If Only in My Dreams

by Wendy Markham

  For one wild moment, she actually considers it—considers sacrificing her own life for his.

  Because if she stays, she knows she’ll be able to keep him safe.…

  Or does she?

  So it is possible, she hears herself asking Mr. Kershaw, to go back in time and, maybe, change something that was supposed to happen? You know… save somebody’s life?

  Ah, the classic paradox. That scenario would seemingly violate the law of quantum mechanics that says that what you do in the present is an inevitable product of the past.

  Didn’t Clara just prove, in her supreme effort to save Minnie Bouvier, that it can’t be done?

  “I have to go. There’s a train—the 3:27—”

  “No, Clara…”

  “Don’t touch me,” she says sharply, flinching beneath his fingertips as they come to rest on her shoulders. “You have to let me go.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  She utters the only thing she can think of that will make him release his literal, and figurative, grip on her.

  “If you don’t let me go, Jed, and do what I have to do… I’ll die.”

  He swallows hard.

  Then, lifting his hands from her shoulders, he says softly, “Okay.”

  She closes her eyes hard, hot tears streaming from her lashes, her whole body quaking with the effort to contain a monstrous sob.

  “But look at me, Clara.” He’s standing close, so close that his breath warms her ear. “Just turn around and look at me.”

  She does, and wishes she hadn’t. His face is etched in pain.

  “I’m going to promise you something. Do you hear me? Are you listening?”

  She nods bleakly.

  “I’m going to find my way to you somehow.” Jed’s voice is ragged. “No matter what. No matter where you’re really going or why you don’t want to tell me.”

  I did tell you, Jed. I told you the truth. You just didn’t believe me… and I can’t blame you for that.

  But she doesn’t say any of that. Words—hers, anyway—are futile now.

  And so are his, because nothing he says can possibly change things.

  Yet he goes on doggedly, “I swear I’m going to find you, wherever you are. And we’ll be together again. Someday. No matter how long it takes. I promise you that, Clara. Because… I love you.”

  Those three words spill unexpectedly from his lips to light the shadowy depths of her soul where she banished her feelings for him, certain that what she felt couldn’t possibly be love. Instead of withering there, that emotion took root, nourished by each hour, each moment, she spent with Jed. Now it stirs to life, entwining verdant tendrils around her heart as she looks into his eyes.

  “I love you, too, Jed,” she whispers, and hope, vibrant as the first bud of spring, unfurls within her.

  “Don’t forget me.”

  “I couldn’t possibly forget you.”

  But you’re going to forget me, she tells him silently. A girl named Betty is probably baking you an apple pie at this very moment, and I bet you’ll fall in love with her. With her, or somebody else.

  And I hope you do. I hope you fall in love, and live happily ever after.

  Just…

  Live.

  Jed leans in and kisses her, tenderly… one last time.

  “Jed! Clara!”

  It’s his mother, standing on the doorstep, waving them in.

  “Don’t you know what’s going on?” she calls. Like Mrs. Wenick, Lois Landry looks ominously upward as if to ascertain that snow is the only thing falling from the sky.

  “Poor Mother. She’s going to be a wreck over this.”

  “I know. And about Minnie. Go help her.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to walk away now, Jed,” she tells him softly.

  “Now? Just like that?”

  She nods.

  “Jed! Clara!”

  “Coming, Mother, just—go inside. You’ll catch a chill.” He waits until she obliges, then hurriedly tells Clara, “Just wait awhile, and I’ll take you to the train when things calm down.”

  “No, I’ve got to go now. And I want to walk. The snow is beautiful.”

  “Then at least… I’ll walk with you.”

  “Your mother needs you, Jed. Your family is upset. You’ve got to go back. And I’ve got to go.”

  “But… what about your things? Your suitcase? Your purse? Your little music player?”

  “Keep it. All of it.” Seeing the look on his face, she adds, if only to temper the ache, “For now.”

  “But… I had a gift for you. For Christmas.”

  For some reason, it’s the word Christmas that brings tears to her eyes again.

  “What is it?” she asks desolately, remembering the painful holiday that lies ahead for her.

  “Do you want me to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  Otherwise, I’ll never know, and I’ll always wonder.

  “It was the snow globe,” Jed tells her. “The one with the dark-haired angel whose wing is broken.”

  “I would have liked to have had that.” She smiles sadly.

  “Then come to the store with me and I’ll give it to you.”

  She shakes her head, knowing that she doesn’t dare spend another minute with him. If she does, she’ll never leave.

  He casts an anxious look over his shoulder at his house, as though weighing his options.

  Then, realizing he has none, he tells Clara, “Okay, then. I’ll just… I’ll give it to you the next time I see you. Look for me, Clara… because I’m going to find you. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 18

  It isn’t until Clara steps off the overcrowded subway train at Union Square, head bent to shield her raw, red-rimmed eyes from the world, that she realizes it’s rush hour—a weekday.

  What day is this, even?

  Quick mental math tells her that it must be Thursday. Thursday evening. She’s been gone five whole days… and God only knows what has transpired in her absence.

