Yesterday Is History

by Kosoko Jackson

  But no matter how real it feels, it can’t be real. That’s what happens when you have two parents who swear up and down by the scientific method. It rubs off on you.

  “Sleepwalking…or dreaming,” I reason, dusting off my jeans. That’s something I can wrap my head around. Maybe hallucinations are a side effect of the antirejection meds.

  Reaching back, I gingerly touch the back of my head, which hit the ground hard when I fell, and wince, feeling around the inflamed skin, checking my fingers.

  No blood. Good.

  Or bad?

  Is this what being in a coma is like? Had I drifted off to sleep and something went completely wrong, and now I’m in the hospital, hooked up to dozens of tubes, fighting for my life while my mom and dad decide to keep me on or take me off life support?

  Oh God.

  Oh God.

  Oh God.

  “Uh, hey?” a voice says to the left of me. I see him in my peripheral vision, waving at me as he walks around the front of a white car that’s just cruised into the driveway.

  He’s dressed in a normal outfit: a white undershirt with a pair of jeans and boots. It’s a simple look, and he wears it well.

  His shaggy blond hair falls over his bright blue eyes, and he brushes it back in a nonchalant way that tells me he does this maybe a dozen times a day.

  But something feels…off.

  “You lost?” he asks, throwing his leather jacket over his shoulder like he’s a half-price James Dean.

  How do I answer that? Honestly? Because that answer would be: Yes. I’m completely freakin’ lost.

  But instead, I turn back to the house, willing it to look familiar. Hoping I’ll wake up from whatever bizarro dream this is.

  But nothing happens.

  I turn back to the stranger and open my mouth, close it, and open it again. He simply grins, his arms now crossed over his chest, waiting patiently with an open, if slightly confused, smile on his face.

  “Where am I?”

  “You took all that time to think up something to say, and that’s what you settle on?” He shakes his head and grins. “Boston, Massachusetts.”

  He’s from around here, I think. Says it like all other natives. Baws-ton. Good. That’s at least something I can work with.

  In my journalism elective, I was told that the easiest questions are usually the simplest ones, and the simplest ones will get you all you need to know—if you know how to ask them and how to read between the lines. I know the where.

  “Are you lost?” he asks again.

  “No, I’m from around here too.”

  “Which part?”

  “H—” Nope, can’t say that. “Nearby. I must have gotten off at the wrong station. Can you point me to Forest Hills?”

  He frowns. He has an expressive face. You can see every emotion on it. I guess he can’t help wearing his heart on his sleeve.

  “Forest Hills? The Orange Line?” I ask.

  “I know what you mean. Just never heard someone ask me that before. Odd question. Hard to spot and all,” he says with a sarcastic tone.

  “Sorry?”

  A heavy awkwardness appears between us as suddenly as a spring shower. His face twists into a confused expression, a mix of Is this boy dangerous? and What is he talking about?

  But he speaks softly, not like he’s scared, like he’s concerned. “You okay, boss?”

  I should just say yes and walk away—in any direction. I should say goodbye, thank him, and move on.

  But I never do things the easy way. At my core, I’m a problem solver. And this is a problem worth solving.

  The boy points in the general direction that I need.

  “Thanks,” I reply, taking a few steps before pausing and turning to him. But I stop. I need to know something first.

  “What did you mean my question was odd?”

  “First you don’t know where one of the ugliest T stops is, and now you’re asking me an obvious question,” he teases. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Which is a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. I employ a tactic my mom uses—silence. Eventually, he’ll get uncomfortable and answer. In three, two, one…

  “T stops are easy to spot,” he caves, fishing out a cigarette and lighter. “I mean, they’re aboveground, loud, ugly as shit, and—”

  Hold up. “Stop,” I interrupt. “You said its aboveground?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He lights the thin white cancer stick in two clicks.

  “Forest Hills is underground.”

  “Underground?” he repeats, voice muffled with the cig in his mouth. He pulls it out, holding it between two long fingers. “That would be something, wouldn’t it? No. Pretty sure I know my stations.”

  “Me too.”

  Silence again, except this time it’s not my doing. He narrows his eyes curiously, scanning me, it feels like, for information.

  “You sure you okay, boss?”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat. Why is this guy saying the station is aboveground? What a stupid thing to lie about. It’s something I can confirm easily, and—

  Wait.

  Wait.

  Then, like when a random song lyric from years ago suddenly pops into your head, memories from viewing old photos during middle school history class flood my brain. Black-and-white photos, and photos with poor color quality of Boston. The old Boston. Boston in the 1950s and 1960s.

  With aboveground trains.

  “When is it?” I suddenly ask. “Still summer?”

  He nods, but slower this time, his eyes studying me. “June, actually.”

  “June fourteenth?”

  “Right on the money.”

  “And what year is it? Two thousand twenty-one, right?”

  A beat passes, and it’s the longest beat of my life.

  “Right?”

