“Imitations are my specialty,” she said, rising from the bow with a graceful flourish. “You should see my teenager impression.” A sad look crossed her face. “Do you ever get confused about what’s an imitation and what’s real?”
“It’s all the same,” Melly said, shutting her computer down.
They went down to lunch and clowned around until it was time for Anny Beth to leave for class and Melly to go baby-sit for the Rodneys. Kicking her shoes against the foam-rubber pavement as she walked across the street, Melly thought back to the E-mailed genealogy request. It was a shame, really, that she couldn’t write back to this A. J. Hazelwood and tell him or her everything about growing up in rural Kentucky. She could tell her grandfather’s stories about fighting in the Civil War, her grand-mother’s stories about helping fugitive slaves go north. . . . What genealogist wouldn’t kill for something like that?
Her mind still on the past, Melly knocked on the Rodneys’ door. Then she remembered what century she was in and punched the automated video-screen doorbell.
“Melly the baby-sitter is here,” a disembodied voice announced, the doorbell having recognized her fingerprint instantly.
“Oh, Melly, come on in,” Mrs. Rodney’s voice floated out of an unseen speaker.
The door opened on its own, and Melly stepped over the threshold into the foyer. The sounds of a computer game came from the next room. It was Melly’s opinion that kids in this century spent entirely too much time glued to their computers, but nobody had asked her. Mrs. Rodney came down the stairs, her beehive hairdo towering as high as ever. It swayed slightly as she walked.
“Melly, little Logan Junior has come down with a bad cold, so we won’t be needing you today. But I wanted to talk to you about something.” Mrs. Rodney peered intently into Melly’s face. Melly felt like she was being given a test—one Mrs. Rodney had already decided she would fail.
“And what is that?” Melly asked, as politely as possible.
“How old are you? Honestly?”
Melly hesitated. It had been so much easier even a few years ago, when she was in her twenties. People never expected grown-ups to be truthful about their age. She’d been able to live in the same place for entire decades without anyone noticing anything suspicious. Now that her unaging was going to be more conspicuous, would she have to start moving every year? How would she ever find someone to take care of her then?
“You have to answer, my dear,” Mrs. Rodney said. “As the employer of an age-challenged individual—”
Melly stifled the instinct to giggle. Oh, if Mrs. Rodney knew what a challenge Melly’s real age was!
“I have every right to ask for that information,” Mrs. Rodney finished. “And I have the right to check your records if I want.”
Melly gave up. She knew Mrs. Rodney was right.
“I’m fifteen,” she muttered. That’s what her records would say now. The agency changed them every year.
Mrs. Rodney leaned away from Melly, so far back that Melly half feared her beehive would topple her.
“That’s interesting,” Mrs. Rodney said. “I’m sure you said you were sixteen when we first hired you a year and a half ago.”
“Maybe I said, ‘almost sixteen,’” Melly mumbled.
Mrs. Rodney tapped her foot. “Hmm. If you were almost sixteen a year and a half ago, wouldn’t that make you sixteen now? Or—more likely, seventeen?” Melly had heard Mrs. Rodney use exactly this tone with Logan Junior, who was barely five. Melly felt the same kind of powerless rage a child feels. She suddenly sympathized with Logan Junior for his many out-of-control tantrums. But she was much too old for tantrums.
“Have you had any complaints about my work?” Melly asked stiffly.
“No,” Mrs. Rodney replied. “Not until now. But this makes me wonder—if you lied to me about your age, what else would you lie about? Anyhow, I really want a baby-sitter who could drive Logan Junior to the hospital in an emergency. I thought you said you could do that.”
“I . . .” Melly knew she had no defense. Why hadn’t she anticipated this conversation? Had she been risking exposing her secret by baby-sitting at all? And how could she have ever possibly thought Mrs. Rodney might be the person she wanted as a surrogate mother in the coming years?
“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Rodney said, settling back into sweetness now that she’d made her point. “I’m sure you’ll understand this when you’re a bit more mature. Here’s some money to thank you for your time today.”
