The Time of the Clockmaker

by Anna Caltabiano

  Sidestepping a crowd to avoid being trampled, I made my way toward the ticket counter.

  “Next in line, please.”

  I glanced around to make sure it was me, but Henley must have seen that as hesitation, as I felt something push me forward.

  Catching myself on my stumbling feet, I hissed, “Stop it, Henley!”

  I peeked up at the smiling face of an older woman behind the counter and smiled back. Her foundation creased farther into the lines around her mouth. I hoped she hadn’t heard me.

  “Where are we off to, sweetie?”

  Even standing on the ledge behind the counter, the woman was a few inches shorter than I was. Her cheeks sagged a bit, giving her face a pleasant roundness.

  I realized the woman was probably in her mid-sixties to early seventies—the same age I was . . . or technically, would be, if I weren’t fixed in time.

  “Sweetie?” The woman’s smile faltered, but it was nothing like the frown the taxi driver gave me.

  I realized she had asked a question. “Pardon?”

  “Where are you flying to today?”

  “Oh . . .”

  I looked around and tried not to panic. I should have thought of this before I left, or even in the cab.

  I scanned the other side of the counter, passing over an unopened box of blue pens and a work timetable with lunchtime highlighted in pink, before my eyes stopped. When they came to a standstill, I realized they were trained on a stack of travel brochures. “¡Bienvenido a España!” the one on top proudly proclaimed. “Visit Madrid! You’ll love it here!” I wondered if it was a sign.

  “Yes . . . uh . . . I’d like to buy a ticket for Madrid.”

  “Oh, how nice.” The warm smile was back as she started typing. “We can fly you to Heathrow and you can connect there to Madrid-Barajas. By the way, the weather’s gorgeous there this time of year; it’s not too hot or wet yet . . . Let’s see.” The clicks of her typing stopped, and she sighed. “Oh, sweetie, I’m afraid all the flights to Heathrow today are full. I’m s—oh, maybe . . . Yes, I think there’s a few seats on this one. It’ll be arriving late, though, and you’ll have to catch a morning flight into Madrid. The flight was delayed five—several hours due to a few . . . issues but the ground crew has already resolved the problem and lucky for you a few passengers transferred off the flight.”

  “That’s fine,” I said quickly. I would have said okay to just about anything then.

  “Very well. I’ll get this set up for you.” The sound of her typing resumed. “Would you like to book your return flight as well?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. I contemplated whether there was ever going to be a return.

  Since I would be arriving in Heathrow at night, I figured I could book a stay at some nearby airport hotel. I could figure it out when I got there.

  Digging into my purse again, I pulled out the credit card Miss Hatfield had given me for emergencies only. If this wasn’t considered an emergency, I didn’t know what would be. With our situation, I didn’t even know how she had managed to get this credit card. I also dug out the battered passport Miss Hatfield had given me. Though Miss Hatfield wasn’t handy with a computer, she had centuries to perfect forging official documents and “borrowing” the social security numbers of already deceased people. Although the photo didn’t look quite enough like me, I hoped it would pass.

  The woman at the counter was quick to swipe my card and soon enough the freshly printed boarding pass was in my hands.

  “Security is that way. Have a wonderful time in Spain, sweetie,” the woman said. “Next in line!”

  With the boarding pass still warm in my hands, I made my way toward the direction she had pointed.

  The security line was a nightmare. A baby screwed up its face in a yowl from hell.

  “Miss, take out your liquids.”

  A platinum-blond woman took five minutes to simply take off her strappy sandals.

  “Miss, can you please take out your liquids?” I looked up to see a man in uniform, huffing in front of me. I guess I was the “miss” in question. “Do you need a plastic bag?”

  I honestly didn’t know why this man was offering me a bag.

  “For your liquids,” he said, as if reading my mind. He pointed to a sign on his left that I had missed, showing a drawing of a plastic bag with bottles upon bottles of makeup remover, hand sanitizer, and perfume.

  Before I could answer, a ziplock bag was shoved at me.

  I didn’t have many liquids to take out. Just a bottle of soap or shampoo either Henley or I managed to pack.

  I was pushed into an X-ray type machine and told to put my hands up as a sliding bar scanned me from left to right, before a uniformed woman took a glance at my boarding pass and waved me along.

  Then was the long trek to the boarding gate.

  Good God, JFK is quite large.

  “You’re telling me.”

  I had never been in an airport before—I never really had the need—but navigating it was a breeze as long as I remembered to pay attention to all of the signs. After all, that was what those characters always did in movies before reuniting with their loved ones. And Miss Hatfield had told me about airports and the generalities of how they worked.

  “Gate ninety-two. Flight to London, Heathrow,” I read.

  The seats around the gate were all full. There were families trying to console crying babies and young couples who couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other.

  Probably due to it being so close to the boarding time, I couldn’t find a single empty seat near the gate. Instead, I resolved to charge my phone at a charging station. I had seen seats set around charging stations at other gates and figured that this would be no different.

