Waking in Time

by Angie Stanton

  “Remember, after you take the first trail off the main one, you take two forks to the left and one to the right.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He stops and turns around, his expression serious. “Abbi, this is important.”

  “Okay.”

  “What did I say?”

  Geez, what is this a test? “Take the first trail, then fork to the left, then the right.”

  “No. Two forks to the left and one to the right. Repeat that.” He watches me intensely with steely eyes and his jaw clenched.

  “Two left, and one right.”

  He nods and relaxes. “Good. Don’t forget.”

  Now I’m more confused than ever. But the path takes a bend and Will stops in front of a large fallen willow. It must have been there for years based on the moss and moist scent of decay.

  Will steps off the path and through the thick blanket of fallen leaves. He climbs over the large fallen trunk and looks back. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Oh, sorry.” I follow clumsily, wishing I had worn pants instead of a skirt and impractical shoes.

  Will takes my hand as I climb over the tree. His eyes meet mine and hold my gaze. I can’t ignore his obvious attraction to me; he’s certainly not trying to hide it. He seems like a good guy—I like him, and he sure knows how to kiss. But I just met him today.

  Will drags large branches from the far side of the fallen log. I dodge out of the way to avoid scratches, or deer ticks, or worse. He pushes a pile of damp leaves away from the base of the tree.

  “Would you tell me what you’re looking for?” I slap at a mosquito.

  “This.” He pulls up a small trowel, rusted and worn from years in the elements.

  “Yay,” I say without a shred of enthusiasm.

  He shakes his head, but I notice the corner of his mouth curl up. Farther down the tree, he moves more forest debris.

  I peer over his shoulder. “Now what are you looking for?”

  “You’ll see.” He grunts as he lifts a rock the size of a toaster oven out of the way and begins to dig.

  He piles the rich soil next to him, and suddenly, the spade makes a thunk.

  “Oh my God, you found something.” I squat next to him and peer into the hole.

  He brushes a mosquito off his cheek with the back of his dirty hand, leaving a smudge. He looks at me with that playful glint in his eyes, and my heart rate takes off.

  Will shovels away more dirt, then reaches into the hole and works the treasure free with his spade.

  “What is it?” I ask as he uncovers something square wrapped in oilcloth.

  “A tobacco tin.”

  “Why would it be here in the middle of nowhere?” I ask.

  “Because I put it here.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I stare at the unearthed treasure. “You did?”

  Will nods, wiping the dirt away from the oilcloth. “There are a few items I wanted to have access to no matter what year I ended up in. I didn’t want to risk trying to keep these items with me in my room. I have a safe deposit box at a bank, but I hear I might have trouble getting access to it once we hit something called the digital age, when social security numbers and passwords come into play.”

  “Oh, I never thought of that.”

  “Actually, you did. You’re the one who warned me to take precautions.”

  I grin. “That was nice of me.”

  “Yes, it was.” He laughs and unwraps the oilcloth, revealing a very old tobacco tin. The black letters on the olive-green container have been worn down over time, but other than a bit of rust, the tin is in pretty decent shape. “If I try to get access to the same safe deposit box in 1961, and I’m still eighteen instead of… fifty-one, that might be a problem.”

  I kneel next to him in the dirt and leaves, anxious to see what treasures lie within. “So, open it. What’s inside?”

  Will grips the metal lid with his fingertips and carefully pries it off. The contents are wrapped in an old cloth. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to protect his keepsakes. He gently pulls out the bundle and unfolds the linen to reveal a gold pocket watch, some bills folded in half, and several silver dollars.

  He wipes his dirty hands on his pants and lifts out the watch. “This belonged to my father and his father before him. He gave it to me upon my high school graduation.” Will cradles it in his hand and I can imagine the pain he’s experiencing from the memories the old watch brings back.

  Next he pulls out the coins. “Silver dollars become quite valuable in the future. Or so I’m told.” He looks at me expectantly.

  “Yes, they’re kind of rare,” I say.

  He grins, as if he had been waiting for me to say just that, and I wonder if I’ve already shared that tidbit with him as well.

  He points to a folded sheet of paper. “I recorded my bank account numbers here as a backup in case I lose them in the future. It’s my only access to the money I managed to save. Someday, if I ever stay in one place, I’ll need it.”

  “Will, how long have you been traveling?” I ask in awe. He’s really thought through all of this. I need to get smarter and figure out how to make my life easier if I’m going to continue to travel.

  “It feels like longer than it’s actually been, I reckon,” he says thoughtfully. I don’t press for more.

  “What’s this?” I point to a small folded envelope.

  Will dips his head in that adorable, shy way that I’ve come to like. “It’s for you,” he says, his voice sounding like a melody.

  “Really?” I’m stunned. “What’s it say?”

  He shakes his head. “You can read it another time.”

  “But I want to read it now.” I grab for the letter, but Will snatches the tin out of my reach.

  “No. This letter is for you to read if you can’t find me. I’ll add to it every time I travel, at least every time that I can. That way when you travel, you can check the tin for messages, and I’ll do the same.”

