I shake my head. We’re in 1995, in her world, and it seems like something she’s supposed to do. When I tell her this, she uncaps the pen and brings the felt tip to the metal.
“What should I say?”
“Whatever you want to say.”
She thinks about it for a moment and writes ANNA ♥ BENNETT across the surface. “That’s not very inspired, is it?” She stops and looks out over the water like she’s trying to decide how to finish what she started. She brings the pen back to the lock and writes ’95/’12. She stares at it.
“I like it,” I say. “Now it’s both cheesy and mysterious.”
“Aww. Just like us.”
“Nah, nothing like us,” I say. “We’re not at all mysterious.”
I hand her the key and she slips it inside. The latch opens with a tiny click, and she threads the lock through the chain-link fence and snaps it closed. She runs her fingertip across the surface and lets out a little laugh. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we’re the ones that start the whole lock thing?”
“Maybe we do.”
“I like that,” she says.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that in 2010, all the locks will be removed. Or that, in 2011, they’ll start reappearing, and by 2012, there will be very few spaces left on the railing again. They can cut our lock off. We’ll just come back here together—in 1998 and 2008 and 2018—and replace it every time it gets removed. I stare at the key in Anna’s hand, wondering if it’s realistic to think that we will still be together years from now, living this way.
I never even wished for her, but right now, all I want is for this person who gets me so completely to be part of my present and my future. As long as I don’t think about the logistics, it seems possible.
Anna kisses me. Then we both kiss the key and she tosses it into the river.
Anna and I spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around. We don’t have a destination in mind, so we turn when we feel like turning and stop when we feel like stopping and poke our heads into shops that look interesting. We pop into record stores so we can buy CD imports that would cost a fortune back in the States. We pick out postcards.
We stop at a bakery for a baguette, and then, without even discussing it, we head through a set of wrought iron gates and into a park. It’s alive with activity, and as we meander down the path, people jog past us and in-line skaters roll by. Anna surprises me when she pulls me off the walkway and behind a dense cluster of trees to kiss me.
We spot a soccer game and sit on the grass to watch. The whole thing is nonstop action, but we both find it difficult to take our eyes off this one guy in a bright green shirt. He’s the shortest one out there, and he’s so quick, but it’s more than that—he’s just fun to watch. His face is completely serious until he takes a shot, but then he throws his hands up in the air in victory and lets out a yell, even when he misses.
A half hour later, we’re still glued to the game, and it’s now tied, two-two. Green-shirt Guy kicks the ball and takes off running toward the goal. Then he’s open, waving his arms in the air, and the ball comes sailing back in his direction. But just as he’s about to kick it, another player comes running at him from the opposite direction. The two of them collide hard, and Green-shirt Guy falls to the ground, clutching his leg. Everyone gathers around him, so it’s impossible to see what’s going on.
A few minutes later, he emerges from the crowd with his arms draped over two of his teammates’ shoulders. His face is full of agony as he hops on one leg to the closest bench. He sits down and buries his face into his hands while they remove his shoe.
“I wonder if it’s broken,” Anna says.
All I can think to say is, “They hit hard.”
“Bennett,” she says quietly.
I look over at her. “Yeah?”
Her eyes are still glued to the guy in the green shirt and she’s wearing the strangest expression. “What if you gave him a second chance?”
I shake my head. Hard.
She looks at me. “You could test yourself. See if the side effects kick in or not. And if they do, I can help you.”
It’s a ridiculous idea. I don’t even know what time it is or how long we’ve been here, but I do know that we’ve been completely out in the open, in full view of everyone. We’d need a safe point we could return to without being seen, and we don’t have one. But then I remember how Anna pulled me behind the bushes to kiss me.
“There was a clock in the bakery,” she says. “It was 2:10. We got to the park and walked around and it was, what do you think, 2:30 when we sat down here?” She’s talking fast, thinking too much, and getting way too excited about this. But before I can say anything, she stands up, heads back to the path, and returns less than a minute later. “It’s 3:05 right now.”
I look back over at the guy in the green shirt. His face is pinched and his leg is stretched out in front of him, and I still can’t tell if it’s broken or not, but he’s definitely in a lot of pain. I think through the times Anna just rattled off to me and before I know it, I’m grabbing her hand and steering her back to that spot behind the bushes.
“This is crazy,” I say.
When we arrive, she pivots to face me. When were we here last? 2:20? 2:23? I can’t be sure, and I have to be sure, or the Anna and Bennett back on that part of the timeline will disappear into thin air in the middle of the street, or at the entrance to the park, or from the front of the bakery line.
I think through every step we made, and then I grab her hands and shut my eyes. When I open them, we’re standing a few feet from where we started, back on the path, and in plain sight. We both speed back behind the bushes and hide there for a minute or two, until I’m certain that no one saw us.
We rush back to the soccer game in progress and sit in the same spot, watching the same game. The guy in the bright green shirt is perfectly fine, speeding toward the ball, making solid kicks, and throwing his arms up in delight with every attempt. Anna’s sitting closer to me this time, her legs folded in front of her and one leg resting on mine. She tightens her grip on my hand and we come up with a plan.
