by Leslie Rule
“Pretend it’s your birthday,” Rita whispered. “I told them you loved costume parties. It’s the only way I could think for you to meet them.”
As we descended the steps, I realized everyone was in costume. Sky was clad in pirate’s garb, a red scarf on his head, a patch over one eye, and a plastic parrot fastened to his shoulder.
April was a flower child, with strings of beads draped around her neck and a daisy painted on one cheek.
Our parents were cowboys and Jimmy wore a Spider-man mask.
“Ben thinks costume parties are corny, so he’s not coming,” said Rita. “And I didn’t invite Shane because it might be awkward with April here, since she likes him too. Don’t tell her, but Shane and Ben are going to meet us in Seattle tomorrow and spend the day with us.”
Rita bounded upstairs to change into her gypsy costume while I mingled with our guests, greeting some of the kids from school as I snaked through the crowd toward my parents.
My mother ducked into the kitchen and I followed her on rubbery, legs. All the wind seemed to leave my lungs and my voice was barely audible as I said, “It”s nice of you to have the party here, Mrs. Mills.”
Smiling warmly, she took off her cowboy hat, and her shiny chestnut hair—so much like mine—spilled free. I caught my breath, searching her face for a sign of my own. It was odd seeing my nose planted square in the middle of unfamiliar features.
“Are you new in town, Jenna?”
“Yes, but my relatives have lived here a long time.”
“I hope you like lemon cake with white frosting,” she said, taking a square white bakery box from the refrigerator.
“Thank you!” I cried, overwhelmed by emotion.
“It’s nothing.”
“Can I see some of your pottery?” I asked.
Her eyes brightened with pride and she led me to a corner of the kitchen where a shelf held dozens of tall vases, squat mugs, and oblong ashtrays.
“Very nice,” I said, genuinely impressed—not so much by the pieces themselves but by the fact that my mother's hands had shaped them.
I could have stood forever in that spot, listening to her low, silky voice as she talked about her art. But someone yelled that Jimmy had knocked over the punch bowl and she rushed away to clean up the mess.
I gently stroked a vase. My fingertips fit into the grooves she’d pressed into the rim. Were my hands like hers? I’d forgotten to notice.
The mother who raised me did not have a creative bone in her body. Now I knew where my artistic streak came from.
“Where’s the cake?”
I turned to see my brother, his mask pushed off his face as he shoved potato chips into his mouth.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” I said.
“Oh, hi. Bye!”
“Wait!” I touched his arm and turned him toward me. His eleven-year-old skin was still baby soft and he smelled like freshly mowed grass. I gently stroked the curls as he had stroked my hair with his withered fingers on Deep Brine Island.
“You’re nuts!” he exclaimed and bolted from the room.
“What did you expect?” Rita asked, appearing in the doorway, clad in a flowing gypsy skirt, silver bracelets jingling on her slender arms.
“He’ll grow up nice,” I said. “And Mother is wonderful!”
“Not when you live with her. Don’t get me wrong. I love her, but she’s awfully wrapped up in herself.”
“She’s an artist!” She’s so creative. I think it’s frazzin—um—I mean, far out.”
“It’s kind of cool,” Rita said. “But hardly anyone buys her pottery.”
My sister could not appreciate what she had, simply because she’d always had it. She did not understand how it felt to be the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. My family was a big, colorful flesh and blood puzzle with all of its parts intact—except for one forgotten piece. Me!
I floated into the living room, studying my family’s faces. My father was standing in the dining room doorway, handing a glass of wine to a tubby neighbor man who had wandered over from across the street to join the party. Tall and lanky with a wide nose and kind blue eyes, my father looked like an interesting man, but he did not resemble me. Yet, as I watched, my smile curled on his face.
Thin lips. Slightly lopsided. Stretching easily into a wide grin.
My smile! Out of place, yet so heart-wrenchingly familiar on his angular, masculine face.
