Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9)

by Heather Wardell

  I'm confused too. I'm a good girl. My mother always says I'm perfect. How did I end up here? "Yeah. That's right."

  He rubs his chin again. "Look. I think we need to talk, okay? But we should both get dressed."

  He's pretty cute, if you like older men, so it would be easier to talk to him if I couldn't see his naked chest and legs and the bulge of his-- "Yeah," I say, quickly pulling my eyes back to his face. "Yeah, we should."

  He takes a step toward me and I flinch. "Oh, sorry. I was just going to grab some clothes from the dresser." He points.

  I step aside, turning to keep the pillow between my body and his eyes, and watch him dig through a few messy drawers.

  "Okay," he says once he's gathered his clothes and moved a safe distance from me. "You get dressed and come meet me in the living room. Just outside the door. I'll make some coffee. Do you like coffee?"

  I shake my head. "My mother says it'll stunt my growth so I've never had it."

  He blinks, once, like he's startled, then says, "I'll make hot chocolate. Does that work?"

  Despite how weird everything is I have to smile a little at his clear concern for me. "Yeah. That'd be great."

  "I'll see you in the living room. Take your time."

  He leaves, closing the door behind him.

  I drop the pillow then drop onto the bed. I don't want to go to the living room and talk to the man who took advantage of me last night.

  He must have had sex with me. Why else would I be naked? I don't hurt down there, though, and my friend Chloe was in pain for days after her first time, so maybe he didn't.

  I hate that I don't know.

  I glance around, looking for another way out, and see a glass balcony door behind broken blinds. Unfortunately, a closer look shows that we're way high up, so jumping off the balcony isn't a good plan.

  I stand to the side of the door so nobody can see my nakedness and peer out and down. I don't recognize the busy city street below. Where am I?

  Giving up on escaping, I begin to look for my clothes. I can't find anything that belongs to me, although there's a beige bra, with matching panties hanging out of a pair of jeans, and a gray sweater and gray socks scattered around the room. It's the only stuff I can find amid the mess that doesn't seem like his, so I gather everything into a pile then reach for the bra.

  A movement across the room startles me until I realize a mirror on the wall opposite the bed is reflecting my own movement.

  A mirror. Maybe I can see what's wrong with my head. It still really hurts, right at the top. He didn't hit me, did he?

  I move closer, but stop well before I can check my head.

  Who the hell is that?

  The girl in the reflection looks like my older exhausted sister. If I had a sister. Her hair's shorter than I've ever had mine, and dark brown where mine is blonde. Her eyes are the same blue as mine but there are wrinkles around them, not big ones but definite creases, and wrinkles around her mouth too. Laugh lines, I think they call them. Well, I'm not laughing.

  I raise my hands to my face, confused and terrified, and she does the same.

  My eyes slide down the reflection's body, taking in her shape. It's like I've melted somehow. Everything's a little lower and wider than it should be. I didn't even bother with a bra sometimes and this body definitely needs one, and probably a heavy-duty one to boot. The reflection isn't fat, not really, but it's got a squishy stomach and bulgy hips...

  And a tattoo.

  It's cute, actually, five happy-looking little yellow cartoon ducks marching along in a neat row around the top of her right thigh.

  I look down. The same tattoo is on my right thigh.

  I can't get my head around it, but this is my body. It has to be. Every movement I make is duplicated by the girl, the woman, in the mirror, and this tattoo is definitely on my leg. Unless someone's playing a really elaborate and well-planned trick on me this is my body.

  But how did I age this much overnight?

  I swallow and again notice the awful taste in my mouth, now even worse because I threw up. Clearly I had a rough night, so maybe I'm just really tired. Everything's sagging because I'm exhausted. That could happen, right?

  Probably not. And even if it could, there's still the tattoo.

  The man put it on me as a joke?

  I scratch at a duck but nothing comes off. It looks real.

  Trying so hard to understand what's going on makes my head hurt even more, so I stop trying. I'll get dressed, go out there, and make that man tell me what's going on.