  I spied a charging station nearby. Two of its seats were already taken, but there was an empty third. I walked over, and I was only a few steps away when a young man swooped in without looking and took the seat.

  “Dammit.”

  The man looked up at me with wide green eyes.

  I hadn’t thought he would hear me, but even when he did, I was beyond caring.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He had the whitest smile. “I took your seat, didn’t I?”

  I muttered something unintelligible, and started turning away when he stood up.

  “Here. Why don’t you take the seat.” He moved his things out of the way. “I only really need to charge my phone anyway.”

  I was about to refuse, as I would have done on any other day. But this wasn’t any other day, and the weight of everything that had happened pressed down on me. In that moment all I wanted to do was take a seat, and so I did.

  “Thanks,” I said, finally setting my duffel bag down.

  “No probs. You’re the one who looks like you need it.”

  I wondered if I really did look that tired. I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror since leaving the house.

  “Say . . . I was about to get a Starbucks. You in?” A curl from the man’s swept-back hair fell onto his forehead. “You need some caffeine in you, and as much as I’d like to take credit for treating a beautiful woman, I actually have a gift card I need to use.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “No, seriously. I got like five Starbucks gift cards for my birthday. It’s as if my friends think that coffee is the only thing I live on.” He grinned and his green eyes flashed, reminding me of Henley. “So what do you drink?”

  He was so much like Henley in some ways, and yet the complete opposite of him in others. He was kind, and to a complete stranger no less. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he talked just like Henley. But his laugh was different.

  “Strawberries and cream Frappuccino.”

  He laughed. “That’s hardly coffee.”

  When the man left, I opened my duffel bag to get my phone and its charger. My phone was sitting neatly in one of the side pockets, but I couldn’t find the charger. I came to the conclusion that I must have left it behind in my hur
ry to get out of the house.

  I sighed and looked at the two businessmen seated around the charger with me. Neither of them had the same phone. I looked at the phone Starbucks boy had carelessly left behind. It was connected and charging, but it was a Blackberry and not the type of phone I had.

  There were probably at the very least a handful of people who were using the same phone as me, and therefore probably had chargers on them, but I realized it made little sense for me to charge my phone. Asking to borrow a stranger’s charger would draw attention to me . . . and for what? It wasn’t like I had someone to call anyway. The only contact on my phone was Miss Hatfield.

  I zipped my duffel bag again and looked toward the Starbucks near the gate.

  Starbucks boy had his back turned toward me as he waited for the drinks, but I could recognize him from his flannel plaid shirt and gray skinny jeans. He stood with his arms draped on the counter, relaxed. There was something so easy and uncomplicated about him. I wanted to be like him.

  Soon he came back with two drinks in his hands.

  “I hope you like whipped cream,” he said, holding mine out toward me.

  I smiled in response, looking briefly at the name on my cup.

  “Yeah, my name’s Samuel, by the way. Sam, if you like.”

  “Well, thank you, Sam.”

  I reached into my duffel bag and pulled out my wallet. He stopped me.

  “Gift card, remember?”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, though I knew I didn’t have enough cash to pay him back after the expensive taxi fare.

  “I’m definitely sure.”

  I took a sip of my Frappuccino and drew out the silence.

  “So where are you heading?” He looked up at the sign above the gate number. “London?”

  I shook my head. “I’m connecting to Madrid.”

  “That sounds fun. What are you up to there?”

  I wanted to learn about Ponce de León, the discoverer of the Fountain of Youth, and probably a huge part of the reason I was the way I was. After all, Spain was his home country. . . . But I couldn’t have told this random man that. I wondered what else I would do once I got to Madrid. It would be a good idea to lie low and remain inconspicuous, for a bit at least.

  “Sightseeing . . . the usual things,” I said. “How about you? Are you going to London?”

  “No, I’m not.” He pointed to the gate across from the one we were at. “Paris.”

  “Sightseeing?” I guessed.

  “Nah . . . I wish.” He ran his fingers through his curls and quickly brushed his hair forward again. “I signed up for a course there. I’m studying photography at Tisch and thought I deserved a creative break. I mean—”

  “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. This is flight BAW172 from JFK to London, Heathrow. We are now inviting economy-class passengers to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Thank you.”

  “That’s me,” I said quickly.

  I grabbed my duffel bag and turned.

  “Could I get your number?”

  I sped up, pretending I couldn’t hear him.

  SIX

  THE WOMAN IN front of me had been praying fervently until a moment before, but now she sat still with her eyes glued shut. Everyone was silent, listening to the engines scream in their ears as the plane descended.

  My palms were sweaty as I tried not to think about this hunk of flying metal crashing down onto the ground. We were delayed only twenty minutes, but the other passengers were already making a show of checking their watches. I knew I had to start thinking about finding a place to stay the night. I was so nervous from the day’s events and flying that I had sat rigid the entire flight. All I wanted to do was lie down.

  I felt the thud as the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac.

  The other passengers started clapping as if a magic show had just concluded. It didn’t make sense to me why they were clapping. Were they not expecting the plane to land? Did they clap after every flight?

