Time-Travel Duo

by James Paddock

  Patrick reached out and took her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked at Patrick’s hand. It felt warm and strong. “At Wal-Mart, when we were talking and then I suddenly walked away, I . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain. I made a promise and the ‘I’m sorry’ is all your going to get.”

  “It’s more than just that my husband died. It’s how he died and what triggers those episodes, like the one that day. I feel I need to explain.” Reluctantly, she pulled her hand back. “I carry a lot of anger which when triggered turns into what you saw.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “I’m okay if it comes on gradually and I can control it. When I’m blindsided by it, like when you mentioned that you served in Afghanistan in the Army or when I suddenly saw Tony’s face on yours, it’s like a punch in the stomach.”

  Patrick didn’t say anything so she pressed on. “Tony was killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq three months ago. We weren’t even married a year.”

  “And you’re angry at the war.”

  “I’m angry with everything: the war, the Marines, the president, the terrorists, Tony, all of it.”

  “Why are you angry with Tony?”

  “Because he chose to join the damned Marines; because he gave up his education for something so damned stupid.”

  “Are you angry with me because I joined the Army?”

  She looked at him for a long time, and then shook her head. “Did you leave your wife in the wake of a wonderful honeymoon and head off to Army boot camp? Did you close your ears to her objections? Did you dump her in an apartment by herself for a uniform and a gun? Did you refuse to become an officer, choosing instead, despite your degree, to enlist at the lowest pay grade?”

  “No,” was all Patrick said.

  Annie suddenly realized how loud she had gotten. She dropped her head and her voice. “I’m sorry. Don’t mean to yell. You joined after 9/11 because that was what young men did, a lot of young women, too. Hell, that’s what I might have done if I was old enough at the time. Going after Osama bin Laden was necessary. But Iraq is different. It’s nothing more than Bush’s personal vendetta. He just wanted an excuse to finish what he thought his father should have finished, at the expense of thousands of American lives. And I’m not angry with everyone who joins the Marines. I’m angry with Bush and the terrorists. I’m really angry with Tony for leaving me right after we were married.”

  Patrick rose from his squat and sat down next to her again. On the other side of the common area, beyond the trees, a family came out of their cabin and loaded into their SUV. The two of them watched as one of them, a boy of about twelve, rushed back into the cabin. Seconds later he was back out and into the vehicle. They pulled away and within thirty seconds had driven from view. Annie took a deep breath. “Well, there you have it; my rotten story. The reason for my weird reactions to you.”

  “Rotten story, huh? I’ve got worse.”

  “Really?” She turned her head to look at him. The look on his face made her feel like a real heel. “I’m sorry. If you want to tell me, you can. If not, I understand.”

  “It was very bad, just last summer, in a park just west of Kalispell.” He paused for a long time, letting the suspense hang. “I was molested.”

  “Oh my God!” Automatically her hand reached out for his. “How? Jesus?”

  “I was just walking along, enjoying the summer afternoon, wishing I had a girlfriend to share the time with, but we had just broken up.” He took a deep breath and stopped.

  “Go on,” she said, “if you want to.”

  “It’s so hard. It’s just that, well, I was suddenly attacked by . . .”

  “By what?”

  “By a squirrel.”

  “A what?”

  “A squirrel. He came at me like I was stealing his nuts, screaming his little squirrel scream, calling all his squirrel buddies, because all of a sudden there were dozens of them. It was like Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, where all the birds went crazy and started attacking everyone. Before I knew it there were hundreds of them and I was beating them off, running down the trail with a score of them hanging off of me by their little buck teeth. I’ve got scars on my ass. Want to see?”

  Annie only looked at him, trying very hard to suppress a laugh.

  “You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

  “I seriously recommend you don’t tell anyone else.” And then Annie laughed, and Patrick joined her, and for a few minutes all her sadness was gone. But it didn’t last. After a time they returned to just sitting and looking out at the quiet of the morning.

  “I’m not trying to make fun. I just wanted to see you laugh, see you smile like you did for a while playing miniature golf.”

  He took her hand and said in his Irish brogue, “There is a tremendous beauty beneath your sad façade.” And then he added, “Bhur brón scrios mé croi.”

  She slowly turned her head to him.

  “Your sadness devastates me heart.”

  With that Annie rose, turned and walked into the cabin, leaving the door open. She wanted to tell Patrick not to leave, that she’d be right back, but she couldn’t trust herself to say anything. She had to momentarily get away or she was going to lose all her control. In her bathroom she blew her nose, took deep breaths, washed her face, brushed her hair, blew her nose again, and even considered a little makeup, but changed her mind. When she stepped out of the bathroom she was pleased to see he was still sitting where she left him. He didn’t leave and he didn’t pursue. Even though her heart felt a little lighter, there was still a heaviness she had to push down.

  “My sadness devastates my heart, too, Patrick,” she said softly to herself, and then finished loading her backpack, hung it over her shoulder and stepped onto the porch, locking the door behind her. When he looked up, she said, “Ready?”

  “Ready?”

