I concentrate my efforts on the side of the building where I can see the best: the front. Outside the front door of the Temporal Studies Society, I can see grass, cars, even road signs. One end of the street is dense fog, the other is clear. I stare down the clearer route. I’ve come that way enough times. I know that end of the street pretty well. Turning to the west I see only a wall of fog and mystery.
I finally decide to move east and stay in the center of the road. If I follow this far enough I can make it to my neighborhood. The idea of home is the only comfort I can find in this place. I may not be in Heaven, but I’m in St. Petersburg, and that’s close enough. I know people here. Or at least I did. Whoever is making noise out there in the fog may not be a personal friend, but I don’t have any reason to suspect that they’re some demonic imp or harpy, so that’s something.
The houses around me vary in clarity. At some points the fog is thicker than in others, mostly in the center of blocks. Intersections seem to stay a little clearer and the main streets like Ninth and Fourth are clear as can be. I trot up the steps of the Tropical Smoothie at the intersection of Twelfth Avenue and look in the windows. It’s all clear inside but no people. No cars driving up and down Fourth Street. Normally I would be taking my life in my hands jaywalking across Fourth Street, as it’s a main thoroughfare. Today I just stand in the middle of the road and no one is there to notice.
I break into a jog heading east into my neighborhood. I pass homes with yards that ought to have dogs barking at me, but the locals are nowhere to be seen. As I near my apartment, the fog is nearly dissipated. Little wisps linger in backyards and under apartment stairwells, but the sky is blue above me now. The moon is even visible, a three-quarter view calmly traversing the daylight sky. I can’t help but feel encouraged.
The spare key is hidden under the flowerpot where it always is. I trot up the stairs to my above-garage apartment and unlock the doorknob. It swings open freely and reveals the undisturbed interior. Home. I slide the deadbolt shut. Whatever is out there in the fog can stay out there. I don’t need them. Here I will find some answers. I’m sure of it.
My garage apartment is typically sunlit and spacious. The perimeter of windows normally lets in plenty of light but is high enough for privacy from the street. One of my ex-girlfriends used to refer to it as “The Tree House.” It’s home turf, the site of innumerable gatherings of friends, parties, and activities. Now I scan the silent rooms looking for any sign of life at all. A few fish have co-habitated with me over the years, usually acquisitions from some carnival ring toss game or another, but my landlord hasn’t allowed other pets. Right now the fishbowl in the corner of the kitchen countertop is only occupied by the trailing roots of my philodendron.
My fridge is bare. That seems pretty normal. There may not be much in the way of food inside but the freezer is still humming. Ice cubes in the trays. There is nothing out of place other than the sheer absence of other people.
I step back into the living room and spot my flip phone on the coffee table. The light on the corner is blinking. Messages. I lunge for the phone and open it, dialing my friend Francesca’s number first. If anyone will believe me without question, it will be her. I wait for the ringtone, but nothing happens. I try again to no effect. I check the signal bar and try 911, waiting with shaking hands for someone’s voice or even an automated menu. It doesn’t come. I curse and throw the phone at the couch cushions. You useless piece of shit.
In the back of my mind, the logical part of me is berating my lack of sense. Dead people can’t use phones. Who are you going to call? Ghostbusters?
I stare at the phone and fume. The light on the corner is still blinking. I ignore my own nagging logic and snatch the phone back up. Two voicemails from work. I hit the play button and wait impatiently for my boss’s voice. I haven’t been at work for a few days. She’s probably furious. I’ve never been more excited to hear her voice.
The phone stays silent. I stare at the progress bar in frustration and tap the play button again. No sound. I curse at the phone and try another method. I dial my own phone number into the phone. Come on, just someone’s voice. Anyone.
The phone is ringing.
Oh God, it’s actually ringing! I clutch the receiver closer to my ear and hold my breath. Come on. Work.
The line picks up. Dull static fills the other end.
“Hello? Is there someone there?”
I get a chill up my spine and shiver. The phone line goes dead.
Come on. I was so close. I dial the number again.
Work. Please work.
The phone rings six times. Then static again.
I dial once more, stubbornly optimistic that something will prove this feeling wrong.
This time I get nothing. The phone gives me only silence in reply.
No.
I don’t want to be dead.
I don’t want to be dead.
Shit.
<><><>
St. Petersburg- June, 2009
We’ve only made it fifteen minutes into the movie. On screen, Mikey and the rest of the Goonies have just discovered the treasure map in the attic. I’m more intent on Mym’s bare legs draped over my lap and her hands grasping my T-shirt and dragging me closer to her horizontal position on the couch. I let my lips detour to her neck and ears before finally reaching her mouth. Her kisses are firm and warm, and her hand slips under the edge of my shirt to my back.
“This needs to come back off. It’s so hot in here.” She starts to tug at my T-shirt and I laugh.
I trace my fingertips over her legs to the edge of her dress that has ridden up her thighs. “Maybe we can both shed a few layers.” I smile and start to remove my shirt, but stop when the phone starts ringing on the coffee table. I stare at it with annoyance, then stretch to try to reach it.
