TIme After Time

Seeing a show @ the Bottom of the Hill tonight. In real time. Like normal person I am. Borrring…

Worried about you. Reply when you’re back, okay?

No “mom” jokes in reply to last text, pls. Miss ya.

I squint at the screen, hit reply, and type out my message:

No jokes. Back home now. C U soon.

My mouth is still dry and my limbs feel weak, so I reach for another bottle of water and recline back in the seat, looking around the garage. In his e-mail, the owner had mentioned that it was “on the small side,” but that turned out to be a major understatement. When I first opened the door, I stood in the alley for the longest time trying to figure out if the Jeep would even fit.

It proved to be as challenging as it looked, but I folded the side mirrors flat against the frame, backed in slowly, and pressed the button on the electronic garage door opener, hoping for the best. I was a little surprised when it actually closed. I press that button again and the garage door jolts to life, squeaking and rattling and eventually settling into place over my head.

In the alley, I leave the Jeep running and hop out. There’s not much back here other than trash cans and rusting garden equipment. I grab a water bottle and throw my backpack over my shoulder, heading toward an abandoned pile of old flowerpots, and then I take a handful of dirt, dump some water over the top, and work the mud into the grooves of the shiny carabiners that hang from the external straps of my backpack.

But my cover-up efforts turn out to be unnecessary. When I get home, there’s a note from Mom on the counter saying that Brooke’s out on a date, Dad’s at a dinner meeting, and she’s going to the movies with friends. So much for family night.

I make myself something to eat and flop down on the couch. For the rest of the evening, I flip through channels, stare at the empty space next to me, and wonder how Anna and I are going to pull this off. She should be here right now. Or I should be there. But we shouldn’t be this.

I must eventually drift off because when I open my eyes again, the room is pitch-black, the television is off, and I’m covered with a blanket. I haul myself up to my room and fall into bed, still wearing the same clothes I had on when I left Evanston.

* * *

The voices coming from the TV in the kitchen are low but audible, and when I turn the corner, I find Dad with his hip against the counter, spooning yogurt into his mouth and watching the news. He looks up when I walk in.

“Hey. Welcome home. How was your trip?”

I’m grateful that he asked the question the way he did so that I don’t need to lie when I answer. “The trip was great. A lot of fun.”

Dad takes his glasses off and cleans them with the edge of his shirt. He puts them back in place and looks at me over the top of the frames. “The nights must have been cold.”

It takes me a second or two to think about how to phrase this one. None of the nights in Maggie’s house were even remotely chilly. “No, the nights were actually really warm,” I say. Too warm, in fact.

Dad finishes his yogurt and pours himself a glass of orange juice. Once I start in on my cereal there’s a lot of crunching, but the only voices in the room are coming from the television. He glances up at me a few times, as if he’s trying to think of something to fill the uncomfortable silence. But then something on the screen gets his attention, and he’s off the hook.

He reaches for the remote, turning up the volume, and pivoting to face the screen. “Breaking news this morning,” the anchorwoman says. A red and blue graphic that reads TRAGEDY IN THE TENDERLOIN flies in from the side of the screen and stops in the center—large and ominous, for effect—before it shrinks and settles at the bottom where it can’t interfere with the video footage of a building ablaze against the backdrop of the early- morning sky.

An apartment fire in the Tenderloin district claimed the lives of two young children in the early hours this morning. Five-year-old Rebecca Walker and her three-year-old brother, Robert, were asleep when a fire broke out in the bedroom they share on the third floor of an apartment complex on Ellis Street. The parents were rushed to the hospital for smoke inhalation. Firefighters were unable to rescue the two children.

I take a big bite of cereal and walk over to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee, listening as the anchorwoman passes the story to the on-the-scene reporter. I’m only half paying attention, but I catch the gist. The parents were unable to get to the children, there was no smoke detector, and an investigation is underway to determine the cause. I peek at the screen when the downstairs neighbor describes hearing screams through the ceiling and calling 911. After one more shot of the high-drama burning-building footage, they move back to the studio and the anchorwoman wraps up the story and moves along to a new one about a fender bender that’s currently being cleared from the Bay Bridge.

“That’s horrible,” Dad says, staring at the screen. I’m pretty sure he’s referring to the previous news item about the fire and not the minor car accident. “Those poor parents. They must feel so guilty.” He’s tips his head back, downing his juice, and brings his glass to the sink. He won’t look at me, but he doesn’t have to. I can feel it. The space around us is already filling up with all the things he wants so badly to say right now.

Until recently, I bolted from any room that contained both Dad and news. I’d learned my lesson. If some horrible tragedy took place and I stayed silent, he’d shoot me this contemptuous look and say something like, “Doesn’t this even bother you?” On the flip side, if I made a comment that expressed even the slightest bit of remorse for the situation, he’d whip out a pen and paper and start plotting out all the ways I could go back and stop the plane crash/bus crash/shooting/stabbing/explosion/carjacking/terrorist attack/etc. Either way, my response to him would be the same. I don’t change things. It’s not my place to change things, just because I can. And yes, of course it bothers me. All the time. I’m not heartless.

Losing my sister in a previous decade came with its share of complications, but as it turns out, there were also a few silver linings. Meeting Anna was one. No longer having these excruciating conversations with my dad was another.

Brooke nearly spills my coffee when she throws her arms around my neck. “You’re home!” After a quick hug, she bounces over to Dad and gives him a peck on the cheek. She stops suddenly, and her gaze darts back and forth between the two of us. “Uh-oh,” she says, wiggling her fingers in the air. “There’s tension…” Brooke slips into her usual role, using humor to restore peace to our somewhat dysfunctional family. She slaps Dad’s arm with the back of her hand. “So, what’d he do this time?” She looks over at me and gives me a wink.

“Nothing,” Dad says. “Nothing at all.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on me.

He cleans his glasses again, this time with a dishcloth, looking out the window the entire time. “It’s going to be a gorgeous day.” His voice is higher that usual and that enthusiastic tone sounds forced. “Let’s get that boat on the bay, shall we?” He checks his watch. “I want to leave in a half hour. Can you two be ready?”

Brooke and I nod.

“Good. I’d better go see if your mom needs help.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Brooke. “Family day,” I say flatly. “Super.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Come on. They’re not that bad, you know?”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not a huge source of disappointment to one and a constant worry to the other.”

“And neither are you, but whatever…” She lifts herself onto the kitchen counter and points to the half-empty coffee mug I’m holding. “Hurry up, we only have a few minutes. Top off your coffee, pour me a cup, and tell me everything.”

So I do. In hushed tones I speed through the details, telling her all about Maggie and the reason there’s a photo of the three of us at the zoo. Brooke’s eyes grow wide, and she asks for more details about the stuff I try to breeze past, like Emma and Justin’s breakup and how the Greenes let me crash on their couch the first night. She sips her coffee, hanging on every word, and after I’ve given her a play-by-play of practically the entire trip, I shake my head and tell her how Anna decided—once again, and for reasons I honestly can’t fathom—that she’d rather put up with the oddities of this bizarre relationship than tell me to stay where I belong. I tell Brooke how hard it