What the Clocks Know

by Rumer Haven

  When she’d wheeled her suitcase back into her Chicago condo for the last time, though, she still felt his presence within its walls. They’d owned the Lincoln Park property together, yet what could’ve once been their love nest had only ever been his nest egg—a home for Margot, an investment for him. And while she’d covered the monthly mortgage on her own, she’d still somehow felt like the Kept Woman—and that was as his girlfriend. As his ex, she just felt like a tenant.

  Parting ways with James had made it clear Margot needed to live life on different terms. In a different place. So, she’d chosen England as a safely adventurous place to start. She spoke the language, after all, and a student visa seemed easy enough to obtain to test the international waters with a summer study program.

  In the meantime, she’d cleanly broken ties by moving out of the condo and back in with her parents, at least until she found her footing again. And now after signing a tenant to take her place, asking James to buy out her share, and officially vacating the premises to re-inhabit her childhood home, the reality of her chosen path closed in on her.

  “You have to know that your father and I are proud of you no matter what,” her mom said. “This pressure you always put on yourself, it doesn’t come from us.”

  “I know. And I promise, I’m coming back. I am.”

  “And you’re sure you can trust this Randy character you’ll be staying with?”

  “Rand. And of course.”

  “He’s an older man, isn’t he?”

  “By like five years, Mom. And he’s serious with someone.”

  “Well…”

  Margot turned to hug her mother, squeezing with everything she had until her eyes and nose dried. And then the two women set to work, seated there on the floor, boxing items that told the story of a life, Margot’s life. So far. The myopic vision of what would happen next seemed to blur the corners of the room beyond that closet.

  All Margot knew was that she didn’t want to jump into a relationship with someone else for a while. She didn’t want to belong to anyone, just wanted to be herself and live with purpose. But who was she, exactly? And was she doing anything purposeful, really?

  What, by saving lives one low-budget ad at a time?

  She snapped herself out of it by reaching into her closet for a notebook that caught her eye. Oversized and loopy handwriting decorated its creased front, along with a dozen smiley-faces blurred by a grape juice stain. My 6th Grade Journal, the cover read.

  “Oh my gosh. You kept that?” her mom asked as she pushed herself up to stand. “Always a writer.”

  “Always a dreamer. Geez.” Staying on the floor with the notebook, Margot propped her knee up to use as a chin-rest. Ever since she was a kid, she’d found solace sitting this way, assuming it was how she’d been positioned in the womb.

  “What’re you talking about? It’s great you keep writing life down.”

  “Yeah, well, doubt my memoirs will be published any time soon.” In fact, rather than bother with personal anecdotes anymore, she mainly recorded random thoughts and dreams these days, in case they’d inspire ad ideas.

  Her mom swatted the air. “You’ve led a plenty interesting life, and it’s only beginning.” Fisting the dish towel on her hip, she just stared at Margot a moment—intently, as though to make sure her daughter had heard her—before wishing her goodnight and turning to walk away.

  Margot heaved in a deep breath. Glancing around at the artifacts of her past life, she didn’t know where any of it fit anymore. Where she fit. She was expanding past any space trying to contain her, through with doing what she thought she was supposed to. Taking business courses this summer was just an excuse to get away, to bide some time. What she really needed was to hop off the corporate ladder and climb the rungs of Maslow’s hierarchy instead, reach the pinnacle of self-actualization whether she could afford to or not. To run forward until she tick-tick-ticked her way to what really made her tick.

  As if to prove to herself what a long way she’d already come, she looked back at her sixth-grade journal. Of all the items she and her friends had packed, stored, or discarded, this one was definitely a keeper. She flipped through its pages and grinned at how she’d written in a different color of ink each day. Tucking herself into the comforting blanket of the past, she read from the beginning.

  August 26

  My teacher Mrs. Nelson is really nice. I’m going to have a great year! My class is okay. Mrs. McGregor is our lunchlady. She’s pretty cool. The F.B. Timer has to time the fruit break for ten minutes. Then he has to yell, “Fruit Break is over!!” And we get nemos. Nemo stands for NElson MOney. With nemos, you can buy permision to do certain things. If you do something bad you have to pay some nemos for punishment.