What would he say if he knew I was his daughter?
“You folks were fortunate to get such a great house with a water view,” the neighbor told my father.
“We lucked out with a wise investment that allowed us to purchase it when we were first married,” he replied.
I stood at my father’s elbow, wishing he would turn around and notice me. But he was caught up in talk of real estate investments.
“Jenna,” my mother called. “There’s a boy at the door to see you.”
With a last wistful glance at the father who might never know me, I went to the door to find Shane. “Is that you?” he asked, laughing.
“Oh!” My fingers went to my face. I’d forgotten about my costume and felt myself blushing under my makeup.
“I heard it was your birthday and wanted to give you this.”
“It’s the shell we found on the beach!” I exclaimed in delight. The small swirling shell was now strung on a delicate gold chain.
“To remind you of the night we met,” Shane said quietly and slipped it over my head. I stared at him, speechless.
Suddenly embarrassed, he shrugged and said, “It’s no big deal. It’s just an old chain my sister used to wear.”
“It’s great,” I said. “Thank you!”
He declined my invitation to come in, explaining that Ben was waiting in the car. I peeked around Shane and saw Ben’s car, a chunky shadow sputtering noisily in the dark driveway. Ben was quietly sitting in the dark, watching our romantic scene in the lit doorway—probably with an evil smirk on his face!
I shuddered as I watched them drive off. It was the first present a boy had given me and Ben was not going to spoil it for me! I pressed the shell to my cheek and sighed. Shane had tried to minimize the gift, but it wasn’t easy for boys to admit their feelings. Obviously, the night we met meant something to him! Would it be a date we would celebrate in the years to come?
Or would I find the visor and go home to Kyle? The memory of my other boyfriend sent a big gangly shadow of guilt hopscotching through my conscience.
It was as if I had two lives and couldn’t choose between them. Here, I had my real parents and a sister and brother and Shane! But in 2070, the mother who raised me would surely be missing me. And then there was Kyle...
Whirling with the choices, I drifted into the kitchen where my mother was sponging off the counter. If only I could tell her about my predicament! My real flesh and blood mother would surely know what to do!
“Shane’s a doll,” she said with a knowing grin.
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” I admitted.
“Makes me wish I were twenty years younger.”
“He made me this necklace from a shell we found the night we met,” I confided. “He’s so sweet. I think I’m starting to love him.” My words fell to a whisper and unexpected tears scorched my eyes. “I don’t want to leave him.”
She studied me so intently, I thought for a moment she’d recognized me, despite the fact I was hidden beneath layers of clown makeup.
Oh, Mother! I cried silently. Please see me! Surely something in my eyes would tell her I was her daughter.
In the long moment she stared at me, hope spread its soft wings, fluttering in my chest. My mother—my real mother was giving me her undivided attention. I ached to throw my arms around her and tell her who I was.
Encouraged by her interest, I blurted, “I have a problem. A big problem.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is. I don’t know where to live. I care about people in two diffe
rent places—a long way apart. If I go home, I’ll never see Shane and some of my relatives again. If I stay here, I have no place to live. And people back home will miss me.”
I sucked in my breath as she seemed to ponder my predicament, her eyes flickering thoughtfully. I half expected her to invite me to live with them.
“I know what my next project’s going to be,” she said suddenly.
“Huh?”
“Clowns!” She laughed and clapped her hands. “It came to me a minute ago when you got teary-eyed. You know the cliché about clowns? Laughing on the outside, crying on the inside? Well, I could do a mug that was a happy clown on the outside, and when you looked inside the cup, he’d be crying.”
Dumbfounded, I stared at her. Hadn’t she been listening to me?
“It’s kind of corny,” she continued. “But clown pottery could make a profound statement.”
“Great idea,” I heard myself say.
“Oh, and don’t feel bad about your boyfriend, honey. Believe me, you’ll think you’re in love a dozen more times before you turn twenty. Puppy love is all part, of being a teenager. You’ll forget Shane and be chasing some other boy a week after you’re back home.”
