by Calia Read
As I look around, I realize I’m lying on the bed my parents deemed my room at their over-the-top mansion. Sitting up, I discover the comforter is kicked off the bed, and the sheets are a mess at my feet. I would think I dreamed up the whole time traveling aspect, but when I look down, I realize I’m wearing the dark green travel suit Mollie helped me change into.
“What the hell is happening?” I groan before I drop my face into my waiting palms. I close my eyes and rub my temples.
There’s a loud knock on the door. Dropping my hands to my sides, I lift my head. “Come in.”
My mother walks in, taking stock of the room and me. When she sees my outfit, her eyes widen. “What are you wearing, Serene?”
“Uhh...” I fling a hand in the air as if the perfect explanation is right in front of me. After a few seconds, I give up. “I don’t know,” I finally say.
“Your hair is a mess, and you just look awful,” she remarks as she walks into the room. Her steps are tentative as if my room is a scene from Hoarders.
“Thank you, Mom,” I reply dully.
“And why are you still in bed? You missed your job interview this morning!”
“I know. I know. I’ve just...” Once again, I close my eyes. Everything is happening all at once, and I can’t seem to gather my thoughts. “I’ve just had a lot on my plate.”
“That’s not going to be a good enough excuse for your father.” She glances at the open door and sits at the very edge of my bed. “I wanted to speak to you before he comes home.”
“All right.”
“Remember the talk we had with you about finding a job and not staying here forever?”
“Yes.”
My mother stares down at her perfectly manicured nails. “Well, he believes you’ve had enough time and thinks you need to move out. Today.”
I sit up straight. “Today?”
She extends her arm, and it almost seems as if she’s going to grab my hand to console me, but at the last second, she pulls back. “I’ve spoken to Ian, and he’s agreed to let you stay with him. Grad school has him tied up, so he’s rarely home.”
My shoulders sag with relief. “Thank God.”
Mother nods, her lips pressed in a firm line. “But this isn’t a permanent living situation either. I still expect you to get a job.”
“Of course. Of course,” I say, not because I mean it, but because it seems like the right words to say.
My mother hesitates for a brief second before she stands up. “Good. I’m glad we have an understanding. I’ll have your luggage sent up to your room.” She stops at the doorway, and I think she’s going to say something nice. Something that the mom I used to know would say. Instead, I get, “Please leave in the next hour and change out of those clothes. They’re god-awful.”
I merely nod. Before she walks out of my room, I speak up. “Mom?”
She stops and looks at me over her shoulder. Quickly, I scramble to think of what the date was when I time traveled. It was February 27th, 2018. When I glance at the window, it’s still light out. Have hours passed, days, weeks?
“Today’s February 28th. Right?”
“No. It’s the 27th. Honestly, Serene. Did you not listen to anything I just said? You missed your interview this morning, and you need to get up before your father finds out.” She claps her hand. “Up, up, you go. Understand?”
Unbelievable. This time, I didn’t lose an hour of my time. Or jump ahead a month or two. No, this time I was repeating the day over again.
“Loud and clear,” I confirm.
And those are my final parting words to my mother as she closes the door behind her.
I’m forced to leave the house but still have the luxury of using the car. I think my parents are so anxious to get me out of their home that they’ll do just about anything to see me go. But they don’t have to ask me twice. I’m not about to tell them I can’t find my license. Or even a purse for that matter. I’m assuming I have one, and it got lost somewhere.
I pack all the clothes I can and have my suitcases in the car within twenty minutes. When I slam the trunk, I’m dressed in blue jeans and a U of I sweatshirt with my hair up in a messy bun. In a flash, I’m suddenly of this world.
I’m a chameleon, living two lives. One in the present day, and the other in the past. Time consistently keeps dangling each one in front of me like forbidden fruit. Just when I think I’m close to reaching what I desire most, time rips it away from me, and I fall flat on my ass.
Before I get into the driver’s seat, I walk into the garage and find the boxes of the stuff supposedly left behind at my old apartment. I didn’t have the chance to thoroughly look through them, but I plan on doing just that when I get to Ian’s condo.
Once I stack the boxes in the back of the car, I get in the driver’s seat and type in Ian’s address in the navigation system: 301 N. Neil St.
Immediately, a woman with a British accent starts talking. I slowly back up and head toward the main road. If I’m honest, I’m relieved to be leaving this unknown home and foreign parents. They speak and look like my parents, but they’re not the parents I love.
I head out of the ritzy subdivision and onto the main road where empty buildings are interspersed between fast food restaurants and gas stations. Beneath my wheels is the methodical thumping from cracks filled on the road.
I’m about five minutes away from downtown and Ian’s condo, when I have to stop at the train tracks. The gate arms slowly lower as the flashing lights on the side blink red. The train takes its sweet time moving through town. Sighing, I put the car in park. I look through my phone, and when I get tired of that, I dig through the middle console compartment. Like most cars, it’s filled with odds and ends—a car charger, napkins from a fast food restaurant, some old CDs, pens, and a sticky note with my name on it.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
I grab the Post-it and slam the compartment shut.
