This Strange and Familiar Place

by Rachel Carter

  DEDICATION

  To my mother, Terry Gurdak-Carter,

  for believing in me even when I don’t

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  My eyes open. The room is dark and filled with shadows. I blink once, twice, and then sit up quickly, my gaze falling on the window near my bed. The early-morning light outside is gray. The tops of the trees sway back and forth in the slight wind. I see a bird fly past, a smudge of color that disappears almost as quickly as it comes. But the windowsill is bare. There’s nothing there. Just like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that.

  I pull back the sheets that have tangled around my legs and automatically reach for the lamp on my nightstand. My hand falls out into nothing. Right. There’s no table there now. I keep forgetting.

  I stand up. The floor is cool, and the house is silent, even though it’s Saturday morning. I wonder where my parents are, and I picture them standing in the kitchen near the stove, smiling as my father buries his face in my mother’s neck. But that’s a lost image now, and I push it away as I walk over to my desk. It is covered in papers and books, no longer neat and clean, though I have managed to carve out some space in the corner. The small surface has three items lined up in a row: a shell, a wilted dogwood flower, and a red oak leaf, the kind of color you only find on a tree in autumn.

  I reach for the flower but stop before I touch the browning, crumbled petals, afraid it will break apart in my hands. Instead, I pick up the shell. It is pink and curved and hollow. I close my palm around it and feel the sharp edges dig into my skin.

  It’s from him, I know it is.

  Three different items. Three different times I’ve woken up to find something perched on my windowsill. The first one, the shell, came a few days after I arrived back in 2012. The flower was a week later, almost to the day. The leaf came during week three. By then I was expecting it, and I tried to stay awake all night, every night. But I was so tired and he still didn’t come and by Wednesday I couldn’t hold out anymore. I fell asleep in the late hours, and when I woke up the next morning it was there, bright and bold against the chipped white paint of the window.

  The fourth week, I vowed to wait for him. I slept during the day, barely able to make it through my shifts at my father’s hardware store. At night I sat on my bed facing the window, a cup of coffee balanced on the blanket in front of me. If I fell asleep for even a second, I’d jerk awake, my hand pressed to the pocket watch that swung on its chain over my heart. But it was pointless. He never came.

  This week, the fifth week, he still hasn’t come. And I’m starting to worry and wonder.

  When I close my eyes, I see him on the beach leaning over me in the moonlight. I smell him sometimes, pine needles and the earth after it rains.

  I have to believe that he’s the one leaving these things for me. I have to believe that he still cares. That someone who knows me, the real Lydia, still cares.

  Here is what I tell myself: he left the shell as a reminder of that night by the ocean. The flower from the tree in my yard, to show he’s close. The leaf, to remind me of what he is—someone capable of finding autumn in the height of summer. And maybe that’s why there has been nothing since then. Maybe he has delivered his final message—that his life is too different, that we can’t ever work—and now he has left me here in this strange but familiar place.

  I almost hope this is the reason. Even though it will break my heart, it’s better than the alternative. Because the other thoughts are too terrible to face, questions I only ask myself in moments like this, in the small hours of the morning when the world feels quiet and still and empty.

  What if he’s lost somewhere in time? What if the Montauk Project has finally used him up and he’s gone forever?

  Wes.

  Where are you?

  I have always loved mystery. It was what made me want to become a journalist. It was why I walked into that open bunker at Camp Hero, and why I kept walking through those endless white corridors. I had to find out what was down there, just like I had to solve the mystery of what happened to my great-grandfather, Dean Bentley, in 1944.

  And I did solve it. My grandfather was right: There is a secret government conspiracy hiding under the ground at Camp Hero, a state park at the far eastern end of Long Island. The Montauk Project is real, they have been experimenting with time travel for years, and they’ll do almost anything to keep it a secret.

  If the Project ever found out that I traveled back to the World War II era, I would be dead. I’m only alive now because of Wes. But by going back to 1944, I changed something—though I don’t know what—in the past, and in this time line my grandfather has been missing for more than twenty years.

  Another mystery.

  The mid-July sun streams in through my window, and I can already tell the day is going to be sticky and hot. I carefully set down Wes’s shell. It still smells a little like the ocean—salty and fresh. The scent mixes with the strong odor of onions wafting through my bedroom door. Someone must be cooking downstairs.

  I get dressed in a pair of jean shorts and a black T-shirt. They aren’t the clothes that I would normally wear, but this new version of me—Lydia 2, as I’ve been thinking of her—doesn’t care much about fashion. I feel a pang for the dresses and skirts that my great-aunt Mary loaned me in the forties, and for a moment I remember what it was like to get ready in her pink bedroom, rifling through her closet as she lay on the bed reading magazines and laughing.

  I yank my dark red hair into a high ponytail, pulling tighter and tighter, until the pain makes my eyes water and the memory disappears.

