Time Trap

by Jill Cooper

  Her lips perch together in a tight smile. “You too, Ms. Crane. One of my favorite return visitors.”

  I sit down in the overstuffed black recliner, and when she latches the door, the metallic boom makes my heart skip a beat.

  This is it. Turning back isn’t an option.

  The stark white walls, sparsely covered with posters, make me feel like a trapped rat. Time travel has rules, the posters warn, and I plan on breaking everyone. A daughter will do anything for her mother.

  I have one chance at this, and with my heightened blood pressure, its clear my body knows it. Once you travel back to a specific time, it’s catalogued as off limits. Frequent travel to the same moment, in the same space, causes a rut in space, like pacing across a worn floor. If I fail, if I can’t do this, my mother will remain dead forever.

  The technician is wearing all white, and her shoes squeak against the shiny silver tiles.

  She straps the belt around my lap, and my knees bounce up from my bottled-up tension. The clustered nerves in my gut grow larger. I swallow to settle them, but bile rises in my throat.

  Delilah sits at her computer a few feet in front of me, probably checking the records for my time travel history. This is my tenth trip, thanks to the frequent visitor discount card she sold me on my second visit. I’ve been time travelling to plot my route and improve my sprinting time through the city.

  She slides over to me on her desk chair. Her eyes search mine, and they glint with distrust. “We checked out the date and location,” Delilah says. “It seems like a happy memory. How old were you?”

  She’s scoping me out. I try hard to keep eye contact. I’ve worked too hard on this to get caught now. It took every penny I had to pay for this final trip. “I was five. I sang in front of the mayor. My dad was there. It was a big deal to me then.”

  Delilah slips a standard white hospital-issue heart monitor on my finger and clamps it tightly, catching my skin. With a deft movement of her foot, the chair reclines like the one in the dentist’s office, and I’m peering up at the glass ceiling.

  She speaks again, seemingly bored now, as she goes through her pockets looking for something until she pulls out a pen.

  “You’ll have fifteen minutes and will have to watch from the hall.”

  I nod and try to keep from sweating, but my heart is beating so rapidly it’s echoing in my ears.

  Her eyes are steady on mine, and her lips pinch together. She recites as if from memory, “No interactions and don’t try to meet or touch anyone along the way. You wouldn’t be able to anyway.”

  Or so she thinks.

  My fingers grip the flyers. Hidden beneath them is a photo of my mom.

  “We’ll be monitoring you. Any sudden changes in your breathing or heartbeat and we’ll yank you out.”

  Delilah injects my neck with the sleep serum. It pinches like a snapping beetle, and the electrodes surge on my temple. My head tingles. Electricity pulses through my skin, making my foot twitch and my finger clutch involuntarily.

  My eyelids are heavy. They close, but the sound of banging forces them open again. I see Rick, my boyfriend, through the window in the door. He bangs the glass with his hand, and I grip the armrest as restraints clamp down on my forearms.

  “Arrest him,” she hisses into a wall intercom, and armed security guards force Rick’s arms behind his back. Delilah turns to me and gives me a smile. It doesn’t look friendly.

  It’s chilling.

  “She’s ready to go back.”

  “Lara!” he screams, and the longing, the begging in his voice breaks me. “Don’t do this, Lara!”

  The chair begins to spin, and the room swirls around me until I’m dizzy with the urge to vomit. The velocity forces my head back against the cushion, and my mouth falls open. I whisper a single word.

  “Mom.”

  ****

  I’m standing in the yellow halls of a cheerful school decorated with construction paper artwork. The hall waves in front of my vision as though I’m lost beneath the ocean, and my legs tremble. I slide my feet forward, so I can lean against a locker for support.

  I have no memory of what I did before this. I rub my temples. I’m missing something, and my head throbs. I flip through the papers I notice in my hand. It’s a pamphlet that says I have fifteen minutes to be in the past.

  Time travel?

  Flipping through the pages I see short-term memory loss is to be expected but will fade soon. I paid money to go back, but why into a school? Something about it is familiar, and I know the hall I’m standing in leads to a music room.