She shoved a folded bill into Melly’s pocket. Then, before Melly fully realized it, Mrs. Rodney had spun her around and propelled her toward the door.
“Good-bye, dear,” Mrs. Rodney said. “I hope there are no hard feelings. Logan Junior thinks very highly of you. I’m sure we’ll see you around the neighborhood.”
Melly couldn’t answer. She stomped out the door and back into her own house. How dare Mrs. Rodney act like that! Even if Melly only counted her second lifetime, Melly had been taking care of kids since before Mrs. Rodney was out of diapers. Melly even had a master’s degree in early childhood education, not that her alma mater would recognize her anymore. It just wasn’t fair that Melly couldn’t defend herself with all the facts.
Back in her own bedroom Melly flung herself across the bed and sobbed into her pillow. Being a teenager stunk. Why hadn’t she remembered how bad it was—mostly having to act like a grown-up but still being treated like a child? And it was worse now because she really was a grown-up, no matter how young she looked and felt. She raised her head and stared into the mirror above the bureau.
Her brown hair hung long and straight on either side of her face, in the style of the day. Her features were delicate—the last time she’d been fifteen, she’d been proud of her rosebud mouth but despaired of her button nose. Of course, nobody nowadays compared features to anything as rustic as flowers or buttons. What were they now—light-switch-size nose, computer-icon-shaped mouth? The thought made her grin, in spite of herself, revealing the small chip in her front tooth. It was the remnant of a wild horse-and-buggy ride back in 1912. The agency people always marveled at her teeth—she was the only one in Project Turnabout who still had her original set. (Of course, even her teeth wouldn’t have survived if it hadn’t been for the invention of Perfect Toothpaste in the early 2030s.) The last dentist she’d gone to, back in 2025, before the occupation went the way of blacksmiths and typewriter manufacturers, had wanted to fix the chipped tooth. “It would be such an easy thing,” he had wheedled. But Melly had refused, without explaining why. That chip had been with her for more than a century. It was one of the things she counted on about herself, one of the things that didn’t change with age. She didn’t cheat at cards, she liked licorice, she had a chipped front tooth. “She didn’t lie” would have been on the list once too, but Project Turnabout had changed all that.
Now she switched on the bureau lamp, hoping the brighter light would scare up some wrinkles, make her look older. But, no—her skin was as smooth and taut as any teenager’s. Between the long hair, the small face, and the chipped tooth, she could pass for much younger than fifteen—maybe even twelve. No wonder Mrs. Rodney was suspicious.
Melly was just beginning to feel some forgiveness for the other woman when the phone rang. Melly quickly wiped her eyes and nose, and switched on the receiver port on her computer. Mrs. Rodney’s face appeared on the screen.
“Oh, Melly, I’m such a ninny. I forgot to tell you—before I asked you about your age—someone called my house yesterday. A woman named A. J. Hazelwood.”
Melly felt her brow begin to furrow, her jaw begin to drop in astonishment. She could believe that someone might be E-mailing every Hazelwood on the planet. But calling? And calling neighbors? This was serious. Someone was definitely after her. Don’t think about it. Act normal for Mrs. Rodney, she told herself. Get rid of her and then worry.
Fortunately Mrs. Rodney was still talking. “She just left a message on my machine because I was in the bathtub at the ti
me. . . . She said she was trying to get in touch with you, but you and your sister have unlisted numbers, so she was calling neighbors—you aren’t in any trouble, are you?”
“No, no, of course not,” Melly replied, struggling to keep her voice even, her expression bland. Why in the world had people thought it was a good thing to see each other on the telephone?
“Well, I just wondered because—I know I’m probably out of line asking this, but you know I’m just concerned for you—you and your sister aren’t runaways, are you?”
Melly forced out a laugh, trying to make it sound surprised and insulted and childish all at once. “Is that what you thought? Oh, no. Believe me, Anny Beth and I aren’t runaways.”
