* * *
I was wiped out and bleary-eyed as I drove from Duke to the Raleigh apartment where I stayed when I was in the Triangle for work. On the radio, Melanie sang “Candles in the Rain,” her song about Woodstock and peace, and without warning, I choked up. Damn this world, I thought. Damn the war that took Joe and so many others. Damn all the wars to come. I was the only person alive who knew how bad things were going to get, and at that moment, I felt horribly alone with the knowledge.
At a stoplight, a young couple crossed the street in front of my car, a streetlight capturing them in a pool of silver. The guy had hair to the shoulders of his fringed vest. The girl’s blond hair hung to her waist. They both wore jeans tight around their thighs, dramatically flared at the bottom. I remembered Carly bringing home a bag of maternity clothes only a couple of weeks ago, happy because she’d found bell-bottom maternity jeans. Carly wasn’t a hippie, exactly. She was no airy-fairy flower child. After all, until Joe’s death, she’d lived the life of a military wife. But she’d always had the look of a hippie even if she didn’t wear peace-sign earrings and flowers in her hair. She had that long, straight blond hair, parted in the middle. She loved her bell bottoms and her fringe and her long dangly earrings and beaded necklaces. She would stand out in 2001. Those flared maternity jeans wouldn’t do. I’d have to give her a 2001 fashion lesson to the best of my ability—if I didn’t die of high blood pressure before then. The hours I’d just spent with the mainframe had shown me how precarious a trip I was sending her on.
Yet I had to send her, I thought as the light changed and I pressed the gas pedal. I was one hundred percent confident I could get her safely to 2001.
I wished I felt as certain that I could bring her back.
9
CARLY
Nags Head
Tonight was the night.
Hunter was feigning calm as the four of us ate dinner in the kitchen. I knew him well enough to recognize the anxiety beneath his easygoing façade. He was quiet, choosing to cut up John Paul’s chicken to mask the fact that he was barely eating anything himself, and there was a small patch of skin near his eyebrow that twitched every minute or so. I ate even less of the chicken casserole Patti had made than he did. Patti didn’t seem to notice either of our out-of-character moods. She was chattering on, the way she always did, completely ignorant of the fact that her sister and husband were both nervous wrecks.
I kept glancing at the clock on the stove while Patti talked about “The Long and Winding Road,” the Beatles song that had been released today.
“They say this is the very last one,” she said as she filled her fork with another bite of the casserole. “It’s so beautiful, it made me cry.” She looked at Hunter. “Honey, could you pick up the forty-five next time you go to civilization?” she asked.
Hunter slipped a forkful of chicken into John Paul’s gaping little mouth and I knew he hadn’t even heard her question.
“Hunter?” She gave his shoulder a nudge. “Where are you?” she asked. “You’re a million miles away.”
“Oh, sorry.” He turned to her with a smile. “Thinking about a project I’m working on, but I heard you. And yes, I’ll pick it up next week.”
“Thanks,” she said, then she sighed. “I really wish I was back in Raleigh this week so I could have gone to that candlelight service for the Kent State victims at UNC.”
“Me, too,” I agreed, although my mind was on my own problems at that moment.
“I was trying to imagine how those parents must feel,” Patti continued. “Imagine sending John Paul off to college where you think he’ll be perfectly safe and then losing him that way.” She shut her eyes in anguish. “Oh my God,” she said. “I would die.”
Hunter turned to look at her. “Don’t torment yourself over things that will never happen, babe,” he said, his voice patient and kind. He was always that way with Patti. He loved her, and whenever I saw that love between them, I felt both happy and wistful. I wanted Joe back.
I looked at the clock on the stove again. Six ten. In less than twelve hours, if I didn’t completely lose my nerve, I’d step off the end of the Nags Head Pier. I fully expected to land in the inky water, and if that happened, Hunter promised to jump in after me and make sure I could safely swim to shore. And where would that leave me, then, if this all turned out to be an elaborate ruse? No worse off than I was now, I figured, carrying a baby who wouldn’t survive outside my body.