Mym frowns. “What are you doing?”
I kiss her and swing her legs off me. “I’ll just turn this off so it doesn’t keep bugging us.” I lean over and snatch up the phone, pressing the volume button to silence the ringer. I glance at the screen and glimpse the number. “That’s weird.”
“What is it?”
I flip open the phone and hold it to my ear. “Hello?” The other end is just static. “Hello?” I wait a second longer, then close the phone again. “Huh. I’ve never had that happen before.”
“Is someone calling you?”
“No. The phone number it showed was mine.”
“Voicemail?”
“Maybe. I do have a couple I need to listen to. But I’ve never had my own phone call me before.” I set the ringer to vibrate and put the phone back down. I lean toward Mym. “Where were we?”
Mym smiles and runs her hand up my arm. I lean in farther, angling toward her lips. I stop as the phone starts ringing again. “Damn it.”
Mym’s smile fades.
“Sorry. I swear I put this thing on silent.” I grab the phone again and glance at the screen. It’s still my own number calling. I let it ring in my hand a few more times before finally flipping it open.
“Hello?”
Static.
I slowly close the phone.
“Ben? What are you doing?”
“Sorry. Just trying to stop it from bothering us.”
“It wasn’t ringing.”
“What?”
Mym is staring at me cautiously. “Your phone wasn’t ringing.”
I look from her to the phone and get a brief chill up my spine. I pop the battery out of the back and toss it onto the table. I set the phone down gently in front of me and watch it, half expecting it to ring again. I can still feel Mym staring at me.
I raise my eyes to the front door and the leather jacket hanging on the coat rack next to it.
His jacket.
On the TV, Mikey and his friends have tied Brand to the chair with his workout equipment and are escaping on their adventure to the sounds of Cyndi Lauper.
Mym sits up and props her hands on the edge of the couch
cushion. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
It doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like one of my dreams.
“He’s still trying to talk to you, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired.”
Mym frowns at me. “Ben—”
“What? What am I supposed to do? He died. I don’t have the foggiest idea how to deal with that. It’s not like I can change anything. I can’t undo the past. I get that he saved us but if I go back and undo that, I’ll just ruin everything he died for in the first place. It’s hard, but he’s gone. It’s not my fault that I made it out and he didn’t. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty about that.”
Mym is studying my face. “I doubt he’s trying to contact you just to make you feel guilty.”
I put my hand back on Mym’s leg. “Whatever his issue is, it’s not like I have to deal with it right this second.”
Mym frowns and moves my hand off her leg. She stands and straightens her dress, tugging the hem back down toward her knees. “I think we do need to deal with this. Do you think he’d ignore you if you were calling?”
“He’s not really calling. I’m just imagining things. And yes. He’s me, so whatever I do is probably exactly what—”
“I know you, Ben. ”
“I know me. I am me. So if he’s dead then he should just deal with that on his end. That’s what I would do. I just finally got my life back here. I’m trying to get things back to normal, not turning my phone into the Psychic Hotline. I just want a little bit of peace. Is that so much to ask?”
Mym crosses her arms. “So you’re just going to do nothing? Let him take the fall for us and not try to help him?”
“No. I’ll help. Eventually.”
“When? When you feel like you’ve got nothing better to do?”
“We’re time travelers. We have all the time in the world.”
“You know that’s not how it works.”
“Look, I just want a little time to have my own life back. I want you, and I want a normal day where we can just hang out without some alternate version of me butting in.”
“He’s not butting in. He might really need your help. Sometimes when you get stuck out there on your own, you just really need someone to listen and to be there for you.”
“That’s fine, but he needs to wait till I’ve had a chance to get my life back the way it was.”
“Your life. That’s all that matters.”
“No. That’s not what I meant. Look, I don’t get why you are so concerned about this other me out there. Is this version of me not good enough for you or something? Why can’t you just not worry about it right this second? I get that he was the version of me that saved the world and everything, but I did my part too.”
Mym glares at me. “If that’s what you think, then you really don’t get it.” She snatches up her sunglasses and flings open the door, disappearing down the steps.
I sigh and follow. “Mym, wait up.” She’s halfway to the sidewalk by the time I catch her. I grab her elbow and spin her around. She has tears in her eyes. She yanks her arm out of my grip and smacks me in the chest.
“You can’t abandon people just because it makes your life complicated, okay? If you think that I would want to be with someone who—” She flails at me again and I catch her wrist this time, finally realizing that this argument isn’t just about the other me. I grab Mym around the shoulders and pull her to my chest. She struggles briefly, but then collapses into tears, suddenly sobbing against my shoulder. “It’s not fair to do that to people. You don’t know how it feels . . .” She chokes back her tears, her face buried in my chest.
We stay like that, still for a few seconds. A bit of pollen from the oak tree lands on Mym’s hair and I brush it away, smoothing the strands behind her ear. Finally she speaks again, quietly this time. “Please don’t be like that. Don’t be like her.”
“Who?”
Mym merely sniffs in response. I wrack my brain for what Mym has told me about her past. Is she talking about some other version of her? What other woman is she . . .