  Well, at least she made it back. When the train had almost reached Grand Central and she was still firmly ensconced in the past, she began to feel anxious.

  What if she was trapped in 1941? Her hand kept straying to the cancerous lump on her breast, poised to consume her without the proper medical intervention.

  And what about her mother, who must be worried sick? And her father, and her cousins, and Jesus and Michael, and the movie—

  The train entered a tunnel, the lights flickered, and everything went black for just a moment. And when daylight reappeared and the lights came on again…

  She was back in the present.

  That was when she started to cry. From grief, from relief… and she hasn’t stopped since.

  Now she covers the couple of blocks to her apartment swiftly, her eyes still swimming in tears and her thoughts consumed by Jed.

  Will there ever be another moment when he isn’t there, haunting her?

  Saying good-bye to him was by far the most anguishing thing she’s ever had to do.…

  But she had no choice.

  They simply weren’t meant to be.

  Arriving on West Eleventh Street, she spots Ray’s Pizza on the corner like a beacon.

  Almost home.

  That’s good.

  No, really… it is.

  Right. That’s why she’s crying so hard she can barely see. She blows her nose on the already sodden wad of tissue she took from the bathroom in Grand Central.

  Then she toils on.

  Only when she reaches her building does it occur to her that she doesn’t have a plan.

  She didn’t think things through before she left her world behind, and she hasn’t thought things through upon her return.

  What is she going to tell people? They’ll want to know where she’s been.

  You’ll just have to wing it, she decides, slowly climbing the steps.

  She robotically fishes her keys from her back pocket
and fits one into the lock on the door, then turns it. She opens the door cautiously, half expecting to see Mr. Kobayashi lying in wait.

  But the entry hall is deserted, and she can hear the faint sound of a wailing siren, screaming brakes, and chase music coming from his apartment below.

  She smiles and sniffles… then stops short, remembering something.

  Hurriedly patting her jacket pockets, she notes that they’re flatter than they should be.

  Yes, of course. That’s because she left her mittens on the counter in the Landrys’ kitchen…

  And Jed returned them to me.

  Stunned, she realizes he must have come here, must have given the painstakingly wrapped package to Mr. Kobayashi when he was a little boy. Of course, because he knew that, one day, Clara’s path would cross his—and that the mittens were special to her. That she’d want them back.

  But I want you back, too, Jed.

  Tears spring to her eyes again, and, emotionally spent, she brushes them away.

  She pulls herself together and climbs the stairs slowly.

  Passing Drew Becker’s closed door, she remembers their conversation on the stoop… was it only last week? How can that be?

  It seems like…

  Sixty-five years ago.

  Wearily, she ascends the last flight to her door.

  There’s a sticky yellow Post-it note stuck to the door.

  Fuzz were here. They’re coming back with search warrant. Everyone worried. Where are you? Let me know if you get back. —Mr. K.

  Fuzz. He means police. Her initial dismay is trailed by a glimmer of amusement. Having real-live cops here must have made his day.

  So who called them?

  It had to be her mother. She must be frantic by now.

  What am I going to tell her?

  Not the truth—that’s for sure.

  She quickly unlocks the door and steps into the dark apartment. She flips a light switch and notices that there’s a white envelope at her feet; somebody must have shoved it under the door.

  Picking it up, she crosses to the phone and dials into her voice mail.

  You have thirty… eight… new… messages.

  No surprise there. Rather than listen to them, she begins to scroll through her caller ID log, which only keeps the last twenty incoming numbers on record. It looks like most of them occurred yesterday and today, and the majority are from her mother and father, plus a couple each from Michael, Jesus, and Jason.

  First things first.

  Clara dials her mother’s number in Florida.

  No answer.

  She tries her stepfather’s cell phone.

  Bingo.

  “Clara! Jeanette, it’s Clara!” he shouts frantically. “Where are you? Are you all—?”

  “Where are you? Are you all right?” her mother screams in her ear, having snatched the phone away from Stan.

  “I’m fine, Mom.” Her voice breaks unexpectedly.

  I want my mommy… oh, Mommy…

  Suddenly, Clara is swamped in an unfamiliar childhood memory so vivid she wraps her arms around herself and shudders. She can vividly recall a long-ago night when she had a nasty stomach bug. She was really young; it was long before Daddy left, long before Jeanette became skittish and dependent. Maybe, Clara realizes now, the changes in her mother that came after the divorce distorted—or obliterated—certain memories of their early years. Tender memories of a time when Jeanette was undisputedly the mother, and Clara the child.

  Now she remembers how all night, that night, her mother sat on Clara’s bed. She stroked her sweaty forehead and promised her that everything was going to be all right in the morning. That she’d wake up feeling fine, and her mother would still be right there, holding her tight.

  And I did… and she was.

  “Where are you, honey?” Jeanette is sobbing now… and so is Clara. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing, I’m… I’m home.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand—a futile gesture. The floodgates have reopened and the tears are going to keep coming.

  If only Clara were a little girl this time and her mother really could make it all better.