The score reaches two-two, and they’re all lined up, about to make that last play. Before the ball gets thrown out, Anna looks at me, stands up, and races down the edge of the field near the goal. The play goes the same way. He kicks it and takes off running, but this time, just as he’s about to throw his arms up, Anna yells, “Stop!” at the top of her lungs.
Most of the guys ignore her, but Green-shirt Guy turns around, just for a second, and looks at her. By the time he returns his attention to the game, it’s too late. The other guy has the ball and he’s taking it to the goal at the opposite end. He kicks it hard, scores, and the game is over. Green-shirt Guy throws his hands up in Anna’s direction, and yells at her in French.
She takes off toward me, running and laughing, grabbing my hand as she speeds by. We spot a bench out of sight and collapse on it. My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding so hard I feel like it’s about to burst out of my chest.
“I have no idea why I let you talk me into these things,” I say, breathing fast. “You and Brooke.” I shake my head. “You have far too much in common.” I look over at her and she’s sitting there, catching her breath, beaming and obviously quite proud of herself. “You look adorable when stopping tragedies, by the way.”
She brings her hands to my face and kisses me, even though there are people everywhere.
I’ve spent all these years trying not to alter the slightest event, and now, in the seven months since I met Anna, I’ve purposely changed things four times. And none of them seems to have thrown the universe off-kilter or anything.
“How do you feel?” she asks as she pulls away.
“Good.” I look at her and smile. “Really good.”
By the time the sun starts to set, our legs are rubbery from climbing so many stairs and hills, and now we’re standing in a secluded corner of a dead-end street, holding hands, smilin
g at each other and stalling.
“You ready?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Not even close.”
But we can’t stay away any longer. I tell her to close her eyes and she does, but before I do the same, I take a glance around this Parisian street one more time. Then I let my eyes fall shut.
When I open them, we’re in the exact same position, back in my room at Maggie’s, and it’s Saturday morning. I check the clock. Ten A.M.
Almost instantly, Anna lets out a quiet groan and her hands find her stomach. She slumps down on the floor and pulls her knees to her chest. I slide down next to her, and even though my head is throbbing and my vision is blurry, I remove my backpack and grope around inside, searching for the sleeve of saltines. When I find them, I tear into the package and hand it to her. Anna mumbles a thank-you as she starts in on a corner of the cracker, and I search for the water bottles.
We sit like that for a good twenty minutes, me downing waters and Frappuccinos, Anna nibbling crackers and trying not to hurl. “Now this is romantic,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.
I let out a weak laugh and let my head fall against hers.
Anna finally declares herself strong enough to stand. But when I try to say, “I’ll walk you home,” my words slur, and when I stand up, my legs wobble. I lean on the bed, resting my hand on the surface for stability. I’m utterly exhausted. I can’t remember the last time I felt this tired.
“Lie down,” Anna insists as she pushes me gently toward the bed and lifts my feet off the floor. I hear her tell me to scoot up a little. I feel her adjust my pillow under my head. I think she takes off my shoes. “Close your eyes,” I hear her say, quiet and soothing, as she sits on the edge of the bed and runs her thumbs back and forth along my forehead.
I don’t remember anything after that.
The faint sound of knocking wakes me up from a deep sleep. I sit up in bed and rub my head with both hands. The next knock is louder.
“Come in.” I feel like my eyes have been glued shut, but I force them open when the door creaks and Maggie pokes her head inside. She looks surprised to see me twisted and disheveled on top of my comforter.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize you were sleeping. I just wanted to know if you were going to be here for dinner.”
I press my fingertips into my temples and glance over at the clock radio on the nightstand. Is it really 6:12? Have I been out all afternoon? The last thing I remember was Anna helping me lie down. Was that really almost eight hours ago?
“I’m making a pot roast.” Maggie smiles as she says it, like I might need convincing. But I don’t. I take a big whiff of something that smells delicious. I’m just about to tell her that I’ll be down in a minute when she crosses her arms and her expression turns serious. “Are you okay, Bennett?”
I force myself to sit up and throw my feet to the floor. “I’m okay. Just really tired.”
“Jet lag,” she says plainly, and closes the door behind her. If only she knew that I’ve never been on a jet.
I pull on a clean pair of jeans and reach into the chest of drawers for a shirt. I still feel shaky and a bit cold, so I throw on a flannel.
Downstairs, I find Maggie setting the table for two. She glances up at me and returns to folding the cloth napkins into triangles. I slip right into my old role here, reaching into the cabinet for two glasses and filling them with milk.
Maggie and I politely take our seats like I’m a guest in her home. I try to come up with topics for small talk, but all I can think about is Anna and our day in Paris. I block it from my mind as I dig into the pot roast, I tell her all about Emma’s party, right down to the details of the balloon arch and the DJ in the backyard. Maggie gives me encouraging laughs and asks a lot of questions about the people I know here. Then there’s a pause in the discussion and she looks at me pointedly.
“It sounds like you made a lot of friends at Westlake,” she says without looking at me. I start to respond, but I freeze instead. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged knowing that I lied to her about being a student at Northwestern last year, but she throws it out there and goes back to eating like it’s no big deal. “My daughter loved it there too.”
