Waking in Time

by Angie Stanton

  I carefully place the folded dress in the suitcase and then a slip and a nightgown, while Sharon gathers her hairbrush and other toiletries.

  “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, or if I’m even coming back.” Her voice cracks with emotion.

  My head snaps up. “Why wouldn’t you come back to school?”

  “If my father needs me, I’ll stay at home. I don’t think he even knows how to brew a pot of coffee, let alone how to operate the wringer washer.”

  My chest tightens. I can’t be here without her. I’ve worked so hard to stay in one place, but if Sharon doesn’t come back to school, I don’t have anything to keep me here, and I don’t want to travel again unless I’m going home.

  She places the last items in her suitcase, snaps the metal latches shut, and looks around the room. “I suppose that’s it.”

  I want to beg her not to go, but the sadness in her eyes reminds me this isn’t about me. “I so wish that I could make this better.”

  Sharon slips on her long wool coat and picks up a smaller case that matches the larger one. “Having you for a best friend makes such a difference.”

  “Let me carry this.” I lift the heavy suitcase off the bed and lug it down the hall. Suitcases from the fifties don’t have the benefit of wheels or extending handles, so my arms are burning by the time we reach the foyer.

  Sharon’s father, the man I passed earlier, waits quietly in the corner, avoiding the curious glances as girls return from class.

  “Abigail, this is my father, Walter,” Sharon says stoically. “Father, this is my roommate, Abigail.”

  He turns and sets his weary eyes on me and nods. “Hello, Abigail.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I know my words are inadequate. Then it dawns on me that he’s my great-grandfather, and I can’t look away from his face. Something about his eyes looks familiar, but I can’t place it. Grandma doesn’t really look like him, but maybe Mom does?

  “Thank you. Ruby was a wonderful woman.” He’s fighting to keep emotion out of his voice. “Sharon, we should get started home.” He lifts the suitcase with ease and heads outside.

  I hug Grandma quick and hard, knowing I might never see her again. “I love you,” I whisper and kiss her cheek.

  “Back atcha, kiddo,” she says with a sad smile and disappears through the main doors. I watch as she climbs into her father’s car, a rolling beast stealing her away.

  I wipe my tears, heartbroken to witness her losing her mother, and miserable to say goodbye. Back in my room, something niggles at my brain.

  Ruby.

  I open the hatbox, pull out the embroidered handkerchief, and see “Ruby” in neat stitches. So this was Sharon’s mother’s hanky.

  Night comes and it is the loneliest of my life. The anguish I experience at losing Grandma once again is more than my broken heart can handle. She is far more than my Grandma—she has become my best friend, a larger-than-life personality who has suffered a devastating blow.

  My eyes grow heavy, but I don’t dare chance falling asleep. I open the window to let in the cold air, and then later I wander the cavernous halls, making a slow torturous loop of every wing and floor.

  As I trudge along, I realize that my pathetic “research” isn’t getting me anywhere. My only hope to get back to my own time is the professor. It’s time to refocus and work with him. But he is so young, and doesn’t seem to know about my time travel.

  It’s time he did.

  CHAPTER 10

  A strong rapping pulls me from slumber. I blink awake, my eyes land on Grandma’s empty bed, and my heart twists, but at least I didn’t travel. The rapping sounds again.

  “Coming,” I call, trying to sound awake. I let myself go to bed as soon as the sun began rising early this morning. A quick glance at the alarm clock reveals it’s now eleven-thirty a.m. I scrub my hands over my face to wake up. I slept like a rock.

  “Miss Thorp, would you please open the door.”

  Crap. Is that the head resident? “One sec.”

  I whip off my old-fashioned nightgown, which I decided helped me fit in better than my old T-shirt, and yank on the dress I wore yesterday, twisting to reach the zipper in the back.