“Your mom?” I tilt my head to try to see Mym’s face. She has a hand to her cheek, trying to stem the flow of tears. “What happened?”
Mym lifts her head and runs her hand across my chest, pausing on the wet spot she’s made on my shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing. Tell me what happened.”
Finally she raises her eyes to mine. “She made a decision. Just like everyone does. She just didn’t choose us.”
“You and your dad?”
She nods. Then shakes her head. “No . . . it’s complicated. We got split up. She wanted to just hold onto life the way it was . . . and dad tried to go back for her, only . . . things had gotten twisted and we were already there. Another version of us.”
“And there was only one of her . . .” I take hold of her hand. “How old were you?”
“I was a baby. Well, toddler, I guess. Not quite two.”
“Do you remember her?”
Mym sniffs again and wipes at her eyes, trying to shake off the emotion. “Not from then. But I saw her again. Later.” She looks up at me, considering my face, perhaps deciding whether to tell me the rest or not. Finally she continues the story. “I knew dad checked in with her, asked her advice. For a while they made decisions together about how he should raise me. Schools I should go to. Things like that. It was always hard to keep away though. I ran away once to go visit her and saw how she was with the other me. Dad hated that I did it, but I had to see her for myself. He told me not to—that it would just make it harder. And it did, but that didn’t stop me.”
“Did you talk to her? What did she say?”
“She said, ‘The heart isn’t meant to be split in two.’ And she’s right. She’s always been right. It’s too much. Taking me in would have meant either taking me away from my dad or having two husbands in her life. She made a hard choice, but she never should have had to. And that’s why it’s just been dad and me for so long, because he got that. He knew what it was like to lose the most important person in his life, and then—when he died—I wasn’t supposed to go back, but I did. And you made it work, but I lost him anyway.
“It’s not the same as it was. He has to divide his time now, too. And just for once—for once—I want someone to choose me. I want someone to choose me, and to stay.”
“I am choosing to stay. That’s what I want more than anything. I’m just trying to go back to a normal life.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. What happens when we get complicated?” She shakes the tears from her hand and backs up a few steps, letting my fingers fall from hers. “What happens if being with me disrupts your normal? If you’re not going to be able to handle this life, then you need to tell me right now. I can’t do this again. I’m not going to get left on my own. Not again.”
She stares at me with glistening blue eyes, tracks of tears down her cheeks.
“You’re not going to lose me. I promise. I’m back. I’m not going anywhere.” I let my hands rest on my hips. “It’s not like we can’t solve this issue with my—dreams. I’m sure I can get him to stop bothering us. I’ll just figure out what he wants . . .”
Mym sighs and turns away. “He’s you, Ben.” She pulls her chronometer from her shirt and places a hand to the street sign next to the driveway. “So you need to figure out what you want.”
The next moment she’s gone.
I stare at the vacant space for a few seconds, my brain stubbornly refusing to process anything else.
“Son of a bitch. Why does time travel make everything so damn difficult?”
I kick a piece of bark back into the neighbor’s yard. “Is it so hard to just meet a nice girl and be happy? No, you had to pick a time traveler. . . and then die. And then not stay dead. Stupid idiot.” I tromp back up the stairs and slam the door.
I stare at my dismembered phone still lying
on the coffee table. Has it gotten so bad that I’m just imagining things?
There is a knock on the door behind me. That was fast. I guess she changed her mind.
I swing the door open and find a young man standing on my porch surrounded by a mound of luggage. The man’s freckled face is exuberant. He’s wearing an outfit that involves pegged, acid-washed jeans, a flannel shirt tied around his waist, a neon green tank top and Velcro sneakers. One of his arms is glistening with what appear to be a few brand new tattoos, and he has made an attempt to grow a beard, though only a few reddish-brown patches have shown up for the job. He’s trimmed the sides of his head short but grown his hair long on top and parted it in the middle, a style reminiscent of Jonathan Taylor Thomas circa 1994. He grins and drops the bag in his hand to reach out to me.
“Ben! I made it!”
“Tucket. What are you doing here, man?” I start to accept his handshake, but he switches to a fist-bump at the last minute, leaving us at an impasse momentarily while I sort out how to respond. Finally we bump fists and he laughs.
“You said I should come look you up when I graduated from the Academy. Two-thousand-nine! I’m so STOKED to be here!”
“Ah. I did say that, didn’t I . . .” I open the door a little wider and survey his pile of bags. “Looks like you brought your . . . life, with you.”
“I wasn’t sure exactly what I might need so I thought I’d better bring it all, you know? I’ve been studying twentieth and twenty-first century culture, but I wanted to make sure to fit in.”
I notice his left hand has a sparkling silver glove on it. “You’re doing a great job so far.” The last time I saw Tucket, he was assisting with my visit to the Academy of Temporal Sciences during the chronothon. Perhaps it was because he was working at the time, but I had not been subjected to his enthusiastic clothing choices. I check the street to see if any of my neighbors have noticed him and step aside so he can enter. “Let’s get you indoors.”
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 111
