TIme After Time

one of us would rather be.

I flip page after page, looking at the photos we took as we walked around Paris that night and the following day. Me standing in front of the Fontaine du Cirque. Anna in front of the wrought iron gates that led to the park, holding a baguette like a baseball bat. Me at the base of The Thinker, mimicking the pose. Her on the bridge, standing next to our lock. God, was that only yesterday? I look through the pictures, feeling grateful for a talent that allows me to take her to Paris at the drop of a hat. I feel equally grateful that it allows me to buy a whole extra day with her.

“This is incredible,” I say as I flip through the plastic pages.

And then I get to the last one. It’s not from our Paris trip yesterday, but I remember the night we took it in vivid detail. She’d just come back from La Paz. We were sprawled out on her rug in her bedroom and she held her arm high in the air, balancing her brand-new camera in one hand. She’d planted a kiss on my cheek as the shutter snapped. I study the expression on my face. I look happy.

“I love it.” I stare at the picture, and then look over at her again. I think I’m supposed to tell her how nice it will be to have something to look at when I’m home and missing her, because I’m pretty sure that’s what she wants to hear right now, but the truth is, when I’m seventeen years away from her and wishing I weren’t, subjecting myself to these photos will be the last thing I’ll want to do. Still, I’ll probably do it anyway.

“See.” She taps on the cover of the book. “And now you have something to show your family.” Her smile looks sweet and hopeful, but it’s her words that snap me back to reality. “I figured since I’ll never be able to go home with you and meet them, at least you could show them these pictures.” She lets out a laugh. “You know, so they don’t think I’m a figment of your imagination or anything.” My stomach knots up into a tight fist.

She waits for my reply, and when nothing comes she continues talking.

“I made a photo album for myself, too, but of course I have to keep mine hidden from my parents. I’ve convinced them that the pins in my map are just wishful thinking, but I’m not sure how I’d explain photos of you and me on the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

I look down at the pictures in my hands, thinking back on our weekend. Talking with her under a canopy of trees during Emma’s birthday party. The look of anticipation on her face when I took her hands in mine and told her to close her eyes, and the sheer awe I saw when she opened them. Falling asleep with her in Paris. Waking up to her in Paris.

I shove the photo album into my backpack, avoiding her eyes. “Good idea.” I wonder if she hears the guilt in my voice. I wish she hadn’t brought this up now, when I’m minutes away from leaving and I won’t see her again for three more weeks. “Speaking of my parents, I’d better get going.” I zip my pack closed and feed my arms through the straps, and Anna looks down at the carpet.

I step closer to her and rub her arms. “Are you going to be okay?”

She nods without looking at me. I take her chin and tip her head up. “Go downstairs and talk to Maggie.” Anna closes her eyes, presses her lips tightly together, and nods.

I muster a valiant smile, but inside, I’m thinking how I’d give anything to stay here another day, another week…another three months. This whole being strong for someone else thing is a lot harder than I expected it to be. I can tell she’s trying to keep it together for my sake as well. “I’ll be back before you know it,” I say, and clench my jaw the minute the words leave my mouth.

“I know.” She takes a gulp of air and lets it out in a sigh. “That was the most incredible weekend.” She buries her face in my chest and wraps her arms around me. We stand like that for a long time, listening to the music in the background, trying to ignore the inevitable.

Out of nowhere, it hits me: this is how it’s going to be for the next year. Every few weeks, this is how it will feel to say good-bye to her. What’s worse, every few weeks for as long as we’re together, this is how it’s going to feel. Will we ever get used to this?

I block out the thoughts as I plant kisses in her hair and on her cheeks, which are now wet and salty. I kiss her forehead and then her lips. It takes everything I have to let go of her and step backward, but I do.

I close my eyes and fade away.

September 2012

20

San Francisco, California

My forehead slams against something hard, and I struggle to open my eyes. When I do, I can make out the Jeep logo on the steering wheel. Everything’s blurry, the interior of the car is spinning, and my arms feel heavy, like I’ve got weights attached to my wrists. It takes all of my energy to bring my hands to the wheel, but when I feel the leather, I grip it hard and push, throwing myself back against the headrest.

I let out a groan.

My eyes fall shut on their own, and I sit there in the dark, smelly garage, breathing in, breathing out, and trying not to think about the fact that this hurts more than usual. That’s when I feel the tickle, something warm sliding down onto my upper lip. I lick it, and my mouth fills with the unmistakable taste of blood, metallic and sticky-feeling. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and it comes back with a streak of red.

I tilt the rearview mirror toward my face. What the hell?

The box of supplies proves to be worthless for this situation, but it’s not like I could have anticipated a need for Kleenex. I’ve never had a bloody nose in my life. I use the bottom of my shirt to pinch my nose together, and a few minutes later the bleeding has stopped.

There’s a tiny patch of evening sun peeking in through the sides of the garage door. I down my Doubleshot without stopping and chase it with a warm Red Bull and two bottles of water. I sit there for a long time, eyes closed, willing the pain to stop. I look in the rearview mirror. My face is red and patchy, my eyes bloodshot. Then I look at the clock on the dashboard. I’ve been back for almost an hour.

Finally, when my head is no longer throbbing, I push the button on the remote control and the door lifts slowly and rattles into place above me. I twist the key in the ignition and pull out of the garage.

Before I close the door, I twist in my seat. Looking back inside, I can’t help but laugh. If I’d ever allowed myself to think that my ability made me some kind of superhero, this would certainly put things into perspective. My secret hideout isn’t a subterranean cave or a cool arctic ice structure. It’s a garage. A dark, smelly garage that an average-size car and average-size me can barely occupy at the same time. And exactly like I hoped it would be, it’s perfect.

* * *

Luckily, the house is quiet and I sneak inside, through the kitchen and into my bedroom, hoping to get there before Mom notices the bloodstains on the bottom of my T-shirt. I undress, hiding my dirty clothes deep in the bottom of the hamper in my closet, and throw on a clean pair of sweats. In the bathroom, I wash my face hard with a washcloth.

Back in my room, I unzip my backpack and remove the photo album Anna made for me. I hold it in my hands, examining the colorful patterns on the cover. I start to open it, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.

I open my desk drawer, and down near the bottom I see my red notebook. I stuff the photo album inside with everything else and shut the drawer.

I’m halfway down the stairs when I look over the banister and see Mom and Dad by the front door. He pulls his suit jacket over his shoulders, looks into the hallway mirror, and adjusts his glasses. He grabs my mom’s purse off the table and hands it to her. She thanks him as she throws it over her shoulder.

“Hey,” I say. They both look up at the same time. Mom’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“Oh, good. You’re back. I didn’t even hear you come in.” She meets me at the bottom of the staircase. “How was your climbing trip?” she asks as she kisses me on the cheek. “Did you and your friends have fun?”