  Impatient knocking sounds again. I pull open the door to the same irritated Mrs. Chaplin with the pearls and puff of perfume who disliked me in 1961. At least she doesn’t know who I am. With her lips pursed, she glares down her bulbous nose at me.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Her eyes trail from my uncombed hair down to my bare toes on the cold tile. “Shouldn’t you be in American Literature class right now?”

  “Uh, yes. I was on my way.”

  She stares at my bare feet again and frowns. “It has come to my attention that you have failed to attend several of your classes for the past three weeks. Miss Thorp, your truancy is going to bring you only difficult results.”

  I resist blurting out that truancy is the least of my troubles. Instead I go for polite apology. “I overslept. I’m so sorry, and I promise you it’ll never happen again.” I shift from one foot to the other, wishing I’d taken the time to put on socks.

  “Oversleeping doesn’t explain why you’ve neglected to go to any of your classes for these past weeks.”

  “I’ve been sick. I think it’s mono. I just haven’t had any energy.”

  The head resident arches a drawn-on brow and I wonder if she even knows what mono is. “Under normal circumstances I’d be inclined to take your word, but considering I’ve witnessed you return from many a late-night party, your word carries little value with me. But it doesn’t matter what I believe. You’re to report to the dean of students and explain yourself.”

  While I don’t relish the idea of facing the dean, at least Miss Sour Face will be off my back. I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Miss Thorp, you seem unconcerned. I assure you this situation is quite serious. If the dean is not satisfied, you’ll be expelled.”

  My head snaps to attention.

  There’s a snarl of satisfaction on her lips now. “If you wish to remain a student here at the University of Wisconsin, you’ll abide by the rules. This is your second warning.” She holds out an envelope. “Here is the office and time for your meeting. I hope this will be the motivation you require to get back on track.”

  I glumly accept the envelope. “I will.” Since when do college professors take attendance?

  After she’s gone, I hop back into bed to warm my feet. When I received the first warning note under the door, I blew it off. But a meeting with the dean, I guess I can’t ignore that.

  Later, after my grilling from the dean, I walk to the Union. The man was a stern old windbag with a talent for lecturing and citing university bylaws. Bottom line: go to class or get expelled.

  I arrive early at the Rathskeller to meet Professor Smith. To my surprise, he’s already there, sitting at a table alone. His coat lies over a chair with his cap resting on top.

  “Hello, Abigail.” He jumps to his feet as I approach.

  “Hi—” My tongue twists as I change my greeting from “Professor” to “Smitty.”

  “It’s nice to see you again. I must apologize for yesterday. You caught me off guard, and I’m afraid I was in a bit of a hurry. Please, join me.” He eagerly holds out a chair.

  “Thank you. I was surprised to see you too.” I slip out of my coat and accept the chair. His hair is combed neatly and his shirt, which looks freshly ironed based on a scorch mark on the side, is buttoned to the top.

  We look at each other and smile, but no words come to me. For some reason, I’m at a loss. I guess it’s because there is so much riding on this moment. Where to even begin? Smitty shifts uncomfortably. Why is this so awkward? It’s like we’re on a first date or something, which is stupid because he and I go way back. Or, way forward, anyway.

 
And then we both speak at once. “What’s your major?” I ask at the same time he asks, “Would you like a Coca-Cola?”

  We laugh, breaking the ice, and there’s a glimmer of his older self that I see in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve wondered the last couple of years what became of you. And now that you’re here in front of me, I don’t know what to say. How about that Coke?”

  I smile at his nervousness. “Sure. I’d love one.”

  Smitty sighs with relief. “Thank you! I’ll be right back.” He jumps up to fetch my drink.

  I’ve never seen him anything less than confident and composed. I chuckle to myself to think how much he grows up between now and when I know him in the future.

  A minute later he’s back with two bottles of soda and a basket of popcorn.

  “Thank you. This is great.” I clink my bottle to his.

  “I never ran into you again after that time freshman year. What have you been up to?” He asks.

