“I’m about to tell you something very strange. But please just listen to me and try to keep an open mind, okay? No interruptions. No questions until I’m finished. Okay?”
Kerrigan still looked sullen, but she sat down on the curb next to Olive, five feet away, and started to unstrap her high heels.
Olive told her about New Year’s Day and how she had woken up in the wrong year. She told her about Sherry’s visit and disclosure. The bad trip to Lake Geneva last year, the horrible mistake she had made after it, and Phil’s subsequent reaction.
“He couldn’t forgive me, so we were just over. We went on without each other for the rest of the year, and then New Year’s Eve 2011 came along. I was working in the ICU, living in a condo on my own, and then—boom—the next morning I woke up in bed with Phil in his old apartment, and it’s like nothing happened.” She stood up on the curb in her bare feet and balanced on the edge. “Something wonderful is happening to me, Kerrigan. I’ve been given a fresh start with Phil.” She stretched her arms open to the night sky. “With everything.”
She turned to Kerrigan. “Do you believe me?” She tried to keep the pleading, childish note out of her voice. It was so important that someone she cared about understand her and what she’d been through.
Kerrigan raised her hand for Olive to help her from her seated position. “I’m sorry you’ve been going through this alone, sweetie. It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.” She shielded her eyes with her palm as a pair of headlights focused on them. Their cab had finally arrived to take them home.
Chapter 12
It didn’t take long for Olive to discover that Kerrigan didn’t really believe her. The next morning, she lay in bed until almost noon, headachy and nauseated, flip-flopping between reactions of delight and complete horror at what she had confided to Kerrigan the night before. How thrilling to have another confidante (who wasn’t Sherry) in her repeat year! Yet the things she’d told Kerrigan! Oh, God, almost everything about Phil and Alex. And Kerrigan, bless her heart, was not always the most closemouthed person. The first time Olive had met Kerrigan’s sister, Ciara had asked how she was doing after a minor surgery she’d had to remove an ovarian cyst. Olive’s own brother and sister-in-law hadn’t even known about the procedure.
When she finally stumbled to the fridge for a glass of orange juice, she found a note stuck there with a Bucky Badger magnet.
Good morning, Crazy Girl! Hope you’re not too hungover. Tailgating and Brewer game today—won’t be back until 7:00 or so. Stay away from alcohol and cute doctors, okay?
Olive ripped up the note and hid it under some paper towels and a banana peel in the trash. Crazy girl? That didn’t sound very promising. And it wasn’t. When Kerrigan got home that night, she told Olive all about the game and avoided any mention of last night’s exploits. Olive cautiously followed her lead. The next night, as Kerrigan was leaving for a party, she called over her shoulder, “Any mystical hunches tonight, roomie? Will I meet the man of my dreams?” It was then that Olive knew with certainty that Kerrigan had viewed her bizarre admission as a joke. A stupid, drunken joke. And the note and teasing quip were her ways of letting Olive know she was forgiving her foolishness as well as her flirtations with Alex.
She tried to feel relieved. It was like confessing to a crime in a burst of conscience, and then realizing the other person was asleep or hard of hearing. Safe again, thank goodness. She tried not to feel hurt or offended; if their roles were reversed, she doubted she would’ve believed her absurd monologue, either. But a small blot of hopelessness started to grow in size. If her own best friend didn’t trust her enough to believe in the repeat year . . .
And then two weeks after their girls’ night out, Olive returned from a run to find Kerrigan sitting, chin in hand, at the bottom of the pink stairs. The sun was still high overhead, even though it was early evening. Olive slowed to a walk and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her heart was already pounding from the exercise, but it sped up when she saw Kerrigan waiting for her. Something had happened. Something that had shaken Kerrigan up very badly. Her eyes glittered in a familiar way: the way Olive’s had when she’d looked into the mirror at the start of the year, questioning her own sanity.
“Hey,” Olive said. “Is everything all right?” She pulled her sneakered foot against her butt and stretched out her sore quadriceps. Kerrigan stared at her as though a sparkly white horn had just sprouted from the middle of her forehead. Olive released her foot and tried to step around her.