  “Please make sure that you have all your carry-on items with you as you exit the plane.” A flight attendant with too much red lipstick ushered us out. “Thank you for choosing to fly with us. We hope you enjoyed your flight.”

  I got off the plane on unsteady feet. People pushed past me, eager to get their bags and get out of the airport. Some were home, and some were visitors here, just like me.

  The air in England smelled different even inside the terminal. It didn’t smell of the baked, pockmarked concrete. Rather, I almost smelled notes of Miss Hatfield’s perfume in the air—something from older days brought into the rapid-moving present.

  I saw a uniform-clad man seated at a desk.

  “Do you need some help, ma’am?” he asked.

  I wondered if I looked as lost as I felt.

  “I have a connecting flight in the morning, and I’m afraid I need a place to stay the night,” I said, and gave him my flight information.

  “We can give you a voucher to stay at a nearby hotel, if you would like. There’s a free shuttle bus.”

  A bed. Finally. With all the excitement of the day and the uncomfortable flight, that was exactly what I needed to forget the fatigue bearing down on my shoulders.

  “That would be wonderful.” I wondered if the smile on my face looked strained.

  I spent the entire ride to the hotel trying to look out of the window at England. It was black outside, and the road melted into the sky. All I could see was my pale face staring back at me. Nothing seemed different from New York; it was the same darkness, and the uneasiness had followed me here as well.

  With the hotel also in Heathrow, the shuttle bus came to a stop rather quickly. Soon enough, I was dealing with a sour-looking teenage boy, checking me in.

  “How many nights?” His mouth seemed to be fixed in a permanent pucker even when he talked.

  “Just one. I have a connecting flight in the morning. They gave me this voucher because the flight I was just on was five hours delayed.”

  “Room one twenty-five.” He handed me a flimsy plastic key.

  “Thanks.”

  Room 125 was on the first floor. With yellow wallpaper, a plain window on one side, and not even a single painting, it wasn’t much to look at, but I suppose I should have expected that from a last-minute hotel room near the airport that took airline vouchers.

  “Well, I guess this is it.” I tossed my bag onto the bed.

  You’ll be safe here for the time being.

  I was so glad I had Henley here with me. In a completely foreign land, I needed him even more.

  I held my head in my hands.

  How are you feeling?

  I shrugged. “So much has happened so quickly. I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything.”

  With the murder?

  It still felt strange to use that word. “Yeah . . . but also you being here.”

  I could understand that.

  “Why did it take you so long?” It was a question that I’d held since Henley first talked to me. Why did it take him so long to find me? “I thought you were gone for good.”

  When I died . . . I didn’t know where I was. I thought I had reached some afterlife, but it wasn’t exactly what I thought heaven would be.

  “What was it like?”

  Like watching various scenes projected onto millions of tiny picture frames.

  “Like a control panel with lots of television screens?”

  Henley laughed. I’m not quite up to date on all the technology I’ve missed the last hundred years.

  I ignored that and tried to figure out how to phrase my next question. “And . . . where are you?”

  In a dark room watching all this.

  I was surprised by how quick and definite his answer sounded.

  I don’t have a concept of how long it took me, but I started to learn to focus myself into one time and one scene. With everything going on at once, it’s all color and noise, but with focus I can make
something of it.

  “Like you’re doing now?”

  It took practice to get to this point. It took practice to find you.

  “What do you mean?”

  He chuckled. Miss Rebecca, you’re a hard one to find, and you don’t even know it. Henley paused. It’s like watching what you would call a video. Two people would be having a conversation, but where one of them should be standing is just blank space. It’s as if someone cut you out of a video. A Rebecca-shaped hole. I can hear you, and I can see your outline if I concentrate, but otherwise, it’s as if you’re not there in any time.

  I guess we were almost even, save for the fact that I couldn’t see Henley at all.

  It took me a while to learn how to reach out to you.

  “The typing on my computer?”

  And not just that.

  “Y-you moved my ring that morning. The ring that you gave me.”

  I learned many things, including that I shouldn’t talk when people are around, because people could hear me when I focused my voice into one place. Henley laughed darkly. I scared many a person that way. Who knew ghost tales could be made true?

  I had wondered if it was just me that could hear him.

  Then I started trying to push—to touch things. It was hard trying to manipulate things without falling through them. . . . It still is.

  I knew things were hard for Henley, but he had to understand that things were hard for me as well.

  I stood up, inspecting the walls.

  They were a peculiar yellow; I couldn’t tell if they had always been that way or if they had turned that sickly color from age and sun. No matter. I was here only a night, and since it was already dark out, I figured I would get some sleep. It wasn’t that late by New York time, but I was exhausted by the day’s events. Coupled with the fact that I was too nervous to sleep on the flight since it had been my first time on a plane, I was worn out. I didn’t want to stay awake thinking of anything anymore.

  I shut the curtains, taking care to make sure the window was closed, and then unzipped my bag to check that the clock was still intact after being jostled on our journey. Surprisingly, even after being tossed around, the glass didn’t have a single scratch on it.