“Who are you, Ruby? What happened to your baby?” I stare at her fine features, willing her to telepathically send me the answers to my question. She smiles serenely back. I close the book and lie down. What must it have been like to have a baby so young back then? Had she already become a mother when this photo was taken?
My body is exhausted. I don’t know if it’s from my emotional upheaval or too many all-nighters. There doesn’t seem to be anything else I need in this time. I’ve met the young professor, I found Will’s letters, and he hasn’t magically appeared, so I decide to leave my destiny to the hands of fate by snuggling in and closing my eyes. It’s decadent to relax into my pillow for a change instead of dragging myself through the halls of Liz Waters like a zombie. Later, from somewhere deep in REM land, a chorus of bells rings through my dreams.
CHAPTER 13
Big band music crackles through the room. I’m in a new time and not even surprised. Peering around the room, I’m relieved to see that I’m alone, and I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Last night I thought I didn’t care whether I traveled or not. Turns out I was wrong. I’m sick and tired of being whipped through time like a feather in a wind tunnel.
Time travel is sucking the life right out of me. Always trying to find my way has my nerves in a constant state of high alert. It’s exhausting. My eyes well up with emotion. Maybe I’ll stay in bed from now on and see how that works out. If I don’t leave the room, I won’t have to face this new world.
The door opens. I wipe away my tears of frustration. A girl wearing a skirt that reaches well below her knees, a button-up blouse, and her hair in a short wavy bob enters. I immediately dislike her, because she isn’t Grandma.
She takes one look at me and shakes her head. “Well, at least you’re awake. If you hurry, you can still make breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” I mutter, hoping she isn’t a talker.
“Suit yourself, but don’t dilly dally too long.” New Girl hums as she collects her books, turns off the radio, and with a final, disappointed shake of her head in my direction, leaves me alone again.
Thank God. I roll over and stare at the items on her tidy side of the room. Her books are stacked according to height. I spot an embroidery hoop with a floral pattern she’s working on. There’s a small frame with a picture of a young man on her bedside table. Boyfriend, maybe?
My nightstand holds a wind-up alarm clock, a room key, and a Union membership card. I reach for it. Abigail Thorp is typed neatly on the card. And then the wind goes out of me as I spot the year. 1930.
That’s an eighteen-year leap. It’s too far. How can I possibly fit in here? The only answer that comes to me is that I can’t. I’m about to tear up again when I realize that the yearbook on my bed is from 1930. Will has to be here! I push my worries to the back of my mind and leap out of bed to check the wall calendar. Yes! It’s April 1930. This has to be when we meet.
I rush to my closet. The dresses are longer than any of the others I’ve had to endure. Bell-shaped hats are stacked neatly on the shelf above, and all the shoes have chunky heels and a round toe. There isn’t a single pair of flats or tennis shoes. How on earth do these girls get around campus? I pick out a yellow dress with cap sleeves and a flowing skirt, along with a cream-colored sweater. The dress has long lines and is fitted in all the right places, a nice improvement from earlier decades. Who knew that the styles this far back in time could be so flattering?
I’m not sure what to do with my hair, though. The girls in the yearbook had mostly short hair with some weird wave on the side. That’s not going to work for me. A ponytail and leaving it down both seem wrong, so I put it in a low braid and hope that’s good enough.
In the cafeteria, I pick a table in the far corner to discourage any joiners. I push thick oatmeal around my bowl and wonder what the best way to find Will is. I could stalk the boathouse. He’ll have to show up there eventually if he’s here, but what if he isn’t? My heart sinks to think that just because Will was here at some point in 1930 doesn’t mean he’s here now.
* * *
After breakfast I step outside to brave my new world. I’m not going to class. I’ve got a fresh attendance slate in 1930, so skipping one day shouldn’t matter. I may be gone from here tomorrow anyway. There’s a cool breeze, but the sun shines brightly, warming the day. Nearby flowering crab trees perfume the spring air.
So where should I go? I know the professor isn’t here. He likely isn’t even born yet. Grandma isn’t either. But according to that yearbook, Will might be here. He’s my only hope at finding a friendly face. I walk down the creaking boards on the pier in front of Liz Waters and look for crew boats on the lake but see none.
After a few minutes of watching birds swoop gracefully over the water, I head toward Picnic Point. The paved path of my day is now a gravel road shared with extremely old-fashioned cars rumbling past. The cars are all black and look like they’re made out of tin cans with skinny black tires. The fenders seem more suited for a bicycle than an automobile.
At the entrance to Picnic Point, I follow the main path with the intention of checking for Will’s treasure. Even if there’s nothing new in there, its presence gives me a sense of security. A connection to him.
When I reach the fork in the path, I’m stopped in my tracks. There’s Will, leaning against a tree with a fishing line cast out into the water. I can’t believe my eyes.
His head is down, deep in thought, or maybe he’s nodded off. Dusty blond hair blocks much of his face, but I’d recognize the clean lines of that profile anywhere. His knee is bent and a cigarette hangs carelessly between his fingers.
