Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

I laugh all the way to my room.

  “This is truly stunning,” he says softly.

  We sit atop a picnic table at the banks of my favorite place on Earth.

  I drove Roth by the campground we used to frequent with PooPa but couldn’t stop because it was packed with tents and cars and people who wanted to escape the city for a few days. And the shore was already lined with fathers helping their kids bait hooks and cast lines. So, we headed to a less-crowded boat launch that is far more peaceful.

  “That it is.”

  The breeze blows light. The air smells of salt and distant memories. Bass waiting to be fed break the surface every so often. Warm sun rays bounce off pristine waters, blinding us. I cup a hand over my squinty eyes. I forgot my sunglasses back at my mom’s.

  I spot an older man and two little girls in a fishing boat not too far offshore. The girls drop something over the bow and giggle. It takes me back, and if I listen close enough, I can hear PooPa shushing Esther and me to be quiet, or we’ll scare the fish away. I close my eyes and concentrate harder, but their voices fade until I can’t hear them anymore. Instead of being melancholy, though, I am…I don’t know what exactly. At peace, maybe?

  I open my eyes and watch the girls. I hope they’re soaking these days in the way I did.

  “So, this is it, huh? Anywhere in the world?”

  I look over at Roth, remembering my answer to his question on the place I’d pick to go above all others. Branched Oak Lake. This inexplicable joy fills me up until I feel I may burst. I smile. “Yes.”

  “Who knew a place this beautiful would be in Nebraska.”

  “Hey.” I smack him on the arm in jest. “There are lots of beautiful places in Nebraska.”

  “Hate to break it to you, love, but there’s nary a tree in sight except here. It’s just…open fields and cornstalks.”

  “Nary?” I giggle. “Did you seriously use nary in a sentence?”

  “My vocabulary is quite extensive.” He shrugs like he can’t help his innate intelligence. It’s so endearing.

  “We have more than cornstalks and open fields, you know. The Henry Doorly Zoo is regularly named as one of the best zoos in the United States.”

  “Really? Well, I feel like I might need to be the judge of that. I am an animal connoisseur after all.”

  “Wow, a mustard whisperer, a walking lexicon, and an animal connoisseur? You are a multifaceted, impressive human being, Roth Keswick.”

  “I am.” He blows on his knuckles and pretends to shine them on his chicken shirt.

  I love this man. So much.

  “How did I luck into you?” I ask him, in a little bit of awe.

  “You fell into me, is probably more accurate. Or onto me, I should say.”

  “Hey. I think it’s the other way around.” I elbow him, remembering that night at Rudy’s vividly.

  “I fell into you all right.” His voice is deep. His stare is intense. Smoldering. Whew.

  I need to do something quick, or I’ll be dragging him behind a thicket of trees and stripping him naked. I think about that orgasm I missed earlier.

  “I caught my first fish right over there.” I point to a finger off the main lake right around the bend. “A twenty-four-inch walleye. I was four.”

  “Did you hog them all on that trip too?”

  I double over laughing. Roth tried his hand at fishing for the first time a few weekends ago when we went camping. I caught four bluegill and two catfish. Roth caught a big fat goose egg. He was quite devastated.

  “Hey, maybe I’m the fish whisperer?”

  “I’d believe that,” he says sardonically, but I think he’s impressed. “Okay, question time.”

  “Uh-oh.” I roll my eyes.

  “Hush now. If you could learn one thing you haven’t learned yet, what would it be?”

  “Well, I would say swing dancing, but…that was never on my list to begin with.”

  He barks a laugh, which is carried away by the breeze. “Glad I could check an invisible box.”

  “You check a lot of them,” I reply softly.

  “Good to know,” he says in a tone that reflects mine.

  Finishing what we started this morning sounds awfully tempting. And by the expansion of Roth’s pupils, I’d say his thoughts went to the same place.