  My footsteps echo through the house as I walk down the stairs. My father is sitting in the living room, in his old armchair, drinking coffee. It’s comforting to see him in a place I recognize, doing something he always used to do. “Hey Dad,” I call softly.

  He looks up from the paper he’s reading. Even from across the room I can see his deep green eyes, the same color as my own.

  “Oh, Lydia. Hi.” He shakes his head a little, like he’s surprised that I’m talking to him.

  “What are you reading?” My voice sounds overly cheery.

  He shrugs and stares down at the page in his hands. “An article.”

  There’s a pause. I clear my throat. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Kitchen.”

  I twist my fingers together so hard they start to ache. The father I remember was easy to talk to, funny and kind. So different from this one. “Right. Are you going to eat with us? I’m sure Mom made tons of food. You know how she is. . . .” I laugh awkwardly.

  “In a bit.”

  “Okay.” I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. I leave the room.

  The kitchen is filled with smoke. My mother stands at the stove wearing a linen pants suit, her sleek blond hair curling around her shoulders.

  “Lydia, set the table, please.”

  I cough and wave my hand in front of my face. “Are you t
rying to burn the house down or something?”

  My old mother would have laughed, but this new one turns icy-brown eyes on me and raises her eyebrow. I try not to flinch.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and grab the plates out of the cupboard. I carefully set them down on the table.

  Mom turns from the stove carrying a steaming pan. She has cut an onion and mushroom omelet into three thick pieces, and slides one of them onto my plate before she stops and gives me a look.

  “Lydia.” She sighs. “You did it again.”

  “What?”

  “The plates.”

  I stare down at the china. It takes me a minute to realize what she means—I set the table for four instead of three.

  But of course Grandpa’s not here now.

  “Sorry.” I pick up one of the plates and set it on the counter.

  Mom finishes serving the food. “Why do you keep doing that?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug as I take my seat at the table.

  She drops the pan into the sink. It clatters against the other dishes, so loud that I jump and wonder if she broke something. “You’ve been acting different lately.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, without the warmth I’m used to. She sits down at the table and stares at me. “What’s going on with you?”

  I glance at her with surprise; this is the first real question she’s asked me in five weeks. “Nothing.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Something’s different.”

  “It’s not. I’m the same.”

  “No. You’re not.” She picks up her fork and stabs the omelet on her plate. “You’re . . . more sensitive. Forgetful. Do you feel all right? Is something going on at school?”

  “It’s the summer. School has been out for a month, remember?”

  “Oh right.” She looks flustered. “What about with Hannah? Or Grant?”

  “They’re fine. I’m fine.” I force myself to smile at her. “Everything’s normal, Mom.”

  “See, that’s what I mean.”

  “What?”

  “Since when did you start calling me Mom?”

  I frown. “What else would I call you?”

  “You’ve been calling me Carol for the past three years. And you’re never usually at home this much, or volunteering to help out at your father’s store. What has gotten into you?”

  Lydia 2 calls her mother Carol? I’ve been trying to learn her behavior, but I never expected this life to be so different from the one I left behind. Avoiding Mom’s gaze, I reach up to push my bangs back from my forehead. But I freeze when I see her eyes narrow at the movement. Lydia 2 doesn’t have bangs, and when I came back from the past it was something I had to quickly figure out how to explain.

  “Nothing, sorry . . . Carol.” But it feels so strange to say it that I cough and reach for the orange juice Mom put out earlier.

  She scrapes her fork against her plate and meets my eyes. “You’ll tell me if something is seriously wrong, right?”

  “Um . . .” I am saved from answering when my father enters the room.

  He sits down at the table without saying anything and starts to eat. My mother rolls her eyes at him and stands up abruptly. The action makes me smile—it’s something my original mother would have done.

  So is caring about what’s going on with my life. Five weeks ago, when I first met this new Mom, I never would have thought she’d ask me how I’m doing. Maybe I underestimated her. Or maybe I’m starting to rub off on her.

  It’s a nice thought, that some of the old me is influencing this new life. But it also fills me with a sharp fear. I set my fork down and push my chair back.

  “I have to go. I’ll be late meeting Hannah.”

  “You’re not done eating yet,” Mom says.

  “I’m not hungry. And we’re going to the diner anyway.”

  “You’ll be at the store later, though, right?” Dad doesn’t look up from his plate.

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s some inventory to do. I left it on the desk in the back room.”

  “I’ll get it done.” I reach the door but stop and turn to face them. Mom is at the sink, her back to me.

  Dad never stops eating. He looks older than he used to: there’s gray hair at his temples and his mouth is framed by deep grooves when he frowns.

  I hesitate. “Are we eating together tonight?”

  Mom shakes her head without turning around. “I have a meeting.”

  The tiny bit of intimacy we just shared already feels like a distant memory. “See you both later then.”