  Well that’s all the interesting stuff, so this ends my journal for today.

  She snorted at her misspellings, the clumsy cursive, and what she’d once considered “interesting.” If only everyday life still held such fascination. As it was, she preferred to skip over the next few entries to get to the bottom of a pre-adolescent’s heart.

  September 10

  I chose Kenny today for square dancing. O-o-o-h!!!!

  The other boys I had to dance with were: Greg, Dennis, David, and Kyle. I don’t like them at all. It was pretty sickning, but I still had fun.

  I got 3 nemos stolen!! I brought in some auction items and got a 10 nemo bill! I was supposed to have 33 nemos, but I only counted 30. 3 nemos makes a difference. I can get a piece of cunstruction paper and a library pass. But tomorrow is Show-And-Tell. I am so-o-o-o excited. You get 5 nemos for bringing something in. I earn my lost nemos back. I’m bringing the pin that was Grandma’s. The girls in my class are all going to feel jealous of my pin. This ends my journal for today.

  Margot’s heady amusement over her childhood crush and Ebenezer Scrooge-esque affinity for fake money plummeted to a sick weight in her gut when she saw where this was going. Of course she wasn’t going to find Grandma Grace’s brooch in that closet—she hadn’t seen it in fifteen years for a reason.

  Before turning the page, she wondered if the next entry would describe the brooch incident in detail or if her eleven-year-old self had already mastered her keen sense of denial. She peeked and, sure enough, spied a huge paragraph. With held breath, she flipped the purple-inked page to behold the pink writing on the wall…

  September 12

  Yesterday was the worst day of my life!!! At first it was the best day. I brought my pin for Show-And-Tell. Julie and Brenda were jealous. They fake acted they wern’t, but they were. Trisha asked if she could wear it. I told her no. She begged please please please. It was so annoying I told her yes. I told her she could wear it after recess til the bell rang. The bell rang and she asked to wear it in the hall til we got to the coat racks. I met her at the coat racks and I asked for it back. She LIED and told me she put it in my backpack! I looked, but it was not there!!!! I asked her for it again, but she said she gave it back. What a lier!!!! I hate Trisha’s guts!!!!!! Today she blames Julie and Brenda.

  I am SO ANGRY. Angry and sad. I thought my mom would be angry and sad too when I told her, but she was okay. She said she doesn’t remember the pin. She’s mad at Trisha still. She doesn’t like her at all. She is calling Trisha’s mom. If I keep writing I’ll cry. This ends my journal for today.

  Margot laughed at the drama but resisted calling down the hall to share it with her mom. Better to keep this little discovery to herself; even if her mom didn’t remember her own mother’s keepsake, Margot preferred not to resurrect The Affair of the Brooch. For as loving and forgiving as Margot’s mom was, she could hold a grudge.

  Margot could, too, and almost wanted to stalk Trisha on social media to give her a piece of her mind, see if she still happened to have what she’d surely stolen. Margot loved that brooch and could still picture it down to its last detail—more clearly, even, than she could remember her grandma. So young when the woman had passed on, Margot recollected little other t
han the tropical-patterned muumuus Grace would wear, how she’d sneak candies to spite the diabetes that in turn sneaked away with her life.

  Grace’s costume jewelry being too kitschy for her mother’s taste, Margot had delighted in an after-school treasure chest of rhinestones and clip-on earrings all to herself. What she presumed was a faux-pearl and blue rhinestone brooch, though, had been the pièce de résistance. She used to pin it on her collar and wear a bath towel around her shoulders like a mink stole. When not admiring the pin in the mirror, she’d stroke it while watching cartoons, finding it always cool to the touch.

