So Totally

by Gwen Hayes

  Yeah, I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming either.

  Mirror, mirror on the wall…

  Who is Time’s bitch most of all?

  Why, that would be me.

  Even though I’d experienced it previously, the sensation of my reflection moving to an alternate pattern was, well, disconcerting.

  Only she (the “me” on the other side) looked more surprised than I did. Her eyes widened again with fear. She was the mirror image of me the night I began my journey.

  I placed my hand on the glass, and my reflection, wary but not yet as world-weary as I, touched her side of the glass. I watched her consciousness fade, saw her fall.

  I just felt numb.

  Very subtly, the corners of the room began rounding. The walls shifted into gossamer ghost walls around me. It was happening.

  I struggled, calling out for Nate. I couldn’t leave him I couldn’t leave Heather, not now when she needed me the most.

  Fade to black.

  “Carrington! Wake up.”

  Bile. I tasted bile.

  “Are you okay?”

  The pounding in my head suggested otherwise. I squinted my eyes when I tried to open them. “Bright light.” I squeezed them shut again.

  “How much did you drink? Did someone sneak you a roofie?”

  The floor beneath me was chilled and slightly damp. God, why did I always have to wake up in a bathroom? “What year is it?”

  “Are you for real?”

  Gingerly, I allowed one eye to open a crack. It must still be the ‘80s, but why would Cyndi Lauper be in the girls’ bathroom? I squeezed my eyes shut, then blinked them several times. Okay, she wasn’t Cyndi Lauper. She was the girl who sat behind me in history. But I had history in both time zones, so that didn’t help as much as it could have.

  “Grady asked me to find you,” she said.

  At the sound of Grady’s name, my heart stopped in midbeat.

  Grady, my date. Not Nate, my boyfriend.

  Was Nate still waiting in the foyer in 1986? How could time be so cruel to not let us say goodbye? No closure, just a void.

  I let…Cyndi (I couldn’t remember her real name) help me up. Then I asked her to tell Grady to go without me because I wasn’t feeling like myself.

  I splashed more water on my face, hoping for a repeat with my reflection. Nothing felt right; I was undone. I kept picturing Nate and Heather trying to move forward, and it killed me more as each second passed. Fragile Heather, how would she find the strength to finish out the school year with such a delicate psyche? Or would she go to the farm and try to forget everything?

  And Nate. Why had I pushed him away those last couple of days? I pleaded with the mirror for a second chance. Nothing.

  I stared down the bathroom door. My nemesis. Sooner or later, it would open, and I’d have to let go of virtual reality and settle for a life less extraordinary.

  Facing Heather, my mother, would prove to be interesting. Part of me longed to run home and check on her, take care of her. Part of me longed to run home and cry in my mommy’s arms. A smaller part of me realized that I would have to find a way to balance the first two. My relationship with my mother had just gotten very complicated.

  At least I got to keep her. What really kept me rooted in the bathroom was knowing that when I walked out that door, I had to give up on Nate. I’d known it wouldn’t be permanent from the very start, but nothing prepared me for the black hole I’d been sucked into.

  WHEN I got home that night, I was worried about how my mom would react to me. After all, she would probably now have memories of me from the ‘80s.

  “Mom?”

  She stirred on the couch. “Hey, baby. How was the dansh?” she slurred.

  “Weird.”

  She smiled. “I remember those days.”

  But did she remember me?

  “Mom?”

  “Tired, baby. We’ll talk in the morning, okay?” And she rolled over.

  Okay. So clearly she was either too drunk to process or my trip to 1986 didn’t register with her. I went to the kitchen to guzzle some water and saw two bottles of wine on the counter. Two? Were they both from tonight?

  I slammed them into the recycle bin, not caring that they broke. I really wished I could talk to Heather about it. And that ripped me open. I had nobody now, and for a while I had my mom. And Nate.

  Was my whole trip just a dream? Was any of it real? It was too lucid to be a dream, wasn’t it? A dream can’t break your heart.

