Sitting straight up with a jolt, she looked around. She saw the quilt her mother had given her for her 25th birthday. Her tiny closet with something black and drab peeking out of it. No sign of Jedi, naturally, because he hated her.
Home! With a smile, she gave herself a big hug, then unfurled into a giant stretch. She felt like she’d been asleep for days. Or time traveling through multiple existences. But she’d made it back!
With a glance down, she noticed her cat head sweatshirt. Such a fashionista, this Clara. She guessed the upside of her frumpiness, still in the same shirt from her disastrous, depressed dinner with Cat, was that it confirmed things in this reality had stayed the same. No President Kardashian.
In quick, decisive moves she stripped down to her t-shirt, added the sweatshirt to the overflowing basket in the corner of her room, grabbed the whole pile and headed out to the washer/drier.
Fog still wrapped all of Rockridge in its cool, soft cocoon. She padded her way in flip flops across the dewy paving stones. You couldn’t find a more mundane, everyday task than doing laundry, yet this morning it felt novel, almost thrilling. Because she’d been traveling through time! Hadn’t she? Pausing in her path, she wondered for moment if she’d dreamt it all. But everything had felt so real, much more real than her old regular day-to-day, in fact.
Around the back, she shared the laundry area with a couple who rented the rest of the house. They had interior access; she had to go around the side. This disparity had upset her greatly a mere day ago, made her feel put-upon and second-class. The old single lady forced to hike miles to the nearest wash station while the couple got to live on easy street.
But this morning, she breathed deeply enjoying the outside air. How fortunate that she got to live in this small, pretty patch of the world. Roses, lantana and lavender grew in the yard in bright, colorful clumps, almost entirely untended. The house she rented was such a sweet, classic craftsman with redwood shingles and white trim.
Up the rickety back step into the screened back porch/laundry area, she had to smile at the lack of beaded curtains. And even better, no leopard print banana hammock lurking around the corner ready to launch into a dance number: “I’m sexy and I know it.” She laughed softly and used the last of her detergent on what had to be the world’s most depressing collection of clothes. She’d really cornered the market on drab in all of its shades, from olivey-brown to faded-out black.
She needed some pink. Maybe today she’d find herself a saucy fuchsia scarf. But first, as she headed back to the house on legs that neither ached nor limped, she decided what she really wanted to do right then was go for a run.
Getting herself ready in her apartment, she marveled at the simplicity of it all. No beastly, estranged children in the kitchenette. No small-time drug deals going down in the living room. No lacrosse-fetish sex in the game room; granted, she had no game room but it seemed like a good trade-off. And when she opened the door to leave in an old t-shirt, shorts and sneakers that hadn’t been out on a jog in years, she had a moment of thanks for the complete lack of any dreadlocked men popping by to borrow a pineapple, a ball-peen hammer and a Chihuahua.
Out on the tree-lined street dotted with small, charming Craftsman-style homes, she took a deep breath. And had to admit, amidst all the relief and gratitude and sheer strangeness of her return to her old life, she missed Alek. She’d grown accustomed—if that word could be applied to time travel—to seeing him, getting to know him, almost but not quite having the chance to be with him.
But, she gave herself a mental and physical shake. She’d wasted enough time lamenting what she didn’t have. Now it was time to set out for a run.
It’s true, the short, neighborhood jog that Clara mostly maintained except for two, brief phases of walking up particularly hilly streets would win no medals. She figured she averaged around an 11-minute mile. Her legs seemed to protest with every step, “Why? Why have you woken us so rudely from our long and peaceful slumber? At least Sleeping Beauty got a kiss from a prince.” But as she finished three miles and slowed to a walk at her favorite coffee shop, enjoying the small village feel of urban Rockridge, a wide smile spread out over her face. Heart pumping, skin glowing, muscles twitching and tingling; she had to say, it felt good to get out again.
Opening up the door, the deep, rich aroma of coffee enveloped her senses and she nearly felt tears of gratitude. She could choose any coffee she wanted. And she had money in her pocket that she, herself had earned to buy it.
