Return to Yesterday

by Abbie Williams

  Robbie agreed to meet me at the small bar we’d frequented in college, a trendy dive located one floor below sidewalk level and where the atmosphere on a later-winter Thursday night proved every bit as raucous as I recalled. It was within walking distance of the condo so I bundled into a scarf and boots and scurried seven blocks through bustling crowds and heavy, honking traffic, keeping my chin lowered against the brisk wind. My every heartbeat sobbed for Case and our unborn baby, for our trailer in the Montana foothills and the life I needed more than air or water – the one which would never again be mine unless I could change things back.

  You’re strong enough, I repeated, until the words became a litany to counteract blatant desolation. You are strong enough to face this.

  “Gordon!” Robbie waved from the bar and I experienced a blast of déjà vu, a rush of unreality so potent I had to brace a hand against a chair to remain upright. I saw the way his expression changed, registering surprise – even more so as I engulfed him in a hug upon reaching him, squeezing with real force and holding on well past the point of normalcy. He couldn’t understand; how could he possibly realize?

  “What the hell?” He drew away at last to study my face. He was flawlessly tanned, smooth-skinned and spit-shined, same as always. Clad in posh clothing and smelling of some expensive cologne as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Feigning overt concern as he examined my face, he concluded, “Gordon, your vacation did zero good. Zippo, zilcho. You look like something the cat ate and regurgitated. No offense, baby doll.”

  “None taken,” I muttered wryly. If only he knew how little I cared about my current appearance.

  “Sit, talk,” he ordered, then leaned immediately closer, positioning his mouth near my left ear. “Tell me the truth, as my friend. How did you know?”

  I knew he was referring to Christina and leaned back to search his eyes, wondering how much to trust him with; further, I realized I had to tell him what I knew about his death before I left this place.

  Tonight, I decided, and faltered only a little. It was not a conversation one could well prepare for, let alone initiate.

  “Tish, come on. My nuts are on the line here. And I’m pretty damn attached to them.”

  “It doesn’t matter how I know. She’s bad news, Rob, trust me. Horrible news.” I shifted on the bar stool, responding to an uncomfortable twinge in my gut. I lowered my voice. “Besides, my dad is screwing her, too.”

  “Shit, how do you know about that?” Robbie appeared dumbfounded, his spine straightening as if electrocuted.

  “I know way more than I wish I did, believe me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tell me about work,” I requested rather than elaborating. “What do you know about Ron or Christina’s connection with the Yancys?”

  “Can I at least have a drink to accompany this interrogation?”

  We ordered our old favorite, gin and tonic; two limes for Robbie. He bypassed the skinny cocktail straw and drained half his glass but I set mine aside without a sip. I could not stop thinking of the way Case had looked at me when we were standing alongside the corral three nights ago. Of how he’d held my wrists and wanted to believe what I was telling him. I bit the insides of my cheeks hard enough to leave wounds, willing myself not to cry. I imagined Camille out of control with grief, throwing a glass at Eddie’s pool table, and the urge to weep intensified.

  Tish, focus.

  I gathered my wits and cut to the chase. “I need any and all available information on Franklin Yancy. I have reason to believe he’s dangerous, potentially criminally insane.”

  “Wait a second. What are you talking about?” I was relieved to hear that the level of skepticism in Robbie’s tone was middling rather than explicit. He was attempting to remain open-minded out of respect for me.

  “Just go with me here. I need information. If possible, I have to find him.”

  “You ‘have’ to find a criminally insane man whose family could purchase its own major airline or tropical island?” Robbie searched my eyes with more sincerity than I’d once thought him capable. “What is this about? Why the sudden interest in the Yancys at all? You’ve always done your best to avoid them, especially Derrick.”

