by Liz Kessler
But my mind keeps hurling horrible thoughts and questions around. What if I can’t get back? I keep thinking about how Mrs. Smith got stuck in the future. What if that happens to me, too?
What if the elevator doesn’t work again, and then we all have to go home? Maybe if you leave Riverside Village, you can never get back to the present day! What if that’s what happens to me? I’ll be just like her. I’ll have lost my life — not just a year, two years. I’ll never really know what happened and never be happy again. I clench my hands into fists; they’re clammy and slippery with fear.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Mom smiles at me. “The four of us out like this?”
I nod, gulping hard. “Mm,” I say, trying to twist my face into a smile.
I spend the rest of the morning following the others around in a daze, trying to act normal, trying not to count the seconds till we’re back and I can find out what’s happened to Autumn.
Come on. Please let’s just go back, I say in my mind, over and over again. Please let everything be OK.
The second Mom pulls into the parking lot, I throw my door open.
“Hold on, Jen. I haven’t even turned the engine off.”
“How come Jenni never gets yelled at?” Craig moans. I pinch his leg as I jump out of the car.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say. “I’ve just got to check something.”
I run around to Autumn’s building. As I approach her condo — the new one on the first floor — the door opens and Autumn’s dad appears.
“Hey, Jenni,” he says. He looks as though he’s lost a lot of weight, and his hair’s gray, but other than that he looks normal. He even smiles at me.
“Hi, Mr. Leonard,” I say nervously. Is he off to the bar?
He picks up an easel and a box of paints by the side of the door. “Just off to hang out in the woods for some inspiration,” he says. “I thought this would be an appropriate place to get started again. Wish me luck.” Then he gestures inside. “She’s in there with her mom,” he says. “See you later.”
I go inside and stop in the hallway. “Hello?” My hands are sweating. What am I going to find here this time?
“In here,” Mrs. Leonard shouts back from the living room.
She’s plonking a pile of clothes down on the sofa and opening up an ironing board. “I just spotted this in a closet and thought I’d do a bit of ironing,” she says. “I can’t remember the last time I bothered.”
Nor can I. I think the Leonards used to have a cleaner who did things like that. Autumn’s mom was always far too glamorous to do ironing!
She plugs in the iron and switches it on. “She’s in her room,” she says. “Go on in. I think you’re just what she needs today.”
“Today?” I ask. “Why today?”
Mrs. Leonard rolls her eyes. “She’s having one of those days. Good thing you’re here. You deal with them much better than I do.”
Then she goes back to the pile of clothes, and I make my way to Autumn’s bedroom. Those days? What days? What am I going to face on the other side of this door?
I knock on the door. No reply.
“Autumn?” I push the door open. She’s inside. She’s sitting on her bed, facing away from me.
“How come you didn’t answer?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light, despite the quiver I can feel behind it.
She shrugs.
“Autumn?” I cross the room and stand in front of her. She looks so different. Her face is pale and lean; her beautiful red hair is lank and lifeless, even more so than last time. She looks about ten years older than she is — unless I’ve gone even further forward than I thought.
She looks up at me. “What are you doing in those old clothes?” she asks.
I look down at myself and feel ridiculous. To Autumn, I’m wearing clothes that are two years out-of-date. “I don’t know,” I say. I try to sound cheerful. “Anyway, I haven’t come by to talk about my clothes!”
“What have you come by for?” she asks sullenly.
“I’ve come by to see you!” I say. “I didn’t realize I had to have a reason!”
“Everything has a reason,” Autumn says. Then in a bitter aside, she adds, “Apparently.”
“What d’you mean?” I ask, sitting on the bed next to her.
Autumn shrugs again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Tell me.”
Autumn lets out a heavy breath. “Just something I read in one of Mom’s self-help books.”
The thought of Autumn’s mom reading self-help books is so far from reality that if it wasn’t for the fact that I no longer have any idea what reality is, I would burst out laughing on the spot. But one look at Autumn’s face, and laughter is a million light-years away from my thoughts. Her eyes are red; her cheeks are hollow — her whole face looks about as empty as her voice sounds.
“All this. Mom keeps saying there must be a reason for it. As though Mikey being in that hospital bed for the last two years is some kind of test for the family — and she’s determined to pass it.”
“They both seem to be coping better this —” I nearly say “this year” but stop myself. In Autumn’s world, I’ve spent the last year in her life. I should know what’s been going on. But how am I meant to find out without trying to tell her what’s really going on with me? I don’t think she’s got it in her to believe me. Why would she? I can still hardly believe it myself. “Better than they have been,” I say eventually.
“I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? It’s been nearly two months, and they’re still determined to hold on to it.”
“Two months?” Two months since what? What else has happened?
“You know — the whole thing with his eyes.”
“Thing with his eyes?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Autumn looks at me. “Opening them in the day and closing them at night.”
Can people do that when they’re in a coma? Does this mean he’s getting better?