  He looks concerned, very concerned, but he answers. Not the answer I want to hear, though. Not the answer anyone wants to hear.

  “Nineteen sixty-nine.”

  The words echo and bounce around my brain for what feels like hours before they finally lodge themselves into my psyche.

  I’m back on my ass before I even realize it, my legs buckling under me.

  He moves forward and, ignoring the wetness of the grass, falls to his knees beside me. He presses the back of his hand against my forehead.

  “You’re warm. Are you sick or something? Confused?”

  “I’m okay.” I bat his hand away. “I just need…some…”

  “You need some water. You’re coming with me.”

  He counts to three before hoisting me up, slinging my left arm over his shoulder.

  “I can walk.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.” He winks, walking across the lawn to the front steps. “Stand here for a sec,” he says, fishing out his keys. He keeps me close, even though I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own.

  I’m not sure I mind it.

  He turns the key and uses his shoulder and a little extra effort to push the door open, stumbles when it gives, and gives me a boyish smile.

  “Always gets stuck…”

  “When it rains,” I finish the sentence for him. I remember that when my parents bought the house, they complained about it. The doors were one of the first things we changed… But sometimes they still get stuck.

  He looks puzzled but shrugs it off and walks into his house.

  My house.

  Fifty-two years in the past.

  Three

  My parents bought this house after it had been abandoned for more than fifteen years.

  I was six when we moved in. My mom taught me how to remember where we lived with a little memory trick.

  “We’re next to the Forest Hills T stop, and Forrest is your mi
ddle name, but with two rs.”

  Many of the changes Mom and Dad made when we renovated it erased the old house. But some things are still here. Like the slight dip you have to walk over when you move from the front hallway to the living room. Or the strange half-foot extension that makes passing through the living room and into the kitchen not as seamless as it should be. I know it so well, inside and out. At its core, this is still my house.

  The guy weaves through the house with an uncanny familiarity that feels…violating. It takes me a few moments of silence to figure out why.

  It’s because I move the same way when I’m home. It’s the same level of relaxation, of comfort that comes from being in your own home. It’s the way your muscles relax and that breath you’ve been holding without knowing it is finally released when you get home. It’s the subconscious feeling of safety. He has it. And I don’t right now, but then again, I think I’m losing my mind. How can it be 1969? The only logical explanation is that it’s a dream…or a hallucination. I’m trying not to freak out—trying to ride out whatever this is, but I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat as I try to fight down the panic.

  “So we have water, pop, Tang…” He lists off drinks, his body half concealed by the fridge. He doesn’t tell me to sit, but I lean against a bar stool, resting my arms on the cool countertop. Why is he so calm when he clearly has a lunatic in his house?

  “No one here calls it pop.”

  “That’s because you’re all wrong,” he says, without looking up. “Which do you want?”

  Instead of answering him, I take everything in. From the corner of my eye, I see him looking at me.

  “You look like you need something stronger. Sidecar? Sidecar.”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  We are both silent while he makes the drink. I get off the stool and walk over to the hearth. There’s no fireplace in my house anymore, just a wall where the TV hangs. But the pictures on the mantel are cute. The guy with his family—an older brother, two parents, a dog—except they all look younger. Especially him.

  “An all-American family,” I mutter. “Did I end up in Leave It to Beaver? All you’re missing is the white picket fence.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing,” I say, looking up, seeing him pour the drinks. “Andre,” I blurt out. “Andre Cobb.”

  “Hmm?”

  “My name.”

  “Nice to meet you Andre Cobb from Boston,” he teases. “I’m Michael. Michael Gray, since we’re giving our full government names.”

  With drinks in hand, Michael pads across the floor, handing a martini glass filled with orangeish liquid to me. The proportions are off; mine has about a third more liquid than his. He grins sheepishly.

  “I’m still getting the hang of this stuff,” he admits. The hesitation on my face as he raises his glass in a silent salute makes him pause. “Not a fan of orange liquor? Look, I get it. Took me a while to get used to it, too, but I promise it’s amazing.”

  I push my lips into a thin line to keep the secret from escaping accidentally. What do I tell him? That I’ve never drunk alcohol before? That starting now, right after my transplant, probably isn’t the best time to do it? But if it’ll calm my nerves so that I can control them enough to ride this thing out…

  “Cheers.”

  The drink goes down smoothly, once I get past the initial burn. The sugary sweetness helps, and within three gulps, my drink is almost gone, while he’s already refilled his halfway. Michael rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb in a slow-motion move that I’m one hundred percent sure he didn’t mean to be seductive but one hundred percent is. He then shakes his head, blowing air out of his lips obnoxiously.

  “Note to self: I hate cognac,” Michael says, putting the glass down.

  Why did he invite me in? I’m a mess. I’m spouting nonsense about the future. Maybe Michael is just a super friendly type of guy. Or he just isn’t scared.

  For the millionth time, I think this has to be an illusion or a dream or something.

