(2). There isn’t anything in the world that LOVE can’t fix. I hope to see you again soon!
Love always,
Big Amy
Smiling, I folded the note and placed it carefully in the hidden pocket of my flowing emerald pants. Before putting the notebook and pen back in, I turned to the next empty page and jotted down, “Tell Will he’s a genius. Listen to what he says. Really listen!”
Standing up, I knew in my heart of hearts I wouldn’t heed my own advice. Yes, here was yet another earth-shattering, ah-ha moment that would eventually slip out of consciousness. And this kind of thing didn’t just happen in time travel. I got glimpses of the much-bigger picture all the time, in normal, regular, everyday, boring life.
Was I an emotional simpleton, or just another individual so human she believes she’s an exception to every rule?
Still holding the notebook open, I added, “When did belts and pads go away? Was I supposed to tie the pad off? Fifth-grade box? When did that stop? Did it stop? Go on YouTube and watch the ‘talk’ film? Could I write an article about the box and the talk? Talk to friends about their experiences.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
WIDE OPEN SPACES
Coming back down the stairs, I was greeted by the sight of the three kids dancing. They had wacked the Bing Crosby Merry Christmas eight-track tape into the Lloyd’s stereo.
Putting my luggage by the front door, I darted through the performers—careful not to injure myself or anyone else—and sat down on the edge of the gold velour couch. I had never appreciated how cushy and fancy it was. The last time I had seen it was, well, I really don’t know—but it didn’t look, or feel, like this. It was soft and supple—like my breasts—deep gold and brown intertwined with a fleur de lis pattern and long enough for five adults to sit on. It could have been quasi-on trend in the future, if it could have held its condition.
Oh God! If we could all, like this couch, have held our condition until 2014.
I realized how clean the room was. And I don’t mean it was just picked-up, or tidied. It was clean, as in no dust, dirt or grime. Mom had put on a complete Thanksgiving yesterday, and then opened her house up to God knows how many people last night, people who had, to varying degrees, been liquored up and were subsequently not so careful with the décor. This begged the question, how in the world did she have it this clean by the next evening? Especially given that she made a cooked breakfast, spent a couple of hours at the mall and then went to the Bonanza Sirloin Pit. The younger me wouldn’t have even noticed the transformation, much less been called on to help with it. To us, Dad included, it was like a magical clean fairy had sparkled down from the clouds and successfully conquered what must have been a nasty mess. It reminded me of the little wooden sign I had noticed in the breakfast room this morning, which stated, in Old English font, “God Bless This Mess.” Indeed.
The reality was more like Mom up at six-thirty, hungover, tired, and groggy, but determined to have her place of business, her home, in good order at the start of yet another workday. It was as much commendable and laudable as it was OCD and psychotic. Either way, I totally got it. So much so that I wanted to stick my head in the brass birdcage and hurl, and cry, and dance along to holiday tunes, all at the same time.
Bing and the Andrews sisters crooned about what Christmas was like in far-off Ireland as the kids acted out the lyrics. Little Kim and Rick shook hands heartily and bowed as Amy flung about, fake laughing in the background like she had done shots of George Dickel.
As the track clicked to the next song, a non-fluid event that nearly caused the entire tape deck to hurl itself from the shelf, I realized I would never see this again. I could literally never, ever go back. I could remember it all I wanted to, but as far as physically returning, that was totally off the table. If the house ever went up for sale, say in thirty years, I could schedule a showing and thereby engineer an actual physical return, filling the same space again. I could even bring the same people, these people, back with me. But no matter what any of us did, this moment could not, would not be repeated. And as precious as it was to me, right now, as golden as it seemed, for reals, it meant nothing to the others. It was as normal as any other day.
But it wasn’t.
Time marched on regardless of anything. Once a moment had passed, it was over. Once a life had ended, it was gone. In a culture that was confident enough to be smug, it didn’t know what really happened when life ceased, and, it couldn’t stop time.
