw you?"  She nodded slowly as she sipped her soda through a straw.  "That was really helpful."

She swiveled to face me.  "I did it because you ran away from me when I was trying to talk to you."

"Okay, so talk to me now.  Don't give me vague warnings or tell me to go home without a reason.  Tell me why you're so bent on me leaving.  Because you're here and you don't belong either."

"I'm done trying to get you to go back, because I can't force you to and you're going to do whatever you want anyway.  You know in your gut that you shouldn't be here, but you found a guy who likes you," she rolled her eyes, "so now I'm asking you not to change too much."

The song switched and the soda jerk turned the volume up on the radio and transitioned from whistling to singing along in a nasally voice as he stocked the candy jars lining the back wall.

"He doesn't know we're here," Liz said with a smirk.

"He can't see us?"

"He could see us if he knew enough to try. We're like a pair of flies on the wall to him. Some people won't realize you're here, won't talk to you or pay any attention to you at all.  It's like you're invisible to them."

"Yeah, that's happened a couple times.  Why does that happen with some people and not others?"

"The ones who don't notice you are more susceptible to change.  They're more likely to still be alive at your origin, the date you came from."

"Ohh," I sighed slowly.  That explained why I could talk with Rose, but Walter never seemed to notice me.   Neither did Jimmy or June.  "So, I couldn't accidentally change my grandma's life because it's over, but I could change my grandpa's life?"

Their lives were so intertwined, I didn't see how that was possible.

"It's not that simple.  That's just one protective mechanism.  It's like how you couldn't open the door just now, but sometimes you can, when you're not distracted and you try hard enough.  The past is resistant to change, but it's not impossible.  When little things do get changed, everything usually gets redirected to the right path.  But the big things, not so much."

A brick red freighter glided into view, distorted by the rain streaming down the window, and sounded its deep horn.  Further downriver, a black ship answered the signal.  I took a minute to consider what she'd said.  Pete was going to die before my present.  My origin.  If he wasn't around, I wouldn't have to worry about running into the senior citizen version of him, but knowing was still upsetting.  He didn't exist in my world.

"Did those people realize they were moving backwards?"

"No.  It may have registered in her mind as a minor blip, a few seconds of brain fog, but that's it."

"How do you do it?"

"The same way you got here.  You made it happen by seeing it first, right? By wanting it and then making it happen."  She tapped her temple.  "In small increments, I can reverse time, accelerate it, decelerate it.  Sometimes it's easy and it happens even though I'm barely trying, and sometimes it's hard.  And I can make changes in the timeline by modifying how events are perceived in your memory."

"That's not changing what actually happened, so-"

"But," she interrupted, "if I can change what you remember about the past, it can make a difference in what you do in your future."

Because she'd gotten into my head and messed with my thoughts at the pool the first time we met, I had no doubt that Liz could wipe clean all the memories I had of my time in 1953- all the memories of time spent with Pete- in seconds.  I considered that maybe that scenario would be best.  When our week together was over, I could have Liz hypnotize it all away and I wouldn't have to suffer the ache of missing him. But then I remembered how empty I felt when she began erasing only a few images that reminded me of him.  And if I didn't remember Pete, and our time together, then what was the point?

"How did you learn this stuff?  What do you use it for?  Besides messing around with people.  And what are you doing here?"

She poked at the ice at the bottom of her empty glass with her straw.

"I learned accidentally at first and then on purpose and with practice, just like you.  I used to have fun with it until I screwed up.  Now I'm trying to get my life back."  She urgently tapped her fingernail on her watch and spoke low and fast,  "I'll tell you more, when I have more time.  But for now, if you're not going to follow my advice and leave, then make sure you go with the flow.  Don't change his- or anyone's- plans.  You're just along for the ride, okay?"

Liz suddenly looked fearful and clutched the handles of her purse.  She impulsively gripped my wrist, quickly let go and then glared at her hand as if it had betrayed her somehow.  Then she was gone.


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