A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  “Mom, what’s for breakfast?”

  The woman said, “The usual. Bacon, eggs, English muffins…”

  Warren squeezed his Adam’s apple until it hurt, but the humming wouldn’t stop. “Mom, what’s for breakfast?”

  He gripped the strap of his backpack and turned toward the front lawn. If his throat got any louder, they would hear it. His heart was a race car waiting for the green flag to drop. He peeked in the window. The family walked past the fireplace and into the kitchen. Blue and red ribbons hung from the mantle below a collection of gold trophies. A poem framed with rustic sticks hung above the trophies and began with the words OUR CHILDREN. Warren scanned the mantle, and the urn wasn’t there.

  Of course, it’s not there, idiot. This isn’t your house. The urn is in your backpack, or…it’s not in your backpack. Cameron is alive. He doesn’t need an urn.

  A teenager wearing a blue sweater stopped in the kitchen, turned around, and pointed at Warren. Their eyes met. He was him.

  Look away, then, run away.

  Warren ran across the deck and leapt over the steps. A voice called out behind him, and his throat hummed. “Hey, wait. Who are you?” He landed in stride, but his foot caught on a clump of grass, and he fell. His left ankle sent a throng of pain up his leg. He sat up and rubbed his hip. His doppelgänger called to him from the deck, but Warren didn’t look. The outer pocket of his backpack made a popping noise, and the earth spun. His head lolled to one side, and he fumbled with the zipper. He fell back onto the grass and faced the sky. White clouds spun clockwise. A mountain bluebird flew backwards and warbled as it went.

  If I’m having bacon, eggs, and an English muffin for breakfast, then why do I smell banana bread?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ala Kazam

  Warren opened his eyes. Gray clouds drifted in long streams against a lackluster sky. He closed his eyes.

  Tanner said, “Hey man, what are you doing out here?”

  An acrid, yeasty odor filled Warren’s nose and reminded him of last Christmas. His dad had given his mom a bread machine, and she had used it, for about a month. Warren had enjoyed sniffing the dough as it rose. His mom had given his dad a home brew kit, and his dad had used it to make beer, for about a month. Warren had hated sniffing the yeast as it rotted in the jug.

  “Are you in there? Warren?”

  Warren opened his eyes. The clouds closest to the horizon were tainted with a dirty, reddish hue. The air was stale and thick. He shuddered. He ran his hand over his backpack until he found a strap.

  Tanner’s blond hair blocked out the sun. “There you are, man. I thought you’d be hiding out today. You know…” His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes moved side to side. “Because of the fire.” Tanner held his hand out, and Warren took it.

  Warren got to his feet, and Melody Lane ran uphill. The trees leaned to the right, and Melody Lane ran downhill. Warren’s left leg gave out, and he wrapped his arms around Tanner’s neck.

  “Whoa. Are you all right, man?”

  The world around Warren leveled off, and he let go of Tanner. “Yeah, it’s nothing. I hurt my ankle is all—wait. What about the fire?”

  “They think we started the fire.” Tanner clenched his teeth. Behind him, the Sphinx Pollack rose out of the ground in all its glory.

  Warren pointed at the house. “Did you see them? In there?" He thrust his hand out. "Did you see them in the house?”

  “Who? What are you talking about, man?” Tanner put his hand on Warren’s shoulder.

  “The other ones, my family. My other family. They’re in your house. The other me…”

  Warren pushed Tanner’s hand off his shoulder and stepped toward the deck. The Pollack’s hot tub fit between the front rail and the wall with room to spare. Five bear family hooks held towels, and Brenda’s red sports car sat in the driveway.

  Did I dream it?

  Tanner grabbed Warren by the shoulders. “What the hell are you talking about, man? The other you?”

  “Yeah, the other…” Warren teetered on his feet. He glanced at the ground and grabbed Tanner’s arm. A thin mass of bile curdled along the walls of his stomach.

  “You look like hell, man. Did you sleep out here or something?”

  “Yeah,” Warren said. “I slept by the old shack. I don’t feel so good.” He put his hand on his stomach and bent at the waist.

  “What happened? Did your parents find out?”

