by L. E. DeLano
“Cool.” I can’t help but smile a little. Ben is in his element anytime there’s history attached. I find myself relaxing for the first time in a long time.
The city is ablaze with lights and Christmas decorations. It’s cold, but not painfully so, and Ben is pointing out buildings and talking about sewer systems, of all things. He’s more excited about what’s under the streets than all the festivities on the surface.
We finally reach the plaza, and Ben stops in his tracks.
“Whoa,” he says. “That is one big tree.”
“That’s kind of the point,” I say.
“Did you know it’s limited to one hundred and ten feet? Any bigger and they can’t transport it due to the width of the streets.”
“You’ve just subscribed to pine tree facts!” I say, in a fakey announcer voice. “Please text ‘STOP’ to unsubscribe!”
“Smartass,” he says. “And it’s usually a fir tree. Just for the record.” He puts his hand on his hip and turns in a slow circle. “They really know how to do it up here, don’t they?”
“It’s really pretty,” I agree. “And festive.”
“And you’re sure you’d rather be shopping than discussing the Victorian origins of the Christmas tree?”
“You can fill me in while we shop,” I say. “Come on.” I grab him by the collar of his coat and pull him along with me, and it’s a good thing I’m leading him because his head is turned back to look at the plaza and all the buildings.
“We’re going to walk right by the cathedral…,” he’s saying, but the rest gets drowned out by the sound of carolers on the plaza, and I let the sound of it, the lights, the colors, the jostling of the crowds fill me up. It feels nice. Nicer than I’ve felt in a while, anyway.
We spend the next hour visiting every curio shop we can find and I score an awesome snow globe for Danny’s collection, featuring a hansom cab and horses in a snowy Central Park. Eventually, we work our way back to Rockefeller Center. Skaters are circling in the rink below us, and the lights are twinkling, and Christmas music is playing, and I’m honest-to-God enjoying myself for the first time in weeks.
I catch a whiff of something laced with cinnamon from a passerby, and it smells so delicious I’m about to suggest to Ben that we follow them to figure out what they’re eating, when he turns from the railing he’s leaning on.
“Whatta ya say, St. Clair?” he asks. “Wanna skate?”
I glance down at the skaters circling below.
“Do you know how to skate?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“Ice skate?”
He holds out his arms wide. “How hard can it be?”
“Famous last words,” I say. “It’s a lot harder than it looks. Besides, it’s really crowded.”
“So? That’s more people to hold us up if we start to fall.”
“You mean if you start to fall,” I point out. “I know how to ice skate. And I bet they didn’t teach you how to do that in New Mexico.”
“Nope.”
“Do they even have ice in your country? Or running water?” I tease.
“Ha. Very funny,” he says. “So … you want to skate or not?”
“Not,” I say with a grimace. “I overspent on the Christmas gifts. Don’t have any extra.”
“I got you covered.”
“Ben…”
“C’mon, St. Clair … it’s Christmas. Rockefeller Center! A giant tree might topple over on us at any moment. Let’s live dangerously!”
With a reluctant smile, I let him bully me into a pair of skates.
What happens next is going to go down in the great record book of Remember That Time When … and I’m going to bring it up again and again for years. Ben may be six feet of solid muscle and poetry in motion on a soccer field, but on a pair of ice skates he’s just plain hilarious.
He flails. He spins. At one point he manages a full-on backflip. He makes the most ridiculous noises while waving his hands and desperately grabbing onto me for balance. We make it once around the ice and he gestures for us to pull over.
“Whoa,” he pants, and he does a comical dance for a moment as he tries to let go of me and can’t seem to do it. I can’t help it—I laugh out loud.
He looks startled for a moment, then he breaks into a wide grin.
“If I’d’ve known I could hear you laugh again just by falling on my ass, I’d’ve done it weeks ago,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to steady him once more. “We can quit if you want to.”
“Quit?” He says it like he’s offended. “I am so up for this. I am fixing to kick skating’s ass.”
He pushes off the wall and his feet slide rapidly, front and back, and I push forward and slide my arm around his waist to steady him.
“Here,” I say, holding his left arm with my hand while my right arm remains around his waist. “I’ll show you like we showed Danny. Two short steps, then a long one. Short. Short. Loooong.”
I guide him forward and we try it again. “Short. Short. Loooong. That’s it—lean into it on the long ones.”
“Okay, okay…,” he says. “I’m fixing to get it. I’m getting it! I’m—”
And he falls again. This time, I go down with him, and we land in a laughing heap, with him on top. He rises up to his elbows, still laughing, and I reach up, touching his hair.
“Snow,” I say, brushing the first few flakes away. “It’s starting to snow.”
“Of course it is,” he says. “Makes perfect sense.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s the setup for a perfect romantic comedy,” he replies good-naturedly. “Except I’m not much of a damsel in distress, and if it keeps on snowing, I’m going to freeze to the ice.”
“Guess it’s my turn to rescue you for a change.”
I push up to my knees and he does the same. Suddenly, we’re face-to-face on the ice with the snow falling and the lights twinkling and the Christmas music playing.