A tight knot of sadness froze in my chest. The cold spread, creeping through my limbs until the tips of my fingers and toes turned to ice.
My mother moved to a table in the corner and began shaping a slab of clay. She hummed to herself, intent on the red clay oozing between her fingers.
At that moment, I knew it would not matter if I washed off my clown makeup. My mother would not know me. Even if she recognized I was of her flesh, she could not see me.
A bitter taste rose in my throat as I watched her playing with that clay. How could she have left me in a freezer all those years? How could she have gone and lived her life and died without knowing me?
She must have known I’d be born someday, too late for me to know her!
It was at that instant the meaning of my father’s words to the neighbor hit me: “We lucked out with a wise investment...” He meant me!
As Jim had told me on Deep Brine Island, our biological parents sold me and bought Banbury House with the proceeds.
My father did not seem like a cruel man. Surely he would not have made that comment if he’d known the daughter he’d put on ice was standing right beside him.
Perhaps if I introduced myself to my biological parents, they would make an effort to know and love me. But I found myself thinking, Why should I give them the chance? They’d made their choices and were content with the outcome.
My blood flowed through the veins of Steven and Bonnie Mills. Some of my features had first sprouted on their faces. And, yes, I did feel a connection when I looked at those faces.
But another face flashed before me. A kind and gentle face, violet eyes brimming with love. Suddenly, I felt an excruciating bond with the woman who had raised me. She was my mother. I did not have her circular face, her methodical walk, or her simple logic. Yet she gave me life and loved me every day of that life.
I’d turned my back on her, not even bothering to make things right before I went away. Perhaps forever.
Oh, Mom! I’m so sorry I hurt you!
What if I couldn’t find the visor? Would I ever see my mother again?
I cornered Sky on the front porch, where he leaned on the railing, staring out into the night.
I said, “Once Rita is safe, I want to go home. My mother’s got to be going crazy with worry!”
“I’ll try to help you,” he said, his voice low and concerned. “But without the visor—”
“Maybe Dr. Crowell can help,” I blurted. “Is there any way to find him?”
He stared at the floor. I’d insulted him.
“Please don’t take this wrong,” I said quickly. “I’m sure Dr. Crowell couldn’t have invented the visor without your help. But you know the old saying—two heads are better than one.”
“You’ve got a point I’ll write to his p.o. box and tell him about you. Hopefully, he’s having his mail forwarded to wherever he is. When he hears the visor worked, I’m pretty sure he’ll come back.”
I sat down on a wicker chair, relief flowing through me. Then something occurred to me. If Dr. Crowell returned and claimed rightful credit for the visor, what would become of Sky? And Kyle?
Would Sky be destined to fetch the coffee forever? Without the prestige of being an inventor, would he still attract Kyle’s grandmother?
What if I returned to my time and Kyle had not been born?
25
Saturday morning brought rain. My sister didn’t mind. She tilted her head back, laughing up at the sky as the silver drops splashed down on her, plastering her tie-dyed T-shirt to her body.
We’d taken the bus to downtown Seattle, and now we were headed along the wet sidewalk, on our way to meet Ben and Shane.
Rita leapt into a puddle, splattering us both and then twirled about gleefully. That was an interesting thing about kids in this era. They seemed to revel in nature—even if it was soaking them to the skin.
Teenagers in 2070 were generally more reserved, buttoning up against the cold and avoiding everything but the most comfortable of conditions. Kyle would think Rita had brain-drag if he could see her dancing along the sidewalk, raindrops glistening on her forehead, her hair in wet ringlets. But I got into the spirit of things, singing with her as we strolled along.
My sister’s good mood faded when we plopped down at the counter next to Shane and he told us, “I don’t know what happened to Ben. He’s probably out drinking.”