Beneath my name are the words pick up belongings and the date December 26, 2017. Beneath that is an address: 409 W. University Ave. Apt. 402
This had to be my old apartment. I’ve always wondered where I lived and what it looked like. Here’s a chance to see it. My eyes volley back and forth between the slow-moving train and the Post-it. Back and forth, back and forth.
“Fuck it.”
I type in the address, put the car in drive, and do a U-turn.
Looks like I need to make a quick visit before I stop by my temporary home.
Slamming my car door, I stare up at the tall brick building, which apparently is called “The Oaks.”
I walk up the steps toward the double doors. Like the train, I take my sweet time because I know I more than likely need a key to get into the building. To my right is a woman in her late sixties. She’s walking a Yorkie and lecturing him that he can’t go pee inside the house anymore as if he can understand what she’s saying.
She glances in my direction and does a double take. “Serene!” she calls. “Where have you been?”
At first, I want to look around to make sure she isn’t talking to another Serene, but it’s just me. She walks over to me with her Yorkie in tow.
“I’ve been worried about you! But then your parents came and packed up your apartment, so I figured you’d simply moved.”
I give this stranger a polite smile. “I’m sorry you couldn’t reach me. I went on a little...trip.”
The woman tilts her head to the side. “The trip to Charleston? I thought you were planning on taking it later when you had more vacation time saved up.”
“I...uhh. I just needed to get away.”
She leans in and pats my arm before she gives me a knowing smile. “Say no more, sweet girl. We all need a break sometimes.”
I smile with relief. “Exactly.”
“Well, I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been trying to get ahold of your mom to pick up your mail, but she won’t answer.”
“My mail?”
She nods and
gestures for me to follow her. “I told them when they were packing up your apartment that I would keep a lookout for any mail that was left in your mailbox and call them to pick it up. I guess they forgot.”
“I guess so,” I murmur.
No, they didn’t forget. They just didn’t give a tiny rat’s ass. Patiently I wait as the lady digs through her coat pocket and tries to find her keys.
“Here.” She shoves the leash at me. “Hold this, will you?”
The dog’s little pink tongue hangs out of its mouth as it stares up at me. We stand there as the lady searches for her key. She finally finds it, and we walk into the front lobby.
It’s fairly clean. A place I could see myself living in. It’s apparent the building is older from the light fixtures and the crown molding lining the ceilings. The carpeted floors are a brown nylon fiber. The walls covered in a tan wallpaper. The tenants’ mailboxes are built in to the wall to the left.
Once again, the woman stops and digs for her mailbox key, muttering to herself that she needs to put her keys on a keychain. I bounce on the balls of my feet and try to remain patient. She opens her mailbox, which is mostly filled with junk mail, and after she empties it, we continue the trek to her apartment. We make a left and stop in front of a door with a wreath decorating it.
The woman drones on about the new neighbor above her making loud noises and how she’s had to call management and complain before she finally opens the door. I nod and bend down to unhook the leash from the dog’s collar. He takes off and heads directly for his water and food.
Awkwardly, I stand in the small foyer. It feels weird to be in a home of a woman I’ve never met but who knows me. I suppose I should be good at this deceptive little game; it’s not my first time playing it. But I’m not, and I doubt I ever will be.
As the lady searches for my mail, I take in her apartment. It has a musky scent as if she dropped a bottle of White Diamonds and the smell has never gone away. The dog swishes its tail as it hops onto the red couch and stares at me. He tilts his head, his expression screaming, “Why are you just standing there?”
“Who is your owner?” I whisper to the dog.
It wags its tail and then drops its head onto its front paws.
“Thanks for nothing!” I hiss before the lady walks back into the room with a wad of mail held together by a rubber band.
“Here you go!” she says in a singsong voice. “I couldn’t find it for a second, but then I remembered I put it near my computer desk so I wouldn’t lose it, but that’s what ended up happening!” She laughs, and I grab the stack of mail.
I smile. “Well, I really appreciate you holding this for me. I’m sorry I didn’t pick it up sooner.”
“It was my pleasure, Serene. You were always such a great neighbor.”
I take a step closer to the door. “Thank you. You were a good neighbor yourself.”
“Take care of yourself, sweet girl.”
I give her another smile and head out the door when she hollers. “Oh! Your luggage.”
I stop the door from closing with my foot and poke my head back into her apartment. “Huh?”
The woman claps her hands and heads straight toward the closet near the front door. “The hotel you stayed at in Charleston found your luggage. Supposedly, it was left in your hotel room, and they also tried to contact you and your family before they shipped it back to your apartment. It was by your door for days, and I was worried someone would take it, so I put it in my closet for safekeeping.”
She rolls out a blue and white striped bag that I’ve never seen in my life. But the tag on the strap says my name, and it has my “old” address and what I’m assuming is my “old” phone number.
She holds out the luggage. Hesitantly, I take it. “Thank you so much. I was really worried someone had stolen it.”
I say goodbye, the luggage rolling behind me and the mail clutched tightly to my chest, and walk out the front door of what was once my old apartment building. I hurry to my car and toss the luggage into the passenger seat. I place the mail on my lap and slam the door before I reach over and unzip the luggage. What’s in here?
