TIme After Time

22

Dad opens his eyes and looks around at his office, like he’s seeing the bookshelves and paintings for the first time. “Did we do it?” He drops my hands and starts pacing back and forth in front of me. “How do we know if we changed it or not?”

I look at the clock above the door. It’s only a quarter to four.

He crosses the room in three long strides and stands behind his desk, shuffling papers. “Where is it? Where’s the story you brought in here?”

I keep my voice calm to offset the anxiety I hear in his. “It’s okay, Dad. That hasn’t happened yet.” I point up at the analog clock above his desk. “I came down here and showed you that story around seven thirty. That’s four hours from now.”

His eyes follow my finger but he only gives it a quick glance before he returns to digging through the stacks on his desk. “Dad. Stop.” I rest my hand on one of his. “We’ll check the news tonight, but now there probably won’t be a story. Or, I guess, there will be a story but it will be a completely different one. Are you okay? You look pale.”

He gropes around for his chair, sits down hard, and rolls it toward the desk so he can rest his head in his hands. I can see his shoulders rise and fall with each slow, deliberate breath, but aside from the panic attack, he doesn’t seem to be showing any post-travel reactions.

Which makes me realize I feel pretty good too. My heart is racing and my stomach feels light and I just want to…move. I want to go outside, hop on my skateboard again, and power down the hill, feeling the wind prickle my skin and lift my hair off my forehead. I feel incredible—no nosebleed, no migraine—just buzzy, like my whole body is vibrating, surging with adrenaline.

Dad’s head springs up and he starts typing on his keyboard. I come around to his side of the desk and watch as he types in every possible combination of words that could lead us to today’s events: “bicycle” and “accident” and “intersection” and “manslaughter.”

He’s not getting it.

“Dad, you’re not going to find anything yet. The accident just happened. It won’t show up for a while. Dad…” I lead his hands away from the keyboard. “We’ll check later tonight, okay, but trust me, it won’t be there. It worked. Everyone’s fine, except the kid driving the truck, who’s a bit banged up but probably being arrested right now for reckless driving and not vehicular manslaughter.”

Before I can comprehend what’s happening, Dad stands up and pulls me to him and hugs me so hard I can’t breathe. Eventually, he releases me, but he still keeps my arm in his grip. He stares at me like he’s trying to decide what to say, and finally settles on “They were really nice people, weren’t they?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, Dad, they were really nice.” I picture that little girl, worried about the condition of the driver who—in a version of a timeline that no longer exists—left her family fatherless and cut her life short at age nine.

“I’d better get back to my homework,” I say, gesturing toward my bedroom. “I have an essay I need to start all over again.”

Dad pats my arms hard and chuckles. “Sorry. That sucks,” he says.

“That’s okay. So did the essay.”

* * *

My backpack is a lot lighter without the skateboard. As I throw it over my shoulders and readjust the straps, I steal one last glance at the clock on my nightstand. I’m not supposed to be in Evanston until homecoming this weekend, but I can’t help it. I have to see Anna right now. I have to tell her what I just did.

I grab my car keys off my desk and speed out to the Jeep, and a half hour later, I’m backing it into the garage on the other side of town. I switch off the ignition, lower the door, and close my eyes.

I open them on the cross-country course that sits adjacent to the Westlake track. I’ve arrived exactly where I intended, in a quiet spot off the trail behind a cluster of trees and a fat shrub that conceals me from sight. Resting my backpack on the ground, I feel around inside until I find what I’m looking for. Then I sneak out toward the trail, listening for their footfalls. I can’t hear a thing.

It doesn’t take me any time to find the perfect spot. Smack in the middle of the trail I spot a log, large and intentionally placed to be hurdled, and I jiggle the postcard into a crevice so it’s standing up straight. Then I duck back out of sight.

The adrenaline is still surging through me, and even though I know I should stay silent and still, I can’t stop pacing across the dirt. I’m waiting and listening and ready to burst out of my skin. Finally, a few minutes later, I hear the rhythmic sound of feet padding against the dirt, followed by heavy breathing and the occasional grunt. I force myself to relax, pressing my back firmly against the tree bark.

Then the footsteps stop.

“This was just sticking out of the log,” someone says.

“What is it?” asks another.

“A postcard. From Paris.” I still don’t recognize the speaker, but I laugh under my breath when I hear the fascination in her voice as she says the word “Paris.”

“That’s weird.”

More footsteps.

“What’s up?” Ah, there’s Anna’s voice. I stand still, listening.

“It’s nothing. Come on, we’re losing time,” another voice says, and I hear footsteps on the trail again.

“Here, check it out. This was wedged into the log.”

“Huh…” I picture Anna taking it from her teammate, flipping the postcard around in her hands. “Weird. Come on, Stacy’s right, we should go.”

They run off and everything’s quiet until I hear footsteps on the trail again, this time coming from the opposite direction. Leaves crunch and twigs snap, and Anna’s face comes into view as she clears the short incline and peeks around a bush.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, clearly surprised to see me. “I’m in the middle of practice.” She’s taking long strides, beaming as she walks toward me. I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her off the ground. “Ew, what are you doing? Put me down!” She laughs and smacks me with her hand. “I’m all sweaty.”

“I don’t care.” I tighten my hold on her and plant a kiss in her hair. I’d been hyperaware of the adrenaline surge, but now I don’t notice it as much. I feel a headache coming on but I ignore it.

“Is everything okay? You’re shaking.”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. I have to tell you something.” I comb my hands through my hair. “You’re not going to believe what I just did—”

Suddenly, I don’t know where to start. Anna stares at me, looking confused and curious and waiting for me to continue. Every detail of everything that happened over the last forty-five minutes is swirling around in my head, flying around too quickly for me to grasp on to just one. Did all of it actually happen? The bikes. The crash. The girl.

“You’re not supposed to be here until Friday.”

“I know, but—” A faint ringing in my ear makes me stop in midsentence, and before I can say another word it completely changes pitch—high and piercing and constant—and I grab the sides of my head and crouch down on the ground in front of her.

I hear Anna say my name, but her voice sounds far away. I try to take my hands off my head so I can steady myself on the ground, but I can’t move. I feel my whole body grow weak, like my muscles are atrophying as I sit here. I feel my knees buckle and my cheek hit the dirt.

My eyes are open so wide they’re stinging and watering, and I feel pebbles and mud collecting under my fingernails as I claw my way back to sitting. I fall into the ground again and my head hits something that feels like a rock. Without my ability to control them, my eyes shut tightly. And suddenly, the piercing sound is gone and everything falls silent.