  Warren lifted his head. Tanner’s eyes had lost their crazy, YOLO sparkle. Warren wished he could rewind to yesterday morning and stay home. “No, they don't know what happened. They were fighting when I got home, so I left.”

  Tanner raised his eyebrows. “Really? That’s it? That’s all that happened?”

  “Yeah, that’s all that happened at my house, but before that, someone in your brother’s truck tried to kill me.”

  “What? You saw his truck? Who was driving it?”

  “I don’t know. Some old guy in bloody sandals. He dropped a packet of—”

  SLAM

  Tanner turned to the house. “We’ve got to be quiet, man. It sounds like my parents are awake.”

  Warren’s face became slack, and he leaned into Tanner. His eyes rolled back into his head, and Tanner kept him from falling.

  “Oh, man. You’re not doing so good. Let’s get you out of sight.” Tanner sniffed and turned his head away from Warren’s hoodie. “Ugh, you stink like the fire.” He looped an arm around Warren’s body and pulled him across the front lawn. “Over here.” Tanner dragged Warren to the other side of the woodshed and lowered him onto the grass.

  Warren slumped and turned into a pile of dirty laundry.

  “I’ll be right back, man. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Everything went black. Warren belched, and the bile in his stomach subsided. He had talked to Tanner, now he sat here. But where was here? Cameron had been here, then his parents, then him—the other him, now Tanner—

  SLAM

  Tanner said, “Get out of my way.”

  “What’s your rush?”

  The scent of Brenda’s apricot body spray worked to revive Warren’s senses.

  “I’m not in a rush, I just need to get in the house.”

  “Wait, I have a question for you. So, like, you guys didn’t get high yesterday after all?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you were in the forest when the fire started.”

  “It’s like Nathan said, we were at the Tenoco when the fire started. We didn’t do it.”

  “Right…”

  Warren imagined Brenda’s smirk.

  “Come on Bren,” Tanner said. “You’ve got to believe me. We didn’t—”

  “Whatever. I believe you.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, why not? It doesn’t matter.” Her voice moved further away. “I’m late for school. See you later, creep.”

  Tanner said, “Not if I see you first, man.”

  “I’m not a man, creep, but you wish I was.”

  A car door made a swooshtump, and an engine purred to life. Gravel crunched beneath a set of tires, and a door slammed shut. Warren took a deep breath. The blackness in his head eased off, his thoughts cleared, and he opened his eyes. His backpack lay on the grass next to him. The urn’s lightning storm had left little black spots around the outer pocket. He opened the main pocket, pulled out the plastic bag of letters, and dumped them on the ground.

  I didn’t dream it. It was real. Last night, this morning, everything. It all happened, for real. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his hands trembled. Sredo in his house, the Atlantic hot tub, my mom, Cameron—all for real.

  Warren pushed the love letter from Sarah to the side and picked up the one next to it. HEY WARREN, I HAD A GREAT TIME AT THE MOVIES LAST NIGHT. WHEN CAN WE GO OUT AGAIN? His lips curled in a smile. He had gone on a date.

  Warren had fallen in love with Sarah in fourth grade, but hadn’t gotten the nerve to t
alk her until middle school. He couldn’t remember his exact words, but whatever he had said to her had been stupid. Her beauty—and later, her popularity—overwhelmed him. He was a total dweeb. Yet, despite everything, he had gone on a date with her. Before him lay a pile of love letters that proved he had gone on several dates with her.

  Why did I tell her that Tanner liked her? I can’t believe I did that yesterday. But it wasn’t yesterday, it was…these love letters are from before yesterday…I found these this morning. These aren’t my love letters.

  A rock formed in his stomach.

  These are his love letters. I’m not dating Sarah, he is. The other Warren, the other me. The other me that wants a stupid truck with flames on the front.

  An ache coursed over Warren’s brain, and he rubbed his temples. He put the letters back inside his backpack, pulled out the urn, and held it up in front of his face. Behind it, a cluster of pine trees separated the woodshed from the neighbor’s house. Pine needles wiggled in the wind. The aroma of the needles mixed with the stench of his hoodie and reminded him of a campfire. Warren closed his eyes and imagined waking up in a tent, not with friends, but with Sarah. He pictured her smiling at him, kissing him on the nose. Had the other Warren gone camping with her? He wondered if Napoleon had ever been jealous of himself.