Blood pumps through my heart at full speed. I look around, unsure what to do. Does Will know me yet? If this is our first meeting, the ball is finally in my court. I know things he doesn’t, and he’ll need me.
I approach, stopping at a birch tree ten feet away. Deep in thought, he doesn’t notice my presence. His expression is somber. This is not the carefree Will I met before.
“Hey, stranger,” I say tentatively, testing the waters to see whether he knows me.
He looks up, distracted. I’ve pulled him away from some far-off place.
“Hello,” Will says politely but turns back to his fishing, confirming that he’s totally unaware of who I am. I’m torn between a tinge of disappointment and a feeling of protectiveness. I can relate to how he must feel.
“How long have you been here?” I stand a few feet away. Will looks at me like I’m some pushy broad, which I suppose I am.
There’s a silent void between us, and no recognition sparks in his eyes. Not only doesn’t he know me, but he doesn’t appear to want to.
“A couple of hours,” he says, his eyes focusing out over the water.
I experience a sense of relief at just being near him. I don’t know him well, but at this point I’m pretty sure I will. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that time doesn’t lie.
“Nice day we’re having,” I say, trying again.
He frowns at my interruption. I bite back a grin and sit on the grassy bank, adjusting my skirt so I’m not showing too much leg for 1930. “Am I bothering you?”
He’s quiet for a minute, then takes a long drag off his cigarette, the tip glowing bright. Then he exhales the smoke in a slow gray stream. “You’re scaring the fish away is all.”
In my day guys usually perk up when a girl pays attention to them. But apparently Will is immune to me. I nod toward his empty bucket. “Doesn’t look like you’ve been having much luck.”
He speaks with thinly veiled annoyance. “Miss, is there something you need?”
I smile to myself. Do I give him a hard time or lay it on the line now? Do I try to shock him? It would serve him right. “No. But I’ve traveled a long time.”
His jaw clenches and he looks at me, incredulous. Then he shakes his head and looks awa
y as if he’s bored.
“Thirty years,” I say, referring to when we first met.
His expression changes to tightly reigned surprise. He sets the fishing pole down and faces me, his blue eyes flat. It hurts that he sees me as a stranger. Now I understand how bad he felt when I didn’t recognize him the day we met. “I wasn’t born thirty years ago,” he says. “Neither were you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “In the future.”
His breath catches. I have his attention now. Will releases his breath and his shoulders sag. I’m reminded of my hopelessness when all of this first began, and I feel bad for him. If he’s from the 1920s, then he probably hasn’t traveled much yet. But again he says nothing, just takes another long drag of his cigarette and blows it out the side of his mouth.
“It’s safe to talk to me. In fact, you were quite chatty in 1961.” His back stiffens. I’m irritating him, but I can’t just give up and walk away. He stares at a distant boat on the lake. I try again. “You showed me where you buried your tobacco tin. Want me to take you there? I know where it is.”
His face shows astonishment, but he says nothing for a full minute before turning to me and saying blankly, “Miss, what is it that you want?”
“Listen, if you’d give me a chance, we can help each other. We’ve met before.”
“That’s unlikely,” he says.
“Unlikely, but true.” Suddenly saying the words that I am from the future sounds too much like a cheesy sci-fi flick.
Will takes another drag of his cigarette, stares at his fishing bobber, and exhales the smoke, clearly wishing I would leave. I thought he’d be interested in seeing me, but he wants nothing to do with me.
I examine this 1930s Will. He’s wearing a faded green button-down shirt that’s showing its wear. The fabric looks buttery soft against his skin. His sturdy brown pants are casual with suspenders, and his scuffed boots look like they’ve walked some miles. He wears a cap that shades his eyes from the sun, but not from me. A cool breeze off the water ruffles his hair. He’s lost deep in his thoughts, thoughts I’m not yet a part of. And then I remember and want to kick myself for being so insensitive.
“I’m sorry about your family,” I say gently.
Pain colors his eyes.
“And I know how hard it is to be all alone.”
He clears his throat and speaks softly. “How do you know about that?”
“You told me,” I say, watching his reaction carefully.
Will shakes his head. “I’d remember telling you, and I’m certain I’ve never met you before.”
“Will.”
He looks at me with raised eyebrows, surprised I know his name.
“I’m like you. You told me, in the future.”
I want to reach out and comfort him, but that would only push him even further away. He’s got everything on lockdown. He tosses his cigarette into the lake, pulls in his line, and gathers up his fishing gear.
I stand and step closer. “It’s true. You told me in 1961 on a fall day. We met at the Union.”
He stands and puts his hand up. “Stop. Please. Stop.”
“But—”
“I’m sure you’re a nice gal, and clearly you know a few things about me, but I can’t take anything more today. I’m at my limit.” There’s a rawness in his tone. He picks up the pail and walks away.
I start to follow. “Will, wait! I have so much to tell you.”
He pauses for a moment. “Please. Leave me be. I’d rather not know.” His voice comes out in a soft plea that convinces me not to follow.
His lanky figure disappears down the path with his head hanging low. He’s having a rough time of it, but why wouldn’t he want to connect with me—the only person who really knows him? It makes no sense.
