The man, my dad, was dressed in an outfit I remembered, a wide-collared golf shirt. It was brown, orange, and white, with a Snoopy character wearing sunglasses on the left man breast, where a Polo horse or Lacoste alligator would otherwise be. It was snug fitting and tucked into slacks, also clingy though I shouldn’t have noticed. They, the pants, not the man parts from which my very existence had sprung forth, were secured with a brown leather belt with hand-tooled designs. Further to the south he was rocking a mock cowboy boot.
He looked so young. His skin was smooth, tan, and perfect— his hair was black and shiny, combed over with poufy, hair-sprayed care, featuring carefully groomed sideburns. If he had known who I was, his adult daughter with a C-section scar, I would have said with a well-earned hint of sarcasm, “Looking good, Dad … Looking good!” I would have also told him to please go up a size on the slacks.
Looking over my shoulder, Dad nodded and waved vigorously. I turned weakly to look back down the path—it was Mary waving, honking the horn, and slowly pulling the massive car back into the street to return to God knows where.
So there it was. She had left me here.
“Well, come on in and meet everyone!” the young Dad person said. And with those simple words, I crossed the threshold into a world that I barely remembered but was vividly and intensely familiar with. Standing on a large brown latch-hook rug with unidentifiable orange flowers—Mom had hooked that thing herself—I was overcome with a wash of emotion.
My first impression was how small it all seemed. At a swift pace I could reach the back of the house in an instant. Yes, I was sure it had shrunk. I was certain that my house (the one I never made a mortgage payment on) was bigger than the house I was standing in now. God, the two rooms I could see were shockingly modest. I had always pictured this house, and these rooms, as bigger than anything that I had lived in since. I could have only hoped to buy a home that was this palatial.
My thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of several people on the floor above us. “Someone is here!” one yelled. “Maybe it’s that cousin woman, or Grandma and Paw Paw!” another cried out. Turning to my immediate left, I looked up a half-flight of stairs that led to small landing, turned left and disappeared. In an instant, three smaller people were clamoring down, competitively vying to be the first one to reach the bottom.
“Kids!” Dad said. “This is your cousin, Mrs. Daughters, she and her family live in Centerville, Ohio! This”—he put his hand on the tallest child’s shoulder—“is our oldest daughter Kimber, she’s twelve.”
“Dad!” Kim retorted almost violently. “My name is KIM not KIMBER!”
He just smiled, not even flinching, and continued to the next, shortest child in line. “This is our son, Rick, he’s eight.” Rick, cocking his head just so, humorously gave a Fonzie-esque thumbs-up. I couldn’t be sure, but he might have winked at me.
“And this is our number two girl, Amy, she’s ten years old,” Dad continued. I watched Amy squirm and dance about, with a full-fake smile and total unbridled mirth. She couldn’t control herself. Her hands were wild, breaking not only Kim’s and Rick’s personal space barriers, but mine and Dad’s too. She was a crazed, wide-eyed freak. Oh my God, she was nuts.
Admittedly, I glanced with pleasure at this smaller version of my older sister and younger brother, infused with a warm feeling to see my friends of yore, my companions, my lifelong comrades from the past and present. Their fresh faces glowed— the excitement of the holidays shown upon their youthful countenances. I could barely formulate their adult faces, but, they were there, yes, they were there. Even in my dilapidated mental state, I could tell that this was one of the greatest single moments of my entire life. Given time to properly absorb the wave of emotion, I could have sobbed openly.
But, looking toward the young Amy was a different story completely. Putting my finger exactly on the emotions I was flooded with would be difficult, but terms such as “uncomfortable,” “hesitant,” “uneasy,” “awkward,” “difficult,” and a healthy dose of “painful” would be a good starting point. Honestly, I couldn’t look directly at her. She was so wound up and she danced around in such an out-of-control way that I didn’t know how to respond. Really, she was ruining this golden moment for me. Why couldn’t I just look at Dad, Kim, and Rick without her trying to draw all the attention to herself?