Kerrigan’s skinny arms shot out to block the stairway. “We need to talk.”
Olive backed up. “Sure. Out here?” The yard looked particularly public and wide open with its huge swath of parched grass and constant parade of passersby on the sidewalk: runners, bikers, skateboarders, couples strolling hand in hand.
“No. We’d better go inside.” Kerrigan stood up and trooped upstairs, looking back once as if to make sure Olive was following her.
They sat in front of the box fan in the living room. The breeze cooled Olive’s flushed skin and fluttered the loose strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Kerrigan sat at the other end of the couch, her knees bouncing nervously.
“I met someone today. Clay Brennan. He ropes calves in rodeos. I need you to be totally honest with me. Did you set me up with him?” She gave Olive a hard look.
Olive stared back, unsure how to respond. She suddenly remembered the silly, offhanded prediction—which had been a very real prediction—she had made about Kerrigan’s love life that night. It had now come true, and Kerrigan was spooked. “No,” she finally said. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“Dammit, Olive. You told me I would meet a rodeo cowboy named Clay, and I did. So either you arranged for us to meet, or . . .”
“I can see the future?” Olive suggested softly.
Kerrigan leaped up from the couch and strode to the window. “What the hell is going on? You spouted all this nonsense about time travel that night we went out, and I humored you because you were drunk, and I thought you were inventing some crazy metaphor to make yourself feel better about having feelings for someone other than Phil. But then I meet this guy that you told me I would meet, and suddenly I’m wondering how much more you know about what’s going to happen this year.” She turned to face Olive, and the late sunlight illuminated her silhouette.
“I was telling you the truth that night,” Olive said. “I’ve already lived 2011 once before. I went to bed at the end of the year—New Year’s Eve—and woke up at the beginning of the same year—New Year’s Day.”
Kerrigan crossed her arms and chewed on her lower lip. “If that’s really the case, tell me who will win the World Series.”
She laughed. “You know I don’t pay attention to sports!” She bet Sherry knew who would win, though. “Ask me something I’d know.”
“I don’t know! Tell me something impressive. Convince me.”
Olive scanned her memory of the year for a piece of information capable of converting a nonbeliever. There were no election results to report, and many of the major news stories she could’ve impressed Kerrigan with, like the killing of Osama bin Laden, had already happened. Reciting her patients’ health problems wouldn’t mean much to Kerrigan. She suddenly realized how wrapped up in her job she had become since college, how much a part of her identity it had become. She’d been so busy just surviving last year—just getting through her first year in the ICU, getting over Phil, trying to get settled into her new life on her own—that she hadn’t paid much attention to the world at large.
“Well, in December, all the U.S. troops will finally be withdrawn from Iraq, and the war will be formally declared over.”
Kerrigan leaned against the back of the couch. “Holy shit. You’re serious.” Her weight rocked the couch backward, so that it stood on only two legs, and Olive was momentarily off-kilter, feeling as though she woul
d fall.
They lay on the geometric rug with their legs propped up against the couch, a bag of red licorice between them. Kerrigan had wanted to hear first about her own life, and Olive repeated what little she knew—the move to Sun Prairie, her continued employment at the university. Though she didn’t come right out and tell her that their close friendship had become strained and distant last year, Kerrigan seemed to pick up on it. “Was I happy?” she asked, and Olive had to admit that she didn’t know. At one point, Olive thought she might be crying, but when she turned to check, Kerrigan seemed transfixed by the water-damaged ceiling instead. One large yellowish patch looked like a shark to Olive; another small stain resembled Louisiana.
Then Kerrigan wanted to hear about Phil and Alex, and Olive found herself admitting details she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on since the start of the year. How the loneliness in the weeks before her mom’s wedding had led her back to Alex’s arms. She’d told him that their affair had ended her relationship with her longtime boyfriend. He told her that he’d been engaged to someone throughout most of medical school, but he’d called it off because they hadn’t had anything in common anymore, hadn’t understood each other. Since then, he’d vowed to date only other doctors—or nurses, he added for Olive’s benefit.