  But I don’t know how I know any of this. I just do. As if memories were uploaded into my brain.

  A photo falls from my papers and lands face up.

  Her face. Her eyes. It’s like looking in the mirror.

  I scoop the picture up and head down the hall. A piano chord strikes. The soft tone echoes toward me, and the digital watch on my wrist beeps. A rush of memories slam into my mind, knocking me off balance. I wobble on my feet as if the collision were physical. I retch, the vomit threatening to spill. Swallowing, it burns like racing lava. I check my watch.

  I only have thirteen minutes left.

  I don’t bother to look through the doors to find five-year-old me. Instead, I race down the hall, feet gliding across the linoleum. My hood flaps behind me as my body crashes into the elementary school front doors. Blinding sunlight greets me, and I am flying down the hill. My arms pump, and I suck in deep breaths of air, like I learned in my time as a sprinter at Cambridge High.

  Rounding the corner onto Mass Avenue, I see Tower Records off in the distance.

  Beep.

  I now have ten minutes to run eight blocks in time to save Mom. If I don’t make it, if I fail, I won’t get another shot.

  My chest aches, and in my mind, I see Mom. I’ve seen her in pictures, but my memories of her are pretty much gone. I want to remember her tucking me into bed and cooking me dinners. Now I am alone and have microwaved bowls of macaroni and cheese. Maybe it wasn’t Dad’s fault. Maybe he did his best, but I want more.

  I want a mom.

  My legs burn, and my lungs beg me to stop, but I keep going. I push harder and edge my body on until I’m desperate to collapse. A woman steps out from a store. I take a hard right to avoid her, clipping my arm on a brick wall. I groan and pause to bend over with my hands braced on my legs. I take a gulping breath of pain that my lungs reject. The woman comes up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  Shrugging her off, I sprint away.

  Eight minutes.

  I round the corner toward Tower Records with anxiety tight in my chest.

  This is where it happens. This is where Mom’s body will be found.

  My run slows to a trot as I stop beside the giant music store. I peer up at the towering skyscraper as I round the back, down an alley. Quiet shadows loom around the dumpster. A breeze sweeps by and blows a trash bag open. I catch the stench of decomposing meat, churning my stomach. My head pounds. I groan and grab my temples. Behind me I hear a woman’s voice.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her voice rings a bell only in my deepest dreams. My movements slow as I turn and stare into my mother’s face. Her eyes are blue like mine, and her face is framed with curls. The stillness of the sight shocks me. I knew I would see her if I was successful, but I wasn’t ready for how my heart would ache or how badly I’d want to hug her.

  She has a book in one hand and a cell phone in another. The phone is blinking, suggesting she’s been on a call and maybe whoever is on the other end might still be listening. But Mom doesn’t seem to care; her eyes are fixed on me.

  “I’m fine.” Despite my dry mouth, my voice sounds normal, but I am anything but. “Only a headache.”

  Mom smiles, and her warmth spreads to me. “Well it’s no wonder, being back here. Come out on the street where the air is fresh. We’ll get you a bottle of water.”

  I follow her on autopilot and wa
tch her retrieve a bottle of water from her brown leather messenger bag. Around us, pedestrians walk by. Any one of them could be her killer, but maybe by being here I’ve saved her. Maybe I stopped her from going too far into the alley.

  I sip the water offered to me, and as she takes it back, Mom asks, “What did you say your name was?”

  “Lara,” I answer before I can stop. I squeeze my eyes shut. My heart skips a beat with regret.

  “That’s funny,” she laughs. “That’s my daughter’s name.” Her eyes aren’t suspicious. Her face is only kind.

  My wrist watch beeps. I’m down to two minutes.

  “I’m sorry I have to get home and get dinner ready. It’s a big night for my family. I hope you’ll be all right.” Mom turns towards the music store, and I follow. I see a man in the alley out of the corner of my eye.

  “Mom!”

  Mouth agape, her head whips toward me. “What did you call me?”

  There’s no time to answer.

  A gun goes off.

  I throttle her back, and she crumbles to the pavement. I take her place and feel a pinch in my side. My hand covers it instantly, and my legs wobble like jelly. I crash to the pavement, and my knees crunch under the impact. I grimace with my hand over the wound.