“You ready for the next step?” I ask.
He stares at me with those big brown eyes, and the snow is clinging to his dark hair.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”
“Good.” I get up, planting my feet on the ice to brace myself, and I put a hand down to help him. He gets one skate on the ice, and, after a bit of a flail, he’s up again. He keeps ahold of my hand.
“So what now, St. Clair?” he asks. “The ball’s in your court.”
“Now we try short-long-long,” I reply, sliding my arm around him again.
He closes his eyes a moment and makes a funny half-laugh sort of sound.
“Of course,” he sighs. “Let’s do it.”
And we fall again. Ben rolls onto his back.
“Might as well make an ice angel while I’m down here,” he says, waving his arms and legs on the ice.
“I don’t think that works,” I say, rolling onto my stomach and raising up on my elbows to look at him. “Not that you don’t have an impressive impact crater.”
He looks at me in outrage. “So now I’m so heavy I cracked the ice?”
“I was referring to the force at which you impacted,” I say diplomatically.
“I was fixing to make my turn but you were slowing me down,” he complains, and he goes on complaining, but I’m not listening.
My hand is on the ice, and my eyes are locked with hers, and she’s signing hello. But I know this Jessa. I know her too well.
I pull my hand back and struggle to my knees, feeling a little frantic.
“You okay, St. Clair?” Ben asks, getting to his knees. “Did I fall on your hand or something?”
I didn’t realize I was rubbing my fingers. “I’m fine,” I say.
“You froze there for a minute.” He reaches out, touching my face. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?”
“What? No.” I push his hand away. “I’m okay. I just want to go.”
He reaches out again, this time to hold me by the shoulders.<
br />
“Jessa. What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Just a call from someone I know. In my reflection.”
He glances around at the skaters who are swerving to avoid us and pulls me on my knees to the edge of the ice with him. “You were trying to travel?”
“No. I know this Jessa.”
“So?”
“Let’s just say she caused some issues for me last time she was here.”
It takes him a moment to connect the dots.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And I’m done with all of that. I really am. I mean it, Ben.”
The sympathy in his eyes at my fierce tone of voice is making my eyes well up.
“Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s go.”
I push to my feet, offering him a hand, but he shakes it off, pulling himself up by the wall behind us. I help him off the ice, and ten minutes later, he’s handing me a hot cocoa as we walk toward the rendezvous point for the bus.
“Sorry I wrecked your first time ice skating,” I say apologetically.
“Yeah, like I wasn’t making a wreck of myself,” he laughs, bumping me with his shoulder and sloshing my cocoa in my cup.
“You know what I mean.”
“Meh. It was almost time to leave anyway.” He looks down at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just that I’ve had a lot on my mind the last couple of days.”
We climb up into the bus, which is only about half full. I sink down into a seat as we wait for the others.
“Was it that last trip?” Ben asks hesitantly. “Last night?”
I look down at my cup, refusing to stare at the window, even though I’m in the seat next to it.
“I mean, I figured something was up,” he says. “But I wasn’t going to pry.”
We’re quiet for a minute, and I can hear him drinking his cocoa. This is one of the things I like about Ben. We can just be silent with each other, and it’s not awkward. He’s not going to push or prod me or make stupid small talk just to fill the air.
“I saw him.”
The words are out of my mouth and I immediately want to call them back.
“Who?”
I don’t answer him, and I hear Ben suck in a breath.
“Oh.” He sits back in his seat. “Holy … How do you…?”
“I didn’t. I ran away from him. I couldn’t even speak to him.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“It was him.” My voice is flat, emotionless.
“Is he going to be everywhere you go?”
“Not everywhere. But he was there. Mario made sure of it,” I add bitterly.
“Why would he do that to you?”
“He said it was time.”
“That’s screwed up.”
I take a drink of my cocoa, emptying the cup. “Yeah, it is. That’s why I quit.”
“So you’re not ever traveling again?”
“Yep.”
“Yep,” he echoes. “Sounds like a plan.”
I look up at him. “Thanks.”
“For what? Falling on my ass for your amusement?”
“Not a lot of guys could get this. Y’know?” As I say the words, I realize how true they are. Ben gets it. Ben gets me.
My mind strays back to the other Jessa I saw in the ice—the one who’s been in a relationship with Ben for over a year. Her memories wash over me, and I’m finding it hard to meet his eyes.
“Well,” he says, taking my empty cup and stacking it inside his, which is empty, too. “In my country, people jump through mirrors and run into zombies all the time. This is routine stuff.”
My lips twitch. “But still no running water?”
“No, señorita. Obtenemos agua del río.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “So you’re grounded for good? In the here and now?”
I look over at him, meeting his warm, brown eyes with mine.
“In the here and now,” I say. “Right next to you.”
7
History Repeats Itself
“Do we look like terrorists or something?” Ben complains as we wait in the packed security line. “It’s the Museum of Natural History, for Pete’s sake.”
“There are valuable things here,” I remind him, straining to see over the crowd. “And there’s security everywhere now.”
