Waking in Time

by Angie Stanton

  I retrace my steps all the way back to the main trail and decide to try the opposite route. I’ve sweated through my clothes. This time I go left at the first fork and pass a clump of red sumac. At the next fork, I’m tempted to veer right but stick to my plan and take another left. Branches brush against my shoulders, and I hear the sounds of small critters skittering out of my path. At the next fork, I go right. The path winds around a bend, revealing a giant tree trunk lying on the forest floor in all its glory. I climb through the brush, snagging my sweater as I go.

  My pulse races at the thought of finding Will’s treasure. I walk around the fallen tree to the other side. As before, a pile of dried branches crowds the decaying trunk. I can picture Will dragging them here to hide his precious few belongings. I pull a large branch away, and another, until I find a mound of leaves. This is where Will pulled out the spade to dig with. I kneel on the ground and push the damp leaves aside.

  Something small darts over my hand and I scream. A tiny mouse scurries away. After that I use a stick to clear the remaining debris. Sure enough, I find Will’s spade, crammed under the log.

  Thank you, Will.

  With spade in hand, I locate the big rock. I try to nudge it with my foot, but it’s too heavy. I clank the spade against the rock in case any more critters are lurking.

  Leaning over, I try to lift the rock, but I still can’t move it. Using both hands and leveraging my weight with a heave ho, it finally gives way, throwing me off balance. I land on my butt in the damp leaves.

  I scramble over to the newly revealed spot. The dirt doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed in a long time. Does that mean Will is not here after all? Kneeling before my target, I dig into the rich soil, piling it in a mound beside me. Earthworms wiggle their frustration at being relocated.

  Will the tin be here? It has to be. With each spadeful of dirt, I feel closer to Will. I’d given him such a hard time that day we met, and now I wish I could apologize. No matter how frustrating he was, I feel desperate to connect with him, the only person in time who understands what I’m going through.

  The spade hits something hard. Yes! I frantically dig around it, unearthing my prize. I pull back the oilcloth, revealing the tobacco tin, and sigh with relief.

  Doing as Will did, I pry the lid off with the tip of the spade, carefully brushing away the dirt so it won’t fall inside. I wipe my hands on my dress and lift out the contents.

  There are the coins and bills Will placed for safekeeping, along with the pocket watch and a sturdy key I hadn’t seen before. I ignore the papers and go for the envelope he wouldn’t let me see.

  The folded paper springs open once released from the tin. I slip it out and read.

  Dearest Abbi,

  My heart is shattered without you here by my side. We knew this day would come, but it doesn’t soften the desperate ache in my soul. You assured me our paths will cross in the future, but until I set my eyes on you again, I will be a useless excuse of a human being, rowing away my sorrows.

  If you ever read this, which I pray you do, please don’t think me mad with my declarations of love. I fear you may expect me to be a man of courage and strength. What you will find is a lost boy, looking for meaning and direction in this crazy world you and I share.

  Abbi, you brought me solace and made my life worth living again. Each night I say a prayer that the bells will chime and take me to a time when I will gaze upon your sweet face again.

  All my love,

  Will

  Oh my. I lean against the fallen tree, ignoring the rough bark that pokes into my back.

  My heart races from his unexpected love letter—a bit corny and over the top for my day, but undeniably sweet in any era. If only I could reach out to him just for a second.

  I turn to the next page and find another note.

  My dearest Abbi,

  The saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” is boloney. Desperate would best describe my general sense of being. It’s torture to know you’re out there somewhere, hidden in time.

  I long to know that you are safe, but my wishes have been ignored by fate. You have not left me a message, so perhaps you were unable to find the location of my treasure.

  I’ve wondered if perhaps you are like many women who lack a sense of direction, and that you’ve never found this spot again. And now I smile as I picture your annoyance at being compared to a helpless woman of the past.

  Should you ever locate this spot, be assured that I am well enough. I have become more adept at fitting in and making a life for myself. We don’t have much choice about that, do we?

  Each evening I look into the night sky and gaze at the stars, knowing that somewhere in time, you are doing the same.

  Until we meet again,

  Will

  I hug the letter, breathless from his words. I regret not doing more to open up to him the day we met.

  I pull out the pen and paper I brought and try to think of what to write. He probably knows most everything that happens because I will have already told him. But still I smile as words form in my mind and I put them to paper.

  Dear Will,

  Clearly I’ve found your treasure, so you’ll have to take back your words about me being helpless! I’ve landed here in the fall of 1948, but you probably know that because I plan to tell you when we next meet. By the way, you never told me when that happens, which, as you know, annoys the heck out of me.

  Last night I left my grandmother. I assume I’ve told you about her. I’m devastated all over again, but today I’ve found your letters and am so relieved and happy, you can’t imagine. I only spent a few hours with you in 1961, but now, having read your words, I can’t wait to see you again and discover this magic connection you say we share.

  I saw Smitty in 1951. He asked me out! My last night there, I had the chance to introduce him to my grandmother. He got all excited about her too, so I had to ward him off. How the poor guy ever finds love, I can’t imagine.