  It didn’t matter that Derrick wouldn’t remember anything about our original timeline – or so I hoped. I clung to the knowledge that Derrick had become my recent, unexpected ally; he was also the last person I’d spoken with before everything in my world changed. I calculated the odds of his willingness to join us this evening and actually consider as factual what I would tell him. I recalled his opinion about Franklin/Fallon losing touch with reality and what I’d learned regarding Derrick’s motives. Loyalty to his family only went so far; he recognized the threat Fallon presented and had been ready to take action despite the potential danger to himself. In short, Derrick Yancy was a better man than I had once believed. My perception of him had undergone a complete turnaround. But would the Derrick of this timeline be of the same opinion about his ancestor?

  You have to chance it.

  Robbie continued to wait for an explanation, tapping his empty glass atop the bar, ice clinking in conveyance of his growing impatience.

  “Here, finish mine,” I muttered, stalling.

  “You haven’t even started it.” He accepted my glass and drained its contents. But it took a lot more than two gins to get Robbie drunk. His eyes were troubled, tanned forehead creased with concern; of course he couldn’t understand my unwillingness to sip booze when I’d been so recently pregnant. Though the baby was no longer a part of my physical being she was safely rooted within my heart and I refused to damage even the essence of her.

  Robbie ordered a third round, allowing me a moment to regroup, before insisting quietly, “You can trust me with this. Whatever it is, I swear. It’s something huge, isn’t it?”

  The image of the glossy, expensive coffin his parents had selected for him loomed in my memory and pain blazed along my nerves. The chapel in which his funeral service had been held was only a few blocks from where we currently sat. I winced, gritting my teeth, and surprised him yet again by gripping his wrist, my fingers curled like claws.

  “You might not believe me.”

  “I will, I swear. Jesus, Tish.”

  I drew a fortifying breath. “The thing is I think you may have already guessed the truth in the place I just came from.” The word ‘dead’ fused to my tongue. “Robbie, do you trust me?”

  He nodded, the expression in his baby blue irises a clear combination of bewilderment and anticipation – that of anyone waiting breathlessly for the revelation of a substantial secret.

  I held fast to his wrist. No more delaying. “In the life I just came from, you were…dead. I think Franklin Yancy killed you.”

  Blank shock for several silent seconds.

  Then he squinted as though attempting to focus, as if this would lend clarity to what I’d just said. He whispered, “Killed me?”

  “I know this seems insane, Robbie, but you said you trusted me. Trust me with this. I’ve never been more serious.”

  Robbie’s squint only grew more pronounced. “Tish, hang the fuck on. Assuming you’re correct, why would Franklin Yancy have me killed? I doubt he even knows I exist. I don’t have any dealings with him and I never have. He’s only about a hundred rungs higher than me on the social ladder.”

  “I don’t have all the answers,” I admitted, retaining my hold on his wrist, the better to impress my sincerity upon him. “My best guess is that you discovered the truth about him. Somehow. Your last text to me suggested that you’d unearthed something big regarding Franklin. You were investigating at the time, you were my eyes and ears at the firm.” I winced, overcome by regret that I’d ever asked of him such a dangerous thing. “And evidence further suggests that Franklin and Christina are connected, probably intimately. I think you confided in her and that nasty bitch told him. Franklin’s ability is the Yancys’ biggest secret.”

  “Hold up. What do
you mean, his ‘ability?’ I’m so fucking confused.”

  “I’ll explain.”

  Thirty minutes later, safely ensconced in a more private booth near the entrance, I’d related to Robbie everything I knew. Despite his initial shock I knew he believed me, agreeing that we should enlist Derrick’s immediate help. And so Robbie had messaged Derrick via various social media avenues, requesting his presence at the bar. I restrained any fledgling sense of hope; it was too easy to assume Derrick would either refuse or simply blow us off, but he responded within a few minutes.

  “We’d do well to keep our expectations low,” Robbie warned, setting aside his phone. “He only agreed to join us out of macabre curiosity. And of course because you’re here. He wanted you bad. Still does, I’m sure.” He tried for a hint of teasing to counteract his stun at the information I’d divulged, eyeing me with a wicked set to his brows. “Fastest way to extract answers from him is to promise the debauchery of his choice in return.”

  “I’d rather jump from the nearest ledge.”