  I needed a shower after all that time on the bathroom floor. As I emptied my pockets, I found the sketch Nate had given me.

  It was real. A dream didn’t break my heart.

  Love did.

  I spent the balance of my allowance at iTunes downloading every ‘80s love song I could find. I made the saddest playlist in history, and then I reveled in my emo world like a pig in the muck.

  I stayed up all night in some kind of angst-induced trance. Afraid to sleep, afraid to ruin the sketch with my tears, afraid to face my mother. I tried to make sense of my life. What caused me to time surf?

  Of all the theories, it seemed like an alternate timeline—universe maybe—was the one that made sense. Obviously, I was born, so I hadn’t screwed that up. But in this line of time, my mom had no recollection of me hanging out with her when she was my age.

  I knew too much and understood too little.

  My heart ached, and how could it not? It was splintered—cracked like the damned portal that got me into this mess. I’d risked everything and lost.

  Falling in love was a lot like falling off a cliff, and both ended with a satisfying splat when it was over. I still felt Nate. His presence remained near me, and I swear I felt his heart telegraphing to me, “Don’t give up on us.”

  But that would be silly, wouldn’t it? If anything, Nate would encourage me to move on. Don’t look back. Carpe diem. But I wasn’t prepared for the realization that he was somewhere in this world, maybe this town, but really a universe away. The Nate that was my mom’s age and wouldn’t be my Nate. I’d be a stranger to him (a stranger wearing a “Jailbait” button). I’d promised not to meddle in his grown-up life, and truthfully I hoped I’d never run into his adult self. That kind of weirdness might tip me from “manageable crazy” to full-on “jacket with the arms in the back” crazy.

  When “Careless Whisper” rolled around that morning, I decided I’d rather face the music downstairs than face hearing that song again. Heather—I mean Mom—brewed coffee and looked hungover. I felt the same. Crying every single tear out of your body dehydrates something awful.

  She poured us both giant, steaming mugs of caffeinated love, so I sat at the table. She took her spot across from me, and we accepted our first sip like an offering of communion. Completely in tandem, even. We’d qualify for synchronized coffee drinking at the Olympic Games for sure.

  As was our custom, neither of us spoke until we’d each consumed approximately one-half a cup. The tradition soothed my ruffled psyche. I’d missed her. And yes, I’m aware that I’d spent every day with her since I left, and that I actually hadn’t gone anywhere—but I felt as if it had been a month since I’d seen her, and that trumps all.

  “How was the dance?” The sweet silence was broken.

  “It was totally tubular,” I answered.

  She sprayed coffee all over the table. “I haven’t heard that in a while. I’m glad you had fun. I didn’t hear you come in last night.”

  I didn’t correct her.

  “You’re not feeling well, I can tell by your eyes.”

  “I really don’t feel well.” Our eyes met across the table, hers filled with concern. “I have a feeling that I’m going to not feel well for a long time.”

  “A boy, then?”

  I nodded.

  “They do that. Luckily, I went grocery shopping yesterday and we have plenty of ice cream. Do you want to talk about him?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “
Okay. If high school is still the same, I bet you guys get back together and break up at least two more times, anyway.” Her eyes clouded over and I knew she was thinking of Sissy and Jake.

  Me too.

  The entire day crawled slowly. Maybe I had time-lag hangover. I’d certainly crossed more time zones than a jet traveler. I spent most of the afternoon alone in my room watching ‘80s movies and being pathetic. Perhaps I should have offered to watch them with my mother, but contrary to popular myth, misery doesn’t always love company.

  The hours passed, Nate on my mind and heart, etched so deeply I doubted I’d ever really move on. We never danced together, I realized while watching Molly Ringwald get ready for prom. How unbelievably sad. I fantasized a perfect prom. Nate in a tux, me in an off-the-shoulder taffeta dream dress—a dress that looked nothing like Molly’s. Really, what was she thinking? That dress wouldn’t have been pretty in any color, not just pink—and we’d slow dance to “Never Tear Us Apart” by INXS. (Unless he figured out how to find me in 2011, and then it would be “You and Me” by Lifehouse.) I used the memories I’d gathered to flesh out the details. The dancing lights on the gymnasium floor, the scent of his skin, the strength of his arms holding me close.