  My great-grandmother Ruby died. My grandmother is heartbroken. I’m now on a new quest, which you probably already know about, so I won’t mention it again.

  By the way, couldn’t you have found a better spot for your treasure? A mouse ran over my hand and I almost had a coronary.

  Okay, now I’m babbling, but it makes me feel less alone. I’ll go now, but know that my latest roommate will probably throw me out when she sees my dress and shoes covered in dirt, and all because of you!

  Hope to see you soon.

  Your partner in time,

  Abbi

  I smile as I sign my name, imagining Will’s reaction when he reads this someday. I fold my letter and slide everything back into the tin. I notice a few black and white pictures tucked behind some papers.

  I remove them gently. The first is a photo of a family dressed in old-time clothes standing on a pier. There is a man, woman, girl, and little boy. I peer closer and discover that the cute little boy in the knickers is Will.

  The next picture shows the same family at a beach in hilarious full-body swimming suits. My heart breaks for the little boy holding a toy pail. How did he survive after losing everyone in his family?

  I flip to the next picture and gasp.

  Will and I grin at the camera, our arms draped casually around each other. We look so happy, as if we were laughing the moment before the picture was snapped. The clothes we’re wearing don’t help me figure out the year. I turn the picture over, but there are no dates written on it. Knowing Will, he left it undated on purpose.

  Holding the picture by the edges so as not to ruin it with my dirty fingers, I study it for a long time. Will has an easy confidence about him. His smile is inviting and reaches his eyes, which sparkle even in this old photo. His nose is narrow and straight, framed by full eyebrows and strong cheekbones. His head is pressed to mine as if we both nee
d to feel connected.

  I really want to take the picture with me, but then it won’t be here for Will, and he might need it more than I do. Hopefully I’ll find him here in 1948 and won’t need a picture to remember him by.

  Reluctantly, I return everything to the tin, wishing I’d brought some sort of small token to leave for him. Burying the tin makes me even dirtier, and by the time I cover the rock and log with the branches, I’m a disaster.

  On the long walk back to Liz Waters, I can’t get Will out of my mind, not that I want to. Why is time bringing us together and then ripping us apart? And why did I end up with Grandma and the professor, only to leave them again? There must be some sort of meaning to this madness, some order to the chaos, but what?

  Professor Smith had better get his butt in gear and start learning physics so he can figure this out.

  * * *

  Famished from skipping breakfast and spending the morning digging up Will’s tin, I shower, change into clean clothes, and head to the Union for an early lunch. It would be quicker to eat in the cafeteria at Liz Waters, but I don’t want to pretend to know people or make small talk. It’s easier to remain anonymous at the Union.

  From the outside, the Union looks exactly the same as I knew it, and inside isn’t much different. The smell of burgers grilling makes my mouth water. I grab a tray and slide it along the order counter. Students wearing white paper hats and aprons work behind the counter, taking orders and preparing food.

  “May I help you?” a guy asks as I browse the menu neatly written on a chalkboard. Something about his voice sounds oddly familiar and gives me goose bumps.

  “Yes. I’ll take a hamburger and a chocolate malt, please,” I say, turning to look at him. A tall pimply-faced student is jotting down my order.

  “Here you go, miss.” He looks up to hand me my ticket, and I see familiar brown eyes peering at me from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Smitty?

  “Thank you,” I mumble, accepting the slip of paper and soaking up this wet-behind-the-ears version of Professor Smith.

  Noticing my curious stare, he lowers his eyes and wipes his hands on his apron. “It’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you,” I repeat. Even from when I last saw him, he looks markedly different. He is stick skinny with a long neck and gangly arms, and acne mars his face. In later years he becomes rather handsome.

  I pay my check and find a seat at a small table in the Rathskeller where I can watch him. He works behind the counter, hesitating at each decision. He pours milk into a malt tin, then drops in a large scoop of ice cream, and milk splashes out, sopping his apron.

  His awkwardness is bizarre. A coworker gives him instructions, and Smitty adds more ingredients and then places the malt cup under the blender. As soon as he turns it on, malt mixings shoot out like shrapnel.

  I cover my giggle. A few minutes later he delivers my lunch. Ice cream dribbles down the side of the tall malt glass.

  “This looks delicious,” I say, trying to put him at ease.

  He sneaks a quick glance at me. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  As I devour my juicy burger and suck down the malt, I watch Smitty bus dishes and wipe tables. As he lifts a tub of dirty dishes, he turns directly into the path of another employee delivering a tray of hot food. I almost shout for him to look out, but it’s too late. Smitty careens into the other guy and sends food flying. Horror registers on his face as he realizes what he’s done. He should be working on complex equations, not in food service.

  “Smitty!” an older worker calls.

  “Yes, sir?” he says in a defeated voice.

  “Why don’t you take your break and collect yourself?”

  “Yes sir,” he answers, more dejected than ever. He removes his white paper hat and unties his apron. He steps out onto the terrace and sits in an orange sunburst chair overlooking the glistening lake.

