This Strange and Familiar Place

by Rachel Carter

  Wes enters the space behind me, and he quickly strides to the opposite door. He grabs the rusted handle but looks back at me before pushing it open.

  I stop in the middle of the hallway, watching him. “Are you okay?”

  “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

  “How long?”

  His knuckles are white on the metal door handle. “Not since I came back for my watch. That was over four years ago.”

  “There’s no one living here anymore?”

  “No, they all abandoned it years ago.”

  “Were there a lot of you?” I edge closer to him.

  “A few of us. We looked out for each other. I don’t know what happened to them.” He sounds a little too casual, like he’s trying very hard not to show that he cares.

  I am finally close enough to reach out and touch his hand.

  His fingers spasm, probably with how hard he’s gripping the handle. I meet his eyes and hold them as I push gently on both our hands. The door swings open slowly.

  I wait until Wes breaks our gaze, his dark eyes scanning the small room. He is in a daze as he enters—it is one of the few times I have seen him act without those careful movements.

  The room is almost empty, with piles of dirty blankets in one corner and an overturned chair lying in the middle of the floor. The walls are made of large, old bricks, some of them falling out and breaking into dust.

  Wes kicks at the blankets and something inside squeaks. I jump back as a large rat scurries out and disappears into a hole in the wall. Wes keeps his back to me, and I wonder if he’s ashamed that this is where he came from.

  I want to tell him he doesn’t need to be, but I don’t know how to say the words.

  He crouches down and rifles through the pile. “Here,” he whispers, pulling something out and holding it out to me. It’s an old and stained comic book. I take it from him carefully. “Batman, February nineteen eighty-three,” I read. “Wes, you’ve been holding out on me. I didn’t know you were a comic-book nerd.”

  He smiles. “I liked them. Never had any money though. I stole that one.” He says it defensively. “I must have read it a hundred times.”

  I trace the picture of Batman fighting a clone of himself on the cover. Struggle as hard as you want, Batman—you can never defeat yourself, it says.

  “It was one of the only other things I had that was mine.” I look up. Wes has moved in that silent way of his, and he’s standing next to me now, staring down at the comic in my hands. “Aside from my watch.”

  I touch the metal pendant that’s hanging against my chest. “Do you want it back?” I ask softly.

  He raises his eyebrows. “No. I wanted you to have it. That’s why I gave it to you.”

  “Good. I’m getting attached.”

  He smiles again and takes the comic book back from me. “I missed this. I missed being here. Weird, right?”

  I glance around the small space. It’s cooler here, away from the heat-generating trains, but it still feels like a coffin—dark, windowless, and buried far beneath the ground. But if it was the only home you ever knew . . .

  I move into him until my shoulder meets his chest. “I think it’s great. I’m glad you brought me here.”

  His face is serious as he says, “Me too.”

  I smile, and he clears his throat. “We should get going, though.”

  “Okay.” I have no idea how late it is, but we need to sleep if we’re going to face whatever tomorrow brings.

  Wes hides the comic book again, and we leave. I go first, pretending not to notice how he lingers in the doorway.

  Soon we are in the subway tunnel, walking back toward the station. We reach the complicated point where the subway tracks cross in a mess of rails. I watch Wes again, copying where he steps. I’ve almost reached him when my foot catches on an exposed rock and I begin to fall. I raise my hands instinctually. I’m about to smash into one of the tracks, when I feel myself come up against something hard. Wes’s arms close around my body and he pulls me to the side of the tunnel, pressing my back to the rough wall.

  I wonder why he doesn’t let go, until I feel the walls start to shake. There’s a low grating noise that gets louder and louder, accompanied every now and then by a long screech. Suddenly a white light is facing us, coming closer. A warm wind picks up and then the train is on top of us, speeding past, faster than I could have imagined, loud and bright and so close that I could touch it if I reached out.

  Wes tightens his hold on me. I feel one of his hands on the back of my head, pulling me into his chest. Both of my arms are around his waist, my hands resting on his cotton blazer. He shifts and his fingers weave through my hair, tugging on it gently until my head is tilted all the way back. His face is distorted in the flashing light of the train, but I can see his eyes—so black they look like liquid. He leans in. I keep my eyes open, locked on his, closer and closer. He hesitates for a second, only an inch or two away. I can feel his fingers hard against the back of my head, and I bite my bottom lip. His gaze drops down at the movement, and then his mouth is on mine.

  I grip his jacket tightly in my hands and press closer to him. He deepens the kiss, and I feel his tongue touch mine. His hand frames the side of my face, fingers lightly tracing my cheek, and I can’t help but sigh against his lips.

  We kiss as the train rushes by: the screaming noise, the interior lights of the cars, the passengers standing against the doors holding newspapers and wishing they were already home. We kiss as sparks kick up when the train turns the corner, yellow spots of light that die out before they can even reach the ground.

  It feels like both a second and a hundred years. We finally come up for air, gasping a little, and I realize that the subway tunnel is dark and quiet again. Wes must realize it too, because he pulls away. I stare up at him, not sure if my ears are ringing from the passing train, or from the feeling of being pressed against him.