  But it feels so real. The smell of disinfectant lingers softly in the air, but it’s there. The house doesn’t have a speck of dust in it; it feels like some old-timey replica made for a museum to show what life was like in the sixties.

  “Shit,” I say, seeing the tracks of mud from my shoes. “I should have taken these off.”

  Michael waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t sweat it. You’re lucky. Parents and brother are out of town for the week.”

  “And the dog too?”

  Michael smirks. “That tells you where I rank in the family dynamics, yeah? I’ll clean it myself—or just take the blame myself. They’ll accept that.” He nods his head toward the picture I was looking at before. “Screwup Mikey. That’s what my pops calls me. This will be par for the course. You said you’re looking for the Orange Line, right? Shame, really. I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.”

  “Yeah, I am. Wait, pause and go back. What do you mean when I’m gone?”

  Michael quirks his brow. “You plan on staying forever? Well, trust me, you’re very fetching and all, but I don’t think my parents would be very happy with me having a boy or a Neg—”

  “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

  He pauses, studies my seriousness, and slowly nods. “A stranger in the house with me. But they won’t be home till tomorrow. So we got time.”

  “Time for what?”

  Michael smiles, the same one as before. He walks over to the couch and plops down, putting his booted feet on the table, crossing them at the ankles. “Time for me to figure you out.”

  Before I can respond, he speaks again. “You’re from around here, yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  With him sitting, I have the advantage if I need to run. I’m not giving that up. I’ve seen what happens in those science-fiction shows when people are stuck inside their mind and try to leave. This house is probably some metaphor for me being trapped inside my consciousness. I bet if I leave the cul-de-sac, there will be nothingness until I need there to be something.

  “But I have no idea where you’re trying to go…hmm. What a puzzle you are, Andre,” he muses. “You smoke?”

  I shake my head this time. Michael shrugs. “I should quit. You know smoking causes cancer? That’s what they’re saying. Not sure if I believe them.”

  How could he not believe them? There’re layers upon layers of proof.

  “I would one hundred percent agree with that choice.”

  Michael smiles, showing off a row of perfectly straight white teeth. He rests his arms on the back of the couch, his shirt riding up slightly, revealing a tight set of abs with a light dusting of dirty blond hair. He’s relaxed, in his element.

  I, on the other hand, haven’t been this tense since Dr. Moore told me I was sick.

  “So here’s the way I look at it, Andre,” Michael finally says. “You have nowhere to go. And where you want to go, I can’t help you. You can go out there, into Boston at night, and try to find it on your own. But you seem like a smart cat, and for someone like you”—he gestures—“it wouldn’t be wise to be wandering around Boston in the dark alone.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Of course I do. It’s the same thing my mom would say. Boston hasn’t always been great for Black people—for anyone who isn’t white, really. Sure, it’s better now, a lot better, but there’s a chance that this is real. And if it’s real, I’m not in my timeline anymore. There’s a chance…a chance I’ve actually traveled back in time.

  And no matter how slim that chance is, I’m safer here. In Michael’s house…my house.

  “And I think you are a little messed up,” Michael says. “Don’t even know what year it is. So what I’m suggesting is that you stay here the night. Until the morning. And we ju
st hang out…talk.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Talk?”

  Michael leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Is that something you don’t do?”

  “Cut the crap. Someone just randomly appears in your lawn, someone who seems to be very confused, and your first idea is to bring him in, serve him alcohol, offer him your couch, and talk to him?”

  He shrugs. “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “It’s weird.”

  “Some people would say it’s the responsible and neighborly thing to do.”

  “Some people are wrong.”

  “Or maybe I’m just a nice person.”

  “Or maybe you’re an idiot for letting a stranger into your home.”

  Another shrug. “The way I see it, there are two options here. One, you’re someone who needs my help.”

  “And the second option?” I cross my arms and examine him. There are no telltale signs of him lying. But who can really be that selfless? He should be afraid. He should be calling the police. Hell, that’s what I would do—that’s what most people would do.

  “I was hoping you could help me with that one.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He takes another sip of his drink, a longer one. The ice cubes clink against one another. His Adam’s apple bobs, and his collarbone flexes just slightly while he sips. Michael’s defined enough that even small actions like that have visible effects, and I’d be lying if I said they weren’t nice to look at. The whole “jeans and T-shirt” look really does suit him.

  Michael stands up and takes one step forward. I take one step back. The tango continues until my back presses against the wall and he’s less than three inches away from me. I can smell the soft scent of alcohol and lemon on his breath. I take a deep breath, though I don’t mean to; the smell just does that to me. Dad told me once that smell is the sense most tied to memories and emotions.

  I believe it.

  Michael puts one hand on the wall next to me. “You’re a smart guy, Andre.”

  “I know that.”

  He smiles, but gently. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. Or a compliment. Only saying the truth. And what I know about smart guys is, they’re the ones you gotta watch out for. The ones who always have a secret. I’d know, because I’m a smart guy too.”