Time Sensitive

by Elyse Douglas

  I recalled all the old phone numbers: my number at the NSA; Paul’s work number at Marion Ad Agency, and our home number. I longed to hear Lacey’s and Lyn’s voices—I longed to confirm that they were there, and alive. But when I reached for the receiver, my hand trembled and I couldn’t pick it up.

  Where would they be now? Lacey would be watching TV or playing with her dolls. Lyn would probably be coloring. The housekeeper, Florence Ambrose, would be with them. She was strict but kind, and the girls liked her. I hung my head. Paul had found her, not me. I hardly knew her. Yes, Paul had always been the reliable and steady one. The girls had worshiped him.

  I sat there frozen. If I called home, Florence wouldn’t let a stranger talk to the girls. If I called Paul, what would I say? If I called myself at the NSA, what would I say? I mustn’t raise any suspicion.

  I stared at the walls, arms crossed. Of course I had a plan. Cyrano and I had planned everything—including contingency plans—but all of that had been theory and possibility. That had been in another time and another place. Now that I was here—now that this time was my reality—I was terrified, and my pulse remained high and driving.

  My clothes arrived at 5:30, and although only one of the dresses fit, a heather-tone low-waisted dress made of acrylic and rayon, the shoes miraculously fit, the lingerie was fine, and the slacks and tops would do. I’d finish my shopping tomorrow.

  Bolstered by my new wardrobe, I called Jay Anderson. He picked up on the third ring.

  “How about dinner?” I asked. “By the way, this is Charlotte Wilson.”

  “Charlotte,” he said with surprised enthusiasm. “Good to hear from you.”

  “So how about it? Are you hungry? Dinner on me and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’ve never been asked out by a woman before,” he answered.

  “It’s 1968, Jay. Things are changing. Don’t you listen to Bob Dylan?”

  “Bob who?”

  “Never mind. If you drive, I’m buying.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the Baltimore Delicatessen, at 1101 Bladensburg Road NE.”

  “I know that place. They have great corned beef sandwiches.”

  Yes, I thought. And my younger self loved to eat there after work. I’d searched my memory and recalled everything I’d done that week. On Thursday night, May 30th, the 26-year-old me had eaten at the Baltimore Delicatessen. It was time I met her. I had to get things moving even though I had a lump in my throat and a kicking heart.

  “What time?” Jay asked.

  “As long as we’re there by eight.”

  Silence. “Are you meeting someone there?”

  “I hope so, Jay. I certainly hope so.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Baltimore Delicatessen was casual, crowded and boiling with energy. Jay entered first, and I followed, tentatively, amazed by the cigarette smoke that hung in the air like a stringy fog. I’d forgotten about that—about how much nearly everyone smoked—including me. I’d kicked the habit in 1982. I was also startled by the women’s hairstyles: beehives, flips, swirls and curls of hair, sprayed into place like fine sculptures.

  There were some young men with long hair and beards; some in lace tunic hippie shirts or floral striped shirts, and the young women with them also had long, loose hair, floral tunics and bell-bottom jeans. In contrast, the businessmen still wore dark suits, white shirts and dark ties, and had closely cropped haircuts.

  My eyes darted about, looking for her—looking for me. I glanced at my watch. It was only 7:30. My face was hot, my pulse high. I’d never felt such sharp anxiety.

  Jay found a table near the front window that looked out onto the street, and I sat, exhaling a deep, grateful breath to be off my feet.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Jay asked. “You look pale.”

  I managed a tight smile. “Yes. Just a little hungry.”

  “Do you see the person you’re looking for?”

  “No… not yet.”

  He glanced about. “It’s crowded. Maybe they’re already here, somewhere.”

  “No…”

  “Take a look again, Charlotte. It’s easy to miss people in this place.”

  “They’re not here,” I snapped.

  Jay shrank a little, as he slid a bowl of dill pickles my way.

  “I’m sorry, Jay… I guess I’m just nervous.”

  “And you’re hungry. I always get irritable when I’m hungry. My wife used to say I was as mean as a bear if we didn’t eat right when I got home at six o’clock on the dot. Have a pickle. They’re the best in the city.”