  “Okay.” I clear my throat before I do something that will get us both arrested. Or a bad case of poison ivy. “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  I ponder it, while watching how the blue skyline’s perfect shades bleed beautifully into the slightly darker ones of the water below it. The hues’ differences are subtle and would be hard to capture in a…then suddenly it comes to me. “Photography.”

  “Photography?”

  “Yah. I’ve always been interested in photography but haven’t found the time. And with a real camera, not one of those.” I point to the cell phone in his hand. “An expensive one where you have to know what you’re doing. That’s probably why I haven’t done it. It’s not a cheap hobby.”

  “Always keep your dreams in sight, Laurel. Don’t let them go, no matter what.”

  “They are and I won’t,” I murmur, not referring to photography at all. He knows it.

  He’s my dream now. I can’t mess that up.

  We sip coffee from my favorite coffee shop, Scooters, and watch the early morning boaters tootle on the lake. I wish we had time to make a day of it. I’d love to rent a kayak and take a hike on the wildflower trail. Maybe we’d even find a secluded place to skinny dip. Only, my mother has a full day planned of parading her long-lost daughter and her daughter’s new boyfriend around town, but when she texts me, asking where we’ve gone and I tell her we’re at the lake, she surprises me by responding, Take your time and enjoy yourself. I’ll save us a spot at the river.

  “Everything okay?” Roth asks. I’m still staring at my phone.

  “I suppose.”

  “Want to talk about it?” His attention flits to my screen, then back to me.

  Do I? Will I sound like the crazy one? I mean she did tell me to take my time, but today is the Fourth and we traditionally start the day at the parade, followed by a pancake breakfast at the airport hangar, and watch the talent show before heading to the river to get our seats early.

  Is she being genuine, or will I hear about this all night tonight? As I got older and learned what gaslighting was, I half wondered if it applied to my mother. Carmen thinks it does, but I believe she’s simply clueless about how her words and actions affect me.

  “It’s my mother.”

  “She giving you a hard time?”

  “I’m not sure.” Is she? It’s always difficult to tell.

  I hand him my phone and let him read the message for himself, sinking my teeth into my lower lip.

  He scans it and hands it back. “Do you think she’s being disingenuous?”

  I blow out the breath I was holding. He gets it. I’m not sure how he gets it, but he does.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does she do that often?”

  “She can.”

  Roth slips off his sunglasses and lets them dangle between two fingers. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds here.”

  “You’re not overstepping.” I return the phone to my back shorts pocket without replying to her.

  “Your mother’s problems aren’t your problems, Laurel. She can’t say what she means—that’s on her, not you. Passive-aggressive people tend not to be able to express their feelings in an open and honest way, so they go about it backhanded.”

  “Backhanded. Good analogy.”

  “It has put a wedge between you.” Not a question.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Unfortunately.” He slides his sunglasses up on his head. “Have you talked to her about it?”

  “I tried once.” It was the night before I left for college. She left me an article on the kitchen table of a girl who had been brutally raped near Belmont University campus, whic
h isn’t too far from where I’d be attending Vanderbilt. I didn’t bother reading it at the time but later discovered the rape wasn’t recent…it was from several years earlier, and when I confronted her on it, she said she didn’t know. I never confronted my mother. Ever. But I was so upset and disappointed she couldn’t be happy for me that I called her a liar, asking why she couldn’t have bought me a rape whistle if she was so worried. She sat there with a straight face and told me that I misunderstood. That she was only trying to make sure I was aware of the dangers of a big city like Nashville. I spent my last night at my grandparents’ and left the next morning for college without saying goodbye. “It didn’t end well.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. I wish it wasn’t this way.”

  “Of course, you don’t. She’s your mother. And no matter what she has done or what she says or how she acts, she’s still your mother and you love her.”

  I do, but I hate to admit it’s with a dozen asterisks. And I realize love shouldn’t be predicated on caveats. You should accept a person as they are, and you should love them equally regardless of flaws. But the reality is…you don’t.