Hunter had given me the mustard-yellow backpack that I recognized from five years ago when I helped him learn to use crutches in the rehab unit. I remembered someone telling me “that’s all he had with him.” I thought then that he might be homeless. He’d had a few clothes in the backpack along with a driver’s license bearing an address that didn’t exist. In the few days since Kent State—the few days since he’d convinced me he was truly from the future—those old facts about him began to come back to me and make sense. Now the mustard-colored backpack was mine. I had only one change of clothing in it, a nightgown, and some extra underwear. No driver’s license. No identification of any sort. My small brown leather purse was also in the backpack, my wallet filled with the twenty fifty-dollar bills he’d given me, along with some smaller bills in case I needed them, all of them bearing dates from the late 1990s. I’d stared at the dates, part of me still disbelieving. Hunter’s mother had invented a time-travel program? It sounded like a joke. On the outside pocket of the backpack, Hunter had put a slip of paper with his mother’s address, along with a handwritten list of the return portals he’d worked out for me. The dates and times differed on the list, but the location was always the same: exact center of the southern wall of the Gapstow Bridge in Central Park.
Hunter was worried about my clothes. Sitting there at the dinner table, I was already dressed in what I planned to wear when I stepped off the pier: the only pair of maternity jeans I owned that were not flared at the bottom and a UNC sweatshirt over a too-tight white cotton blouse that I hadn’t worn in years. The gauzy, loose peasant tops that I wore day in and day out wouldn’t do, Hunter told me. He was suddenly an expert on fashion.
Spending the evening with Patti and Hunter would be unbearable, I thought, so once the dishes were done, I pleaded exhaustion and went up to my room. I lay on my double bed, fully clothed, and simply stared at the ceiling for hours. I’d moved beyond fear, I thought. I was now deep, deep into curiosity. I set the alarm clock on my nightstand for 3 A.M., although I was certain I wouldn’t sleep. I didn’t know what 4:11 was going to bring me. Perhaps nothing. And if that happened, I would be sorely disappointed.
I didn’t sleep. I wondered what Joe would think about what I was about to do. He wouldn’t let me do it, I was certain. He’d always been so protective of me. I missed that pampering, although … there were times he acted as if I weren’t capable of doing something on my own without his help. Well, I’m doing something on my own now, I thought, and it’s a doozy.
All night long, I watched the minutes and hours tick by. At three o’clock, I got up, splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, and ran a comb through my hair. My hands trembled as I put my toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb into the backpack and zipped it shut. Then I walked quietly into the hallway. Outside the nursery, I rested my hand on the door. I had a sudden terrible feeling that I might never see John Paul again. Never see Patti again. For a few seconds, I considered changing my mind but I thought of my baby and the moment of indecision passed.
I padded softly down the stairs, avoiding the two steps that creaked. I found Hunter already in the kitchen, where he leaned against the counter, drinking coffee. He smiled at me.
“Ready for your great adventure?” he asked, his voice quiet.
I nodded. I tried to smile back at him but wasn’t sure I succeeded.
“I moved the car out to the street so we won’t wake Patti when I start it up.” He set his mug down on the counter, then reached in his jeans pocket and pulled out his watch. “Hold out y
our left hand,” he said.
I offered him my wrist. If he noticed the tremor in my hand, he didn’t mention it.
“Here’s your chronometer,” he said, slipping the gold watch over my hand. “I took a couple of links off the band. Looks like a perfect fit.”
I looked down at the chronometer. It was heavy. Definitely a man’s watch. It looked peculiar on my slim wrist.
“You don’t need to wind it,” Hunter said. “Be careful with it, although in 2001 you can easily replace it if necessary. Precise watches are a dime a dozen then, though this one is a cut above the rest. You need the precision to safely step off, all right? When you come back from New York, give yourself lots of time to get in position on that bridge. You can be off by twenty or thirty seconds, but don’t risk any more than that.”