  I nearly choke and take a sip to stall and come up with a believable response. “I had to leave school. It was a family emergency,” I eventually say.

  He nods, holding the glass soda bottle as if it were a lifeline. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m glad you’re back and that we’ve met again.”

  This piques my interest about how we first met and how he’s progressed so fast in school. He doesn’t look much over twenty years old.

  “How about you?” I ask. You said you’re a grad student. How is that possible in only three years?”

  He shifts in his seat as if this is a difficult question. “My life is school. I like to take heavy course loads, even in the summer.”

  “That’s amazing. I wish I had your dedication.” Instead I’m in trouble with the dean and have to figure out how to go to classes during the day and still stay up all night so I can be here if Sharon comes back.

  I take another drink from my soda bottle, wondering briefly what the caffeine content of 1951 Coke is and hoping it’s a lot. “So, what did you decide to major in?”

  “Mathematics,” he says, matter of fact. “The world is a giant equation. Everything can be solved with math.”

  And that’s something I’m counting on. I need him to solve that giant equation of time travel, and if a math equation will do it, that’s fine with me. “I bet you’ll be an awesome teacher someday.”

  “Stand up in front of a classroom of students? I could never do that! Look how nervous I am meeting you.” He holds out his hand, and sure enough, it’s trembling.

  I laugh. He blushes and lowers his hand, then finds a scratch on the table to focus on.

  “Oh, Smitty. I’m not laughing at you. I predict you’ll be a brilliant teacher. So successful that someday a building will be named after you.”

  He looks up. “Thanks, but that’s a peculiar thing to say.”

  “I suppose, but someday it’ll make sense.” A group of guys comes in and takes a table not far from ours. They’re loud and boisterous in contrast with our awkward silences.

  Smitty takes a nibble of popcorn. “So, what’s your major?”

  I honestly have no idea what my major is, even after my uncomfortable lecture from the dean of students. “Oh, the usual classes,” I deflect. “I guess the biggest thing going on in my life right now is my roommate, Sharon. She learned yesterday that her mother died.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes. It’s so sad. She’s gone home for the funeral.” I don’t think I’ll ever get that image of her crying out of my mind. In fact, it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Grandma cry.

  Smitty nods. “I never knew my parents.”

  I had forgotten this detail of his life but can’t exactly say that. “You didn’t? What happened?”

  “I grew up in an orphanage.”

  “I’m sorry. Sounds like a difficult childhood.” My talk of losing parents must have dredged up painful memories for him. I reach out and squeeze his hand.

  “At times it was, but I got through. Enough about me, though.” He squeezes my hand back, but doesn’t release it. He peers at me through his glasses with hopeful anticipation. “With your roommate gone under such sad circumstances, I don’t want you to be lonely. Would you allow me the honor of taking you to a movie tomorrow night?”

  Holy crap. Is Professor Smith hitting on me? How am I supposed to let him down without crushing the poor guy’s heart? I offer a weak smile, and his eager one falters.

  “I don’t think going out with you is a good idea.”

  He releases my hand and lets out a sigh of defeat.

  “It’s not that I don’t like you—I do.”

  “You have a boyfriend?” he asks, dejected.

  I shake my head, “God, no.” But then I think of Will and add, “Actually, I’m not sure.”

  He leans away. I’ve hurt his feelings, which is the last thing I meant to do. How am I supposed to fix this? “Smitty, you don’t understand. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here. In fact, I might not be here this weekend, or even tomorrow for that matter.”

  “And you may or may not have a boyfriend. It’s clear as mud,” he says. The poor guy’s face has gone from pink to red with embarrassment. I blow out my breath. Here goes nothing.

  “Smitty, I’m going to tell you something. It’s going to seem impossible and farfetched. I just ask that you listen to me with an open mind.”

  “All right. I’m all ears,” he says, but his body is angled away from me as if he’s ready to bolt.