But suddenly she understood. Mrs. Rodney hadn’t really been worried about Melly being too young to take care of Logan Junior at all. She was afraid that Melly was a runaway. Melly vaguely remembered hearing something in the news about people being arrested for taking advantage of runaway children.
“So who is this A. J. Hazelwood?” Mrs. Rodney asked.
Melly scrunched up her face, as if she was thinking hard. Which she was.
“I think I remember something about some old relative—a great-aunt or somebody—with those initials,” Melly said. “I’ll ask Anny Beth.”
Melly could tell Mrs. Rodney wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Why didn’t this A. J. person ask for Anny Beth instead of you? Since she’s older.”
“Maybe it’s because of the name. You know, since Anny Beth’s the first child, she has my dad’s name, Flick, and since I’m second, I have my mom’s name, Hazelwood.” For perhaps the first time in her second lifetime Melly was glad that society was really confused about what to do with inherited names. “It’s probably nothing. Can I have the woman’s number?”
“Maybe I should call her for you. . . .”
It took every bit of acting skill Melly had learned in the past eighty-four years to pretend that that suggestion didn’t worry her. “I guess you could, but I’m sure Anny Beth will want to talk to her too. Then that would be two calls. And aren’t the authorities discouraging unnecessary calls? To keep the phone lines free for standard computer use or something?”
Mrs. Rodney flushed on the computer screen, and Melly realized she’d scored a direct hit. The authorities would probably consider Mrs. Rodney’s call to Melly unnecessary, since they lived so close.
“So what’s the number?” Melly forged on.
Mumbling, Mrs. Rodney told her.
“But you’ll let me know what this is about?” Mrs. Rodney added.
“Sure,” Melly said, thinking, Not on your life.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Rodney said. “If this all clears up, maybe you can come over and we can talk some more about whether you’re responsible enough to take care of Logan Junior. Maybe with some supervision . . .”
Melly decided Logan Junior must really be driving her crazy this afternoon and she hadn’t been able to find another baby-sitter. But Melly didn’t have time to worry about Mrs. Rodney’s problems.
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. “Hey, I think I hear Anny Beth calling. Gotta go. See you later, Mrs. R.”
Melly shut down the connection. Once she didn’t have to act for Mrs. Rodney, her hands began shaking too hard for her to type on the computer. She switched on the verbal command system.
“Computer,” she directed. “Get that E-mail message I received yesterday and tell me everything in the sender’s data profile.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the computer said.
In the second it took the computer to search for what Melly wanted, Melly heard Anny Beth come in downstairs. Got to tell her, Melly thought disjointedly. Got to find out—
The computer began answering.
“Sender has blocked all information except name and occupation,” the computer said.
“And they are?” Melly asked. She was trembling violently now.
“A. J. Hazelwood. Reporter,” the computer said.
Melly scrambled up so quickly her chair flipped backward.
“Anny Beth!” she screamed. “Start packing. We’ve got to get out of here!”
April 23, 2085
We’re in a hotel now, after driving all night. Anny Beth thinks we’re safe.
“But you used your debit card to pay the bill. And can’t our license be traced by satellite?” I protested.
“Didn’t you pay any attention in privacy class in college?” she asked. “All that stuff’s off-limits. Except for cops. And as far as I know, we don’t have the police after us.”
Still. I don’t trust reporters.
I made Anny Beth plug in her computer so we could see the TV news. Earthquakes in Mexico, typhoons in India, some political scandal out of Washington. Nothing about two super-old ladies who happen to look like teenagers. So maybe Anny Beth’s right, and we are safe. But how did this reporter find out about me in the first place? And why does she have my name?
Anny Beth’s still watching TV. A game show. The category’s twentieth-century history. I don’t think she’s got a single question right yet, which is pretty funny when you think about it. She just threw a pillow at the computer screen.
I feel like throwing things too. But I’m not that kind of a person. Am I? I don’t really feel like I know who I am. It’s something about being in a hotel room—I think they’re the same the world over now. Same sterile glasses by the ice bucket. Same stainless-steel countertops in the bathroom. Same bland white disposable bedding. It all says, “Who are you to have an identity when I don’t?”