Taking steaming and delicious sips from her coffee along the way, she ambled home past her favorite taqueria, a lingerie shop she thought she might take a peek in later, and a running store. Looking in the window at all the brightly-colored tank tops and shorts and sneakers, she knew she still had it in her. The college athlete who used to run a six-minute mile. OK, maybe not quite six minute miles any more but she was only 31, not 101. Yes, she’d turned doughy and lumpy but give her a month of solid exercise and good eating and she’d see a difference.
Back home, in front of the bathroom mirror, she assessed the situation. Twelve, maybe 15 pounds overweight. More out of shape than fat. “We can work with this,” she murmured to herself, turning this way and that. No trick leg. No long, hideous scar and limp. All in all, workable.
Hair dried, hands to her hips in a clean t-shirt and jeans, she squared off with that avalanche of mail. After nearly an hour she’d put a shocking large pile of junk straight into the recycling bin. The rest she left, at least for now, sorted into “front burner” and “back burner” piles, and she grabbed her car keys. She needed to go pay a visit.
But where was her phone? She thought she’d left it by the couch oh those many days before—or just last night?—after pressing RESET.
On the floor beside the couch she found it. With no trace of the test pilot Facebook app. Next to it she found her poor laptop, propped in a sad V upside down as if draining. Without much hope, she pressed the on button. No response. From somewhere deep in the recesses of her memory she thought she remembered a household tip from her mom; didn’t rice draw out water? Worth a try. In the kitchenette she sprinkled a few handfuls on the keyboard and left it open to dry.
Looking for her wallet, she found something else much more interesting: that Cornell alumni magazine. Clara picked the glossy up, then sank back onto the couch, the better to admire Aleksander Novak. He looked even more handsome than ever before, if that were possible. Cornell’s featured alum. She figured she finally had time to read that article.
Half an hour later, behind the wheel of her Mazda, she pulled onto the freeway, frustrated. The article had focused almost entirely on Alek’s research, his contributions to the field and promising developments. It hadn’t once touched on his personal life. What kind of interviewer didn’t even mention the subject of marital status? The writer was clearly no Barbara Walters.
But then there was the last question, asking if, when he looked back, would he have done anything differently? Any regrets? Alek had said sure he had some regrets, but you couldn’t dwell on those, could you?
What regrets? Clara wanted to know! But, she knew it made more sense to pay attention to the actual meaning of his words and move on.
Boldly doing just that, she picked up her phone—attached to her headset, she wasn’t about to get a crazy-expensive ticket to kick-off The New Clara—and hit dial. When her sister Shelly answered, she sounded sleepy.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Clara asked.
“S’OK.” Shelly yawned.
“I’m heading over to see Mom and Dad. I wondered if you’re around. Maybe you could come over, too? With Emma?”
“What?” Shelly definitely didn’t sound fully awake.
“I’m heading over—”
“No, I heard you,” Shelly interrupted. “But I don’t understand. Is everything OK?”
“Yeah, everything’s great. I just miss you.” Silence. “Shelly? Are you there?”
“Sorry, yeah. I’m just�
�”
Not believing a word I say, Clara realized. Wow, she had some work to do. “OK, tell you what. Let me come over later this week and babysit for Emma.”
“You want to come babysit?”
“Don’t you have that barbeque you’re getting ready for? Next weekend?”
“I do.”
“Let me look after Emma while you do some shopping. Or cleaning, or whatever you need to do.”
“Um, OK.”
Clara guessed the old saying held true: actions spoke louder than words. “How’s Wednesday? I’ll see if I can cut out of work early and come over.”
“That’s… nice of you.”
“I’ll see you then. And why don’t you try to take a nap, Shelly? You sound exhausted.”
“Bye, Clara.”
Awkward, but Clara guessed that’s how things felt when you tried to chart a new course. Her barge had been forging ahead in a deep ocean of self-pity for a while now; she couldn’t exactly turn it around on a dime.