My BFF in England, Miss Julia, said that managing life was about putting stuff into boxes, taking out the stuff you could deal with, needed to deal with, or wanted to deal with, as you were able. Other things were left locked tightly in other boxes, only removed when absolutely necessary or simply because the time had come to unpack or declutter.
I was going to need a big box for this crap—with a lid, and a strap and a lock on it. Miss Julia and I would take turns watching the box, and would endlessly discuss what to do and what not to do with it. There was comfort in knowing that somebody else really cared about my boxes. Maybe being friends is all about boxes—the best ones are gifted at record storage management. Or, at memory storage management. Or, at deftly uncorking bottles of Pinot Grigio.
As five o’clock neared, Mom and Dad shuffled into the room, joining me on the couch. Dad looked slightly deflated, while Mom seemed somewhat recharged. She would be relieved to be back in her routine, just like I would be in 2014 when my in-laws waved, backing slowly out of our driveway in Ohio. It was a relief that bordered on ecstasy, an intoxicating cocktail of “Job well done!” and “Whew, that mess is OVER.” I got that, so why did I choose to take it so personally? She got that, so why did she have to be so obvious about it?
We were both so right, we were both so wrong.
Between another loud click, we collectively heard a car honking.
Though this marked the end of what was probably the most monumental event of my life, outside of birthing my large-headed children and marrying my hairy husband, there was no pomp and circumstance to mark my farewell. As far as these people—my people—knew, I was just another guest leaving their house after a short, unmemorable stay. Yes, guests were rare here, but so were lucid memories. So, this moment, like a million others procreated here at 24314 Creekview Drive, was destined to be forgotten, or barely remembered, or intensely analyzed—depending on who was doing the thinking.
Dad grabbed my bags and followed me as I crossed back over the threshold of no return. He had no idea that I was the future, wielding an unstoppable power that meant nothing. Looking back at the interior of the house, my house, our house, I was mixed with a toxic combination of raw emotion. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I didn’t believe it was real, I had no doubt it was real.
Wanting to pause, I knew I couldn’t. They were waiting, life was waiting and Mary was waiting. Kim, Little Amy and Rick were waiting. Willie, Will, and Matthew were waiting. Belt-free absorbency with wings was waiting.
Back out into the Houston sun, I looked out at Mary, smiling and waving happily, just as she had yesterday. Turning back to my hosts, I made an effort to execute the proper goodbyes. Just the sort of thing that Dick and Sue Weinland would have expected of me, gracious, thankful, and warm. This was what they taught me, this was who I was, who we were.
I shook Dad’s hand, finally able to look directly into his bright, young eyes, and thanked him for his hospitality. “It was a pleasure,” he said, with a genuine quality that was hard not to love. “Bring your family with you next time,” he said, sincerely.
“I will,” I said, also fully intending to deliver on my promise.
Next up was Mom, who I had learned so much about during my jaunt across time. “Thanks so much, Sue,” I said, hugging her lightly, but trying not to mimic the inebriated farewells bid just last night. “I’ll never forget it,” I said, meaning it to a degree that even I couldn’t understand yet.
“Me neither,” she responded, feeling
the love, well sort of, but not understanding the gravity of the moment. Clearly, she was glad to see me go, and finally, at long freaking last, I was OK with that. Or, I would tell Julia that I was, and she would understand that I really wasn’t, but that I was trying to be.
Next was Kim, who hugged me warmly, thanking me again for the stickpin. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t really jealous of her and was OK with her hair being better and her thighs being skinnier. I wanted to thank her for a million things, like supporting me and having my back no matter what, and for always telling me the truth, but that would have been ridiculous. She was twelve and I was forty-six, but she was still more mature than me. Who in the hell did she think she was?
Instead, I patted her warmly on the head, almost in a condescending way. I enjoyed that immensely. I told her that meeting her was a delight, a real delight. I think she knew where I was coming from.