This would be a great time to apologize for lying to her. It would also be a great time to tell her that her daughter and my mom are the same person. While both are true, I feel a little bit sick the moment I have these two thoughts, so I ignore them and try to go back to my dinner as if Maggie’s statement doesn’t require a response. But then I hear Anna’s words in my head: It would be nice to have one person in my life that I can talk to about you—one person I don’t have to keep your secret from. That, I can’t ignore.
My stomach is turning and what I really want to do right now is bolt out the back door, run past the tomato garden, and find an empty spot to disappear from. I could be back in San Francisco in less than a minute.
Before I let my feet dictate my next steps, I force out the words, “Maggie, I need to tell you something.” And there it is. Now I don’t have a choice. There’s nothing else I need to tell her.
“Sure.” I think she’s trying not to look at me now. And I’m definitely trying not to look at her.
I’m pushing mashed potatoes around with my fork like the words I need to find are buried somewhere underneath. “I’m not quite sure how to explain this. Thre’s something about me that’s…unusual.” I cringe as I hear the words come out of my mouth. She’s looking at me, waiting for me to continue, and I suddenly wonder if it wouldn’t be better to just show her. After all, it worked with Anna. I push my chair away from the table and stand over by the counter.
I blow out a breath. Here we go.
Maggie sets her fork down and wipes her face with her napkin.
“Watch,” I say. And I close my eyes, but before I let myself disappear, I add the words “Please don’t freak out.”
Seconds after I picture my room upstairs, I’m standing in the center of it. Downstairs, I hear Maggie scream. I count to ten and close my eyes again, returning to the exact same spot in the kitchen. She’s standing right in front of me and when she goes to move away, she smacks me hard on the shoulder. She mutters something that might be an apology and reaches for the counter to steady herself. Perhaps this wasn’t the best way to break the news.
I reach forward and grip her arms. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She stares at me, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide. I lead her over to the chair, and she sits down, forearms pressed into the Formica, staring at her half-eaten plate of food.
I sit down next to her. “I want you to know who I am, Maggie.”
She doesn’t look up at me but I see her head nod.
“There’s a lot you already know about me. My name is Bennett. I live in San Francisco. I think you know I’m seventeen and that I never went to Northwestern, and I’m sorry I lied and told you that I did.”
This whole thing sounded so much better in my head. It isn’t coming out at all the way I wanted it to. Maggie gives me a slight nod, but I don’t know if she’s following me or if she just wants me to continue in hopes that I’ll eventually get to the point. “There’s also a lot you don’t know about me. Like…that…my mom is your daughter. Her pictures are all over your house.” My hands feel clammy so I rub them on my jeans and keep talking. I can’t stop now. “There aren’t many of your grandson because he’s only seven months old right now. And…” I pause to take a deep breath, but it seems pointless. I should just spit it out. “This is going to sound really weird, but…that’s the reason your grandson and I have the same name.”
This time, her head doesn’t move at all.
“I’m…” I stop. Breathe. Go again. “I’m your grandson and I’m seventeen”—I stammer—“in two thousand twelve. Not in nineteen ninety-five.”
Still no response. I have no idea what to do, so I keep going even though I’m stumbling over every word.
“When I was ten, I sort of…accidentally…discovered that I could…travel. I can go back in time—five seconds, ten minutes, four months, several years…all the way back to the day I was born. March 6, 1995. That’s as far back as I can go.”
Maggie’s shoulders rise and fall.
“I’d never tried to stay anywhere in the past before, not until the last time I was here. Do you remember when I arrived last March…how I was so sick?”
Slight nod.
“I wasn’t really sick. I kept…disappearing. I was trying to stay here but I kept getting knocked back to my bedroom in two thousand twelve. See, that’s how it works. When I try to push the limits of what I can do, I get sent back where I belong. It’s like time’s way of saying that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. It’s the only time I don’t have control. And then it hurts. Sometimes a lot. I finally…trained myself, I guess, to stay here.”
Maggie brings her hand to her mouth but still keeps her back to me.
“I was only here because I lost my sister, Brooke. She wanted to go to this concert in Chicago in nineteen ninety-four. Neither one of us thought I’d be able to do it or anything, but it worked. We made it. But a couple of minutes later, I was knocked back to my present and Brooke wasn’t. She was stuck back in nineteen ninety-four. So I came here, to your house, here in nineteen ninety-five, trying to get as close to her as I could.”
It’s silent for a minute or so. “Did you find her?” I’m relieved to hear the sound of Maggie’s voice, low and calm. She’s taking in facts and I figure that’s a good sign.
“Yeah. She got knocked back home after a few months. And I think that’s why I couldn’t come back here. Once she was home I couldn’t really go anywhere for a while.” I picture myself returning to the same day, over and over again, to watch Anna at the track. I start to tell Maggie, but decide that might be more information than she needs to know.
I pour myself a glass of water, not because I’m dehydrated, but because I’m eager to have something to do with my hands. I fill another glass and slide it across the table to Maggie. She picks it up right away.
Time After Time Page 11