  For a moment, my eyes lock with the shooter. He has dark hair and brown eyes. His brow furrows, and his lip snarls. Whoever he is, I tremble in fear. Then he takes off running. Around me people scream and run for cover. The ones that don’t are by my side. Someone calls for help.

  My breath echoes in my ear. Mom is there, taking me by the shoulder. Her lips are moving, but I hear nothing. There are tears in her eyes and mine, too. I fall forward, my head cushioned by her lap. Unable to blink, I can only stare ahead at a red fire hydrant on the sidewalk. Everything grows dim, and my breath rumbles.

  I swear I see a shadow leaping over my body, but when I turn my head, no one is there. I don’t understand. There was no mugging, so why was I shot? Mom was supposed to be mugged. I was told that all my life.

  Beep.

  Time’s up. Everything goes dark as when a curtain closes on a stage, but I don’t think it’s from time travel.

  I think I’m dead.

  Chapter Four

  Darkness surrounds me.

  My breaths labors, and the heat in my side radiates up to my head. I try to open my eyes, but they’re instantly pierced by a blinding light. Even if I’m not dead, the intense pain makes me kind of wish I was. Overhead, a bell rings, and the shuffling of feet follows.

  Shielding my eyes with my hands, I take a deep breath. I need to remember everything I’ve done and seen, but my memories are behind a blinding haze. The throbbing will not abide, and something inside me is desperate to come out. I hope it’s not vomit. I really hate to vomit.

  My eyes flutter open, expecting to see hell, but instead I see a high school classroom. I’m seated at a desk, and the clock overhead reads 2:30. I glance down at my lap.

  The clothes I’m wearing are someone else’s, and her taste is feminine like cotton candy. The hem of the skirt is short, and the shirt is a vibrant pink. I haven’t owned anything pink since Mom died and Dad started buying all my things.

  How can I be at school when I was just shot outdoors? I should be dying. My hand flutters to my side, but I can’t find an injury. Except for the freight train inside my head, I seem to be okay. I sigh with thankfulness. Now I need to go home and see Mom.

  “You fall asleep again?”

  Jolted, I turn in my seat. The caring eyes staring at me aren’t my boyfriend’s but those of Donovan James, the smarmy guy from the diner. Smart, handsome, and everything handed to him on a silver platter, his life is the complete opposite of mine. He’s either ignored me or teased me our entire academic career.

  So why is he talking to me now?

  His blond hair is perfectly coiffed into place, his blue eyes glow with a spark, and a playful dimple grin greets me.

  I shrug. “Maybe a cat nap,”

  His smile is weird, as if we’re friends. “All those late nights are catching up to you.”

  The pain in my head makes me squint. “I have a headache. Probably nothing.”

  “Well, come on. I have some Tylenol in my car.” He stands, so I do too, but my stomach churns and legs wobble, so he reaches out to steady me. “Easy there, rock star.”

  How does he know my old nickname? No one calls me that anymore, not since I was ten. I twist my arm from his tight grip. “I’m fine. You can let go of me.”

  A crack appears in Donovan’s smile. “Must be some headache.”

  Ending the pain is the only thing that matters to me, so I go. I’ll take pain-free even if it means spending time with someone I have no desire to be friends with.

  We navigate through the crowds in the hall—a mingling of teachers and students. My headache amplifies every sound, every moment, and I’m not too happy with how closely Donovan is following me.

  When I think we’re free from the high school, my friend Kristine steps in front of us. She has a razor bob, and she’s smiling while bouncing on her toes. I fight the urge to tell her to move. I want the medicine, and right now she's only a road block.

  “Hey guys.” She’s so cheerful I want to kick her. “You headed over to Harry’s Pizza?”

  “We sure—” Donovan starts.

  “No,” I say curtly, causing both to stare at me with their eyebrows pressed together. “I have a bad headache. I need to go home.”

  “Home?” Donovan asks in a haunted tone.

  “Yeah, home.” My answer comes out fast and short. “So, I can rest. I need this pain to stop. Sorry, Kristine. Another time.”