  I look around the room, filled with a smattering of students eating or studying, to make sure no one is listening in. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt and slide my soda bottle out of the way. “This is not the first time I’ve met you.”

  He nods. “I know that.”

  “No.” I say as directly as possible, trying to catch his eye. “I’ve met you a few times before, and it wasn’t freshman year.”

  He looks at me, confused. “I think I’d recall if I’d seen you other times.” And then he adds softly, “I had always hoped to.”

  I smile at his sweetness. “Here’s the thing.” I swallow the lump in my throat, look him straight in the eye, and speak quietly. “I’m not from this time. I meet you in the future—your future—when you are a middle-aged man. But that’s already happened for me.”

  Smitty goes still. I can’t even see his chest moving to breathe. He studies me with his innocent brown eyes that are so familiar to me from his older years. Without a word he stands and gathers his coat and hat.

  “Wait!” I hop up. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but you need to listen.”

  “I don’t care to be made a fool.” He moves to leave.

  I reach for his arm. “That’s not what I’m doing. I promise. Please, give me a chance to explain.”

  “Your little game has gone far enough. I liked you, Abigail.” He heads out of the Rathskeller.

  “Prof— Smitty, wait!” I grab my coat and run after him.

  “You can’t leave until you hear the rest of this. If you want to hate me after that, fine, but if I don’t tell you now, you’ll never know, and in the future, you won’t be able to help me.”

  I don’t know if it’s the desperation in my voice or that he’s curious as to what tale I’ve dreamed up, but he pauses at the door leading outside. I take advantage of his hesitation.

  “Come on, let’s find someplace more private.” I clutch his arm and drag him away and up a flight of stairs. There’s a quiet room with couches and study tables, but students occupy them. I lead him up another level and another until, out of breath, we come across a huge event hall with marble pillars, opulent gilding, and a mural on the ceiling.

  “Wow! I didn’t know this was here,” I say in wonder.

  “If you’re from the future, you should know everyt
hing,” he says with sarcasm.

  “I’ve never been to the top floor of the Memorial Union until this very moment. I never got a chance… never mind.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  There is a nook in the corner with a pair of wingback chairs. “This looks private enough.” I head for the corner, toss my coat over the arm of an adjacent chair, and sit. Smitty reluctantly does the same.

  “Okay, future girl. Spin your tale.” He sits rigidly with his arms crossed in defiance.

  Here goes nothing. I curl my legs under my lap and begin. “When I started college here at the U, it was the twenty-first century. My roommate was a girl named Jada.”

  He arches a brow but says nothing.

  “I went to bed one night in my dorm room—in Liz Waters—but when I woke the next morning, everything was different. Everything on the walls was different, my roommate was a girl named Linda, the calendar on my wall read 1983.”

  “And we met,” he says snidely, trying to predict my words.

  “Actually, no. We didn’t. I was scared. I didn’t understand what was happening. The last thing I wanted to do was go to class. But now that I think of it, if I had, you might have been my professor—my physics professor.”

  Smitty grunts his disbelief.

  “Shoot. Now I really wish I had gone,” I say realizing how differently things might have turned out if he were there and had seen me.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the next time I went back, it was 1970, and we met. You said you were onto something. Something having to do with string theory. But by 1983, maybe you would have figured it out.”

  “I’m not a physicist. I’m a mathematician,” he corrects.

  “Then you need to change your program, because in 1970, you teach quantum physics.”

  He shakes his head. “I already told you, I’m not going to be a teacher.”

  “Not just a teacher—a professor. That’s why when I recognized you yesterday I called you professor. You’ve always been a professor to me, until now.”

  He frowns. “You’re kind of a know-it-all.”

  I ignore his comment. “The point is that I keep jumping back in time, and I keep running into you. I think you’re a crucial part of why this is happening, that you’re supposed to solve time travel.” I pause, leaning forward, and look him in the eye again. “I need you to help me.”