I, of course, was relieved. The less Ben was around, the better! But Rita’s face fell and she said three was a crowd and maybe she should just go home. “Please stay,” I pleaded.
Despite the fact I would have loved to have been alone with Shane—who looked gorgeous in a fringed suede jacket that matched his eyes—I wasn’t letting Rita out of my sight. It was simply too dangerous. So the three of us headed for Seattle Center. “I want to go up in the Space Needle,” I’d told them.
The truth was, I wanted to keep my promise to Suki. I’d found her mother in the yellow pages of the Mills’ phone book. Madame Trudy Calacort read tarot cards in the corner of a bookstore near the Seattle Center.
Shane had parked his car in a nearby parking lot, but we were just a half mile from our destination, so we decided to walk. When we passed the bookstore, I pretended interest in a book displayed in the window. Inside, as Rita and Shane became engrossed in the books, I slipped to the back of the store.
“What would you like to know?” Madame Calacort asked, shuffling cards with deft but stubby fingers and gazing at me through pale blue eyes so much like Suki’s I gasped in surprise.
I sat down at the wobbly card table and said, “Actually, I have something to tell you.”
She possessed the confidence Suki lacked. It showed on her heart-shaped face as she brushed away a lock of blond hair and appraised me with a sweeping glance.
“You have a daughter,” I blurted. “And she forgives you!”
“You must have mistaken me with someone else,” she said crisply. “I have no children.”
“Your daughter, Suki, will be born a century from now. She’ll have your eyes and blond hair.”
“Are you on drugs or something?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’m psychic like you, I know things about the future. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Look, I’m tired of you teenagers coming in here and making a joke out of my tarot cards. This is my job and I don’t have time to—”
“Suki will have another distinct trait,” I interrupted. “Her eyes will be wide and blue, but not exactly like yours. There is something unique about them she must have inherited from another relative. Her pupils have jagged edges.”
Realization crept reluctantly over her face and she blurted, “My father had jagged pupils!”
“Your daughter inherited them—or rather, she will Suki wil
l be very lonely because she’ll be raised by uncaring scientists. But she said to tell you she forgives you for selling her embryo.”
Madame Calacort bounded from her chair. “Who are you?” she bellowed. “Why are you tormenting me?”
“It doesn’t matter I kept my promise to Suki!”
Unsatisfied with my response, she barreled toward me and her long red skirt ripped as it caught on a nail on a bookshelf.
“Who sent you?” she cried, her oniony breath hot on my face. “Who told you about my father’s eyes?”
Sharp fingernails sunk into my wrist. I jerked away, but she lunged at me, the bookshelf still hooked to her skirt. The shelf toppled over and as books thudded to the floor, I turned and fled, flying past Shane and Rita, who followed me outside.
“What was that all about?” Rita asked me as we hurried across the street.
“I don’t know. She must be crazy!” I said shakily, and stole a glance over my shoulder. The black window of the bookshop winked strangely in the gray day’s light, like an evil eye, watching me scornfully.
“Let’s skip the Space Needle,” I said. “Just looking at it makes me dizzy!”
I wanted to get as far away from Madame Calacort as possible!
“Let’s ride the ferry to Bainbridge Island,” Rita suggested. “Sometimes we stay on it all day, riding back and forth.”
The ferry was several stories high and roomy enough for hundreds of people. But this day only a sprinkling of travelers roamed about or lounged on some of the dozens of long vinyl seats by the windows.
As we pulled away from Seattle, Rita strolled off by herself. For the first time, I felt safe letting her out of my sight. How in the world could Ben hurt her when she was on a boat in the middle of Puget Sound?
Shane took my hand and led me to the ferry’s outside lower deck where we watched the hazy blue-green landscape glide by. We stood shoulder to shoulder, feeling the brisk salty breeze blow off the water. The wind was so strong it snatched our breath away when we faced it. So we turned toward each other and soon we were kissing. Our hair streamed behind us, gold and chestnut strands mingling together in the breeze.