“I’m wishing I could pop through a mirror out of this line,” he says. “That’d be a handy little trick.”
“Will you keep your voice down?” I admonish him, lowering my own voice. “It wouldn’t do you any good anyway. You could just be subjecting another you to the experience.”
“I could go visit rebel girl,” he teases. “Help her write some more bad poetry.”
My eyes go wide. “You weren’t together over there,” I explain. “Just because it happened once doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”
“I know that,” he says uncomfortably, and I feel like I’ve hurt his feelings. Crap.
“Do you really want a whirlwind romance with a girl who spends half her paychecks on a mountain of black eyeliner and writes angsty poetry?” I tease.
He lets out a huff of a laugh. “Talk about high-maintenance.”
“You have no idea.”
“Guess I’ll stay away from the whirlwind romances and stick with you, then.” He punches my arm lightly. He says it playfully, but his eyes hold mine just a moment too long before I make myself look away.
Mr. Fielding is allowing us to go at our own pace, as long as we meet at the bus by one p.m. Once we get through security, Ben and I start winding our way through the exhibits. Being with Ben is like having my own personal museum guide—he has all kinds of insight on people and cultures. The only danger is letting him talk to someone on the staff. We’ll be here all day if I so much as let him say hello.
There’s an entire exhibit called “Myths and Mysteries” that examines mythology and folklore throughout the ages, and we spend half an hour listening to interactive videos of native storytellers and looking through art and preserved texts under glass. Near the end of the exhibit, we stop in front of a mosaic depicting an oracle in ancient Greece.
“The Pythia,” Ben says, touching his fingers to the description plate next to the mosaic. “The original oracle at Delphi. People sought them out from all over the Mediterranean region.”
“Mario says that’s what they used before Travelers. Oracles and shamans. Holy people like that.”
“Makes sense,” Ben says. “The temple at Delphi was built over volcanic rock, and there was volcanic steam that would rise up through the floor—it supposedly gave the oracles hallucinations, sending them into a dreamlike state to make their prophecies.”
“I wonder what made my ancestor try a mirror for the first time?” I ponder. “I mean, did she trip and fall into it? Did she have a dream that told her how to do it?” I realize I’m asking the wrong person—Mario would probably know. That is, if I ever see him again. He’s kept away from me since I quit, but I doubt that’ll hold.
“Mirrors were used a lot in rituals within various cultures,” Ben says as we move on to the connecting hallway. “They used them for scrying and divination. They’d hold a mirror suspended on a thread over a basin of water, then they’d meditate as they looked at the combined reflections. They believed it made a portal to the gods.”
“So she could have been seeking guidance and when she saw things start to change in her reflection, she took a chance and pushed through.”
“I like your original theory,” Ben says. “She got bitten by a mutant spider, tripped over a big urn filled with olive oil, it splattered on the floor, and she slid into the mirror. Boom! Greco-Roman X-Woman.”
“I’d like to think my ancestor had a little more finesse,” I say as I reach for the door into the next exhibit.
“Hey, I’m gonna hit the little boys’ room,” Ben says. “Meet you inside.”
“I’ll be over by the mammoths,” I say.
“Good! They only have those stupid
blow dryers in there,” Ben replies. “I could use a mammoth. Like a big, shaggy towel, with tusks.”
I shake my head, laughing at him as I push the door open and head inside. For a few minutes, I’m lost in a video presentation of a mammoth excavation from Siberian permafrost. Apparently, I’m a little too engrossed, because when I feel a tap on my shoulder, I jump a foot.
“Don’t do that!” I hiss at Ben. Then I register the sound I just heard. The clanking of bracelets.
“Hello, Miss Jessa.”
She’s standing at the railing right next to me, and I am as still as death. Or maybe I should say, waiting for my death. It’s sure to come any second now. She has a colorful scarf wrapped around her face and head—probably to keep Mr. Fielding from recognizing her since he’s milling around here with the rest of us.
She smiles at me fondly, like it’s another day in class and she’s just read over one of my stories. I glance around wildly, but nobody notices my would-be murderer is staring me down. I think about calling out, but—who would believe me? No one saw her murder anyone. No one knows she tried to murder me.
“What a lucky coincidence it is to find you here. Have you and your new boyfriend been enjoying the museum? You seemed quite entranced by the oracle exhibit.” She gives an odd laugh, and I really look at her. Her eyes are sunken, and her skin is ashen. She looks ill.
“What do you want?” I ask warily.
She leans on the railing. “I want to talk.”
“You want to talk?” I manage to push the words out of my throat. “What can you possibly have to say to me?”
“You’re a bright girl, Miss Jessa,” she purrs. “You always were one of my best students. So very clever, to figure it all out before we were ready to move. You’ve set us back, but you haven’t stopped us. You and that Dreamer of yours have turned the others against us, but the fools will see that convergence is the only way. The better way. With reality returned to simplicity, we can begin shaping it anew into something far better than what it is.”
She’s babbling, and I can see that even though she’s standing still, her hands are trembling. A fine sheen of perspiration stands out on her brow, and her eyes are fever-bright.