I’ve had so many identities in my lifetime I hardly remember them all. The first time around I was always pretty much the same person. I just got older. But this time . . . I even changed my name. The first thirty years or so I was Amelia, the old lady. Then I was Amy for years and years. That was when I was a nurse, when I was a preschool teacher, when I was busy, busy, busy. I didn’t become Melly until I turned twenty and people started reacting to “Amy” with wrinkled noses and comments like, “What—were you named after your great-grandmother? Yuck!” I guess “Amy” was so associated with the 1960s and 1970s that no one could believe a young girl would be called that.
You wouldn’t think it would matter, but I felt different when I was Amelia, when I was Amy, when I became Melly. I envy Anny Beth, who has always been just herself. She’s the same here as she would be at home or on Mars.
I don’t know why I’m babbling on about names and identities when I should be focused on practical matters. Finding a new place to live. Getting new E-mail identities. Starting new lives. We’ll have to notify the agency, of course, but Anny Beth and I agreed we should sleep on it first so we’ll have the strength to resist their suggestions. We already know what they’ll say: “Come back. Come back.”
When we were in the car, driving and driving and driving, we each made a list of what really mattered to us. (It’s some exercise Anny Beth learned about at college.) “Not getting caught by that reporter” was only number two.
Number one on both of our lists was still “Staying out of the agency.”
April 21, 2001
Dr. Reed and Dr. Jimson got married.
They had one ceremony for all their friends and family “on the outside,” then a second in the conference room at the agency. Cheers went up when the justice of the peace declared them “man and wife.”
Afterward, while Amelia waited in line for punch, she heard the justice of the peace congratulating Dr. Reed again before leaving. She had a new hearing aid in that amplified different sounds. Her last hearing aid dated back to the 1980s, when she first began going deaf; it hadn’t seemed worth updating when she was about to die. But now the agency was urging all sorts of new things on them. She was still adjusting to being able to hear people talk several yards away. So she listened intently to Dr. Reed and the justice.
“I must say,” the justice of the peace said in his clipped, educated-sounding voice, “I’ve
never seen a group of nursing home residents so devoted to their director.”
“Oh, they’re just like our children, to Trina and me,” Dr. Reed said.
Amelia turned enough to see the justice’s puzzled expression.
“Don’t you mean grandparents?” he asked.
Dr. Reed laughed. “Oh, some old people have a lot in common with kids,” he said, and exuberantly shook the justice’s hand again.
The nurse’s aide handed Amelia her punch then, warning, “There’s a lot of sherbet in that one. Very rich!” and Amelia lost track of the other conversation. She rolled her chair forward and automatically put the cup to her lips, but the treat was tainted for her now. Did Dr. Reed and Dr. Jimson really consider Amelia and the others mere children? Kids? She longed to go over and tell him off, but it seemed a little rude at his own wedding. She could wait. She had years and years and years now.
“Hey, Mrs. Hazelwood! Come on over here!” It was Dr. Jimson beckoning her toward the cake table.
After Dr. Reed’s comments Dr. Jimson’s tone seemed a little too familiar, but Amelia decided she was being overly sensitive. She steered her chair toward Dr. Jimson. Dr. Jimson bent down and put her arms around Amelia’s shoulders.
“Happy birthday!” she said.
Amelia gaped. Was it really her birthday? What was the date? Back at the nursing home they’d had calendars everywhere, as if to make the residents think they’d made some great accomplishment just by surviving another day. But here the calendars were in the background. A day, even a year, no longer had the same significance.
But evidently birthdays were still noteworthy.
Dr. Reed tapped a fork against a glass to get everyone’s attention. People began gathering around the doctors and the cake table.
“Speech! Speech!” someone yelled. It was Mr. Johnson. Ever since the night Louise died, he had become increasingly talkative.
Dr. Reed laughed appreciatively. Dr. Jimson unwrapped her arms from around Amelia and stepped forward. “We just wanted to share this happy occasion—”
Turnabout Page 5