  She nods as if it’s no big deal, but there's a disappointed glint in her eyes.

  Pushing past her, my vision blurs, and by the time I’m sitting in Donovan’s convertible I can barely see anything. There is only the smell of pine, from an air freshener I assume. I feel him put two pills in my hand, and I swallow them dry before he can hand me a bottle of water. I take a big gulp before handing it back.

  He plays tennis and always keeps a stash of water bottles in the back. I shouldn’t know that, because we’ve never had a conversation about tennis or anything else. My palms sweat and I rub them on my skirt, what I can find of it anyway. I feel naked, desperate to go home and find some jeans, sweats, anything.

  When he puts his hand on top of mine, my body jumps with electricity. I try to pull away, but he steadies me. “Just relax.”

  Donovan’s hand rubs my neck, giving me chills. The good kind or bad, I’m not really sure, but someone other than Rick has no right to touch me. He pulls my hair away, and his lips kiss the nape of my neck. I swat him away and shift in my seat to get away from him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I practically hiss at him.

  His eyes shine with mischief. “Helping my girlfriend feel better. At least that’s what I thought I was doing.”

  My insides plummet. I would never date Donovan. What about Rick? My fingernails dig into my thighs. “This headache is bad. I think I better head home.” My hand finds the door handle, but Donovan clutches my arm. It’s not enough to hurt but enough to make me want to get away, no matter the cost.

  “I’ll drive you. I’m going that way anyway.”

  I try not to snarl.

  He lives with all the other rich kids on the opposite side of town and that’s exactly where he drives me. He pulls down a street where all the houses are the same, including the pink rose bushes in front of the entryways. The properties are crammed in with no yards, but at least there are no double-locked doors or screaming coming from apartment B3.

  Still, this wasn’t home. He punked me. “Why’d you take me here?”

  Donovan’s eyes roll and there’s a smirk on his face. “Must be some headache for you to forget where you live.”

  What? I’d feel jolted if my head wasn’t already spinning me.

  The house he parks beside tow
ers over me. “This is my house.” Astonishment rolls off my tongue.

  Donovan rubs my arm. “Has been as long as I’ve known you. Feeling better?”

  “I am. Thank you for the—”

  His lips meet mine. My body goes rigid with surprise. I can’t believe this. I’m taken, dating Rick. I feel so guilty to even be with this rich kid instead of the poor one that stole my heart.

  I push Donovan away and duck my head down, so he won’t see how upset I am.

  He sighs. “Lar, I know lately things have been tough, but they’ll get better soon.”

  I can’t ask what he’s talking about. He has to think I’m the Lara he knows or else I’m in a lot of trouble. “I hope so.” I fold the hem of my skirt over and study the stitches. I hope he doesn’t see I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Be careful. And I’ll call you tonight.”

  Careful? What could that mean?

  “If you change your mind about hanging out, call me and I’ll pick you up,” he says.

  I shrug. “I have chores.”

  He snickers. “Since when do your parents give you chores?”

  “Huh …well … see you,” I mumble and step out of the vehicle, then hurry up the steps to the front door. A simple wreath of dried flowers and lavender hangs in the center of the purple door. I touch it, remembering what Dad had said years ago about Mom being a crafter when they were young. “Mom?”

  I'm so desperate to see her, I can taste it. I find keys in my purse and am astonished to find one that works.

  A vanilla aroma greets me in the foyer. The house is like a museum and not simply from no one being home, but because everything is so refined. I’ve never been surrounded by expensive antiques before. The gorgeous furniture has no rips or stains. The living room is decorated with delicate creams and yellow sofas. On the coffee table are fresh flowers and on the wall a mantle of mementos. Everything seems so new, so beautiful, but also homey. Someone must have gone through a lot of trouble to make it this way.

  In the center of the coffee table is an ornate silver frame. My heart contracts when I see it. The picture is of me and Mom from a few years earlier. We are smiling with our matching eyes and hair, our heads tilted together. Laughter lines our faces. My fingers shake as I touch the frame. It’s real. I can feel it.