  “She’s fine, she’s home,” her mother is telling Stan.

  “Where are you guys, Mom?” Clara hates the plaintive tone in her own voice, but can’t help it.

  She’s been stoic for too many days, faced her illness alone for long enough. Now, without Jed by her side—and shouldering the added burden of grief—Clara’s strength is giving out.

  “We’re home.”

  “Home where? I just tried you, and there was no answer.”

  “Home in New York, where did you think?”

  Clara’s leaden heart lifts, just a little.

  Her mother is here in New York.

  Thank God.

  I need you, Mom.…

  “When did you get back here?”

  “This morning. Hang on a minute.” Her mother covers the receiver but Clara can hear a muffled “Take the phone, Stan… yes… because I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

  “Mom!” Tormented by her conscience, Clara wonders how she could have been so selfish. Had she allowed herself more than a passing thought of the life she so abruptly abandoned, she would never have put her mother through this hell.

  “Oh, God, Mommy, I’m so sorry.…”

  “She’ll be okay.” Her stepfather is back on the line, but his reassuring words can’t begin to assuage Clara’s guilt.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive, she’ll be fine, now that she knows you’re safe, anyway. It’s just been a rough couple of days.”

  “I can just imagine,” Clara murmurs.

  “Where have you been? Your mother’s been trying to call you for days at home and on your cell. By Tuesday she was so frantic she called the police. But they said they had to wait forty-eight hours before they could open a missing persons case.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Clara repeats, wedging a fist into her hair, pulling so hard her scalp hurts. “I got a note from my landlord saying the police had been here.”

  “Oh, him?” Stan sounds slightly disdainful. “He wouldn’t even let us into your apartment this afternoon. He said it wasn’t legal.”

  “Well… it probably isn’t.” Clara can just imagine her mother barging into the building in a frenzy, demanding access to her daughter’s apartment.

  “Ask her where she’s been, Stan,” her mother is commanding in the background.

  Before her stepfather can oblige, Clara tells him, “I went away for a few days, that’s all. I just had to get out of here. I know it was really irresponsible and I never meant to worry you and Mom and—and did she tell my father?”

  “Of course she told him. Listen, your mother already has her coat on.… We’re coming right over.”

  “Now? But—”

  “Do you really think I can stop her? She needs to see you for herself and make sure you’re really okay.”

  I’m not okay.

  And it’s time to tell Mom the truth and hope she can handle it.

  After all I’ve put her through, she deserves to know.

  About the cancer. Not, of course, about Jed.

  Clara will never tell another soul about that.

  Oh, Jed… I miss you so much.

  If only…

  Can there possibly be a chance that he listened to her, that he survived the war after all?

  No. Don’t tease yourself like that.

  What was that rule of quantum physics?

  What you do in the present is an inevitable product of the past.

  Meaning what’s happened has happened. It can’t be changed.

  Clara shakes her head, crying all over again. What an emotional wreck she is.

  If only I could see Jed again, one last time.…

  Why? an inner voice demands. Would that be enough?

  Could you handle one more good-bye?

  The answer to that question is
abundantly clear.

  No. You could barely handle the first good-bye. Look at you.

  It’s better, then, to leave Jed in the past, where he belongs. Better to always cherish the memories, and the red mittens he returned to her, and focus now on the challenge just ahead of her.

  “Clara, do you want us to bring you anything?” her mother is asking in her ear, having grabbed the phone back from Stan again.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know… milk? Bread?”

  Milk. Bread. Oh, Mom.

  “No.” Clara smiles through her tears. “Just… come.”

  “I’m coming. I love you, honey.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She ends the call, then buries her head in her hands and lets out a shuddering sigh.

  She should probably get in touch with her father now… and Mr. Kobayashi… and, probably, the police before they barge in with a search warrant.…

  And then there’s the movie.… She’s got to call Denton right away.

  Denton… Dent-in…

  She smiles again, faintly, wishing for a fleeting moment she had stuck around 1941 just long enough to catch a glimpse of the new Wilkens baby.

  Right now the poor kid is wearing pink booties.…

  My father always said it takes a real man to wear pink.…

  Her smile fades as she remembers Jed’s ravaged expression in the very last moment before she turned her back and walked away.

  Her eyes are hot with tears all over again; she bows her head and a fat, salty drop lands on the envelope in her hand.

  The envelope…

  She forgot all about it.

  Turning it over, she sees that her name is written on the front in red ink.

  Sliding a finger beneath the flap, she cautiously rips it open.

  Inside are a long cardboard rectangle and a note, also scrawled in red: See you there! Love, Santa.

  Heart pounding, she realizes that she’s holding one ticket to The Nutcracker for December 24… Christmas Eve.

  Two hours later, she walks her mother and stepfather back down the two flights of stairs, her mother clinging to Clara’s hand so tightly that her rings are quite possibly drawing blood in Clara’s palm.

  Naturally, Jeanette won’t be going back to Florida anytime soon. She intends to see her daughter through every step on this journey—and Clara isn’t about to argue, grateful to have her mother here and know she doesn’t have to go it alone.