They fell into a nocturnal rhythm, sleeping until four in the afternoon, eating BLTs at the kitchen island. Most of their time was spent at Olive’s condo because the complex had a large, kidney-shaped swimming pool. Since many of her neighbors came home from work and ate their dinner at that time of day, they often had the whole pool to themselves. Alex swam laps, and Olive sunned herself in the late-afternoon rays. Sometimes a stray kid surprised them as they touched each other teasingly in the shallow end.
At work, they acted as if nothing was going on but fooled no one. When Alex tried to kiss her in the locker room, she slipped out of his grasp, still haunted by their first encounter. Before they fell asleep in the mornings, they talked about their shared patients in great detail, but Olive soon found this was the only thing she could talk to him about. He was enthusiastic about her mom’s destination wedding, encouraging her to take scuba lessons, missing the point entirely. And when she tried to explain the loss of her dad, he was more interested in the type of leukemia he had and what kind of treatments they had tried than how his death had affected Olive.
Kerrigan rolled over onto her side so that they were facing each other. “I’m sorry I made us join him and his friends for drinks. I would never have done that if I’d known. There’s clearly still something between you guys.”
“No.” Olive shook her head. “Weren’t you listening to me? He’s not right for me at all. I want to be with Phil.”
“Of course you do. But that doesn’t mean you’re not still attracted to Alex. You work with him all the time, he’s hot, and he thinks you’re badass. How could you not be attracted to him?”
Olive didn’t answer. Alex was a risqué diary page she wanted to tear out entirely. Why couldn’t Kerrigan just leave it be?
Kerrigan paused, as if waiting for a response, and when she didn’t get one, she asked, “Did you ever try to get back together with Phil?”
She tried not to think about the pathetic voice mail she had left that he had never returned, the nights of insomnia where she longed to call him and pour her heart out, the days when she drove out of her way just to pass the high school and glimpse his car. When she heard through the grapevine that his mom had had knee surgery, she called to hear him say in a tight voice, “She’s fine. Thanks for calling.” After she saw him in the coffee shop with the redheaded teacher, she began to fathom how far gone she and Phil really were.
She shook her head. “He wouldn’t take me back.”
“And presumably he doesn’t know any of this now?”
“No.”
“This is why you turned him down when he proposed?”
“Yes.”
The fan turned the pages of a magazine on the coffee table. It was dark now. Olive didn’t know how late it was. She waited for Kerrigan to ask when she was going to tell Phil the truth. She waited for an indictment to come, but if Kerrigan was thinking it, she didn’t say anything.
Olive sat up. She reached for a piece of licorice, one of the last left in the bag, and curled it around her finger like a ring. She had wanted to feel reassured in the way these talks normally reassured her. Sprawled on the living room floor or hanging off the end of Olive’s bed, eating licorice or gummy bears or microwave popcorn like a couple of thirteen-year-olds, they had talked about everything in their eight years of friendship. They had talked their troubles into nonexistence, swept them into a place so far away from the pink house that they ceased to matter. And though the living room was bright and safe, and Kerrigan, who now knew the whole truth about her repeat year and actually believed her, was close beside her, Olive’s troubles had not gone away; they were only waiting for her on the front stoop, nosing against the door like stray cats, begging to be let in.
Kerrigan sat up, too, drawing her knees to her chest. “If I were you, I’d go for it. Say yes. God, you’re lucky. It’s like you’ve got fresh eyes to reevaluate your life. Sometimes I feel so directionless. Like I’m just groping around in the dark.”
“I still feel like that.” She realized it was a kind of apology, for being the one who’d been given a second chance. For not doing better.
Kerrigan walked to the window again, but with the lights on in the apartment, Olive didn’t think she could see beyond her own reflection.
“Is Clay worth my while?”
“I don’t know how to answer that. I never met him. Besides, what makes a relationship ‘worthwhile’? Do you have to end up marrying the guy?”