  He’d kiss me softly on the dance floor. Not a disgusting PDA kiss, just a soft, sweet one. Everyone would smile at our cuteness, but we wouldn’t notice them, because we only have eyes for each other. Then I’d snuggle in closer, lay my head on his heart, and all would be right with the world.

  Only instead, it was dinnertime and I had to face Mom and her friend, Vino.

  Mom had started early—the empty bottle on the counter was a testament to her mood. I noticed her wineglass had been replaced with a drinking glass. Fantastic.

  “Your father called this afternoon,” she told me.

  That figured. “What did he have to say?”

  “He wants you to be in the wedding.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I think you should do it.”

  “That’s the wine talking, Mom.”

  “What did you just say?” Her eyes bugged out, and she sat up from her chair, knocking her glass over. “What kind of way is that to talk to your mother?” she asked, even as she tried to sop up the mess with her napkin.

  Probably, I should have let it go there. Most likely, it wasn’t my place to tell her how to live her life. But I was so tired. Not just from lack of sleep, which I’m sure didn’t help, but my life in general drained the will to carry this charade on any longer.

  “Mom, you drink too much. It’s not like a huge secret.”

  She flopped back into her chair, flabbergasted at my gall or something. “I like wine with dinner. When you are an adult, feel free to indulge. Hopefully you won’t have an ungrateful daughter passing judgment on you for it.”

  “I’m not ungrateful. But I guess maybe I am judging you. I just wonder what it would be like if you dealt with life instead of drinking so you don’t have to.”

  “Is that what you think I do? Not deal with life? I get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other so I can keep us afloat. That’s dealing with life.” She stood up. “I want to fall apart, and every day I wish I could. But I don’t because you need me, so I keep going.”

  “I know how hard you work, and I appreciate it. But the wine—”

  “Fine!” She stalked over to the sink, where she poured out the rest the last few dribbles left from the empty bottle. She knit her brow in confusion, probably thinking there should have been more in there to dump out. She stepped backward until she bumped into the fridge, and then she yanked open the door and grabbed out two more bottles.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Living up to your expectations!” she yelled, opening one bottle and pouring it down the drain.

  “Mom, stop.” I joined her in the kitchen.

  They all had screw caps now. It used to be she looked for specific harvest years and only certain high-end wineries. Now she had screw caps on her bottles.

  She poured the other bottle out and then rooted around the wine rack like a crazy woman. Her jerky movements frightened me, as did the crazed look in her eye and the way her hair had escaped its shellacked mom bob. One bottle after another. The kitchen filled with the gagging smell of too much wine. Then she opened up the baking cupboard, moved the flour canister out of the way, and pulled down yet another bottle. A hidden one.

  That was when we both started crying.

  When she finished draining the bottle, she slumped to floor, dazed and crying.

  “Mom?”

  “Oh God, now I really need a glass of wine.”

  Just so you know, life didn’t magically get better after Mom’s wigging-out session. But it did magically inch toward not quite as sucky.

  The next night, she twitched and bitched enough that even she didn’t want to be in the same room with her. She called an old friend of hers (who, thank God wasn’t someone I knew from high school) who came over with some brochures and the phone number of an AA sponsor. A month later, she started smoking and drinking coffee like it was her second job, but I hadn’t seen wine in the house since.

  As the months went by, we worked on finding a balance. Compromise pushed us in the right direction most times. I opted out of being in my dad’s wedding party but did actually attend—at my mother’s insistence. I stopped hanging out with “Hannah,” and Mom loosened up on the license issue.