  The thought of eating anything made me nauseous. I kept hearing Cyrano’s words repeating in my head.

  “Be sure you rest the first couple of days you’re there, Charlotte. You must rest. Our past experiments have shown that it takes time for the body to adjust and sync itself to any new time.”

  I felt exhausted and unsettled, but what could I do? I had to work fast. I’d lost a full week.

  The waitress arrived in a hectic flush. I ordered the first thing I saw—sturgeon scrambled with eggs and onions. Jay ordered the corned beef sandwich.

  Fortunately, I’d have a good view of the table where my younger self would sit with her friend, Angie. The table was occupied now by a young couple, locked in intense conversation: political, no doubt. This was a famous spot for White House interns, staffers, congressmen and the occasional senator.

  Jay glanced about, his disapproving eyes falling on the hippies. “I wonder how many of those are war protesters or draft dodgers,” he said with disgust. “Kids today want to protest everything. Nothing is good enough for them. According to them, our generation messed up the world. Where were they in World War II?”

  I was only half listening, distracted and riddled with anxiety. I still didn’t entirely believe I had time traveled, and the thought that the younger me would come walking in and sit down at that nearby table utterly terrified me.

  Kim and I had worked on techniques to minimize the shock and stress of this very event. Kim had told me it would be one of the most traumatic things I would ever experience.

  “Slow down your breath, Charlotte, and silently keep repeating ‘Relax… relax.’”

  While Jay chattered on, I applied my instructions, but fear built upon fear. Would she recognize me? Would I recognize her? Would my old heart give out despite the deep breathing? My pulse was galloping.

  At ten minutes to eight, our food arrived. Jay ate voraciously while I kept checking my watch.

  “Go ahead, Charlotte, eat. You said you were hungry.”

  I pushed around the eggs and managed to swallow a couple of bites while Jay kept the conversation going. He must have been lonely. He was a real talker. I heard the occasional word, while sitting still and erect as a soldier, waiting.

  “I was born and raised in Washington, D.C., the third child in a family of seven kids. We lived on East Capitol Street and my wife-to-be lived just down the street. My family used to eat at the New England Raw Bar on Maine Avenue. Boy, that was a great place. My brother, Charlie, and me used to go to Griffith Stadium for baseball games. Of course, they knocked the thing down back in 1965, I think. We went to Redskin games where you could walk up and buy a ticket. Women would come dressed in high heels and fancy hats. These days, the kids come in those bell-bottoms and dirty looking t-shirts. What a shame.”

  And then, right on cue, the couple arose from their table, their eyes locked in lusty attraction. I watched them leave, hand in hand. A busboy swiftly appeared, gathered up the dirty dishes and reset the table. Dishes rattled, conversation buzzed, and Jay bantered on.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out slowly, waiting, staring with cold speculation.

  And then everything seemed to drop into slow motion. I shut my eyes for just a moment and when I opened them, there she was. There I was, the 26-year-old me, an apparition, a ghost from the past, and yet she was flesh and blood, alive
and so very young. The shock overwhelmed me, and I made a little sound of surprise.

  “Charlotte… Charlotte, is everything okay?” Jay asked.

  CHAPTER 17

  My younger self was thin, much thinner than I recalled, and she stood proudly erect, her chin lifted in confidence. Had I really been that confident? I saw lush lashes, a swirl of bronze on her cheeks, and soft pink lipstick. Her skin was flawless, nose a little sharp. The hair was styled in a pale-blonde asymmetrical bob with inward-facing ends. She wore a royal blue shapeless shift with a dropped waist and white cuffs and collar, with matching medium heels. I recalled that dress. I had felt it was stylish but still conservative enough for the NSA.

  It was bizarre how the image of my younger self that I’d held in memory was so dissimilar from the woman before me. I wasn’t as pretty as I’d believed; not unattractive for sure, but my cheekbones weren’t as high, my lips were thin and my legs skinny. The hairstyle looked hideous and was all wrong for the narrow shape of my face.