  Warren cupped the urn with both hands and raised it. “I command you to take me to the other…”

  He didn’t know.

  The other…Warren? Would that work? No, it should rhyme.

  “Ala kazam, take me to the other land.”

  Nothing happened. A quick, high-pitched laugh escaped him. Not wanting Tanner to find him like this, he jerked his arms down, and the lid fell onto his lap.

  POP

  Charged air tightened the skin around his face. Blue electricity swirled across the urn’s opening, and the earth spun. Warren held onto the urn with both hands, and the urn held onto him.

  POP

  He closed his eyes and pictured Sarah. He pictured Cameron and—

  POP

  “Hey man, I’ve got your breakfas—”

  POP

  Breakfast smelled like sweet, sticky banana brea—

  POP—POP, BANG

  (Tanner walked around the corner of the woodshed carrying a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice. The pile of smelly laundry named Warren had disappeared. Tanner scanned the forest and shook his head.

  What a freak.

  Tanner bit into the toast, drank some of the juice, and walked back to his house.)

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Must Be a Rich Thing

  The spinning stopped with Warren in the middle. The aroma of banana bread wafted, the odor of yeast lingered, and the lid rested on the urn. Tall weeds waved with the wind and brushed against the Pollack’s—no…the Renner’s woodshed. Warren walked to it, put his hand on the wall, and listened. On the other side, a door opened, and the front deck creaked.

  “Seth, wait. Are you going to be late tonight?” Her voice was pleasant and hopeful.

  “Sorry hon. I have to make a good impression. Getting a promotion is like starting a new job.”

  “Okay, it’s all right. Can you come home on time tomorrow night? I want to go out to dinner and celebrate.”

  Warren smiled.

  “Sounds good sweetheart. Love-you-bye.”

  “Love-you-bye.”

  This is how things are supposed to be.

  A car door shut, and an engine started. Warren pressed his body flat against the wall. The car passed by the woodshed, and he gazed up the road. Brake lights flashed once before dropping over the hill and disappearing around the bend in Melody Lane. Soon after, another car did the same.

  Warren pulled his hood over his head, tightened the drawstrings, and checked the driveway. The only car there sat off to the edge and wore a crumpled cover with streaks of dirt. It had to be a sports car. Most summer cabins had at least one sports car parked in front year-round. It was a waste. This house wasn’t a summer cabin though, at least not for the Pollack’s, and probably not for the Renner’s. This house was a home.

  Warren’s stomach collapsed in on itself. He had a picture of bacon, eggs, and English muffins in his head, but he didn’t know where it had come from. The picture was vivid like he’d seen it yesterday, but he hadn’t had breakfast in a restaurant since he was little. His stomach made a gurgling noise and moved on its own. He wished that bagel hadn’t fallen out of his backpack yesterday.

  He walked across the lawn and stepped onto the deck. He peaked in the front window and tried the door. It opened.

  Rich people can be so careless.

  His stomach gurgled again, and he headed for the kitchen. Marble counter tops rested on dark, hardwood cabinets. A deep, stainless steel sink glistened in the sun beneath a bay window. His stomach grumbled, and he looked for a refrigerator. The kitchen had a dishwasher and a microwave, but there was no refrigerator.

  Warren walked into the dining room. The sun shone in through a glass-sliding door and illuminated a spotless glass dining table. A black and silver hutch held fancy china on the other side of the table where a refrigerator should have held food.

  Why don’t these people have a refrigerator?

  He leaned over the table and lowered his head until he could see the floor. No scraps. He stood up too fast, and the room spun, forcing him to grip the glass edge until his brain caught up with his heart.

  He walked back to the kitchen, flung open the largest cabinet door, and voilà. He found a pile of bacon still steaming.

  A cabinet disguised as a refrigerator…very tricky. It must be a rich thing. I bet they do it to trick poor people.