I nodded, too nervous to speak.
“You ready?” he asked.
I nodded again. He put his hand on my elbow and we walked together out of the kitchen and through the living room. We left through the front door, closing it quietly behind us, and walked in the darkness down the long oyster-shell driveway to the road. Behind us, the never-ending roar of the ocean was marked every few seconds by the crash of waves hitting the shore. We didn’t speak as we got into the Impala, closing the car doors as softly as we could. He turned on the headlights and drove the mile and a half to the pier in a charged sort of silence. Parking on the side of the road by the pier entrance, he looked across the bench seat at me.
“Let’s do it,” he said, and I nodded and opened the door.
The pier lights sparkled against the night sky as we walked its length. The wood was quiet and forgiving beneath my sneakered feet, and I was aware of Hunter’s faint limp as we walked, the result of his broken ankle that had brought us together in the rehab ward years ago. A few early-morning fishermen stood at the railings holding their poles, buckets nearby for their catch. They paid no attention to us. The scent of fish and bait was strong and not at all unpleasant to me. I’d grown up with that scent and I breathed it in.
I knew I was to step off from the far end of the pier and I squinted into the darkness, trying to see if there were any fishermen down that far. I didn’t think so.
“What if someone sees us?” I asked as we walked. “Sees me? Stepping off.”
Hunter laughed. “They’ll think they’re seeing things,” he said. “‘Woman disappears in midair.’ They’ll think they need some sleep.”
We didn’t speak as we neared the end of the pier. The ocean was strangely quiet this far out, the sound of the waves far behind us. My heart was beginning to race. Hunter seemed to know.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, more to convince myself than him.
We reached the end of the pier with seven minutes to spare. I didn’t know if I wanted less time or more. I needed to do this before I lost my nerve. I rested my hands on the rough wooden railing and stared out to sea. To my left, the moonlight lay across the water like a narrow silver carpet, and my throat tightened. My beautiful Nags Head. I was afraid if I left it, I might never see it again.
“It’s a perfect night,” Hunter said. “Clear. Still air. We’re lucky.”
“Yes,” I agreed. I shivered beneath my sweatshirt, although the night was mild. I dared to lean forward. To peer over the railing into the water far below. It was mottled, black and green, and sprinkled with moonlight where it lapped against the pilings. For a moment, my head spun and I thought I might be sick. I gripped the railing tight, swallowing against the nausea.
“Do you have the list of return portals I gave you?” Hunter asked.
“Yes,” I said again. I looked at the chronometer. Nine minutes after four. Oh, God.
I felt Hunter’s hand rest softly on my back.
“If I land in the water,” I said, “it’ll ruin your chronometer.”
He chuckled. “You’re not going to land in the water,” he said. “Come here.” He turned me to face him, wrapping his arms around me. “We love you,” he said against my ear. “Come back to us with a healthy baby, all right?”
He let go of me and I nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Never in my life had I felt so nervous. I remembered the fear I’d felt when Joe died. I didn’t know how I’d be able to go on alone. But this fear was different. This was visceral. I felt it deep in the center of my body.
Hunter held out his hand to me. “Let’s get you to 2001,” he said.
I clutched his hand as I put one sneakered foot on the lowest slat of the railing.
“Atta girl,” he said.
I was holding his hand so tightly it had to hurt him as I placed my foot on the upper slat, then stepped onto the flat, rough wooden top of the railing. I squatted there so I could still hold his hand. The muscles in my legs shook so furiously that I was afraid I would slip.
“You’re doing great,” Hunter said.
I swallowed hard, listening to the water lap against the pilings far below me.
I have to do this, I thought. Have to. Have to.
“Don’t look down,” Hunter said, and I realized I’d lowered my gaze to the water again. I jerked my head up, still clutching his hand, and focused on the dark horizon. “Okay, now,” Hunter said, “when you stand up, you’ll have to let go of my hand.” He spoke slowly. Calmly. “I can see the face of the chronometer,” he said. “I’ll tell you when to straighten up and then you’ll immediately step off, all right? Immediately.”