Before I had time to consider any other deep, dark feelings bubbling from the bowels of my emotional basement, Dad cried out, “There she is, just out of the kitchen … This is my wife … Sue.”
My God, it was my mother, my beautiful mom. Bursting forth from the past it was her, she who my life once revolved around, who held the keys to all things, oh Mom, oh God, holy crap, it’s you.
She was gorgeous really. Her face sparkled, almost like it had been pulled tight over her facial bones, not a wrinkle to speak of. Her hair was carefully coiffed, and she wore a stunning burnt-orange pantsuit that, though absolutely horrible, somehow worked for her. This must have been during her self-described “Elvis” period, where she likened her physical appearance to the King. Really, she looked nothing like Elvis to me. I had to remember to tell her that when I got back home. With her hand outstretched to mine she said, “Hi! I’m Sue.”
Taking it limply, I nearly passed out. I was literally dizzy, the room was spinning. “Hi, Sue, I’m Amy, thanks for having me,” was all I could come up with. Mom was obviously less enthusiastic than Dad regarding my arrival, but she was nothing but gracious. I knew that the holidays had always been difficult for her. I also understood, even in my unstable condition, that my presence here, especially as an overnight guest, would not be a helpful element of any de-stress strategy she may or may not have planned while curled up in the fetal position in her closet last night.
Dad pointed up the stairs, almost as if he was intentionally spinning my attention in another direction so I couldn’t absorb anything that was happening. “Amy, you must be tired from your trip. Let me take your bags up to the guest room. You can get settled in and then come down and join us.”
“Yes,” Mom agreed. “Kids, you let Mrs. Daughters get unpacked and she can come down when she’s ready.” Turning to me, she continued, “We are planning to eat later in the afternoon and, sometime between now and then both mine and Dick’s parents will be here.”
“This way, Amy, follow me and I’ll show you your room!” Dad said.
And so, I followed him up the gold-carpeted stairway, tottering on the edge of sanity, needing a drink, needing to throw up, needing more than a moment to pull myself together. We went up one half-flight to the first landing and then turned, up another half-flight to the game room, which again looked absolutely tiny. The first thing I noticed when I made it to the second level was a wall-mounted intercom system, literally staring me down as I came up the last step and looked left. It was almost close enough to touch even though it was clear across the room. It was so familiar, yet foreign, but somehow was comforting, like an emotional anchor. The Nutone Intercom system. I might not have been able to call home, but for the love of God, I could contact the inside patio speakers or the kitchen with this little piece of technological genius. I saw more, so much more, but it was just too much to take in on top of meeting my hyper self downstairs, and my mother, Oh God, My Mother! MY FREAKING YOUNG MOTHER!
Up another half-flight to the second landing, we turned up the final half-flight to reach the third floor. I was going to stay on the top level, which contained only a bedroom, full bathroom and closet. This floor would eventually house each of us as we got older, just before we flew the coop, only to fly back again. Before we began using it regularly, we had always found the highly acclaimed third floor to be borderline spooky.
Dad entered the room first and set my bags down. “Well,” he said. “You should have everything you need here. Come down whenever you are ready,” he continued, “and we’ll take you on a grand tour of the rest of the house!”
Yet again, I replied no
minally, and he disappeared down the stairs below. As he left I had a sudden memory of him exercising on these same stairs, running up and down numerous times, sweating, panting, up and down, up and down. We three would run with him for a while but could never complete the number of trips he required of himself. I bet he may have done that precise task earlier this same morning, probably wearing something terrycloth.
Chapter Five
ARE YOU THERE, GOD? IT’S ME MARGARET
So, here’s the deal. I flew on a small plane with my husband’s boss’s wife. I fell asleep and woke up in 1978 wearing tight pants that made my butt look bigger than it really is. She drove me to my childhood home, in a huge Ford LTD, and told me— in my forty-six-year-old grown-up body—that I had to go inside and stay with my immediate family (including my younger self) for all of Thanksgiving and most of the following day.