  “To visit Glacier National Park. Let’s take yours. I like it better than mine, even if it is ancient.”

  He jumped up. “Ancient! It’s a classic.”

  “A 1992 Blazer is not a classic; never will be.”

  “Is too. Will so.”

  “Not not.”

  Chapter 23

  June 9, 2007

  They argued for a few seconds at the entrance over who was going to pay. Annie won because it was his gas. From the moment they passed under the sign that read, “Gateway - Glacier National Park,” she felt like she was in a wonderland. She was so glad she wasn’t driving because she could spend all her time looking.

  Their first stop was Apgar on the southern tip of Lake McDonald. Annie stood on the shore at the edge of McDonald Creek, Lake McDonald’s outlet, and gazed across the glass-like surface to the jagged snow-capped mountain peaks in the distance. She closed her eyes, spread her arms, and inhaled. The river running near her cabin was wonderful, but this was a step to the next level. Pine and bark, raw earth, and new green growth filled her senses and added to the sounds of birds, and then suddenly, squawking. She opened her eyes to discover two ducks disagreeing over a piece of the creek.

  “Mergansers,” Patrick said. “Better known as sawbills. Those are two males battling over a fish. See,” he pointed, “the one on the right won.”

  Annie spotted a streak of silver disappear in a beaked mouth.

  Patrick pointed across the creek. “See the brown headed duck over there. That’s a female sawbill. Odd to see her this early. She should be sitting on a nest of eggs.” Suddenly a half dozen ducklings appeared out of the grass and surrounded her. “Oh! There you go. No eggs to sit on.”

  Annie watched them for a long time before remembering to take pictures.

  From Apgar they continued north on Going To The Sun Road along Lake McDonald, stopping twice before putting the lake behind them, once at Lake McDonald Lodge and once to watch some kayakers. From a foot bridge over McDonald Creek—the upper part roaring its way toward the lake—she took pictures of Sacred
Dancing Cascade. Later they stopped again and walked a short distance up Cedar Trail that followed Avalanche Creek, which was roaring its way toward McDonald Creek.

  “I want to go for a long hike.” She had to raise her voice over the roar of the creek pounding through the rocks. “This is beautiful.”

  “My recommendation is that we drive the entire Going To The Sun, stopping now and then for short hikes,” Patrick said. “That way you can make notes of what you want to come back to later. You’ve got all summer. It takes all day just to drive The Sun over and back with stops like this.”

  She stared down into the rushing water for a time. “What is this called, Avalanche Creek, in Irish?”

  Patrick thought for a minute and then said, “Maidhm sneachta crompáin, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I haven’t been studying Gaelic very long.”

  “You fooled me.”

  “You should hear mé athair.”

  She tilted her head. “Your father?”

  “Aye. You learn quick.”

  “Then you grew up with it.”

  “Aye. I did. Mé athair is fluent. Maybe some brushed off.”

  “How do you say mother?”

  “Máthair.”

  “Máthair,” she said, trying to duplicate Patrick’s brogue.

  He said it slowly. “Maw hir. Not her, hir.”

  “I don’t hear the difference. How is it spelled?” After he spelled it she said, “That should be math air or mat hair.”

  Patrick laughed. “You don’t speak the Gaelic as you see it; you speak it as you feel it. Not from your eyes . . . from your heart. Gaelic is a language full of love and hate, wealth and poverty, happiness and despair; críonnacht is an chlann.”

  “Críonnacht is an chlann?” she repeated.

  “Wisdom and family.”

  They got back on Going To The Sun Road for a short distance before stopping to walk among huge, flat rocks where McDonald Creek took an elbow-like bend and created a pool that appeared great for swimming. A pair of girls, sisters maybe, stood in the water hand in hand; their shoes and socks lay on the bank, their jeans rolled up to their knees. The dad took pictures while the mother advised, “Be careful.” Suddenly one turned and rushed out of the water. The other waited several heartbeats and then made the dash as well.

  “That’s cold!” the first declared.

  And then Annie dropped her butt onto the rock and started pulling off her boots.

  “What’re you doing?” Patrick asked.

  “What does it look like? I want to experience it.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “And your point is? You’re chicken aren’t you? You Irish Montana boys a bit skittish about cold feet?”

  “Ah, the big city lass thinks she can goad an Irish lad into doing something stupid.”

  “Never the thought Mister Erik Patrick O’Reilly.”

  “If you’re going to try and talk like the Irish you need to work on your brogue.”

  “You are a smart Irish lad, I give you that me Patrick; when facing your fear you change the subject.”

  “What fear?”

  “Fear of having your manhood challenged by a lass.”

  “Ha!” He dropped down next to her. “We’ll see who lasts the longest.”

  Five minutes into the contest she said, “This isn’t so bad.”

  “That’s because all your nerve endings are frozen and unable to send pain messages to your brain.”

  “You’re probably right. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “You giving up?”

  “Of course not, however I think that if we walk out together, we can call it a tie and no one gets their pride hurt.”

  “And our toes don’t fall off.”

  “From the ankles down.”

  “What good are feet without toes anyway?”