  *****

  The living room is the kind of mess that always makes my mother yell "Clean up your room!" except for one corner, where metal tools are precisely arranged along a pegboard on the wall and a huge something stands nearly to the ceiling under a black cloth.

  "What's that?"

  The guy, standing by the window, turns to face me and sees where I'm pointing. "A sculpture. I'm an artist."

  As he's wearing a t-shirt with a faded Toronto Hogs hockey team logo and ripped jeans, I assume he's not a good artist, but I say, "Cool," anyhow because I don't want to make him angry at me. I need to know what's going on.

  I take a breath to start asking questions, but he says, "Your hot chocolate's here. And I made toast too. In case you're hungry."

  Since I emptied my stomach in dramatic fashion, I am hungry. Then I remember. "I didn't clean your rug. I'm sorry, I'll--"

  He shakes his head. "Sit down. The carpet's old and cruddy anyhow. I'll throw it out later. Drink your hot chocolate. Then we'll talk."

  I sink onto the grungy couch and he takes an armchair across from me. I hold my warm mug and realize that I don't want to talk. Things are too weird for this to be a simple misunderstanding or some kind of prank, and I'm afraid to find out what's going on. Something must be: I'm wearing clothes that I don't recognize but which fit me perfectly, my hair's shorter and darker than yesterday even though I've always loved being blonde and having long hair, and I have a tattoo of ducks when my favorite animal is... um...

  "Eagle!"

  He blinks. "Pardon?"

  I shake my head, feeling silly. "Nothing. Sorry. Just remembered something."

  He sets down his mug. "What was it?"

  I shrug. "I couldn't remember my favorite animal for a second then it came to me. No big deal."

  He nods slowly, as if this is deep and meaningful. "What else do you remember? About last night, and me... and you."

  I take a long sip of my hot chocolate and it wakes up my stomach. "Can I have some toast?"

  "Of course." He pushes the plate across the coffee table.

  I take a slice and try to eat it with some sort of control but the moment the bread crunches in my mouth I'm so hungry I could eat the plate too. I put away the toast in no time, then another piece, but when I reach for a third he says, "That's probably enough for now. Since you were sick."

  I'm about to protest when my stomach protests instead and I realize he's probably right. "Okay. But I'll want more later."

  "Fine." He gives me a smile, friendly but somehow wary too. "So, what do you remember?"

  I lick my lips. "Waking up with you."

  He shifts in his chair, and I'm sure we're both thinking the same thing. Me exploding naked from his bed then puking on his floor. "Okay. And before that?"

  I stare at the toast, thinking. I remember Mrs. Sosa announcing a math test and everyone groaning. "I was at school yesterday. I was there, then somehow I'm here. It's blank in the middle, like how I felt when I had my tonsils out two years ago. But I knew what happened to the time then. I don't know how I got here."

  Panic's rising in me and he must see it because he says soothingly, "It's okay. Don't worry, we'll figure it out. Do you know where you live?"

  I take a deep breath and try to calm down. I don't know my address at first, but then it comes to me. "3278 West Maple Avenue, apartment 213. We've lived there all my life."

  He clears his throat. "That's th
e low-rise condo building at West Maple and King Street, right?"

  "Yup."

  He looks like he's filtering a million things to say and coming up with nothing good.

  "What?"

  "God, I wish Hannah were here," he mutters under his breath.

  "Who's Hannah?" Renewed horror hits me. "You're not married, are you? I didn't... sleep with..."

  "We didn't have sex," he says, leaning toward me. "I swear to you, we didn't. I wouldn't do that. You were in a fight outside the bar where I work, drunk and freaking out, and in the end I brought you here."

  He seems sincere about the sex thing, and I should be relieved but now I have more worries. I was fighting outside a bar? My mother's going to kill me. "I don't drink, I told you."

  "Yeah, you did." He sighs. "Look, we'll get back to that. I have to tell you something."

  I wait, nervousness flooding me.