That was it. It was simple. No problemo. Well that is, if you believed any of it could be FREAKING TRUE.
All I could assume was either I really had traveled on some sort of strange time continuum (crap, I didn’t even know what that meant), or the plane had crashed and I was dead, or I was in a coma, taking full advantage of the IV drugs, or I was bound and gagged and currently in a state of hallucination heretofore untapped by the medical community.
Nevertheless, and regardless of how or why, I couldn’t find a way to make it NOT real.
AFTER spending several minutes staring blankly at the textured wall—it looked almost like peanut butter slapped on a cookie sheet—it came to me, my next move. It was exactly the thing I should have always thought of first. Sitting at a chair by the built-in desk, I put my left hand over my forehead and eyes. I started to pray.
I had spent the last several months trying to foster a spirit of thankfulness, in all circumstances. “Well, God, thanks for this travel back in time …” Pausing, I wondered if this was some kind of huge God-thing or just some kind of huge mental breakdown. “I guess you’ve always known that I would like to go back in time,” I continued, grasping for what I was supposed to say. “So, thanks for this time, no matter how painful, surreal and ridiculous it is …” Reconsidering my last statement, I pulled out my mental Liquid Paper. “I know it’s not ridiculous, you know, if it was your idea … so, thanks …”
I trusted God implicitly, but still, this all seemed “out there.” I guessed a lot of my hard-core Christian friends might think that it was some sort of evil hallucination, definitely not of God. But, if all things are possible, then why not extend “all” to its furthest limits?
The truth was, I was probably underestimating and judging all my people by trying to make it all about who would or would not believe this. How could I go from attempting genuine thankfulness while time traveling, to accusing people I loved of judging me? I wondered if there was counseling offered in these cases. Like maybe I could push a secret button, perhaps in the intercom, and be transported to a help desk, where someone could talk me down.
I settled for wrapping things up with God, always conveniently available 24/7. Only I never stopped to appreciate it— that is, unless I desperately needed Him, like if I was writing one of those stupid time-travel books and thought of it then, in retrospect to events that never even really happened.
“Please guide me through this and help me to learn whatever it is you want me to. And please be with my people back in the real world, if there is such a thing, while I am gone. That is, if I’m really not there. Really. Thank you. I know you’re here, because you were here before, when this was real the first time. Amen. Really.”
It was underwhelming, and manic, and confusing but, as usual, I hope He got where I was coming from.
I made my way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I didn’t know why I was doing it, but that’s what people did in the movies when they needed to collect themselves after some major trauma. What I didn’t get is that time travel and being in a movie aren’t the same thing, because in one instance you have a makeup artist at your disposal, while in the other, you don’t. Before I knew it, not only had I traveled back to 1978, I had marred my over-mascaraed, over-blushed, and over-blue-eye-shadowed face. I really didn’t know if I could achieve that look again on my own. In fact, I was really sure I couldn’t achieve that look again on my own.
Crap. Double crap. I didn’t need any of this.
Shuffling back into the bedroom, I flung my luggage onto the bed. I needed to find something, anything, to fix the latest mess I had created. The contents only mirrored the types of items I had packed previous to the 2014 version of this trip. It was old, vintage stuff that appeared to be brand new. Despite the time warp lag, I could still savor the finer things: a combination blow dryer and styler called the “Supermax”; Charlie perfume; beer-enriched Body on Tap shampoo; Miss Breck hairspray and Arrid Extra-Dry. It, the aerosol can of deodorant, was dominated by silhouettes of a man and woman apparently about to get it on, sexually—reminding me of those shadowy people from The Electric Company who spoke only in syllables.
“Sex—” one shadow would whisper.
“U—” the other would reply.
“—al” back to shadow number one.
“Heal—”
“—ing.”