  I was afraid I had forgotten what it felt like to be kissed by Wes—the soft pressure of his lips, the low sound he makes in his throat. But as soon as his mouth touched mine, it all came flooding back.

  He steps backward until he’s close to the tracks. My breathing sounds loud now in the empty tunnel, and I press one hand to my chest.

  “We need to keep going. You must be tired.”

  “Wes—”

  He shakes his head as if to clear it. “We have to get some sleep. There’s a lot to do tomorrow.”

  I suddenly feel cold, even though it’s like a sauna down here. I take a shaky breath, and Wes turns away from me.

  Why is he acting like this? Why does it feel like he’s pulling away, right when we found each other again?

  I follow him out of the subway tunnel.

  CHAPTER 7

  As soon as we reach 106th Street, Wes stops. We are near the entrance to Central Park, and three sets of stairs lead into the trees beyond. “Stranger’s Gate,” I say, reading the mossy-covered word that’s carved into the adjacent stone wall.

  “Fitting, I think,” Wes responds softly. He holds his body separately, stiffly, in a way that I don’t quite understand. He brought me on this mission. He trusted me enough to show me his old home. Why would kissing me change that?

  I assumed that when we came to 1989 together, it would mean we would be together. But maybe I was making assumptions I shouldn’t have.

  “The access point is over there.” Wes gestures toward a small stone building near the gate.

  “Let’s go then.” I try to keep any emotion out of my voice.

  “Wait—” He grabs my arm and I freeze at his touch. “The Center is a big place. It’s watched and monitored like the Facility, but there are a few spots where we can speak freely, if we’re careful. I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay.”

  He pauses, and I wait to see if he’ll say anything else. But he just releases my arm and turns to face the park.

  We walk up the first set of steps, then veer off the path and over
to the small stone building. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it was an abandoned toolshed or something. I glance around us, but the sidewalk is mostly empty and the streetlight overhead has been vandalized, the bulb hanging in tattered pieces of glass. It’s probably deliberate, a way to keep people from noticing the recruits entering and exiting.

  We circle the building until we’re in the shadows, not visible to anyone from the park or the street. There is a heavy black metal door on the side. It appears to have no handle and no way to open it. Wes takes out his ID badge and slides it into a slot between the stones. The door pops open. We quickly enter the small space, sealing the entrance behind us again.

  It is pitch-black inside, and when I try to walk forward I trip over something. A rake, or a shovel. Maybe this is a toolshed after all. Or maybe that’s just a good cover in case someone manages to find their way inside. I hear the sound of plastic brushing against stone, and I realize Wes is running his fingers over the opposite wall looking for another slot.

  He finds it: I hear the swipe of his card and then a low grinding noise. Light floods the small room as a door opens in the stone, and I see a dimly lit stairwell that descends into the ground below the park.

  With a strong sense of déjà vu, I follow Wes down the steps. From somewhere nearby, I hear the sound of water dripping, and the walls around us are dotted with green and brown mold. At the bottom of the stairs is another heavy-looking door. Instead of a black pad for DNA authorization, it has a simple keypad next to it. Wes inputs a ten-digit code. The door slides open to reveal a small room.

  I expect to be scanned again, but as soon as we enter the space, the door shuts behind us and a computerized screen appears on the wall. Wes pushes a button marked FLOOR 9, and we drop so quickly my stomach flips over. The Center is deep, deep below the park, probably even lower than the subway systems. No wonder no one ever finds this place.

  We reach our floor with a jolt, and the door in front of us glides open again. The dim hallway we step out into is lit with sputtering fluorescent lights, and the musky, mothball smell makes me wrinkle my nose. It feels like a sewer system down here; the ceiling is a curved, wide arch, and there are exposed pipes running along the walls.

  We turn left out of the elevator. The hallway abruptly ends at a wide metal door. Wes inputs another ten-digit code and it opens slowly.

  In front of us is a long, gray hallway. It is sleek, made of chrome and glass—so different from the entryways we just passed through. The ceiling is still curved, but that’s the only similarity: this wing of the Center looks like a fancy office building transported hundreds of feet below the ground.

  There are several people in the hallway. I stare at my feet as we walk forward, praying that no one realizes I’m not Seventeen. When we pass a black-uniformed guard, my whole body tenses and I press my palms into the scratchy material of my dress. But he barely notices us.

  We pass several recruits, and like Wes and me, they are in clothing from 1989. Some are dressed like punks, complete with piercings and Mohawks. Some are dressed in bright pink tops and white sneakers. They look like normal teenagers, though their blank eyes give them away.

  A few doors dot the walls on either side of us, but Wes ignores them. He moves through this place fluidly, assertively, and I realize he must have spent a lot of time here. As if to prove me right, he suddenly stops at a completely nondescript door and uses his ID card to open it. We enter another hallway. This one also has several doors attached to it, and Wes uses his keycard again to open one on the right. Inside is an empty room with two sets of metal bunk beds tucked onto either side of the walls.

  The door shuts behind us. I feel Wes’s breath near my ear. “This room isn’t bugged. You can speak, though try not to move your mouth much. There are cameras.”

  “Okay,” I breathe.