Autumn goes on before I can even work out how to respond. “Four times he did it — that was all. Even then, the doctors told us it didn’t mean anything. Just a reflex, nothing to do with an improvement in his condition. And I don’t know how many times they’ve told us since. But Mom and Dad don’t hear that. All they can think of is that he opened his eyes. They’re convinced it must mean something. They’re determined to believe it’s only a matter of time. Any day now we’re going to be jumping around playing happy family again.”
Autumn’s voice is so brittle, it almost seems to crack the words as she speaks them.
“But that’s not a bad thing, is it?” I ask as gently as I can. “It’s good to have some hope, isn’t it?”
Autumn snorts, then shakes her head. “You’re as bad as them if you think that.”
“Why?”
“It’s make-believe,” she snaps. “Childish, unrealistic nonsense that everyone goes around telling themselves just to make themselves feel better. And it’s pointless, idiotic, and stupid.”
I’m so thrown by Autumn’s outburst that not only do I not know how to respond, I don’t know what to do at all. I’m aware that I’m staring at her with my mouth wide open. I feel as though she’s just fired a load of bullets right at my face. Where did all this anger come from?
“I’m sick of everyone pretending it’s all going to be OK. I’m sick of it. Don’t you understand?”
How am I supposed to understand? I don’t understand what’s happening to my own life. How can I begin to understand what’s going on in hers?
“Autumn, I don’t know what’s been happening here,” I say.
“What, you mean you haven’t actually been with me the whole of the last two years and seen my parents gradually convince themselves everything’s going to be fine — when it clearly isn’t?”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m telling you,” I say. “I haven’t been here. I don’t know about any of this!” I can feel myself getting frustrated. It’s not fair for
her to be getting so angry with me. I don’t know what’s going on! I need to tell her the truth. This is me and Autumn. We tell each other everything. Anyway, what have I got to lose?
“Look, do you remember me telling you about losing a year?” I say.
“Hm, let me think. You mean do I remember you trying to make an idiot of me this time last year?” she snaps. “Yes, thank you. And in case you’re thinking of trying again, don’t waste your time; I’m not interested.”
“I’m not making an idiot of you; it’s all true!”
“Sure it is. Oh, look.” Autumn points out the window. “See that pig flying through the air?”
She has to believe me. I can’t stand being in this without her anymore.
“I know how it happened,” I say, ignoring her sarcasm. “It’s the elevator. It took me forward a year in time, to the exact same week a year ahead — same date, same time of the day. It doesn’t just take me up a floor. I went up two floors, this time, and I’ve gone forward two years!”
Autumn stares at me as though I’m a piece of trash that’s gotten in her way. “Are you finished?”
Please, Autumn. It’s me, Jenni — your best friend! I wouldn’t joke about something like this. “You’ve got to believe me!”
“I’ve got to, have I? And who exactly says I’ve got to, if you don’t mind telling me? I don’t recall needing your permission for anything I decide to do.”
“Autumn, I . . .” My words trail away and dissolve. It’s useless. One look at her face is enough to tell me she’s not interested in what I’ve got to say, even though it’s the truth. I shake my head. “Forget it.”
I start to walk away, but I stop at the door. What did Mrs. Smith say, about how she found out the things that had happened, the things she’d missed? Ask the right questions, in the right way, and people will tell you everything you need to know. She’s right. I have to try harder. I’m not going to just sit back and let all of this happen. The old Jenni might have, but too much has changed, and I’ve changed with it. I need to try again.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” I say. Autumn’s still looking at me with cold eyes, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “What’s happened to you?” I ask. “What’s happened to us? This isn’t us.”
She looks away.
“You’re not even going to answer me?”
“I don’t want to fight with you, either,” she says finally, her voice softening slightly.
“Then let’s not,” I say, sitting back down next to her and reaching out to touch her arm. “We’re in this together,” I say. “You’re my best friend.”
Autumn leans her head against my shoulder, and we sit in silence for a while. It’s only when I realize that my shoulder is damp that I see she’s crying.
“Autumn, what is it?” I ask.
“I just — I just — I don’t know how to cope with it all,” she gasps, her words bumping out in big sobs. “Everyone else is getting their lives together, and it’s only now that mine feels like it’s falling apart.”
“What d’you mean? Why is your life falling apart?”
Autumn shakes her head and wipes her palm across her eyes. “I can’t — I can’t stop seeing it,” she says eventually.
“Seeing what?”
“Mikey,” she says in a whisper. “I dream about the accident every night, and all day he’s there in my mind, in his bed. Not moving. He’s never going to move again, never going to see me, talk to me. I can’t bear it, Jen.”
I wrap my arms around her. “Don’t say that.”
Autumn pushes away from me. “Don’t say what — the truth?” she says, her voice suddenly harsh again. “Oh, you’re just as bad as them. Why don’t you go and talk to my mom instead? You can play pretend together. She can tell you about the miraculous recovery Mikey’s going to make, and you can tell her all about your time machine.”