Then, there was what had to be the explanation for how my hair had gotten so light and fluffy; a jar of iridescent, emerald-green Dippity-do. The crème de la crème was a clunky Bausch & Lomb contact lens disinfecting unit. It was rectangular and white with a silver face. This could only mean that I was, at that very moment, wearing hard contact lenses that I would have to try and tweeze out of my eyes later in the night. I could vaguely remember the process of rinsing the lenses with one solution and then putting them in the case with another before inserting it into the little oven. Plug it in, push a button, watch the red light go on, go to bed, and voilà! The next morning the light was off, the contacts were suitably baked and ready to be placed, awkwardly, back in the eyes.
I wondered if I could cook a burrito at the same time.
Collecting a few necessaries and a vinyl makeup bag, I made my way back into the bathroom.
The third story was painted a piercing blue when we first moved into the house, a color my parents had toned down to a sky-blue. The bathroom had plaid, primary-colored wallpaper and linoleum flooring. Both rooms had built-in cabinets in a dark mahogany.
Coiffing my already well-coiffed coiffure and slathering all the makeup back on to the best of my ability, I looked at myself in the large, gilded-framed mirror. It was the most makeup I had attempted wearing since my sister overserved my face when I was a bridesmaid in one of my best friend’s weddings.
Moving back into the bedroom, I grabbed my large leatherette purse, a light brown vinyl bag with stitches randomly strewn across the front, reminding me of Frankenstein’s head. Inside, I found a coordinating wallet and then maybe the best thing I’d seen yet, a glass vial of Maybelline Kissing Potion. It was the roll-on lip gloss that I remembered as being the absolute rage in the ’70s. It was flavored “Mighty Mint.”
It hadn’t struck me until just then that my iPhone and laptop were missing. Usually this would have signaled the end of the world, meaning I couldn’t check my email, Facebook, and Instagram every fifteen minutes. Though I was shocked that it had taken me so long to notice, in this bizarre situation it didn’t seem to have quite the same impact.
If I would have had any of these items, and an internet connection, I could have Googled “Is time travel real?” or “If your plane crashes can you go back in time?” or “What is toxic shock syndrome?” Then, I could have deliciously updated my Facebook status, finally coming up with something nobody could have competed with: “Gone back to 1978 as an adult! Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!” #polyester #timetravel #bowlcut #manbulge #missbreck #kissingpotion #sweethonesty.
But really, even if I could have done that, and even if people thought it was true, I would still only get thirteen likes. But that ridiculous lady I am Facebook
friends with—who I’ve never even met—would get fifty-five likes for posting about how cute her cat looks when it gets wedged between the washer and dryer …
#UGH
Chapter Six
SERGEANT SNIPS
I had no concept of time and couldn’t begin to know how long I had been sequestered on the creepy third floor. I didn’t want anyone to think I was violating the toilet with some sort of time-travel affliction. That would really wind my mother up. I could almost hear her telling me on the phone back in the future, “First, she shows up at the last damn minute, wanting a place to stay, and then she makes a huge mess in the third-story toilet. You know your dad isn’t going to clean that shit up … Oh ‘Welcome!’ he says, then he does absolutely nothing. Nothing, it’s all up to me …”
Back down the first two half-flights of stairs, I stopped briefly in the game room. Again, it was so tiny, but otherwise as I had hazily remembered. My bedroom, or the young Amy’s bedroom, was either on the left or right. I couldn’t be sure, as I had used both of the bedrooms at one time or another. Continuing down, I paused on the last landing, treated to a mesmerizing view over the expanse of the ground floor. That’s when all hell broke loose —crap, I had been detected by the overexcited Mini-Me.
Meeting me at the bottom of the stairs, Little Amy shrieked “Hi!” with overreaching glee. “You’re so lucky, you’re staying on the THIRD floor. I wish I could stay there, but I’m too young. You’re not too young. You’re older than me, but we have the same name …” All the time she was talking she literally danced around, moving her hands closer and closer to my person, obviously wanting desperately to touch me. She had serious self-control issues. Seriously.
“Do you want to sit down, we could talk some more, I could tell you about everything. And then, then I could show you everything, give you the t o u r …?” Her eyes bulged more with every word, almost slobbering with elation.
You Cannot Mess This Up Page 4