  "That condo building burned down three years ago."

  I stare at him. "Of course it didn't. I live there. With my parents and my little brother Ethan. Why would you say that? Are you trying to scare me?" More than you already have?

  He looks as scared as I feel. "Do you know what day it is?"

  Finally, something I can answer without any trouble. "My friend Chloe's birthday was yesterday," I say. "So today is March twentieth. Wednesday."

  I'm relieved to remember but he looks even more scared. "What year?"

  "1996. Duh."

  His hand covers his mouth but I can see the horror in his eyes.

  When he doesn't speak, I do. "What's the problem?"

  He clears his throat. "It's... um. No, it's not. That's not the date."

  "Of course it is," I say, but the back of my mind doubts my own words. Something's very wrong here, and I've known that since I woke up in his bed.

  He clears his throat again. "It's March fourth today. Friday."

  I've gone back in time? No, that can't be. I look down at my hands, which are perfectly manicured instead of my usual bitten-nail look and seem to belong to someone much older than seventeen, and a horrible possibility hits me. It can't be, but... "What year?" I manage to whisper.

  He leans back in his chair. "2011."

  Chapter Two

  Can he be telling the truth? Have I really lost years of my life? I'm too stunned to do anything but restate the situation. "You say it's 2011, but I think it's 1996."

  He nods.

  "So..." My head hurts too much to do the math. "If you're right, how many years..."

  He licks his lips. "Fifteen."

  I'm not almost seventeen any more. I'm...

  Dear God, I'm almost thirty-two. Ancient! I'm shaking my head even before I realize it. "No. No, I don't believe you. Why are you doing this? What crazy game are you playing with me? Take me home right now!"

  "Kate, I--"

  I burst out with, "Why do you keep calling me Kate?"

  "Because you said it was your name. Told me like three times." He studies me, his eyes narrowing. "So what's your real name then?"

  "I don't know," I say slowly. "Kate doesn't feel right but I also can't think of anything else. If I'm not Kate, I don't know who I am."

  The truth of that rises in me, panicking me, and I curl into a ball on the couch and say, "Even if my name is Kate, I don't know anything else. How can I not know?"

  He ignores my fear and says in a commanding tone, "What's your last name?"

  "Anderson," I say at once, then stare at him. "I think it really is. That feels right."

  He smiles. "Good job. Kate Anderson."

  That feels less right but it still could be true. The more he calls me Kate the more it seems to fit. "Ask me more stuff," I say, eager to get my life back.

  He does, firing questions at me, and while I can't answer anything about how I got to his bar or where I live now since the condo building burned down we soon know that I was born August seventh, 1979, to Allen and Betty Anderson.

  "Nice job, Kate," he says, excited. "Let me think of a few more."

  While he thinks, I think too, trying to organize the facts in my mind. Kate Anderson. Birthday August seventh, 1979.

  My birthday. Nearly thirty-two years ago.

  For one second I believe that I've lost fifteen years of my life.

  But then I recoil from it. It's not possible. It can't be. "Prove it."

  He blinks, coming back from trying to find more questions. "What?"

  "Prove it's 2011. Show me a newspaper."

  "I don't have one. I get my news online from tweets."

  From... "Birds?"

  His eyes widen and I make another connection. "Like my duck tattoo. Did you get me tattooed because the birds told you to? You're insane!"

  Strangely, his expression says I'm the crazy one. "Kate, look. I didn't get you tattooed. I met you last night."

  I leave the bird thing aside for now. "Tell me what happened."

  "I work at a bar down the street. I got there at eleven in time to see the end of a fight. You and another girl. She supposedly stole your money from your pocket and you attacked her. But her friends swore she didn't do anything. My boss Grant was going to call the cops because you started a fight but she said not to and took off. Grant told you to leave and went back inside but I couldn't leave you there. You seemed so scared and confused."

  My throbbing head. "Did she hit me? In the head?"