She gets up and stands at the window, arms folded, facing away from me. “What do you think it’s like knowing that you’ve ruined your whole family’s lives?” she says eventually.
“What? But it wasn’t your fault!”
“Oh, really?” Autumn picks up a brush and starts pulling it through her hair. “Like I said, why don’t you go and swap pretend stories with my mom? I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to spend time with anyone else — why would you want to be with me?”
I stand up and join her at the window, standing in front of her so she has to look at me. “Autumn,” I say gently.
“What?”
“I don’t believe I’d ever want to spend time with anyone as much as I want to be with you.”
Another yank of the brush through her lank hair. “Whatever.”
“Maybe it’s you who doesn’t want to be with me. Maybe you’re pushing me away.”
“How do you work that one out?”
“I dunno. Maybe you want to prove to yourself that no one wants to be around you.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you blame yourself for what happened to Mikey, and it’s made you think you’re such a bad person that no one would want to be with you — and no one can reject you if you reject them first?” I bite into my lip while I wait for her to answer. I’ve put my finger on it! Maybe I can fix this, get our friendship back on track, mend the whole —
“Well, thanks for your insights, Sigmund Freud,” Autumn snaps. “But if I wanted to listen to homemade therapy jargon, I’d go to your mom.” She turns her back on me again. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d rather you left me in peace.”
“Autumn!” I follow her and reach out to touch her arm. She snatches it away. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this. It feels like you hate me.”
“You really want me to explain?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice quivering.
She finally turns around to face me, looking flatly into my eyes. “Because you let me down, Jenni. Because you didn’t show up. Because I couldn’t find you anywhere, so I made Mom take me without you. Because we’d booked two horses, so Mikey came, too. Because your mom didn’t turn up, and the ambulance didn’t turn up — and the delays meant that it was too late to do anything. Because —” She stops suddenly.
“Because what?” My voice is a hoarse whisper.
Autumn’s eyes are shining as she looks deeply into mine. “Because it happened to my brother,” she says finally, “not yours.”
I open my mouth to reply. Nothing comes out.
“You asked,” she says flatly. “And that’s your answer. That what you wanted to hear?”
I swallow hard. I still don’t even know why I didn’t show up. Maybe it was because I’d gone forward in time and the old Jenni disappeared. Maybe it was something else altogether. I’ll probably never know, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The fact is, I wasn’t there and they went without me. Was this whole thing my fault?
“No, I didn’t think so,” she says. “Now do you understand?”
I find my voice. “I think so. You blame me for it happening, and you wish it had happened to my brother instead of yours. I think that’s normal, a natural kind of —”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jenni, can’t you stop being so flipping reasonable?” she bursts out. “It’s me, OK! You were right. It’s me who pushed you away, me who wouldn’t see you. Me who can’t forgive anyone for what happened — you, Mom, Dad — and yes, all right, myself! OK? I can’t forgive myself.” Autumn stops as a sob chokes into her voice.
“Forgive yourself?” I reach out to put my hand on her arm. She doesn’t snatch it away. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
“You don’t understand,” she croaks.
“What?” I ask softly. “What don’t I understand?”
“I egged him on. I made him gallop. He was really nervous, but I said he could do it. I teased him, called him a wimp. So he did it — he galloped — and he fell off. And then I thought he was all right. I didn’t insist on
getting him to hospital right away. I believed him when he said he was fine. It was my fault. Everyone else is dealing with it now. You’re OK. Mom and Dad are OK. Everyone’s getting on with their lives — and I’m stuck here in this nightmare that I can’t stop reliving. Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“I hate everyone for what happened!” she cries. “I hate everyone for moving on. And I know how unfair that is. But this anger — I can’t get rid of it; I can’t get it out of me. I’m so filled with it, and there’s nothing I can do with it that’s reasonable. So there’s only one person left to hate. Only one person whose life I can ruin without having to feel even more guilty.” She turns her tearstained face toward me.
“Yours,” I say blankly.
“Correct. A-plus.” She rubs her palm fiercely across her eyes. “Want a prize for that?”
I pull my hand away from her arm. “Why are you being so mean?”
“I’ve just told you, haven’t I? I thought you would understand, would be a good listener like your mom. Funny how wrong you can be about people, isn’t it? She turned out not to be so great, either.”
“What do you mean by that?” I snap. I can’t help it. If she wants to push me away, fine. Let her. But I’m not going to lie down like a doormat just so she can stamp on me — and my mom.
“Driving your dad away like that.”
I clutch my stomach. For a moment, I actually think she’s hit me — but she’s not standing near enough, so I know it was only words. “How dare you,” I whisper eventually.
I can’t say anything else. My throat is too choked up. Autumn pulls at her hair, for a second looking guilty, maybe even ashamed. Maybe she knows she’s gone too far.