  Robbie leaned forward over his forearms, nothing but earnest now. “Whatever it takes, whatever you need, I’m with you. I hope you know that.” A grimace crinkled his features as he added, “And not just because I want to avoid being dead.”

  “I know, I really do. Thank you.” Moisture filmed my eyes and I grabbed for a cocktail napkin.

  “Dry up those tears, he’s here.” Robbie sat facing the entrance and therefore commanded a clear view of anyone entering or exiting.

  I turned in time to see Derrick removing a scarf as he scanned the crowd. His movements stilled as he caught sight of us but he rapidly regained his composure, chin just slightly elevated as he strode our way. He looked exactly how I remembered from my early days in Jalesville, arrogant and wholly unapproachable, but I was armed with a hundred times the knowledge I’d possessed then. I sat straighter, with a deep inhalation, mentally gathering up every scrap of information at my disposal.

  “Gordon, Benson,” he pronounced upon reaching our booth. Formal, remote. He didn’t articulate the follow-up question but I heard it all the same, hovering near our noses – what gives?

  “Do you have a few minutes?” I asked, squelching outright discomfort as I gestured at our table, doing my best to keep at bay any thoughts of potential repercussion. Fallon’s abilities were the Yancys’ most carefully guarded secrets, I knew well.

  Robbie scooted over, silently offering him a seat. Derrick remained standing, his intense focus shifting between us, searching for the con, the punchline, the trap.

  The sense of time running out beat again at my control; fearful that he would turn on his heel and exit the bar, I grabbed for his sleeve and went right for the jugular. “It’s about Fallon.”

  Derrick could not contain his shock, showing immediate signs of withdrawal.

  “Don’t go,” I begged, half-rising from the booth, not releasing my hold. “Please, sit. Give me five minutes.”

  As though in a dream, Derrick complied. He didn’t remove his coat or sleek leather gloves, just sank to the booth. His gaze was dark and penetrating; he seemed momentarily incapable of speech.

  Satisfied he wasn’t going to flee, I reclaimed my seat and pinned him with my undivided attention. “I know this seems crazy and I apologize. But I need your help.”

  Derrick did not shift position. His irises could have been shards chipped from a wedge of granite.

  I leaned forward, forcing myself to meet his exacting stare. “You called me last Sunday night. I wasn’t here in Chicago, though, I was in Montana. And you told me you were worried about Franklin. You told me you thought he was losing touch with reality, that he was dangerous.” I paused to inhale an anxiety-riddled breath; my heart was clipping along at the pace of my speech. “Furthermore, you told me the truth, which is that he’s a time traveler whose real name is Fallon Yancy. Your great-great-grandfather or uncle, I think, I’m honestly not sure which. You called to tell me that he’d just done something terrible, you weren’t sure exactly what, and then…” Fork tines seemed to stab the interior of my throat.

  Derrick studied me with no hint of expression; no telltale or errant emotion betrayed.

  I rushed on. “You and I have a strange relationship, I’m the first to admit, with all sorts of unresolved shit from another time period. It’s my belief that we were once married. I know how insane this all sounds, but it’s true, Derrick. You have to help me. I have to find your brother. He’s the only one who knows what happened because he did it. He did something to alter the timeline as we all knew it and only my sister and I can remember what’s right.”

  Derrick blinked in slow motion and the effect was unduly eerie, reminding me of an old-fashioned celluloid doll with leaded weights in its otherwise hollow skull. I waited, ill and overheated with nerves, second-guessing my intentions. Seated to Derrick’s left, Robbie was shooting me warning looks but I ignored him for the time being.

  “Derrick,” I pleaded.

  He reached across the two feet of plastic table separating us and clenched my right forearm; I couldn’t restrain a gasp at the sudden movement but didn’t dare fight his hold.

  “Who else have you told?” The question fell somewhere between threat and entreaty. To think this was anything less than life or death would be a grievous error.

  “No one but you and Robbie.” Sweat glided down my spine; I was lying through my teeth and prayed he couldn’t tell.