  I gaze out over the bright blue water, trying to gather my stray thoughts. “Every time I talk to her, I hope the outcome is different, you know? I hope she’s supportive or encouraging and every time, she’s not—the disappointment is as fresh as it was the first time. I want her to be a better mother, and she’s just not.”

  “Have you ever thought that maybe she’s the best mother she can be, Laurel?”

  Have I? It’s a fair question. One I’ve never thought of. Maybe I’m too busy trying to set her into a mold of my own making. I realize that I don’t know my mother. Not really. She’s closed off for sure, but maybe I also haven’t taken the appropriate interest either.

  “I don’t suppose I have.”

  “For what it’s worth, it’s obvious she loves you.”

  “I know she does.”

  “So, what do you say we take her up on her offer, sincere or not, and make a day of it. Let everything go for today, Laurel. Your mother, your guilt, your fears. Obligation. All of it. Let’s have a great day, just you and me. I want to hear every story you can remember about this place if you want to share them.”

  This is a unique gift of Roth’s. He makes living in the now seem so easy.

  “I would love that.”

  I text my mother a quick Be home in time for the ceremony, then push guilt aside and make a day of it.

  We rent a kayak and my arms are wet noodles by the time we paddle back. We take that hike. I pick a huge bunch of wildflowers to take home to my mother. Roth tucks one behind my ear. We get two fishing poles and buy some live bait, dropping our lines off a secluded bank. I lose every single worm to fish that are far too crafty and the only thing Roth catches is a nice wad of underwater tree branches, which is more than he caught last time. I tell him he’s making progress. He isn’t amused.

  We have a blast.

  I let everything go and soak in this day for the blessing that it is. I retell every story I can remember about childhood summers spent camping here, like getting poison ivy in my private parts when I peed in what I thought was a bush and how I thought a fish nibbled on my foot once when we were swimming but it was only Esther playing a joke. I live in the now. If you live in the memories, you might as well already be dead yourself. And I’ve immersed myself inside memories for far too long. Allowed them to hold me prisoner. Let fear win. It’s because of Roth that I don’t want to live there anymore, but it hasn’t been easy, and I haven’t made it easy on him. He is patient and persistent and understanding. I am so immensely grateful, though I’ll never be able to adequately explain it to him.

  “Ready to go?” he calls as he walks down the boat dock toward me after returning our poles. He carries two bottles that I hope contain ice cold water. I am dying of thirst.

  “I suppose,” I reply reluctantly. “We should probably get back.” We both need a quick shower before we head to the park. I take a water he hands me, twist off the top, and drink in very unladylike gulps. It burns my teeth and freezes my esophagus. It’s so good.

  “I had a great day, Laurel. Thank you for bringing me to anywhere in the world.” He wipes off a stray droplet of water dangling from my bottom lip.

  I tilt my chin up. The sun would be in my eyes, but Roth blocks it perfectly. A bright yellow aura surrounds him, wholly representing the light he brings to my life. Heaven surely must exist, for how else would I have found this man?

  “I wouldn’t bring just anyone, you know.”

  “Yes,” he says with a nod. “I do.”

  He places a soft, chaste kiss on my lips, and we head up to the car, sticky, sunburned, and exhausted yet happier than I can remember.

  The rest of the night is as magical as the day was. I cry during the ceremony for my PooPaa. I stand by my mother’s side. Roth stands by mine. He holds my hand. We eat blue cotton candy and drink frosty root beer Mother brought in a cooler, while we watch the ski show. We endure her dragging over half the town to introduce them to Roth. Most of the time she remembers I’m there too.

  “Thank you for a great day,” I tell Roth as we lie side by side on the blanket, watching fireworks burst to life in the night sky.

  He pops up to lean on an elbow and bends down until his nose brushes mine. His eyes volley frantically back and forth between mine, like he’s searching for an unspoken answer.

