TIme After Time

“You ready?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Not even close.”

But we can’t stay away any longer. I tell her to close her eyes and she does, but before I do the same, I take a glance around this Parisian street one more time. Then I let my eyes fall shut.

When I open them, we’re in the exact same position, back in my room at Maggie’s, and it’s Saturday morning. I check the clock. Ten A.M.

Almost instantly, Anna lets out a quiet groan and her hands find her stomach. She slumps down on the floor and pulls her knees to her chest. I slide down next to her, and even though my head is throbbing and my vision is blurry, I remove my backpack and grope around inside, searching for the sleeve of saltines. When I find them, I tear into the package and hand it to her. Anna mumbles a thank-you as she starts in on a corner of the cracker, and I search for the water bottles.

We sit like that for a good twenty minutes, me downing waters and Frappuccinos, Anna nibbling crackers and trying not to hurl. “Now this is romantic,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.

I let out a weak laugh and let my head fall against hers.

Anna finally declares herself strong enough to stand. But when I try to say, “I’ll walk you home,” my words slur, and when I stand up, my legs wobble. I lean on the bed, resting my hand on the surface for stability. I’m utterly exhausted. I can’t remember the last time I felt this tired.

“Lie down,” Anna insists as she pushes me gently toward the bed and lifts my feet off the floor. I hear her tell me to scoot up a little. I feel her adjust my pillow under my head. I think she takes off my shoes. “Close your eyes,” I hear her say, quiet and soothing, as she sits on the edge of the bed and runs her thumbs back and forth along my forehead.

I don’t remember anything after that.

18

The faint sound of knocking wakes me up from a deep sleep. I sit up in bed and rub my head with both hands. The next knock is louder.

“Come in.” I feel like my eyes have been glued shut, but I force them open when the door creaks and Maggie pokes her head inside. She looks surprised to see me twisted and disheveled on top of my comforter.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize you were sleeping. I just wanted to know if you were going to be here for dinner.”

I press my fingertips into my temples and glance over at the clock radio on the nightstand. Is it really 6:12? Have I been out all afternoon? The last thing I remember was Anna helping me lie down. Was that really almost eight hours ago?

“I’m making a pot roast.” Maggie smiles as she says it, like I might need convincing. But I don’t. I take a big whiff of something that smells delicious. I’m just about to tell her that I’ll be down in a minute when she crosses her arms and her expression turns serious. “Are you okay, Bennett?”

I force myself to sit up and throw my feet to the floor. “I’m okay. Just really tired.”

“Jet lag,” she says plainly, and closes the door behind her. If only she knew that I’ve never been on a jet.

I pull on a clean pair of jeans and reach into the chest of drawers for a shirt. I still feel shaky and a bit cold, so I throw on a flannel.

Downstairs, I find Maggie setting the table for two. She glances up at me and returns to folding the cloth napkins into triangles. I slip right into my old role here, reaching into the cabinet for two glasses and filling them with milk.

Maggie and I politely take our seats like I’m a guest in her home. I try to come up with topics for small talk, but all I can think about is Anna and our day in Paris. I block it from my mind as I dig into the pot roast, I tell her all about Emma’s party, right down to the details of the balloon arch and the DJ in the backyard. Maggie gives me encouraging laughs and asks a lot of questions about the people I know here. Then there’s a pause in the discussion and she looks at me pointedly.

“It sounds like you made a lot of friends at Westlake,” she says without looking at me. I start to respond, but I freeze instead. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged knowing that I lied to her about being a student at Northwestern last year, but she throws it out there and goes back to eating like it’s no big deal. “My daughter loved it there too.”

This would be a great time to apologize for lying to her. It would also be a great time to tell her that her daughter and my mom are the same person. While both are true, I feel a little bit sick the moment I have these two thoughts, so I ignore them and try to go back to my dinner as if Maggie’s statement doesn’t require a response. But then I hear Anna’s words in my head: It would be nice to have one person in my life that I can talk to about you—one person I don’t have to keep your secret from. That, I can’t ignore.

My stomach is turning and what I really want to do right now is bolt out the back door, run past the tomato garden, and find an empty spot to disappear from. I could be back in San Francisco in less than a minute.

Before I let my feet dictate my next steps, I force out the words, “Maggie, I need to tell you something.” And there it is. Now I don’t have a choice. There’s nothing else I need to tell her.

“Sure.” I think she’s trying not to look at me now. And I’m definitely trying not to look at her.

I’m pushing mashed potatoes around with my fork like the words I need to find are buried somewhere underneath. “I’m not quite sure how to explain this. Thre’s something about me that’s…unusual.” I cringe as I hear the words come out of my mouth. She’s looking at me, waiting for me to continue, and I suddenly wonder if it wouldn’t be better to just show her. After all, it worked with Anna. I push my chair away from the table and stand over by the counter.

I blow out a breath. Here we go.

Maggie sets her fork down and wipes her face with her napkin.

“Watch,” I say. And I close my eyes, but before I let myself disappear, I add the words “Please don’t freak out.”

Seconds after I picture my room upstairs, I’m standing in the center of it. Downstairs, I hear Maggie scream. I count to ten and close my eyes again, returning to the exact same spot in the kitchen. She’s standing right in front of me and when she goes to move away, she smacks me hard on the shoulder. She mutters something that might be an apology and reaches for the counter to steady herself. Perhaps this wasn’t the best way to break the news.

I reach forward and grip her arms. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She stares at me, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide. I lead her over to the chair, and she sits down, forearms pressed into the Formica, staring at her half-eaten plate of food.

I sit down next to her. “I want you to know who I am, Maggie.”

She doesn’t look up at me but I see her head nod.

“There’s a lot you already know about me. My name is Bennett. I live in San Francisco. I think you know I’m seventeen and that I never went to Northwestern, and I’m sorry I lied and told you that I did.”

This whole thing sounded so much better in my head. It isn’t coming out at all the way I wanted it to. Maggie gives me a slight nod, but I don’t know if she’s following me or if she just wants me to continue in hopes that I’ll eventually get to the point. “There’s also a lot you don’t know about me. Like…that…my mom is your daughter. Her pictures are all over your house.” My hands feel clammy so I rub them on my jeans and keep talking. I can’t stop now. “There aren’t many of your grandson because he’s only seven months old right now. And…” I pause to take a deep breath, but it seems pointless. I should just spit it out. “This is going to sound really weird, but…that’s the reason your grandson and I have the same name.”

This time, her head doesn’t move at all.

“I’m…” I stop. Breathe. Go again. “I’m your grandson and I’m seventeen”—I stammer—“in two thousand twelve. Not in nineteen ninety-five.”