  “But I only travel back in time, and so far you’ve only traveled forward. I’ll never get a new message!” My heart squeezes with frustration.

  “It might change. You might travel forward. We don’t know,” he says in a reassuring voice. “And if you figure anything else out about why you think we’re traveling, you can leave me notes and I’ll get them.”

  It all seems pretty one-sided. He gets communication, and I get nothing? I move to sit on the old log, then cross my arms and glare at him. Doesn’t he realize how scary this has been? If I travel again and he’s not there, I’ll be all alone again. And now he’s keeping whatever helpful information he has in there from me.

  “I hate this. All of it,” I snap. “Do I ever write you?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says with a sheepish smile.

  I leap off the log and reach for the tin. “I did? Is it in there? Let me see it!”

  “No!”

  I squat next to him and ask nicely, “What did I say?” hoping my polite tone will convince him to share.

  He avoids looking at me.

  “What?”

  He turns his head, his face a few inches from mine, and says, “You asked me not to tell.”

  I stand and throw my hands in the air. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “I think you were afraid it might change things for the worse.” He seems miserable about not sharing this info. I wonder what else he knows that he’s not telling me.

  “How could this get any worse?” I whine and kick at the dried leaves on the ground. “So now I’ve changed my mind, and I want to know. Just tell me,” I demand in my most authoritative voice. “It’s my letter.”

  Will presses the lid back onto the tin, carefully wraps it in the heavy cloth, and places it back into the ground.

  “I’m serious, Will. Y
ou can’t keep things from me. Do you have any idea how terrifying this has been?”

  He cocks his head at me and raises an eyebrow. Of course he knows.

  But that doesn’t stop me. “See, you do understand, which is exactly why you need to talk. Apparently I told you how to protect your money. It goes both ways, pal.”

  I arch my eyebrows and wait for his response, but Will ignores me. His jaw is clenched again and the tension between us is thick as he pushes dirt back into the hole.

  I want to club him over the head. “You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met! You’re all full of secrets and innuendo. ‘Trust me, we’re quite close in the future,’ ” I mock.

  “It’s true,” he says quietly, focusing on his task.

  “Bullshit! When you meet me, whenever the hell that is, I won’t bother giving you the time of day. We won’t get close, and you’ll have no reason to bother me. What do you think of that?”

  His eyes flash in frustration, but his jaw is set. He says nothing.

  “Nice knowing you. Later.” I spin on my heel and take off.

  “Abbi, wait!” Will calls, but I ignore him and run.

  I don’t like being kept in the dark, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. I glance back and see him dragging the branches over the hole while trying to keep track of where I’m going. I whip around the bend in the trail and dash through the woods before he has a chance to follow, taking every other fork in the path. All those years in track paid off.

  Paying no attention to what direction I’m going, it doesn’t take long before I know he isn’t following. The dorky saddle shoes have rubbed my left heel raw, and now I have no idea where I am.

  Great. Not only am I lost in time, I’m lost in the freaking woods too. Chirping birds mock me. But I’m on a university campus—I can’t possibly be that far from either the lake or the lakeshore path. There aren’t a lot of other options.

  I limp my way down the path for a good twenty minutes until I hear voices. Another minute and I see small houses and a sign for Eagle Heights Graduate Student Housing. Once I get to a clearing on the edge of the settlement, I’m able to get my bearings and find my way back to the lakeshore path.

  I keep a cautious eye out for Will, but I’m not even close to ready to talk to him again. He doesn’t get to keep information from me like that. Thankfully he’s either gone straight back to his dorm or is lost in the maze of trails trying to find me. It would serve him right.

  It takes forever to get back to Liz Waters. By the time I reach my room, the back of my heel is bleeding through my white ankle sock. I whip off the shoe and fling it at my closet.

  “Whoa! What did that poor helpless shoe ever do to you?” Janice asks, coming through the door.

  “It scraped every layer of skin off the back of my heel.”

  “If you wore your own shoes instead of mine, maybe that wouldn’t happen.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I pick up the shoes and set them in the chaos of her side of the room.

  “You’re in a sour mood. Did you quarrel with your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say sullenly, pulling off the bloody sock that’s sticking to the open sore.

  She pulls a bag out of her bottom drawer. “He seemed to believe otherwise.”

  “Well, he’s not.” I examine the broken blister on my heel and frown.

  “Really? Well he sure frosted my cookies!”

  I keep my eyes down to avoid rolling them at her.

  “Here.” She hands me a Band-Aid from her bag.

  “Thanks.” I try to be polite, but I can’t take much more of this. I want to go home. Somehow, someway, I must get back, away from all these strangers.

  “Want to join me for dinner? No better way to get over a guy than food. I hear there’s tapioca pudding for dessert.”

  I don’t feel like going to dinner with Janice, and I hate tapioca anything, but I am starving. I sigh. “Sure. Give me a sec to find some shoes that won’t torture my feet.” Refusing to go out with Will tonight ought to teach him not to keep secrets from me.