  I fly out of the room and toward the front of the house. Wes was right—I stayed exactly the same after I traveled through the time machine, but I returned to a world I barely recognize. My family and friends expect me to be Lydia 2, with her thoughts and memories, and from the minute I arrived back in 2012 I’ve been trying to learn how to become this new version of myself.

  It turns out that I’m the biggest mystery of all.

  The red Toyota is already outside, idling on the curb near the front of my house. I rush down the driveway and yank open the passenger-side door.

  “Whoa, what the hell, Lydia? Are you that excited to eat greasy fries?” Hannah asks as I slide into the battered leather seat.

  “I just needed out.” I lean back and stare at the only home I’ve ever known. It has lost all of the coziness I’m used to. The gray siding is drab, and the windows are shadowed. Even the gutters look unfriendly, overflowing with leaves. My dad would never have let it get like that.

  Without thinking, I reach up to touch the pocket watch Wes gave me.

  “Yeah, I don’t blame you.” Hannah pulls away from the curb and heads into downtown Montauk. “We could freeze ice on your mom’s ass.”

  “This is true.” But I think of that moment at the table. “She did just ask me a question about my life. Maybe she’s starting to change.”

  “What kind of question?” Hannah sounds suspicious.

  “Something about you and Grant,” I say vaguely, not wanting to draw attention to my mother thinking I’m a different person lately—which I am. But Hannah is the only one in my life who hasn’t changed much, and I can be myself around her in a way I can’t with anyone else.

  “Well, I’m shocked. She isn’t exactly in the running for Mother of the Year.”

  “Not lately anyway.” I look out the windshield as we drive around Fort Pond. The sunlight reflects off the water, and I can see the main drag of Montauk up ahead; the diner we’re headed for is right across the town green.

  “So, is lover boy coming to meet us for eggs?”

  I bite my bottom lip. “I guess so.”

  “You know, he’s a Cancer, you’re an Aries, it’s not going to—”

  “I already know what you think,” I snap. “I get it.”

  “Sheesh.” Hannah sighs loudly. “Fine. New topic.”

  The downtown area is packed with tourists. Hannah manages to find a parking spot on a side street, where we’re facing the beach. Even though it’s not yet noon, people cover every inch of sand. Striped umbrellas, volleyball nets, and lifeguard towers block our view of the water.

  As soon as I open the car door, I smell the ocean and feel the heat of the sun beating down on my head. Sweat instantly gathers at my temples.

  “Ugh, it’s like a million degrees today.” Hannah lifts up her straight black hair and fans her neck. “Let’s get to air-conditioning before I die out here.”

  “You’re so dramatic.” A family passes us: two little kids run for the ocean while their parents lag behind, carrying coolers and towels and already looking disgruntled.

  Hannah glances over at me. “I’m the dramatic one? Says the girl who believes in crazy government conspiracies! That’s rich, Lyd.”

  I frown. “Can you just let it go?”

  She holds her hands up. “You’re the one who’s always going off about time travel and aliens and scientists who fake their own death.”

  “Whatever,” I
mumble. “A lot of people around here believe in that stuff.”

  “It doesn’t make it any less crazy.”

  At the look on my face, she grabs my elbow. “Oh come on, I’m starving.” She tugs me toward the diner. “I promise not to tease you about wormholes anymore, okay?”

  The diner is blasting cool air, and the shock of it causes goose bumps to rise on my skin. Hannah, who hasn’t let go of my arm, pulls me to our favorite table. The diner has a fifties feel to it, with red vinyl booths and a long, shiny, silver counter. The waitress comes by and I order a chocolate milk shake. Hannah gets coffee, black.

  “What time do you have to go to work?” Hannah picks up the menu and glances at it more out of habit than necessity—we both have it memorized at this point.

  “Noon.”

  The waitress sets two waters down in front of us. I grab a straw and pull off the wrapper, fiddling with the fragile paper.

  “I don’t know why you don’t just quit. You hate working there.”

  “Yeah, but my dad needs me. We’ve been slammed lately. People watch all those home improvement shows and think they can do it themselves.”

  Hannah crosses her arms over the loose brown tank dress she’s wearing. Even in this time line she dresses like a hippie. She claims that it’s an ironic homage to her free-spirit parents—her mom owns a record shop outside of town and her father is an experimental artist from Japan—but I think her family has affected her more than she lets on. Despite being insanely cynical, she does have a persistent superstitious streak.

  Like her insistance that horoscopes actually mean something.

  Signs. Aries. Leo. I instantly picture Wes, tall and lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, standing by an army jeep, the black water of the ocean moving behind him. I told him Leos are supposed to be strong and protective, and he told me about being a recruit in the Montauk Project. I think that’s why he left me, in the end, because he knew they wouldn’t let him go and he wanted to keep me safe.

  But who’s keeping him safe?

  “You know what you need, Lydia?” Hannah asks. I pull myself out of my Wes-induced fog and look at her.