  “Good point. I’d like to keep my feet and toes. Deal?”

  He turned around and offered his hand. “Deal. We walk out together.”

  She turned around and took his hand. “I’d rather run out.”

  “Okay. On three. One . . . two . . . THREE!”

  It was only three steps out. Annie took two and then stopped dead and jerked her hand from his. His momentum carried him the last step, onto dry ground. “I won,” she announced and strode out to his side.

  “You cheated,” he said softly and then turned to her, took her face in his hands and pressed his lips against hers.

  It hit her so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it was seconds before her brain processed what was happening. She held on for another two seconds before pushing her hands up between his and placing them on the sides of his face. Tony! For a half dozen racing heartbeats she pressed back with her mouth—Tony!—and let the heat of him fill her. She pulled away and opened her eyes to look into his, into those hazel eyes with little green flecks which formed a connect dot triangle in one, and a lopsided star in the other. But there wasn’t a single green fleck in these eyes, which were brown with an outer layer of blue. She had seen those odd color eyes on only one man . . . Erik Patrick O’Reilly. Something akin to a baby’s whimper escaped her lips and she stumbled back.

  “Annie,” Patrick said and stepped after her.

  “No!” She tried to make her voice light to let him know she wasn’t angry with him, but it didn’t come out that way. She threw her hands up to ward him off. “I . . .” Whatever was going to follow that one word was overcome by an urgent need to breathe. She couldn’t talk when she couldn’t breathe. She sucked in as much air as she could, over and over until suddenly Patrick’s hands were on her and he was telling her to sit down. She let him have her weight; his face swam over her.

  When the fuzz disappeared Annie was looking down between her knees at the top of one of her boots and a sock hanging loosely out of it, and at her bare feet.

  “Is she going to be okay?” said a voice.

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “This happens sometimes. She gets too excited and hyperventilates.”

  Annie looked up at Patrick, who was crouched in front of her, and then turned her head to look up at the woman who asked the question.

  “You okay, honey?”

  Annie forced a smile and nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” The woman went away and Annie said to Patrick, “Sorry.” She dropped her eyes.

  “Nothing to be sorry about. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  The problem wasn’t that you kissed me, Annie thought, the problem was that I kissed you back, and then you turned into Tony. She said nothing.

  Patrick stood, said, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” and then rushed away.

  Annie looked around in time to see him on the path back to the parking area, disappearing into the trees. Afraid that he was going to leave her there, she jumped to her feet only to realize she was still barefooted. She swung back to grab her boots and saw that Patrick’s boots were still sitting right next to hers, his socks neatly stuffed down inside. He wouldn’t leave without his boots. She sat back down and put her head in her hands.

  He’s right; he shouldn’t have kissed me, because then I wouldn’t have hallucinated.

  No, Annie, don’t start blaming Patrick. It’s not his fault. It’s Tony’s fault. She thought about that for a minute. No, it’s my fault. Tony’s getting back at me for the fight, for not loving him enough to support him. I was angry with him when he got on that plane, so I said a bad thing. Now he’s making me pay. He won’t allow me to get on with my life. He’ll always be there, between me and happiness.

  You deserve it, Annie. He died hating you. He died because of you.

  Annie didn’t look up when Patrick returned, but she did look up when he grabbed her foot. He settled it onto a beach towel in his lap and opened a bottle of oil. “What’re you doing?” she said.

  “Hush. Sit back. I’m giving you a foot massage.”

  “I don’t need a foot message,” she said and attempted to jerk her foot away.
<
br />   Anticipating her move, he clamped onto her ankle like a vise. When she gave up he poured a line of oil from her ankle to her big toe. “Relax. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “But there are people around.”

  “Your point is?”

  She leaned back on her elbows. “Fine! If it makes you feel better.”

  “Actually, it is to make me feel better.” He explored along the top and sides of her foot and then started using his fingers to work the muscles. “I feel guilty for kissing you so this is the least I can do to make up for it.”

  “Hmmmm. My reaction to your kiss is not your fault. You have no reason to feel guilty.”

  He lifted his hands from her. “Oh! Okay.”

  “Hey! I didn’t say you could quit. I just said you don’t have to feel guilty. You’re going to feel sorry if you quit.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I may be a lass but I carry a mean kick.”

  He grinned and returned to work on her foot while she leaned back and closed her eyes. She had never had a foot massage before; hadn’t really had a massage of any kind except for Tony, if you could call what he did a massage—lots of oil and two naked bodies. She snapped her eyes open, afraid she’d see Tony again and it’d restart her attack. But it wasn’t Tony. A glorious foot massage isn’t what Tony did. This was pure and simple Patrick.

  She lay completely back, her arms spread out above her. Pure and simple Patrick.

  They drove on up The Sun until the creek dropped away and the road began to climb. “How did you do that,” she asked, “run barefoot up to your Blazer?”

  “I grew up with bare feet; wore shoes only when I had to.”

  “I grew up with my feet tucked up underneath me, or covered with a blanket, or snuggled inside slippers.”

  “You were a bookworm.”