  Derrick increased the pressure on my arm; his gaze was unfaltering as he spoke with hushed intensity. “You will never mention these things to another living soul. Never. You will forget the name ‘Fallon’ and immediately cease inquiring after someone who doesn’t exist. Do you hear me? Someone who does not exist.”

  I gulped back the instant urge to counter, recognizing both his sincerity and my mistake in trying to pry such hazardous information from him.

  Robbie sat in wide-eyed silence.

  The long, slender bones in my forearm ached beneath Derrick’s grip.

  “Never,” he repeated.

  I nodded acquiescence and he released his hold.

  Less than ten seconds later Robbie and I were again alone in the booth, watching as Derrick retreated through the busy crowd without a backward glance.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Landon, MN - March, 2014

  MY DAUGHTER’S NAME WAS ON MY LIPS AS I WOKE.

  Millie Jo…

  I’d been dreaming of her just seconds earlier, my oldest as a little girl. Of all my children, Millie was the one I most associated with this space, the bedroom she and I had once shared. As a young mother in 2004 I’d nursed my baby to sleep in this very bed, watching the stars rotate across the dormer windows. Her absence was so profound I might have been missing a limb, or my very heart. My eyelids parted to the white ceiling above my old twin bed, cloaked now in dimness, and I swore the sweet scent of her lingered, hovering nearby. Close – but completely out of reach.

  A low, aching moan clogged my throat. I grabbed a pillow and muffled my weeping, picturing her round baby face, her abundant brown curls which I’d often arranged in two pigtails. Her bright hazel eyes and the lisp it had taken her years to shed. I saw her scampering from our bed to hurry down to the kitchen where she knew Grandma and Aunt Ellen would be making pancakes or biscuits. Where coffee would be brewing in preparation for a day spent at the cafe, where the local crowd would appear for breakfast or lunch or evening beers; where the world as I knew it was secure and unchanged and blessedly dull.

  I saw Brantley and Henry, my dear, naughty twins, whose resemblance to their father was more evident every day. Our boys, whose conception had occurred on a night in the Montana foothills, beneath a sky blazing with stars, the summer that Mathias and I first met Case and the Rawleys. During that trip to Montana we had, at long last, discovered the remains of a woman named Cora, a woman with whom I believed I shared a soul. Whose skull returned with us to Minnesota for a proper burial, within sight o
f the homestead cabin which, in life, she meant to inhabit with Malcolm Carter.

  I saw my sweet Lorie and my little James, our two youngest. Lorie, named for the woman mentioned in a letter written by Malcolm Carter in 1876, whose exact relationship to Malcolm we’d never discovered. Lorie with her sweet disposition, who followed me as if magnetized, constantly begging to help with the baby. I saw her lower lip tucked between her teeth as she concentrated, attempting to fasten a diaper on her new brother, giggling over his legs that never stopped kicking. I saw her patting her doll’s back to “burp” her the same way I burped James. I saw my baby boy’s wide blue eyes and hair that stood on end. I saw all five of my children and their faces lent me the strength to sit up, to endure this day. I refused to believe they were lost from me.

  And the first step was to contact the couple I’d known as my in-laws for the past eight years.

  I spoke to Diana Carter later that morning. She answered their landline on the second ring and I pictured their spacious, farm-style kitchen, a room in which the perennial scents of spice and cloves lingered. Barring illness or the occasional other obligation, we ate dinner there every Sunday, along with Mathias’s sisters, and their husbands and children; it was a Carter family tradition. I heard the sink running in the background, along with the radio and the sound of Tina, the oldest sister, asking who was calling.

  “It’s Joelle’s daughter, Camille,” Diana explained to Tina before coming back on the line. “Sure, hon, come on over. You’re welcome to look through anything in that attic.” She giggled, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “Don’t tell my husband I said this, but if you were to, you know, take anything with you, I would have no complaints. In fact, bring along a box for that very purpose!”

  Attempting to converse with Diana as though I didn’t know her well required concentration, not to mention acting skills.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate this.” I wondered if my outburst at Eddie’s had already spread its way through the local grapevine, praying it had not; Diana might reconsider allowing a potentially crazy person into her home, no matter how well she knew my mother.