I couldn’t do it. The muscles in my thighs seized up. “I don’t think I—”
“You’re going to be fine, Carly,” he cut me off. “I promise you.”
I heard myself whimper.
“Think of Joanna,” he said.
Closing my eyes, I thought of my baby. “I’m okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to Hunter.
“All right,” he said. “I’m going to count down for you. When I let go of your hand, stand up and step off. Ready?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
He was quiet for a few seconds. I heard my rapid breathing. The sound of my heartbeat in my ears.
“Here we go,” Hunter said. “Five, four, three, two, one. Stand up and step off.”
He freed his hand from mine. My legs wobbled and jerked as I straightened them and then, before I could change my mind, I leaped forward into the dark salt air.
10
April 2001
Princeton, New Jersey
A damp, earthy smell filled my head.
My eyes fluttered open and it took a moment for my vision to clear. I lay on my side, very still, my cheek pressed against short prickly grass. My left palm rested on a damp, brick-colored road or some sort of sidewalk. Slowly, cautiously, I pushed myself up into a seated position and felt the straps of the backpack tug on my shoulders. The world did a quick spin around my head and I shut my eyes, wondering if I was going to be sick. Was I alone out here? I felt a frightening isolation.
“Hunter?” I whispered.
No answer.
I swallowed once. Twice. Breathed in and out. I was all right. Opening my eyes again, I looked around me as the spinning settled down.
Heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky. There were buildings. A massive structure on my right. A stadium? There were other buildings in the distance, and trees nearby, only beginning to sprout their springtime leaves. I was sitting half on grass, half on that brick-colored surface. A road? No, a track. I saw a few people running on it in the distance. I heard the slap of their sneakers.
“Hey, are you all right?”
I turned my head toward the voice, the motion too quick, too jerky, and the buildings and grass and track spun one more time. Shutting my eyes, I bowed my head low, swallowing down the nausea.
“Are you all right?” the voice said again.
Lifting my head, I looked up at a tall black girl dressed in white shorts and a blue sleeveless top.
“I think I…” My voice sounded weak. “I think I just fell.”
I didn’t think I could possibly stand up, but I managed to scoot over enough that all of my body was on the damp grass rather than the track.
“Are you hurt?” the girl asked. There was concern in her dark eyes.
“I don’t think so,” I said. I remembered holding Hunter’s hand. It seemed like only a second had passed since I let go of him and stood up, wobbly and frightened, on the railing of the pier. I looked around me, wishing he had somehow come with me.
“You’re pregnant?” The girl seemed to notice how my sweatshirt stretched across my belly.
I nodded.
“And you seem sort of confused,” she added. “Did you hit your head when you fell? Maybe you should go to the hospital. Want me to call an ambulance for you?”
“Hey!” said a skinny brown-haired boy as he ran past us. He did an about-face, still running in place. “Is she okay?” he asked the girl as if I weren’t there.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” the girl said, but the lines between her eyebrows told me she wasn’t sure about that. I didn’t want her to call an ambulance. I made myself sit up straighter, shaking my head to try to clear it.
“I’m just trying to get to Princeton,” I said.
“You’re in Princeton,” the boy said, as he took off running again. “This is Princeton University,” he called back over his shoulder.
Oh my God. It worked. I wanted to ask the girl, still crouched in front of me, what year it was, but then she’d definitely call an ambulance.
“That’s great.” I tried to smile, hoping to look perfectly normal and healthy in her eyes. “Could you tell me how to get to a certain address?” I slipped the backpack from my shoulders and fumbled with the zippered pocket, my fingers trembling. Reaching inside, I pulled out the piece of paper bearing Hunter’s mother’s address. I handed it to the girl and watched her frown deepen.
The Dream Daughter Page 7