I sit and lean against the tree in the spot Will just vacated. I feel like I’m here for some purpose. I’m sure of it. Because why else would fate spin me through time with no rhyme or reason? I’m here with Will again. That has to mean something.
I flick a stone into the shallow water and watch the rings it makes. If there is some pattern to this chaos, why can’t I see it?
* * *
It’s been a full day since I saw Will fishing on Picnic Point. I decide to wait and see if fate brings us together again, so I spend the morning in a literature class listening to a mind-numbing talk on circular journeys. On my way back to the dorm I wonder if there’s any way I can find out what happened to Ruby’s baby. Obviously the Internet is not an option. There must be court records, or hospital records of a birth. If I can find either of those places, would they just hand over the information? I doubt people are as paranoid about identity theft in this era as they are in mine, so maybe there’s a chance? I remember seeing a hospital on University Avenue, so I decide to start there.
I find the massive building easily and am affronted by the sterile smell of alcohol and cleaning supplies. A woman at the information desk directs me to the medical records on the basement level at the end of a long dim hall that looks like a great setting for a horror movie. My steps echo on the tile floor as I approach a short man with thinning hair behind the desk. He looks up and raises an eyebrow, irritated to be pulled away from his newspaper, it seems.
“Hi. Um…” I stall and then stand straighter. “I was hoping you could help me find a record for a patient.”
“Name?”
“Ruby Phelps.”
“Date of admission?”
“I don’t exactly know.”
That eyebrow of his shoots up again. “Was it a recent stay?”
I feel my face going pink. “Is there any way you can just check by the name?”
“And what relationship are you to the patient?” he asks, finally getting suspicious of my motives.
I can’t exactly say she’s my great-grandmother. “A friend.”
“And why is it you can’t ask your friend for this information directly?”
“I know it’s an odd request, but you see, she had a baby, and I’m trying to find out what happened to the baby. If it’s… okay or not.”
“Miss, this is a highly unusual request.”
“I know, but, please, could you check?”
He huffs. “This institution is not in the habit of handing out medical records willy-nilly. Do you in fact know that she was admitted to this hospital?”
“No.”
“I see. It appears you are on a wild goose chase. And since we are only one of four hospitals in town, may I suggest you ask your friend these questions instead of taking up my valuable time.” He picks his newspaper back up. Valuable time my ass.
But he’s right. Finding out if Ruby was ever here was a long shot. And maybe she hasn’t even given birth yet. “Sorry to have bothered you,” I say, dejected, and turn to go.
As if it’s an afterthought, he says, “You might also check the Wisconsin State Journal. It lists names of patients admitted to area hospitals as well as birth records.”
“Thank you. I will.”
And so I spend my afternoon at the campus library paging through old newspapers until my eyes cross, but still no mention of a Ruby Phelps.
Frustrated with hitting a dead end, I trudge back to Liz Waters and my thoughts shift back to Will. Where the heck is he? I decide fate is for the birds. If I want to find him, I’d better go look.
Hanging out by Tripp Hall gains me a lot of curious looks from the male students on their way to and from class, but there’s no sign of Will. I see some guys running sprints over on the track and get an idea of where he might be.
I follow the lakefront back toward the old boathouse located between Red Gym and the lake, scanning the water again for signs of crew boats.
I spot the dock from a distance. A bunch of guys are hauling a long, narrow crew boat out of the water, and afterward they gather around
the coach. I retrace my steps toward the dorms so I can try to catch Will on his walk back, if he’s here. I find a spot on the hill near Liz Waters and wait, wrapping my sweater closer as the air is cooling fast.
It’s a good fifteen minutes before some guys appear wearing white crew T-shirts and shorts. They glance at me as they pass. Then I spot Will walking alone, his head down, another cigarette between his fingers.
I wait until he’s close and then step onto the path in front of him. One glance at me and Will tenses.
His reaction is like a cold slap. “Hi.” I face him squarely, an unavoidable blockade.
“Hello,” he says, then steps past me and keeps walking.
What? I rush to keep up with his long strides. “You’re not even going to talk to me?”
He takes a drag off his cigarette and exhales, leaving the scent of fresh tobacco in the air. “Miss, I’m tired and hungry and want to go eat supper.”
“Seriously?” I snap, running out of patience. “I’m here. I don’t especially want to be, but I am, and so are you.” The breeze picks up and blows my hair loose. I shove the strands behind my ear.
He keeps walking.
I stop and call after him. “Will, I need you.”
He turns and faces me, that tortured look on his face again. “Trust me. I’m no one you can count on. I have nothing to offer. You’d be best off staying far from me.”
“Please. Don’t go. We can help each other.”
He hesitates and seems to consider my words, but just when I think I’ve got him, he shakes his head. “No one can help me.”
And with that he walks on.
“Dammit, Will! You were a pain in the butt in 1961 and you’re an even bigger pain in 1930. I didn’t ask for this either.”
But he doesn’t pause; he just disappears around the bend. I want to scream, but other students are on the path, and they’re looking at me like I’m crazy. I storm out onto the pier in front of Liz Waters. The water laps against the pilings.
Waking in Time Page 17