  “This is by far the best Fourth of July I’ve ever had, Laurel,” he whispers. “I am honored you took me on this walk through your past. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  I’m glad it’s dark, because I instantly well up.

  I didn’t think this day would ever hold the same magic as it once did, and somehow Roth understood that without me saying a word.

  He is all I’ve been waiting for, and I tell him, “I could not have asked for more,” right before my mouth reaches up to cover his, not caring that we’re amid a crowd of thousands or right next to my mother.

  14

  At Last

  Laurel

  Ten Years Earlier

  November 25, 8:16 p.m.

  * * *

  Ugh.

  My stomach churns one way first, then the other. It feels like girls gone wild down there. I thought meeting my mother was a true test of our relationship, but I had it wrong.

  Today is.

  Though Roth and I have been together for eight months, I’m meeting his parents for the first time. Roth is incredibly close to Frank and Elana and their opinions carry a lot of weight.

  How do I compare to others before me?

  Will they think I’m enough for their son?

  I finger the beginnings of a stress zit on my chin.

  I often don’t feel as though I’m enough for anyone, let alone an amazing guy like Roth, but he goes above and beyond to assuage my neurosis. He accepts every flaw and imperfection, and I have a lot of them. I’m forgetful and socially inept and recently discovered I can’t make a maidrite to save my soul. I tried every week for three months in a row and never got it right. How hard is it to throw ground beef, onions, and seasonings into a crock pot that does the work for you? Apparently, very. Mine were either too salty or too oniony or too bland. I gave up. I hope Elana doesn’t need help in the kitchen or I’ll be disqualified as wife material before the gate even opens.

  “Earth to Laurel.” Roth kneads the muscles in my neck until they loosen their death grip on my skull. “Damn, you’re tense.”

  “That feels so good.” I battle to keep my eyes open.

  “Laurel, they love you already. You know that, right?”

  “How?” I ask, all thoughts of my kitchen failings now simmering on the back burner. Ha ha. “They haven’t met me yet.”

  “Trust me.”

  “You say that a lot.” I moan when he hits a particularly rough spot between my neck and shoulder blade.

  “You need reminding a lot.”


  “I know. I’m just…”

  “Nervous?” he fills in, but that’s not what I was going to say. I was going for insecure. Petrified. Borderline manic. I’m ten clicks beyond nervous. “You don’t need to be anxious. My parents are laid back and easy to get along with.”

  Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that’s true. It’s not only his parents I’m meeting this weekend, though. I’m meeting his entire extended family. Aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins. His eighty-eight-year-old grandmother, Margaret, will be here. The matriarch of the family. And if that wasn’t enough, Roth said close friends and neighbors are also invited. Elana apparently likes to make sure that everyone who has no one has someplace to go during Thanksgiving. She’s an amazing woman, but the thought of that many people with eyes on me has wreaked havoc on my digestion. I’ve taken enough Imodium to plug the Suez Canal for a solid month.

  This could be a long and uncomfortable four days.

  “Everything will be fine.”

  “If you say so,” I reply, not feeling a shred of his confidence.

  Our Lyft driver slows to a stop and every muscle that Roth has worked to unknot balls up again.

  “We’re here,” Roth announces in delight. He gives me one quick squeeze. “We’re going to have a great time.”

  I can only nod.

  Roth exits first and gathers our luggage from the trunk, and for a split second I think about telling Kyle, our driver, to step on it, whisking me back to the Sarasota airport. The instinct to flee and hide out in the quiet shadows of my apartment with Meringue as my only comfort is very, very real. But then Roth is back at my door, hand out, lips turned up, reading my mind.

  “If you can overcome your fear of swing dancing, Laurel, this is a walk in the park.”

  I consider that, glancing back at Kyle. His eyes are encouraging. Or maybe they’re demanding me to get the heck out of his Chevy Impala, which has so many stickers wallpapered on the back end you can’t mistake his political affiliations.

  I twist my thumb rings back and forth. “A walk in the park?”