  There’s another door on the back wall, and Wes walks across the room to open it—to my relief, it’s a private bathroom.

  “You can change in here if you want.” I have to walk halfway across the room in order to hear what he’s saying. “Clothes are there. Put your dress aside, you’ll need it for tomorrow.” He cuts his eyes to the right and I see shelves lining the walls, covered with neatly stacked black clothing.

  Keeping my movements brisk, I pick some clothes from the shelf and go into the bathroom to change and wash my face. By the time I come out, Wes is lying on the lower bunk of the bed closest to the door. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady, and I can’t tell if he’s asleep or not.

  I crawl into the lower bunk right next to his, and lie so that our heads are close together. We can’t see each other, but if I reached out, I would touch his hair.

  It has been almost a day since I last slept, but I lie awake, staring at the metal bottom of the bunk above me. The room is bright—the lights never seem to go off in these places—and after a while it makes my vision blur.

  “Are you awake?” I hear Wes whisper.

  “Yes.” The word sounds slurred as I answer him without moving my mouth.

  “Tell me about your life now. What happened after you got back to two thousand twelve?”

  “You don’t know? You always seem to know everything.”

  I hear a rustling noise, like he’s turning over. “I watched you sometimes, when I was in Montauk and could get away. You seemed . . . happy enough.”

  “I’ve been pretending. With everyone.”

  “Tell me, Lydia. I want to know.”

  So I tell him about my parents, about Hannah, about missing journalism, about Grant. Wes breathes more sharply, but he doesn’t say anything. It is hardest to explain about my grandfather, but I manage to get the words out without crying.

  “I’m worried that it’s my fault,” I whisper. “I was the one who lost Dean, and now Grandpa is in Bellevue because of me.”

  “You didn’t choose to go back to nineteen forty-four,” he replies. “It was an accident.”

  “Yeah, but once I was there, I chose to try and change the future, even though you tried to stop me. And now . . . I don’t want to screw up anything else.”

  “Is that why you’re not asking me to help you save your grandfather?” He sounds curious.

  “I guess so.” I twist onto my side, facing the gray wall. “I don’t want to tempt fate anymore. I learned my lesson.”

  We are both quiet for a minute.

  “Lydia . . .”

  “What?”

  “Do you have feelings for him?” His words are soft and I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  I tilt my head up. “Who? Grant?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “No. Of course I don’t.” It is a struggle to keep my voice low.

  “You kissed him.”

  “I had to. I didn’t want to disrupt time again.”

  “Maybe he’s—” Wes falls silent.

  “What?”

  “Maybe he’s better for you. Than someone like me.” His words are muffled, as if he’s speaking into the pillow.

  “I don’t want him. I want . . .” You. But after he pushed me away in the subway, I’m afraid to say the word.

  “What about you?” I ask instead. “I saw the way that girl watched you.”

  “What girl?”

  “The dark-haired one in the Outfitting room.”

  “You mean Twenty-two?”

  “I guess so.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  As though he can see the movement, Wes says, “She’s just another recruit, Lydia. I’ve never even spoken with her. You’re the first person I’ve . . . since . . .”

  Oh, Wes.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  There’s a pause. “We should sleep.”

  I close my eyes and listen to him breathe. “Good night, Wes.”

  “Good night, Lydia.”

  I wake up to Wes lightly touching my shoulder. “Time to go,” he says.

  I feel as though I haven’t slept at all, and I stretch my arms over
my head as I sit up slowly. “Okay,” I mumble, then freeze. I’ve forgotten where I am for a moment.

  At my expression, Wes slightly tips his head back. I look over his shoulder. There is another recruit in the room, a girl asleep on the top bunk of the opposite wall. Her short blond hair tangles around her face. In her sleep, she looks peaceful, like a normal girl.

  I stand up and pull my dress off the end of the bunk. The gun is no longer in my pocket, and I wonder if Wes took it out at some point, knowing that its presence made me uncomfortable.

  When we’re both dressed, Wes leads me to another Outfitting room. This time I don’t avert my eyes every time we pass a soldier or a recruit.

  We’re the only people in the room. I quickly fix my makeup while Wes tries to tame his hair, though I know that in a few hours the thick black strands will just be hanging in his face again. By the time we’re done, we look like two yuppie kids from 1989.

  Breakfast is served in a large mess hall. Wes and I sit across from each other at a low table. We don’t talk. No one does, despite how many recruits are in the room.

  We leave the Center the same way we came in, through the sewer room, up the elevator, back up the dirty staircase. Soon we are standing on the sidewalk of Central Park West.

  When the sunlight hits me, I shut my eyes tight. “You okay?” Wes asks when he sees my face.

  I squint at him. “It’s too bright.”

  A shadow falls across my cheek. Wes is holding his hand up high, using it to shield me from the sun. I give him a half smile, and he smiles back, just as tentatively.

  “I guess we should go to McGregor’s apartment first,” I say. “We need to at least keep up the pretense of your mission for the time being.”

  Wes lowers his hand. He seems distracted as we start walking toward the subway station. “We have to find out where McGregor is for the day, what he’s doing, and who he’s seeing,” Wes says. “It’s the only way to find out how the rift happened.”