Kerrigan didn’t turn around. “Just tell me how long we last.”
“Two or three months, maybe. But listen. This isn’t just my year. You can change outcomes, too. Maybe Clay is the one for you. Maybe you didn’t give him a fair shake the first time around. Or maybe not. Just don’t give up, Kerrigan.”
“Even though half the year is over, and I’ve accomplished nothing? Even though you’ve just informed me I have nothing to look forward to in the second half? More monotonous work, another breakup, moving in with Ciara when you move out on me?”
Olive had seen her get this upset on only one other occasion. When they’d met in college their freshman year, Kerrigan had had few female friends. Most of the girls in their dorm were intimidated by her effortless beauty, her ease with boys. It had been difficult for Olive to accept at first, too. Then one night, Olive and Kerrigan came home to find that someone had carved the word SLUT into Kerrigan’s door. Kerrigan had broken down like a small, vulnerable child. Olive soothed her, and together they covered the door with postcards from Olive’s collection—a Japanese woodcutting of a snow-capped mountain, a black and white of the Arc de Triomphe—and vintage Vogue covers. Still, it had been hard to forget what was etched into the wood underneath, and they were both ready to move out of the dorm at the year’s end, but not before Kerrigan had discovered the vandal’s identity and started a dormwide rumor that the girl was sleeping with her chemistry professor to get an A.
Olive stepped alongside Kerrigan and met her ghostly eyes in the window reflection. “You don’t see me going anywhere, do you? I’m not moving out. And as for this knowing what the future holds—well, it sucks, and I’d be one to know, right? It can make you feel trapped at first, like you don’t have the power to change anything. But you have to get past that. You have to get to a place where you realize you’re the only one who’s been standing in your way all along.”
She was finally starting to believe that herself.
“Master of my fate, captain of my soul, and all that garbage?” Kerrigan asked with a hint of a smile.
“Yes,” Olive said. “All of that garbage.” She started to close the blinds. “You’re not
going to tell anyone, are you?”
Kerrigan rolled her eyes. “Who would believe me?”
Chapter 13
It was a hot, muggy afternoon. Olive’s black steering wheel scorched her hands, so she drove with her fingertips. College girls in sundresses and flip-flops walked lazily down the streets. Sailboats drifted in the distance, looking like bobbing seagulls as she curved her way around the lake to Maple Bluff.
The weeks leading up to her mom’s wedding had spilled into each other like waves at high tide. June 25 had seemed so far away, but now it was already the day before they left for St. Lucia. Olive couldn’t believe she was almost halfway through her year. All her good intentions—helping her mom prepare for the wedding, reaching out to her brother, checking in on Sherry after her mastectomy—had never become more than intentions.
When she wasn’t working, she and Phil were taking Cashew to the dog park, eating at little sidewalk cafés on State Street, or tumbling into bed together. Just the other day, she’d gotten off work at seven in the morning, positively ravenous for him. Instead of going home to bed like she usually did, she picked up his favorite coffee drink, a large hazelnut latte, and drove to his apartment. He answered the door with his shirt unbuttoned, his tie slung around his neck, and his hair still damp from the shower, and she couldn’t help herself; she’d thrown herself into his arms and almost made him late for his first-period class. After he managed to leave, she burrowed into his bed and slept for eight hours, then showered, climbed back into bed, and waited for him to get home for another round. It was intoxicating, just like the year they had first met, and she felt like a lovesick college student again.
But she hadn’t heard from Sherry since their chance encounter at the hospital, and the image of her—washed-out, vulnerable, alone—gnawed at Olive and disrupted her otherwise rose-colored summer. Sherry needed help, even if she didn’t want it, and Olive was clearly the one to give it. She was most likely the only one in Sherry’s life who even knew about her breast cancer, and she was definitely the only one who knew about the repeating. There were only sixteen hours to go until her flight, and she hadn’t even started packing, but she needed to see Sherry.
The Repeat Year Page 17