  Having been there the night that Sissy/Sarah wrecked and died, I understood where the fear came from. Having witnessed Heather’s actions while she got blitzed made it easier to understand Mom’s fear of teenagers and their irrational actions. Because she had been a completely irrational teenager. Basically, I tried on her shoes, walked the required mile, and was able to discuss my own issues with her better for it. We compromised. I earned my license, but I had stricter rules than most of my friends. That wasn’t so bad. I still couldn’t drive on Friday and Saturday nights, but I wasn’t really concerned with going out those nights anyway.

  For one thing, I knew the town was crawling with paranormal yuckies. I can assure you that all dogs were suspect during a full moon, and I proudly wore a cross necklace 24-7. I didn’t know how to protect myself from zombies, and I was afraid to Google it. I didn’t fear the answers so much as whether I’d be able to stop there. Temptation lured me in the form of the World Wide Web. I didn’t trust myself or my fingers to stay away from typing “Nate Berliss” into a search engine.

  Months after my return, I was no closer to moving on than I had been the first night. My heart still longed pitifully for Nate. Lost cause or no, I still felt the pull of what could have been. Sometimes, I dreamed so vividly of him that I wondered if maybe we actually were connecting in dreams in ways we couldn’t now.

  He was out there somewhere.

  I did read more about the paranormal and parallel realm theories. I brought home a stack of books, some of them from an occult shop, which freaked my mom out a little; some of them from the library, which freaked my friends out a lot more. Nobody knew what to make of me anymore. I’d changed.

  I’d run into other people I’d met in 1986 and none of them recognized me. If it weren’t for the sketch, I’d have assumed I hallucinated the whole trip in time. The only tangible souvenirs I brought back were that piece of paper and scar tissue on my heart.

  One chilly Sunday in October, almost a year since the ‘80s dance, I window-shopped while I waited for Mom to get done with her AA meeting. Most stores were closed on Sunday—downtown Serendipity Falls wasn’t really a shopping Mecca. I stopped in front of a window to adjust my scarf (Mom was on perm-a-knit mode lately. I had seven scarves now, and she’d made a toilet cozy, for God’s sake).

  It was a comic book store. How long had that been there? It wasn’t the Pipeline and I didn’t see any “paraphernalia” when I peered farther in. Just as I finished rewrapping the ends of my scarf, I glanced at an easel set up in the window. A chill no
scarf could protect me from raced up and down my spine. I staggered, pulling the ends of my scarf until it choked me.

  The sketch I kept hidden in my underwear drawer had been blown up onto poster board with Nate’s sharp signature in the corner.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, but it was long enough to get the attention of the guy behind the counter. He glanced up and my legs turned to rubber.

  Nate.

  HE flinched at our eye contact and I took two steps backward.

  Okay, it wasn’t Nate. It couldn’t be Nate. It had to be…his son?

  My heart raced, punishing my rib cage with the strength of its rhythm. I didn’t know how I felt about Nate having a son. Okay, I knew how I felt. Squicky. And that he looked exactly like him was wrong on every level of wrongness ever created. Still, I pressed my nose to the glass trying to get another look at him.

  Where did he go?

  “Are you coming in?” he asked, standing in the open doorway of the shop.

  God, he sounded like him too.

  I turned slowly toward him, trying to gather any stray wits that might have escaped. They were long gone, though. I stood there in far too much turmoil to answer him. He probably thought I’d gotten off the short bus at the wrong stop the way I just stared at him. There wasn’t much I could do about it. The fuzzy static in my stomach started again, just like it always did around Nate. And my head was losing patience trying to explain to my heart that it wasn’t him. It wasn’t Nate.

  It sure looked like him, though.

  He took a step toward me, but I backed up. Something happened to my lungs. Like someone squeezed all the air out and I forgot what I was supposed to do to fill them back up.

  “It’s okay.” His hands came up to show me he wasn’t holding a weapon. That he wasn’t dangerous. I knew better. I knew he had his finger on the button of my own personal nuclear bomb detonator. Whatever happened next was going to blow up my world.

  “I know you.” He squinted as he looked harder at me, and then his eyes went to the poster board. He paled visibly. “How?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I never met you, but I know you.”