TIme After Time

20

San Francisco, California

My forehead slams against something hard, and I struggle to open my eyes. When I do, I can make out the Jeep logo on the steering wheel. Everything’s blurry, the interior of the car is spinning, and my arms feel heavy, like I’ve got weights attached to my wrists. It takes all of my energy to bring my hands to the wheel, but when I feel the leather, I grip it hard and push, throwing myself back against the headrest.

I let out a groan.

My eyes fall shut on their own, and I sit there in the dark, smelly garage, breathing in, breathing out, and trying not to think about the fact that this hurts more than usual. That’s when I feel the tickle, something warm sliding down onto my upper lip. I lick it, and my mouth fills with the unmistakable taste of blood, metallic and sticky-feeling. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and it comes back with a streak of red.

I tilt the rearview mirror toward my face. What the hell?

The box of supplies proves to be worthless for this situation, but it’s not like I could have anticipated a need for Kleenex. I’ve never had a bloody nose in my life. I use the bottom of my shirt to pinch my nose together, and a few minutes later the bleeding has stopped.

There’s a tiny patch of evening sun peeking in through the sides of the garage door. I down my Doubleshot without stopping and chase it with a warm Red Bull and two bottles of water. I sit there for a long time, eyes closed, willing the pain to stop. I look in the rearview mirror. My face is red and patchy, my eyes bloodshot. Then I look at the clock on the dashboard. I’ve been back for almost an hour.

Finally, when my head is no longer throbbing, I push the button on the remote control and the door lifts slowly and rattles into place above me. I twist the key in the ignition and pull out of the garage.

Before I close the door, I twist in my seat. Looking back inside, I can’t help but laugh. If I’d ever allowed myself to think that my ability made me some kind of superhero, this would certainly put things into perspective. My secret hideout isn’t a subterranean cave or a cool arctic ice structure. It’s a garage. A dark, smelly garage that an average-size car and average-size me can barely occupy at the same time. And exactly like I hoped it would be, it’s perfect.

Luckily, the house is quiet and I sneak inside, through the kitchen and into my bedroom, hoping to get there before Mom notices the bloodstains on the bottom of my T-shirt. I undress, hiding my dirty clothes deep in the bottom of the hamper in my closet, and throw on a clean pair of sweats. In the bathroom, I wash my face hard with a washcloth.

Back in my room, I unzip my backpack and remove the photo album Anna made for me. I hold it in my hands, examining the colorful patterns on the cover. I start to open it, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.

I open my desk drawer, and down near the bottom I see my red notebook. I stuff the photo album inside with everything else and shut the drawer.

I’m halfway down the stairs when I look over the banister and see Mom and Dad by the front door. He pulls his suit jacket over his shoulders, looks into the hallway mirror, and adjusts his glasses. He grabs my mom’s purse off the table and hands it to her. She thanks him as she throws it over her shoulder.

“Hey,” I say. They both look up at the same time. Mom’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“Oh, good. You’re back. I didn’t even hear you come in.” She meets me at the bottom of the staircase. “How was your climbing trip?” she asks as she kisses me on the cheek. “Did you and your friends have fun?”

I ignore her question and change the subject by stating the obvious. “I take it you guys are going out?”

“We realized that we haven’t been to a nice dinner together in weeks,” Dad says. He stands behind my mom, rubbing her arms lightly.

“Do you want to join us?” Mom asks. “With all your homework, we’ve barely seen you since school started.” Her expression is sincere, but Dad’s standing there, looking at her like he can’t imagine why she’d invite me to join them on their “nice dinner.” From behind her shoulder, he stares at me wide-eyed and gives me a small shake of his head, just in case I didn’t know how to answer.

I look at the two of them, maybe for the first time, through a different lens. I think about Maggie’s comments last night, and how Dad was always more intense than Mom but she loved him. How their worlds revolved around Brooke and me. More than anything, I wish I could talk to Mom about Maggie. Every time I’ve tried to tell her about those three months I spent living there, Mom stopped me short and said she didn’t want to hear it. I’m guessing that it’s not because she doesn’t want to know; it’s because she can’t handle the guilt.

“Want to come?” Mom repeats.

“No, thanks,” I say, and Dad gives me a grateful nod. “You two have a nice date.”

As Dad grabs my mom’s hand and leads her outside onto the front porch, he says something under his breath. She’s laughing as the door closes behind them.

After they’re gone, I stand at the bottom of the stairs for a long time, looking across the room at the huge picture window that overlooks the bay and wondering what to do with myself. I drum my fingers against the banister and think about the week ahead of me. There’s a physics test tomorrow and I have an interview with the tutoring organization Sam works for on Tuesday. I should start studying.

I make it back to my room, but just as I’m about to turn on the music and hit the books, I have a different idea. I open the largest drawer of my desk and dig down to the bottom. When I find the photo album, I return it to my backpack and head downstairs for my board.

The sun is just starting to set when I arrive at the park, and I’m relieved to find it relatively empty. It’s still warm outside, and I look over the horizon at the San Francisco Bay, bright blue and full of sailboats. I sit down on the bench, remove the photo album from my backpack, and flip through the pages. This time, Anna’s here with me.