After a quick stop at a tacqueria to order three custom-made burritos, Clara pulled into the driveway of the ranch house where she’d grown up. She hadn’t even called ahead, she felt so confident in her parents’ Saturday routine. Her father would have spent the morning out on a trail somewhere, her mother exercising (tennis, swimming or a class at the gym), then errands. Then they’d head home for lunch, which is when Clara figured she’d be arriving.
“Mom! Dad! I’m home!” Clara pulled open the front door; it still stuck the same way as always, though, as usual, they’d left it unlocked. “Are you guys around?” She headed into the kitchen. All remained silent. Clara looked around at the seemingly unchanged countertops, cabinets and windows. What if something had changed from before? Something small yet ultimately significant? What if…?
“Clara?” Her mother, wearing her uniform of capri pants and a t-shirt came into the kitchen. “I thought I heard your voice!” With pleasure and surprise, she gave her daughter a big hug. “What brings you out here?”
“I missed you.” Clara set her goody bag down on the table. “And I brought some yummy food.”
“Ooh, how did you know I’ve been craving one of these?”
“Mild salsa, black beans,” Clara assured her. In California, the details of a burrito order were no laughing matter. Families had been ripped apart over less.
“What’s all this?” Her father emerged, still wearing an absurdly tattered outback hat covered with various, multicolored pins and patches. She hugged him, remembering how she desperately embarrassed she used to feel seeing that hat at the finish lines of her cross-country meets.
She gave the brim a playful tug. “Still keeping this in play, huh?”
“It’s a good hat. Keeps the sun off me.” Boy, if she had a nickel for each time she’d heard that. “Burritos? Did you remember—?”
“Extra guacamole, no sour cream. Of course, Dad.”
“That’s my girl.”
They ate together outside on their back patio, enjoying the May sunshine, eating their burritos and drinking lemonade, the ice clinking against their glasses. Her dad bemoaned the poor quality of one of the local trails; he’d been talking about the decline of trail maintenance since the dawn of time. Her mom brought her up to speed on all of little Emma’s latest accomplishments, including spoon-flinging bits of banana (great hand-eye her father interjected) and climbing stairs (without even holding anyone’s hand!). For once, Clara felt able to simply enjoy their great swelling of pride over their very first grandbaby. Maybe everything wasn’t about her all the time? Novel concept.
When she mentioned, casually, that she’d gone for a run that morning she didn’t miss the significant look her parents exchanged. They played it cool, though. Her mom gave her a quick pat on the hand and a, “Good for you, honey. Now come help me with all this ivy.”
After a good, old-fashioned Ivy Battle, trimming and shaping along the back of their yard, she joined her dad working on a puzzle. Then sat with her mom and watched most of Singing in the Rain. Proud of herself, Clara enjoyed the whole movie without once fading into a montage, imagining herself dancing and singing with her male lead, Alek! This, surely, was progress. Her dad joined them for the scene with Donald O’Conner dancing up the walls. It never failed to amaze.
She left with a collection of Ralph Waldo Emerson essays tucked under one arm from dad and a plastic double-baggie of plant clippings plus detailed instructions for sprouting and replanting from mom. They’d nearly tripped over themselves in joy when she’d said she’d see them next weekend as well at Shelly’s barbeque. Could something this simple that made all of them so happy be so hard to pull off? And yet, she’d gone months without seeing her parents. Who lived 20 minutes away. Waving and pulling out of the driveway, seeing them standing in the doorway waving back, Clara vowed to never go so long again.
At home, sun down for the day, Clara tucked herself into bed early. Under clean sheets and a comforter, she felt snug as a bug. She did have to go into work tomorrow, but that didn’t erase the smile from her face. She had some plans on that front.
True, it seemed as if she’d pulled it off. She’d managed to get back to her reality without anything changing. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t make some changes now that she was back.