  He nods. "You have a bump. At least you did last night. But you calmed down once she'd left and insisted you didn't want a doctor. You told me your name was Kate. I got you a Coke and told you to stay nearby but then lost sight of you while I was working."

  He looked grim, and I was scared to ask, "Where did I go?"

  "Should have watched you," he says softly, apology in his voice. "I found you in the back room making out, fooling around, with two guys."

  My stomach twists. I've only ever kissed one guy in my life. That I know of, anyhow. I tripled my total with strangers in some random bar? "Then what?" I whisper.

  "I got rid of them and had you sit behind the bar with me. When we closed I offered to take you home but you wouldn't let go of my arm. They'd got you really drunk, and you were crying and saying you didn't know where to go and begging to stay with me and..." He shrugs. "I couldn't figure out what to do so I brought you here."

  "Why was I naked?"

  "You stripped and jumped into bed."

  My cheeks blaze. "And you're sure we didn't..."

  He shakes his head, his eyes steady on mine. "I have a rule never to do anything with drunk women, and you were way out of it. Once we were here I thought I should have made you go to the hospital but you insisted you didn't want to so I went with it. Maybe we should go now though."

  I lean back against the couch, my aching head whirling. "What's your name?"

  "Jake."

  I like it. It seems to suit him. Why doesn't Kate suit me? "How old are you?"

  "Thirty."

  Geez, I'd thought he was an old guy but he's actually younger than me. At least, he is if... "Jake, is it really 2011?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Do you have any way to prove it? I... somehow I can't accept it."

  He gives me a gentle smile. "I can't imagine how you could. What would work? How about your school's web site?"

  I snort. "That backward place? Hardly anyone has a web site so I doubt they do."

  "What school did you go to? I'll Google it."

  "You'll what?"

  "God, it's like you're from another planet," he says. "Google. It's an Internet search engine. You don't know it?"

  "Nope. And I don't listen to birds either."

  He frowns, then his face clears and he smiles. "Twitter. It's not birds. It's another web site, where people post what they're doing and what they're thinking."

  "Why would anyone care?"

  His smile widens. "Beats the hell out of me. Okay, what school?"

  I tell him, pleased that the memories of my early teen years seem to
be growing stronger, and he pulls out the smallest computer I've ever seen. It can't be more than twelve inches across. "Wow," I breathe. "That must have cost a fortune."

  He looks up, startled. "Three hundred bucks. Why?"

  I blink. "That's all? My dad got a laptop and it was thousands."

  "Computers have gotten cheaper. And smaller. And faster." He types a few words and clicks the built-in mouse, then says, "Here," and swings the computer to face me.

  Look at that. My high school does have a web site.

  Huge text at the top says, "Register now for our fortieth anniversary party in June."

  Cold sweeps over me. I took home a note just last week about the twenty-fifth anniversary.

  I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold it together.

  "Kate?"

  "It's true. Isn't it? It's fifteen years later."

  He nods. "I'm sorry."

  "Did I get hit on the head that hard?"

  "I didn't think so, but I'm starting to think I was wrong. We should get you checked out."

  He stands, and I do too but then say, "Can we call my parents?"

  His eyes soften but there's worry in them too. "Of course. They might not be at the same number, though, since they had to move after the fire."

  "I want to try," I say, the back of my throat tightening. I want my mom so much. "Maybe they kept the number."

  "Maybe." He pulls a black rectangle from his pocket and hands it to me. It's blank and there are no keys except a single round button near the bottom.

  I look at him. "What do I do with this?"

  His eyes close for a second then he opens them and takes the rectangle back. "I'm sorry, Kate. I can't get my head around what you've never seen. Okay, give me the number and I'll call them."

  I tell him the phone number I remember. He does something to the rectangle and soon I can hear a phone ringing. My heart's racing, then skips a beat as a woman answers the phone.

  With an Asian accent.

  Jake glances at me but I'm too afraid to speak, so he says, "Hello, I'm looking for Mr. or Mrs. Anderson. Allen and Betty. Are they there?"

  "Nobody here with that name."