  Though the brooch’s value could only be of the sentimental variety, Margot always fantasized it had been a gift from some secret lover before her grandfather—some humble man who’d deemed Grace worthy of gems even if he hadn’t been able to afford the real thing. Perhaps Margot was off entirely, but somehow she knew that brooch had a story of great, against-all-odds love behind it. Or maybe she just wished it did, in the absence of her own.

  She continued reading.

  September 13

  Today Trisha, Julie, Brenda, and me are all still mad at each other. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t trust any of them. Even if Trisha’s telling the truth, she should of been more careful. I told her she should of given it back to ME, not my backpack. She cried. I’m going to be nice to Trisha because it’s the worst having her against you. But in secret she’s not my BFF anymore.

  One good thing that happened is I got an A on my report on birds. This ends my journal for today.

  September 14

  We maybe solved the mystery today. I talked to Esther from Miss Monroe’s class at lunch. She is so-o-o weird. SHE came up to ME, not the other way around. I was afraid she was going to ask me to play after school. She said she heard all us girls fighting at recess. She said she was at the coat racks before me and Trisha, because her class is right there. She said Charlotte has my pin.

  “Well, serendipity-doo-da,” Margot murmured. But who was Charlotte? She couldn’t remember for the life of her.

  I told her I don’t know Charlotte. She said she doesn’t either, but she’s the one that has it. I asked Charlotte who? She said her last name was some kind of bird. That does not help. I know lots of birds, thanks to my report. I don’t know if I can believe Esther. She smells. But what if she is right?? I’m too embaressed to ask other students. I don’t want them to know how I know. If somebody does know Charlotte, I might have to talk to their teacher to find her. But I’m not a tattletale.

  I guess I have to except its gone. I shouldn’t of let Trisha wear it. It’s all my fault. This ends my journal for today.

  “Hm.” Margot’s curiosity about the brooch subsided as disappointment in herself burned her cheeks.

  Esther had been a classmate whose few outfits were worn too often and laundered too little. She’d lived outside the subdivisions populating most of the school, in a house that stood alone for acres just off a dirt road. The kids on the school bus hated how bumpy the route was to get there, bouncing off their green vinyl seats as the wheels went round and round, kicking up stones in their tracks. By high school, Esther’s face had evaporated into the crowded hallways, and the last Margot had ever heard about her was an “accidental” overdose of prescription medication some time in college, as reported in the obituaries shoved between the county newsletter’s auto dealership ads and police blotter.

  Sure, there’d been something a little off about Esther and she’d talk to herself, but Margot regretted not having stuck up for the bullied girl more often. She’d always cared too much about what others would think of her. Even to this day. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have balked so much under Derek and Sylvie’s scrutiny earlier.

  Clapping the notebook shut, she let a growing glumness carry her off to bed.

  Tick-tick-tick.

  With a sudden intake of breath and tickle down her spine, Margot woke to the light of her bedside lamp. The digital alarm clock flashed twelve o’clock.

  A power outage? And had she left the light on?

  Sweeping a hand across her face and rubbing her eyes, she sat up. She didn’t remember leaving the light on. Then again, she couldn’t recall switching it off either. Routine things like that so easily passed from memory, like all the times she’d be blow-drying her hair and then suddenly question whether she’d even shampooed it in the shower. But aside from whether she had turned the lamp off or not, she wondered what in hell she’d just been dreaming about.

  Twisted faces, disturbing cries, her dream-self’s slow-motion attempts to run free… It all tapped into her childhood fears of the dark and what lurked under the bed. But with a brave click, Margot switched off the light and tried to fall back asleep to the lullaby of her heavy breathing.

  It didn’t work. Not even close to rapid eye movement.

  A chill infused her skin with a feverish flush, and her heart hummed. Entangled in the sheets, she thrust a leg into the open air and curled it above the duvet for climate control but couldn’t slip back to sleep.

  Tick-tick-tick.

  She sat up again and leaned toward the window to draw back the blinds. The sound was only a branch rhythmically blowing against the windowpane by the light of a full moon. Silvery white, the orb hovered weightlessly above a wispy, periwinkle terrain of clouds glowing against the sapphire night sky. A vague sense of déjà-vu washed over her with an icy prickle, and, tucking her leg back under the sheet, she clutched the comforter to her waist.