At times that afternoon it had been hard to not mention any of anything that had happened to her parents. But Jeanie was right; they’d think she’d lost her mind. She’d already been teetering on the edge for a while post-Gil break-up. Ranting about time travel would simply seem like she’d taken the full plunge into deep, unchartered crazy.
Just as she felt herself starting to drift, her iPhone gave a chirp. Jolted up, Clara reached for it. Could it be the app? Back again?
No, a text from Cat:
“Sorry I hurt your feelings @ dinner,” Cat wrote. To Cat, it had all happened last night. To Clara, so much had intervened that she could barely recall her previous state of mind.
“No problem. Love you,” Clara texted back.
“Worried about you,” appeared seconds later.
“U R a great friend. I’m going 2 B OK,” Clara replied.
“Up again next weekend 4 the launch. Get 2gether?”
About to text back a simple ‘yes’, Clara paused. What did she mean launch? And she was already coming back to SF? She hadn’t mentioned that.
“The launch?” Clara wrote.
“New store on Hayes. Remember?”
New store on Hayes? What was she talking about? A launch at a new store? When they’d had dinner Cat hadn’t mentioned anything about that. She was in town to work on a tax audit of a semi-conductor company. After groaning about how much she hated her job, she’d refused to talk any more about work.
Clara held the phone in hand, about to click on call. But hesitated. What if? She sat up even straighter, felt her heart pounding in her chest. What if something had changed? Tearing into the living room, Clara picked up her laptop, dusted off the rice, held her breath and… it powered on! Thank you magical qualities of rice! She quickly typed Catherine Giordano into Google. Then clicked search.
Oh. My. God. Hand to her mouth, Clara held her breath as she looked at the results. An interview in In Style, a ‘pick of the month’ in Glamour, a feature in Lucky. Photos of Cat standing proudly next to a veritable buffet of multi-colored scarves and sunglasses. A pic of a Hollywood starlet sporting Cat’s pastel-colored chunky bracelets. And a link to Cat’s own website: Cat’s Candy.
She’d done it! She’d opened her own line of accessories! Clara had to stand up and flap her hands around in excitement, then peer down again to see Cat now had boutiques in LA, NYC and SF! And look at the confections she’d created, whole edible-looking lines of bags and clips and bangles.
Something had changed! Something amazing! With shaking hands, Clara picked up her phone and texted back a small fraction of what she was feeling:
“WOW!!!!!!”
“I know, right?” Cat texted ba
ck.
“I’m so proud of you!!!”
“Thanks!!!”
“Next weekend let’s go dancing to celebrate!”
“R U Clara Taylor?” Cat clearly had to ask.
Clara Taylor here. And we R going to dance!
Done!
Clara sat back again on her bed. Face flushed, hands shaking, she remembered the last conversation she’d had with Cat. She’d told her, in no uncertain terms, that she had to go into fashion, design her own jewelry, open her own boutiques.
And she’d done it! Had that brief conversation inspired such a huge change? Could one nudge of encouragement create that much of a ripple effect?
Could it even all be true? She opened up her laptop again. If she clicked on Cat’s Facebook link, would her friends be celebrities? Would her posts be about attending launch parties and opening nights and who knows what else?
She had to find out. She clicked on the blue and white f, logged onto Facebook, and saw she had a new friend request.
She clicked on the icon. It opened up a window. When she saw who’d sent the friend request, she nearly dropped her laptop in shock. Aleksander Novak.
CHAPTER 20
SEE YOU THEN
Monday morning, bright and early, Clara left for the CAHWCFC offices. She smiled on the BART train and nearly danced her way through the metal detector.
Yes, the joy burbling up inside of her as she passed the hideous inspirational collage on the third floor had something to do with the surprising and exciting friend request she’d received that weekend. Which she’d accepted, of course. Then shown shocking and unprecedented restraint by NOT clicking over to Alek’s Facebook page, investigating each of his personal photos and reading through every single post, reply and response with the diligence of a crime scene detective.
Facebook Jeanie Page 22