  I can’t bear to see the poor guy this miserable. I wipe my mouth and go out to join him.

  “Having a bad day?” I take the chair across from him.

  Startled, he sits up straight. “You saw that?”

  “Hard not to.” I smile. “Don’t sweat it. We all have bad days.”

  He shakes his head and stares at the ground. “But does anyone else have all bad days? I can’t seem to get anything right. Maybe I’m not cut out for college.”

  “Why would you say that?” Is he out of his mind? He’s the perfect student.

  “I’m so behind. Everyone else seems to know what they’re supposed to do and how to fit in.” He adjusts his glasses as if seeing more clearly will help.

  “And you don’t?”

  “Not really.” A leaf lands on our table. He flicks it away with his fingernail, glances up at me, and then refocuses his gaze out over the lake, as if looking me in the eye is too difficult. “Where I grew up, life was much simpler. Now everything is new and such a struggle. I’ve never worked at a restaurant before, and the harder I try, the worse I am.” His sigh is filled with regret and self-loathing.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard,” I suggest.

  He looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “How would trying less help?”

  “Well, you’d be less nervous. Right now, you’re strung so tight that you’re setting yourself up for failure. Give yourself a break. Relax and slow down.”

  He shakes his head, rejecting my advice. “I can’t slow down, there’s too much to be done.” His toe taps rapidly on the ground, and he pushes back his glasses nervously.

  “Maybe you need to find a different job. What else are you good at?” I speak more slowly and quietly in an effort to calm his racing nerves.

  “My other job is in the campus library. That’s better than here. The worst I can do there is misshelve books.”

  “Or knock over a bookcase. That would be bad,” I tease.

  His expression turns to fear. “Don’t say that!”

  The breeze blows strands of hair in my face. I tuck them behind my ear. “You have two jobs? That’s a lot.”

  “It’s not enough. I need to find a job I can work on Sundays. Living expenses are higher than I thought, and my money is going fast.”

  “When do you find time for homework if you’re working so much?”

  “When I’m not working, I’m studying, which I enjoy. The rest of my time I sleep, which I can’t seem to ever get enough of.”

  “Lack of sleep I can relate to,” I say. “Well, it sounds like you’re doing great. Just remember, no matter how bad things seem, they’ll work out. So never lose hope. Hold your head high and don’t let anyone get you down. Believe in yourself.”

  Despite my pep talk, he sags in his chair with his shoulders hunched miserably. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You’re a great guy. But if I could make a suggestion, you might consider looking for a job working for a math or physics professor. I think you’d be a lot happier.”

  “That’s not a bad suggestion. I do have an interest in math.”

  “One more thing. Is there any chance you know a guy named Will?” I don’t think he does yet, but it’s worth asking.

  “No, not that I recall. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just hoping to find an old friend.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you.” He stands, stretching to his full height. “I’d best be getting back to work. Thank you again for your kindness.”

  “No problem. It’s been nice talking with you.”

  He slips his paper hat back on. “I hope to see you around sometime.”

  “Trust me. You will.”

  * * *

  After leaving Smitty and hoping I cheered him up, I go to my physics class. Maybe there’s a clue that I’ve missed by skipping class. But the professor is old and monotone, and the lecture is way over my head. There�
�s certainly no way I’ll solve time travel based on his lectures.

  On the way back to the dorm I stop at the Carillon Tower, so tall and mysterious with only a couple of small windows partway up. What secrets are hiding inside its walls, and why have I never heard the bells play during the day?

  I place my hands on its rough stone surface. Send me home. Send me back to where I’m safe and have family I love. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool stones, but nothing happens. No bells chime, no lightning strikes out of the blue sky, and I’m still here wearing saddle shoes and a scratchy wool skirt.

  I walk down to the Liz Waters pier. It wasn’t here during any of my other time jumps. One more thing that’s different and out of place. I watch the boats out on Lake Mendota. Is Will out there rowing? Does it even matter? And what about my promise to Grandma that I’d help her find her long-lost sibling? How am I to do that now when I don’t know when or where the child was born, or where or who the father is?

  That night I lie in bed pondering everything that has happened. I look through the 1930 yearbook that Smitty gave me in 1951. It’s a heavy monster that must weigh at least five pounds. I turn to the Badger athletics section and find two pages featuring the crew team.

  And then I see him. There’s Will posing with the 1930 team. He’s wearing one of those stoic expressions that guys give in sports pictures. His hair is the same as the day I met him, shaggy and a couple weeks past needing a haircut. I stare at his grainy black and white image for the longest time.

  “Who are you, Will? And why did you come into my life?” I whisper, but no response magically appears.

  I page through the rest of the yearbook. It must have been Will’s picture Smitty wanted me to see, or was there something else? I get to the section on Liz Waters. There are five group photos of the residents, one for each wing. I run my finger along the row of faces and see one that seems familiar, but I’m not sure why. I crosscheck to the list of students until I match up the girl with the name. Ruby Phelps. My handkerchief. Grandma’s mother who just died. She lived in Liz Waters too?