Turning to Rick, I put my hand on his shoulder and thanked him for the pine-cone battle. Smiling genuinely, he put both thumbs up, and said “Aaaay, it’s OK, lady.” Laughing, I told him I’d see him soon.
He just winked and reeled off an impressive dance move, controlled yet hilarious. He would never remember this meeting. As far as he was concerned, it, like about sixty-three percent of his childhood, had never happened.
Finally, I looked down at Little Amy. Eyes bulging, arms flailing, she looked up at me with a mix of excitement and distress. “I really like you, Big Amy.”
“I really like you too, you were the best thing about this trip,” I said, unsure of exactly how I was supposed to leave it with her. I knew I’d see her again, like every single day, but I’d never see her like this again. It made me both ecstatic and devastated. Shoving the note I’d written upstairs into her little hand, I crouched down until I was at eye level with her bowl cut. Putting a hand on each of her skinny shoulders, I looked directly into her eyes, working up the most meaningful approach I could muster in knee highs and sandals. “Remember, Amy, everything is going to work out so well. Your life is going to be amazing.”
Not caring what Dick, Sue, Kim or Rick thought, I embraced Little Amy. Holding on tighter than I should have, for me, for her, for us, I whispered in her ear, “YOU are going to be OK.” Maybe somebody else, perhaps somebody from the future, a well-meaning friend, should have jumped out of the azalea bushes and whispered the same thing in my ear, while hugging me very tightly, but not too tightly, but very tightly.
Finally pulling back, she looked into my eyes and softly said, “Thank you, Big Amy.”
Standing up, I allowed myself one final look at the younger version of me—freaky-deaky, weird, small, and wonderful. She was who I had been, I was who she would become. I was OK with that.
Somewhere the seventy-year Older Amy was watching all this, bawling hysterically. She knew that despite all our well-meaning attempts, it would still be messy, and beautiful. I hoped she was reassured by that. I hoped her thighs were smaller and that she hadn’t cut her hair short. I hoped she traveled. I hoped she had a small motorhome called the Mobile Command Unit. I hoped she had found actual valuables with her metal detector. I hoped she and Willie still played golf. I hoped she still went fishing with Kim and Rick. I hoped she still talked to our boys every day. I hoped she was going to talk to Julia and Mary Barr soon. Very soon. Very freaking soon.
“Thanks again,” I said to my family, as underwhelmingly as I had said hello initially. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Walking away, slowly, down the pebbled path, I looked back as they waved me on.
They had no idea that it was a monumental day in my life, in our lives. They had no idea that sometimes when normal, mundane, everyday life is happening that the world is being altered, turned on its axis, and changed forever.
Somewhere below the surface, below what we think we see, is real life.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
TOMATO CATSUP
As I neared the drop-off point at the end of walk, Mary got out, came around and unlocked the trunk. There were no words as we loaded my suitcase, trolley case, and satchel into the gigantic trunk, its massiveness swallowing them up.
Rounding the car until I was at the passenger door, I looked back at the five Weinlands. From top to bottom, they waved eagerly, Little Amy dancing around like she needed to pee. Mary slid in behind the wheel and reached across the front seat, somehow managing to open the heavy door. “It’s time, Amy,” she said softly, but with that same undeniable confidence that compelled me to take those gigantic leaps of yesterday. “You can’t stop it, you have to go now.”
Getting back into the car, I rolled down the window, almost disjointing my wrist with the hand crank, and waved one last time as Mary turned the car around at the base of Morningcrest Court. As we drove away, I looked at the fleeting image of my young family for the last time as they disbanded and scattered inside their unique front door. The story of the Weinland family wouldn’t end there, with Mary and me driving away in a silver Ford LTD. Though this part of the tale had ended for me, the forty-six-year-old me, they would go forth, grow pubic hair, have acne, graduate, get apartments, have apartment sex, get an electric knife sharpener as a wedding shower gift and eventually add to our collective family tree.