  She had entered with Angie, a shorter girl with good hips, a broad face and a serious manner. Angie had worked as a secretary for Ed Kazenas, a dour, intelligent man in his fifties, who often met with President Nixon or his National Security staff, briefing them on the latest intelligence regarding Vietnam.

  As I watched them sit, lost in quiet conversation, I grew dizzy and disoriented. It was too much to take in, and I was so electrically charged that I began to shiver. I was on the edge of fainting when I felt Jay’s hand seize my arm. His concerned voice brought me back.

  “Charlotte… you’re as white as a ghost. Should we leave?”

  I huffed out the anxiety, my eyes blinking rapidly. I struggled to return to full consciousness, but I couldn’t stop trembling. Cyrano had been right. I needed to rest. I had to rest. Every cell in my body was fighting to stay awake.

  After that, I don’t remember much of what happened. I was in the lobby of the Willard Hotel when I was able to shake the mist of confusion and exhaustion.

  Jay and I were standing by the bank of golden elevators.

  “I really think you should see a doctor, Charlotte. You don’t look well.”

  I looked into his earnest face and saw a gentle sorrow. “I’m sorry I ruined your dinner, Jay.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m very concerned about you, Charlotte.”

  I smiled, grateful. “How nice a man you are, Jay. Thank you for saying that.”

  “Do you want me to go up with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine now. I’m going straight to bed and get a good night’s sleep. In the morning, everything will be fine. I’ll be right as rain.”

  Jay nodded, lingering, hands thrust in his pants pockets. “Do you still want me to drive you around? I’m happy to, you know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He smiled his pleasure. “Well, then, you just call me when you’re ready and old Jay will shoot right over.”

  I held his gaze for a moment. “Thank you, Jay. I’m greatly in your debt.”

  That pleased him. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You just get some sleep.”

  After a shower, I eased into my new nightgown, slipped under the cool sheets and stared into the darkness. I couldn’t stop the flow of tears. Seeing my 26-year-old self in the flesh had opened the tombs and resurrected the old ghosts, the old guilts, the painful open wounds. Would I be able to convince her of who I was and why I came? Would she listen and believe?

  I prayed to God that He would give me the strength to carry out my plan. I prayed like I had never prayed before that I would not die in the night and leave my family to perish a second time in that terrible fire, in that raging inferno.

  CHAPTER 18

  Morning came and seemed to strike me like a hammer. My head pounded, my mouth was thick with syrupy saliva, and my eyes fluttered open, straining to focus. I could swallow, and I could breathe, but whenever I tried to move anything but my eyes, I couldn’t. I panicked, mentally willing myself to move, but nothing happened. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs, and worse, I couldn’t feel them. I was on my back, helpless, heart kicking in my chest. I felt like a cold, hard, marble statue. I wanted to scream—to shout for help—but I had no voice and couldn’t move my lips. What had happened? Had I had a stroke? No, no, please no. Metallic terror kept rising in my mouth.

  The phone rang, but I couldn’t move to answer it. It rang several times, stopped, and then rang again, like an alarm, like a warning, like a cry for help. When it finally stopped, the room became loud with a ringing silence.

  I lay there, swallowing, mind churning, as I struggled to form a plan. Don’t panic, I kept repeating.

  Relax. Breathe. Relax every muscle like Kim Stein taught you. She prepared you for this. They had all worked tirelessly to prepare me for every possible contingency.

  Okay, I shouted inside my head, “Stop the racing thoughts and take stock of what you can do.”

  I could see, although my vision was blurred. I could hear—there was a faraway sound of a police siren.

  Relax. Breathe. Calm the mind. Imagine a soothing beach house by the sea. Puffy, white clouds, a gentle breeze.

  I waited and breathed and fought a towering fear. The minutes crawled by. From mental exhaustion, I finally fell back asleep.

  When I awoke, my eyes startled open. I was still on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I moved a finger, a hand, and felt a triumphant rush of hope. Good. Good. I moved my left arm and then the right. My breath came fast. I wiggled my toes. Moved my right foot and then my left. Both legs moved, and I could feel them! Gently, slowly, as if I might break, I lifted up on elbows.