  He grabbed a handful of bacon and shoved it in his mouth. It was fabulous. He opened other cabinets until he found a package of English muffins. He shoved one of those in his mouth alongside the bacon and chewed. His mom’s bagels were toilet paper tubes compared to this combination.

  Warren chewed and made his way to the front door. He stopped. Family photos hung on the wall above the stairs. Each photo was bordered by a black frame and protected behind glass. Most of them showed Warren and Cameron posing separately for school pictures, but some showed them together.

  Warren stepped onto the first stair.

  The first photo showed the brothers sitting on Santa’s lap and giggling. Warren couldn’t remember ever sitting on Santa’s lap. The next photo showed them on their grandparent’s farm flying a kite and smiling. Another showed them playing catch with a football.

  Warren didn’t know how to hold a football.

  Tears streamed down his face. He climbed the stairs. The higher he went, the older he and his brother became. At the top, he found a photo of the entire family. The Warren in that photo had short hair and a big smile.

  Why? Why do you get to have a brother? Why do you get to have rich parents?

  A pain surged in his ankle, and his left leg began to shake.

  Look away, then, run away.

  Warren’s chest tensed and he couldn’t breathe. He ran down the stairs, and the photos blurred and blended into brown leather furniture. A gigantic TV loomed behind him, and the empty mantle above the fireplace mocked his loneliness. He wanted to crawl under the couch and stay there forever. He wanted to light the house on fire and run away. He wanted to take something.

  Yeah, man. Take something. You only live once.

  Warren closed his eyes and forced air into his lungs. He pushed Tanner’s voice out of his head, but not Tanner’s idea. The gold trophies looked heavy, and the TV was monstrous. He walked back to the stairs and took a photo off the wall—two little boys sitting on a hill, holding onto a string, a kite hanging in the sky. He put the photo in his backpack, zipped it shut, and left.

  The front door swung behind him, and he walked onto Melody Lane, favoring his left leg.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Behind a Leafy Salal

  Warren crossed the school parking lot, and the second period bell
rang. He ran. At the edge of the lot, he slipped into the forest and maneuvered over wet logs and broken branches by grabbing onto tree limbs. The pines defied the morning sun and wrapped Warren in a shadowy blanket of safety.

  Warren hid behind a leafy salal that had grown up between two trees. He leaned too close and scraped his cheek on one of the waxy leaves. Beyond the salal, the high-school track ran in a wide oval, and a bunch of kids sat in a circle on the far side, jabbering. Coach Chaney walked out of the school, and the jabbering stopped.

  “Okay ladies,” Coach Chaney said. “Get a good stretch in. We are running two miles to start, then one, then a half, and then, for those of you who are left, a sprint fifty.” He put his hands on his hips. “Well, don’t just sit there, get a move on.”

  The kids jumped to their feet, and Warren’s heart leapt into his throat when he saw Cameron run onto the track.

  The sun bounced off Cameron’s muscles, and he bent his knees, ready to run. His body was strong and full of life. In Warren’s Tamarack, cancer had killed Cameron and turned everything black, but here, there was no cancer. Everything here was the way it was supposed to be.

  Coach Chaney blew the whistle, and the kids took off running. They rounded the turn, and Warren lowered his head behind the salal. Cameron’s feet kicked up cinders in a smooth, rhythmic pattern, and his singlet bounced on his shoulders. He sprinted past Warren and, with his face cast in iron determination, took the lead. This Cameron could take on any challenge. No wonder he had beaten cancer…if he had ever had cancer.

  Seven more laps, and Cameron finished the two-mile run in first place. Warren beamed. He had a front row seat to the greatest event in the world.

  At the start of the one-mile race, Warren’s hero pulled into the lead halfway through the first lap. By the end of the lap, Cameron was well ahead of the others. He pointed to his crotch and said something to Coach Chaney.

  “What?” The coach said. He raised his hands up in the air. “What do you mean you’ve got to pee?”

  Cameron rounded the turn and veered off the track. Warren ducked behind the salal, but it was too late. Cameron ran off the edge, wrapped his arms around Warren, and they tumbled into the forest.