As Mary traced our way down Creekview, I struggled to hold my emotions together. I didn’t cry in front of other people. It was a rule. Beginning to shake, I wondered what a flood of tears would do to the velour seats. I wondered if I knew Mary well enough to break down. I wondered if I could fit my head into the accessories bucket that sat on the floor hump between our two seats, a feature that was anchored with vinyl maroon sandbags.
I was so raw, so confused, that I couldn’t enjoy the final precious moments of our subdivision in its prime. We passed the esplanades, Kristi Beauchamp’s white house, the clubhouse, the tennis courts, and the fire station. All were within actual physical reach, but I was emotionally disabled, rendered powerless to enjoy the fruits of the past. Where in the hell was my iPhone? If I had that, I could have made a video; that is if there was enough memory available. But I didn’t have time to delete photos now, I was having a freaking moment over here.
Mary guided the car out of Northampton’s shiny, white brick gates one last time, taking one right turn followed immediately by another, back into the elementary school parking lot, the same place where she had given me my bizarre marching orders yesterday morning. Pulling into a parking spot in clear view of the army of gray bike racks, she said nothing. As I began to lose it, sputtering like a Ford Pinto, she scooted across the massive front seat.
There were no words as I sobbed uncontrollably. I didn’t have to explain it to her, because she was the only one who would ever know—or believe—that this, the wrinkle in time, had really happened.
Reaching into the massive glove box, she pulled out a box of tissues. I guess that sort of thing would have been packed into the time-travel transfer vehicle ahead of time. It was sensible. Handing me the box, she watched compassionately as I blew my nose and tried to do damage control, mascara running in thick clumps down my face. I looked just like the drunk girl in the limo on TV who used to star in the Witch Mountain movies. Ironically, even after this, and all that was yet to come, I would still think I was better than her, the aging actress who was the same age as me, because I may not have ever been a film star, but at least I had all my crap together.
We sat there for a few long, meaningful moments, her comforting me, not with words but unfathomable care and compassion. Gentle pats, light hand touching and just the right dose of cheesiness. It was powerful. It was ridiculous. It was totally stupid. It was completely beautiful. Most of all, it was silence. But this was a different kind of peace, because this time around we weren’t saying anything because we didn’t need to, not because we were afraid to. There was, after all, a big difference. As I began to pull myself together, she eventually, again with perfect timing, made the long journey back to her own seat, putting the huge armrests back down
into place, where they would stay, forever.
Though I didn’t really want to talk about everything that had just happened, I really did.
“Why?… Why?” were the only words I could manage to squeeze out, muttered between trying to dab my eyes in the little mirror lodged in the huge windshield visor. It was the only other thing in the car that was bigger than the maxi pad I was wearing.
“Because every life, no matter how seemingly ordinary, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is a unique story, worth telling and retelling. Worth mattering.” She paused. “A story, or a life, doesn’t have to be exciting, or extraordinary, or exceptional, to be significant and profound.”
She apparently had been put in charge of this event because of our previous relationship, the one with clear boundaries— because I respected the hell out of her, and because she looked good in polyester. She was also incredibly wise.
More than anything, Mary was safe. I trusted her even though I didn’t really know her. I had enough of a history with her to know that she possessed all those things I would need in somebody if I was going to let them know everything.
But given her place in my real world—the wife of my husband’s boss—we would never, ever actually be that close. It wasn’t going to happen. This made her the perfect person to engineer my supposed time travel.
I knew my “stuff” wasn’t that shocking, or horrible, or wonderful. But it was mine and for some reason, I felt compelled to protect it and was terrified of sharing it.
That made Mary safe.
Perhaps that’s what I looked for in relationships. Perhaps that’s one of those freaking questions she said I needed to answer, or ask, but I knew I absolutely didn’t have.
It all made sense now.
Reaching into the backseat, she fumbled around in what sounded like a hollow box, eventually pulling out two pink cans. “Here!” she said, breaking the somber mood. “Drink this, it will make you feel better.”
You Cannot Mess This Up Page 28