The contents inside the luggage are a complete letdown. It’s filled with clothes I’ve never seen. And a name brand purse (I knew I had one!) that I would never be able to afford in my lifetime. I dump the contents into the suitcase and find the wallet. Unsurprisingly, the credit and debit cards—along with any money—are gone. But my driver’s license is still there. I pull it out and stare at it with awe. It’s my face smiling awkwardly with the blue backdrop behind me. My hair hangs around my shoulders. Instead of my Pennsylvania driver’s license, this one has ILLINOIS in black letters directly above my picture, an outline of the state’s next to it and to the left, is Jesse White, Secretary of State.
It has my license number and date of birth, which is still the same as before. The expiration date is 3-26-18. Instantly, goose bumps appear on my arms, but I don’t know why.
It was issued on 4-12-15. It’s not the year that attracts my attention, but the date it was issued. That’s the same day I initially time traveled to 1912 and met Étienne for the first time.
By the time my eyes connect with my signature beneath my photo, my hands are shaking. I place it back in my wallet and take a deep breath.
Resting my head against the steering wheel, I close my eyes. When I do, a thousand memories of Étienne flash through my mind. Dancing with him in the ballroom, swimming with him, laughing and yelling. Secret smiles. Eyes connecting from across the room. Heart beating out of rhythm and hundreds of butterflies swirling in my stomach every time he walked into the room. Me gripping the sheets as he slowly enters me. Sweat from his neck landing between my breasts. I close my eyes and tilt my head back as he links our fingers together above my head. In the second image, our positions switch. I control our movements. I control everything. His jaw is clenched as I take my time moving up and down. Every moment I’ve spent flies by at warp speed and ends with my last time with him in the ballroom. The two of us fucking on that chair and him looking me in the eye as he gripped my hips, and said, “Don’t you ever forget you love me.”
“I can never forget you,” I whisper.
And that’s the cruel truth. Time can rip me from his arms and drop me in any era it pleases. Time can give me a different identity. Different name. Different memories. But it can’t change my heart.
No one and nothing can change who I fall in love with.
My heart will always belong to Étienne Lacroix no matter what happens or what he does, and that’s the cruel truth.
Lifting my head, I sigh and flip through the mail to distract myself. Most of it is junk mail and past due bills. I’m toward the bottom of the stack when I see a letter addressed to me. The sender is Andrea Kepler from PACA. What the abbreviation stands for I don’t know.
My curiosity gets the best of me. I pull the letter out of the stack of mail and rip it open.
The letter is dated back to Tuesday, December 26, 2017.
I would’ve been home in McLean, Virginia, trying to find a way back to Étienne. The same position I’m in now.
Dear Ms. Langley,
Thank you for reaching out to the Preservation and Conservation Association regarding Langley Hall. Unfortunately, we have to deny your request for a tour of Langley Hall due to recent circumstances and the future closing of Langley Hall. We appreciate your interest in this beautiful historic landmark and wish you well.
Best,
Andrea Kepler
President of the Preservation and Conservation Association (PACA)
While the letter is polite at best, it’s impossible to ignore the undertones of condemnation and derision as if she couldn’t believe I’d have the nerve to reach out to her. I read the letter three more times, trying to figure out if Langley Hall has any connection to my family. I imagine if it did, our family wouldn’t be sitting around and allowing it to be closed down. Folding the letter, I start the car and vo
w to search this Langley Hall more in-depth.
I finally arrive at Ian’s condo in downtown Champaign thirty minutes later. Because of my slight detour, he’s there to greet me. I called him before I arrived, and he told me where the assigned underground parking was located. The brick, stone, and stucco structure is more upscale than my old apartment. His condo is mere steps away from retail and coffee shops, the theatre and nightlife. I’m confident if I weren’t obsessed with going back to Étienne, I would have a fun time exploring this area. But right now, I couldn’t care less.
I take the elevator to the seventh floor. The doors ding and slide open. The hallway is quiet and decorated in a way that reminds me more of a hotel than a condo. With my bags weighing heavy on my shoulders, I quickly try to find his condo. When I do, I let my bags drop heavily onto the carpeted floors and knock on the door.
When Ian answers, he looks more tired and beat down by life than I do. “Hey.”
“You look like shit,” I say as I grab my bags and brush past him.
“No problem, Serene. You can stay here anytime,” he replies dully as he shuts the door behind me.
I turn and sheepishly shrug. I point at the dark circles beneath Ian’s eyes. “I’m sorry. But have you slept at all lately?”
“No. I’ve been studying at night while working during the day.”
I stop in the middle of the condo and look at him. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but people need sleep.” I give him an encouraging smile, waiting for the old Ian I know to come shining through. But he only grunts and runs a hand through his hair before he walks toward the kitchen. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he says.
While he grabs a bottle of water, I look around at his condo. It’s very...sterile. Definitely can tell a man lives here. The living room has a fifty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall and a black suede L-shaped couch across from it. The coffee table in the middle of the room has papers and books and a MacBook open, showing where Ian set up camp to study last night. There are no pictures on the wall. The dining room table with four cafe walnut chairs is centered beneath a black industrial-style three-light fixture.