  A crashing relief filled my heart, and I sat up, leaning back against the headboard.

  Gradually, the hotel room came into focus and, remarkably, I soon came to realize that my vision was clear and sharp, sharper than it had been in years. Sunlight leaked in from under the cream-colored draperies, and I saw a bowl of fruit on the coffee table so clearly that it shimmered with extravagant color. Intrigued, I glanced around the room at the emerald colored couch and tanned pillows. They were rich in color and texture.

  On the cream-colored walls, I focused on a seascape oil painting. The bright yellow sailboat with billowing sails leaned into the wind; the children at play on the beach in the foreground seemed animated, and a big golden sun was so vivid, it threatened to come alive. What had happened? Had I ever seen this well? I looked at the clock on the night table. It was after 2 p.m. But what day? How long had I been out?

  I tossed back the blanket and gently swung my feet to the deep, royal blue carpet and wiggled my toes again. It felt so good to just wiggle my toes and to take deep, calming breaths. As I gingerly rose to my feet, a surge of energy coursed through my body like an electric charge. I felt vital, supple and strong. But what had happened?

  On impulse, I moved to the nearest mirror, an oval wall mirror, and stared back at myself. The hairs on the back of my neck and on my arms stood up. Ripples of shivery wonder passed through my body. Was I imagining it, or did I look younger? I nosed in closer and narrowed my eyes.

  The needle-thin lines around my mouth were gone. The crows-feet around my eyes had smoothed. My neck flab was reduced, and those once restless, turbulent eyes were calm, clear; my dull gray hair now had a gleam and luster. As if touching a new face, I ran a finger along my pink cheeks, my skin now a creamy, healthy hue.

  I stumbled back, found the nearest chair and dropped down into it, my mind spinning in disbelief. Minutes later I heaved myself out of the chair and back to the mirror to verify the change. It was true, I did look younger—maybe 10 or 15 years younger!

  How could it be that I had gone from one extreme to the other—being completely incapacitated one hour, and energetic and younger the next?

  None of the TEMPUS team had prepared me for this. Most thought the aging process would speed up, a result of the strenuous and arduous time travel, which is why Kim worked so hard strengthening my heart
, mind and body.

  Kim’s words echoed back. “In all honesty, Charlotte, we have no idea what you are about to face. It’s all new to us, as it will be to you.”

  I called the front desk and calmly asked what the time and day were.

  The tentative female voice said, “It’s 2:20 p.m., Friday May 31st.”

  I hung up and did a little dance. Had I ever done a little dance? I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Day, a changed and joyous human, after his dramatic encounter with the three spirits.

  I paced to the windows and flung open the drapes. Sun streamed in. Gorgeous warm, welcoming sun. I gazed up into a lovely blue sky and took in another life-affirming breath. It was so good to be alive.

  I dressed hurriedly, and instead of eating at the hotel, I decided to stroll, purse swinging, until I found a quaint restaurant or coffee shop that suited me. The hotel was located only two blocks away from the White House, so I ambled by, noticing how changed the surrounding area was from 2018. There were no barriers or extra security. It had a much more open feel to it, more welcoming and statelier. I decided to bypass the museums and memorials but roamed through the National Mall, recalling the 1963 March on Washington and Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

  Paul and I had brought the kids to the Mall many times and Lacey loved to point up to the Washington Monument and say “Can I live up there some day? With George Washington?”

  I was feeling a gaiety and optimism I hadn’t felt in years. I felt right at home, returned to this simpler time before cell phones, emails, texts and the 24-hour news cycle. There were only three TV stations in 1968: NBC, CBS and ABC; no YouTube, cable or streaming. I delighted in viewing the cars, classics in 2018: Mustangs, Cameros, a Ford Galaxie, an impressive red Pontiac Bonneville, and an unexpected shiny 1967 blue Le Mans, the same model I had driven. Just seeing that car gave me a little lift.

  The streets were bloated with anxious tourists and scattering children, their brochures and maps at the ready.