  The brooch. In a tingling stupor, Margot wondered if her deceased grandmother knew she’d been thinking about it and sent this vision from above. A sign to comfort her, maybe, to tell her to just let go and allow the hands of something divine to carry her along.

  Nodding to the elusive Jeweler in the sky, she fastened the moon’s image onto her heart and vowed to try.

  In the meantime, her eyes stung with sleep, but her mind was too restless. She turned the light back on. Wriggling herself into a cozy position, she cracked Charlotte Sometimes open to its dog-eared page. Annoying eye floaters swam in front of the text, but Margot ignored them to reenter Charlotte’s world, traveling with the girl back in time…until the years and words began to swerve into and sidestep each other…

  Tick-tick-tick.

  Margot jolted awake mid-snore with her book on her chest. Breathing deeply, she went to close the novel and put it back on the nightstand when she realized it wasn’t Charlotte Sometimes in her hands but a hardcover book with a black linen cover. Margot’s “dream diary,” which she kept in easy reach on the nightstand along with a pen. But though she knew she’d just been dreaming again, Margot stared at the new entry in her little black book as though someone else had written it.

  Tear tears of anguish suffering tearing at my heart open wounds wounds wounds do not know where to go with this all of this my god blood sweat tears they claw at my arms suck at my artery I cannot stop them the pain what do they want from me is not there something better something better about them about me for me somewhere I can go and do such as this without fear tears insecurity inscrutable squeezing trying to breathe the fresh peace air

  “What?” Gnawing at the inside of her mouth, she couldn’t make any sense of the free association. The anxiety it expressed did match her recent soul-searching, yet the spattered words anguish, suffering, wounds, and pain made her uneasy.

  And who, she wondered, were “they”?

  II

  I wandered lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd,

  A host, of golden daffodils;

  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

  Continuous as the stars that shine

  And twinkle on the milky way,

  They stretched in never-ending line

  Along the margin of a bay:

  Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

  Tossing their head
s in sprightly dance.

  The waves beside them danced; but they

  Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

  A poet could not but be gay,

  In such a jocund company:

  I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

  What wealth the show to me had brought:

  For oft, when on my couch I lie

  In vacant or in pensive mood,

  They flash upon that inward eye

  Which is the bliss of solitude;

  And then my heart with pleasure fills,

  And dances with the daffodils.

  ~ William Wordsworth (1804)

  Interlude

  Lonely as a Cloud

  19th-Century London

  WHO ARE WE? Who were we? Who am I still?

  I fear I hardly know myself in the void of the other. Yet we must all begin somewhere should we endeavor to understand our existence above the soil, and so I shall look back to the then that began the now…

  My tale preceding the day she entered my life is not a complicated one. My family was of modest means. Papa was an ironmonger whose finances might have afforded us more if not for wretched Inheritance: Papa poured what little we had into legal disputes surrounding ancestral effects on which distant relations lay claim. He nevertheless managed to install us in a fine enough home upon the fringes of streets blighted by poverty, but not amongst them.

  And still I knew enough of them. Dreadfully uncomfortable in my day clothes, I remember on occasion, whenever Mama was out calling, I would run about in my brother’s old cap and knickerbockers that buttoned at the knee, my disguise awarding me the privilege of interfering in the mischief of street urchins. Returning home ruddy and dirtied, our maid-of-all-work would be too fatigued with her daily tasks to mind my tomfoolery—just enough to refrain from revealing my antics to Mama.

  With the exception, of course, of that one instance, the very last of its sort. That particular evening, I was charged with violating the Fifth Commandment and made to sit in the cupboard. My shallow breathing and heartbeats thundering in my ears, I perhaps suffered more from boredom than fear in its dank darkness—though ever since then, I confess I am reluctant to extinguish the light when falling asleep at night. It is a wonder the fancies that invade one’s mind at those times when one is deprived of sight.