  After eating dinner with Janice and a couple of other girls from our floor, whose names I stubbornly refuse to learn, I gather Grandma’s hatbox and walk the short distance to Professor Smith’s office in Sterling Hall.

  It’s hard to believe that in a few short years, this building will be bombed, but I can’t let myself think about the possibility that he might die. Time wouldn’t be so cruel. Would it?

  I knock softly at his open door, wondering if Will is here too.

  “Hello, Abbi. Please, come in,” Professor Smith says eagerly.

  I take in the small office. Will isn’t here. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  The state of the professor’s office makes my messy dorm room look immaculate by comparison. Two walls of shelves burst with books. Papers and boxes are crammed above them, with open folders and three-ring binders on top of that. Another wall is anchored by three tall filing cabinets, some of the drawers not quite closed, papers sticking out the top. A few crispy, water-deprived plants sit next to a dust-covered globe, and a pile of instruments that look like complicated rulers lay jumbled on a cluttered table. On the walls are several special achievement plaques and a bulletin board covered with papers listing complex equations, schedules, and children’s art projects.

  “I brought the hatbox,” I offer.

  “Wonderful. Have a seat and let’s take a look.” He pushes a stack of papers in front of him off to the side.

  “Are those your kids?” I point to a framed black and white picture of three children standing on a staircase in order of height. One has a huge cowlick, and another is in braids and missing her front teeth.

  “Yes, they’re all mine.” He smiles affectionately and picks up the picture. “And the fourth one coming any day.”

  “That’s really great.” I always wanted siblings, but it wasn’t meant to be.

  “I’m a very lucky man.” He puts the photo back and moves a dirty coffee cup out of the way.

  “Interesting organizational system you have.”

  “Somehow my brain works better with chaos.”

  “Based on the condition of your office, you must be brilliant.” I think of the library named after him in present day. I’m not sure what he’s achieved to get his own library, but it must be big… unless the library is a memorial to his death? I shake the depressing thought away.

  “Indeed!” Professor Smith chuckles. “So, what do we have here?”

  I place the box on the corner of the gray metal desk and remove the lid, releasing the familiar rosewater scent of Grandma’s house.

  “May I?” he asks, his hand poised to dive in.

  “Go for it.”

  The professor removes the items, examining each one. “College memorabilia… some photographs,” he mumbles as he gently handles the items. He looks at a handkerchief embroidered with the name “Ruby” across the front, then glances at me.

  I shrug. “I’ve never heard of anyone by that name before. Maybe it belonged to a college friend or something.”

  He pages through clippings of college dances, sporting events, and photos of people I don’t recognize, taking notes and photographs of each item as he goes.

  “Oh, check this out,” I say when I spot the picture of the somber-faced nun.

  “Who is it?” He studies the photo.

  “No idea.”

  The professor turns the picture over. “Me at the convent,” he reads. He flips it back over. “Any chance this could be your grandmother?”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t look like her, so I’d say no. Plus, Grandma wasn’t even Catholic.”

  “Hmm. I suppose it could be a friend of hers. Maybe someone she met on a trip somewhere.”

  “Grandma traveled all over the world
as an anthropologist.” I picture the many souvenirs proudly displayed around her house: an ivory carving from India, bamboo baskets from Japan, the native masks from Kenya. She always brought home an authentic keepsake from each country she visited.

  “Then perhaps she met this nun on one of her trips.”

  “It’s possible.”

  I empty a velvet pouch, revealing two plain gold bands. One is large and thick, the other delicate and small. “Look at these rings.” He opens his hand and I drop them into his palm.

  “They look like wedding rings.”

  “They can’t be my grandparents’, because Grandma wore her wedding band until she died. My mom has it now.”

  “Perhaps they belonged to your grandmother’s parents,” he says, carefully studying each one. He pulls a magnifying glass from his top drawer and holds the rings under the desk light one at a time. “There’s no inscription.”

  I lean forward to see but can’t get close enough. “So there’s a couple of old rings that may or may not have belonged to my what? Great-grandparents? I don’t know if I’ve ever even heard their names.”

  “Do you know anything about your great-grandparents?”

  “Not really. All I remember is my mom mentioning that an evil stepmother raised Grandma’s mother, because her own mother died when she was a baby. Wait! There’s a picture in here of Grandma as a teenager with her parents.”

  I riffle through football game programs, a crumbling pressed corsage, and a yellowed list of house rules from Liz Waters. “Here it is.” I hand over the photo.

  The corner of the professor’s mouth curls into a smile.

  “What?” I try to see what he could possibly find in the photo that makes him smile.

  “Oh, nothing at all. They look like a nice family.” He sets it down with the other items. “What else have you got?”

  “Just old college stuff. No more pictures or anything interesting.” I scan my memory for anything else I can tell him, but my brain is fried. Still, we spend an hour reviewing items in the hatbox in case there’s some hidden meaning to any of them.