The Surviving Trace

by Calia Read

  Ignoring the pain, I creep back into bed and wake Étienne by kissing him. It doesn’t take long for him to react, and soon we’re making love. I cringe at the phrase. It sounds melodramatic and cliché. So what do I call what I did with Étienne last night and thirty minutes ago?

  It wasn’t “making love.”

  Sex isn’t fitting enough.

  It certainly wasn’t fucking.

  It’s a combination of the three. Deliberate and desperate and mind-consuming enough to numb the guilt that encompasses me, but it slams into me like one giant wave minutes later.

  That’s the problem with following your heart. It may soothe you for a second, but it can never override your gut instinct. Right now, mine is screaming that I’ve made a permanent—potentially dangerous—choice by falling in love with Étienne.

  When we’re finished, I rest my head on Étienne’s chest. His hands idly brush through my hair.

  “Where did you go?” he asks.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the kitchen for a snack.”

  Étienne doesn’t reply, and soon his hand stills on my head. I stare idly at the window, my heart thumping wildly. Tomorrow, I’ll admit to him that I broke into Asa’s office and found that ledger.

  Right now, I’ll tell him the essential truth. I exhale loudly. “Étienne, I love you.”

  Once the words escape my mouth, I feel relief. I’ve lied so many times since I’ve been here that it’s beyond amazing to tell the truth.

  It feels so good, I want to say it again.

  “I love you, I love you, I love you,” I whisper against his chest.

  Étienne feels so deeply embedded in my life that it wouldn’t matter how much time passed. I can’t forget him.

  Étienne tightens his hold on me. “I love you too.”

  “I don’t want to go back to my time.” The words aren’t as hard to say as I expected, though it certainly doesn’t make it any easier. “Does that make me a bad person?”

  Étienne rubs his hand up and down my arm and remains quiet.

  “I know it does,” I say.

  “If that makes you a bad person, then so does me wanting you to stay.” He kisses the top of my head. “It’s late. You can’t think about that. I love you, and you love me. That’s all that matter.”

  He’s right.

  After a few minutes, Étienne’s breathing evens out. My eyelids flutter rapidly, and I drift off to sleep.

  A LOUD NOISE wakes me.

  I sit up in bed and hiss in pain. My headache is so painful, I close my eyes. The noises start again. It’s the sound of laughter and clapping.

  Opening my eyes, I see my old apartment living room. The sight of it steals my breath and leaves me with a deep-rooted fear.

  And then it happens—the feeling of invisible fingertips trailing up my spine before they curl around my shoulders and gently, yet insistently pull me back. Thousands of needles prick my skin, making me feel as if my nerve endings are on fire.

  It’s happening.

  What do I do?

  I fight because I recognize what’s occurring. But it’s pointless.

  Helplessly, I turn to Étienne, but he’s sound asleep. I try to scream, but not a sound escapes my mouth. When I glance at my body, I see it’s fading away, starting at my toes and traveling up my body.

  The walls collapse gradually. Furniture dissipates into thin air. The ceiling is yanked up, greedily destroyed by the sky. The floor caves in, and I fall with it.

  My hands slash at the air as I desperately try to grab onto something, anything. Nothing works as I’m pushed back. No amount of screaming for Étienne. No amount of pleading for someone to help.

  Nonetheless, I continue to cry out for Étienne. The whole time, the pain in my head increases until I’m praying for the blackness to take over so I no longer have to feel this suffering.

  And then it does.

  “Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.”

  ―Søren Kierkegaard

  THE SILENCE SURROUNDING me is deafening. Only my shallow breathing keeps me company.

  I should open my eyes, but I’m too afraid of what I might see. So I stay perfectly still. My cheek pressed against something soft.

  My heart beats like a drum, and the longer I lay here, the more I panic. My left hand rests against my stomach. My right dangles in the air, my fingertips grazing a cold surface. Mere seconds ago, I was with Étienne. In his arms. Feeling his breath tickle the hairs on my neck.

  My chest rapidly moves up and down as I take small, short breaths and try to calm myself. After a few seconds, I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling before I turn to my left. The room is dark except for the street lights sending silver streaks across the floor and the glow of the TV illuminating the room.

  I’m back in my time. In my apartment.

  “No, no, no,” I whisper frantically.

  Very slowly, I stand. My legs wobble, and I stumble toward the patio doors like a wasted person leaving a bar. The blinds are cracked open, as I always have them. The city lights twinkle brightly. A car drives by, it’s lights reflecting off the road. I hear a dog barking. I look at the scene with a sense of wonderment and dread.

  I turn back around and stare at the apartment. Everything is the same as when I left. The blanket is lying on the floor. The remote control is on the armrest of the sofa, and my cell phone is on the coffee table. I hurry toward the coffee table, snatch my phone, and click on the lock screen. It’s midnight and the date is December 20th.

  That’s impossible. I’ve been gone for almost eight weeks.

  The room tilts around me, and I think I’m going to be sick. I swallow back the bile in my throat as I half-run and half-stumble to the bathroom. Just as I did at Belgrave when I realized I’d time traveled, I vomit into the toilet. Funny how I’m feeling the same emotions now as I did then.

  Minutes tick by. Once I’m positive there’s nothing left in my stomach that’ll come back up, I sit down, my shoulders grazing the wall behind me. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I keep waiting for my heart rate to slow down. It never does.

  “Serene?”

  I twist around, my elbow slams into the door.

  Will stands in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. His hair is messy, and he’s wearing only his boxers. “What are you doing up?”

  My mouth opens and closes repeatedly.

  Here’s my fiancé, yet all I see is a stranger. I’ve pictured my homecoming so many times. I always envisioned running straight into Will’s arms and telling him everything that had happened. We’d marvel at it all, and everything would be okay. Because I was home.

  But I don’t run into those familiar arms, and I don’t utter a single word. My shallow breaths punctuate the silence. Over and over I tell myself to get up and go to him, but I stay perfectly still. The walls seem to close in on me. It’s getting harder to breathe.

  My eyes close, and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until spots dance behind my lids. “This isn’t happening.”

  “What isn’t?” Will asks, oblivious. “Are you still pissed off about that picture?”

  My hands drop from my face. I stare at him.

  Will yawns and shrugs. “We have to talk about it sometime.”

  Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe more time has gone by than I thought. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our argument after dinner?” He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “I know we said we’d never go to bed angry, but I honestly didn’t think you’d sleep on the couch.”

  My mind is spinning, trying to keep up with everything he’s saying. “We were arguing?”

  “Yeah,” he repeats just as slowly.

  The events of the night come rushing back to me. “The picture!”

  I run toward the fireplace, ignore the poker, and move the ashes around with my bare hands.

  “Serene!”

  Ignoring Will, I continue to move the ashes around. My
hands become covered in soot.

  “Serene! Stop!” Will comes up behind me and grabs my arms and shakes me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I push away from him. “That picture has a man who needs my help!”

  Speaking the truth should feel good. It should make me feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. But Will stares at me as though I’m losing my mind.

  Impossible. I’ve never been surer of anything in my entire life.

  Will steps back from me and links his hands behind his head as he gazes at the ceiling. And for a tense moment, we say nothing.

  Finally, he looks at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d react this strongly.”

  Everything he’s saying is going in one ear and out the other. All I can think about is Étienne. Mere minutes ago, I was lying in bed with him, his arms wrapped around me. And now I’m… here.

  “What the hell are you wearing?”

  Will’s words pull me out of my thoughts. I blink him into focus. “Huh?”

  He flings a hand toward me. “What are you wearing? Is that something new?”

  Glancing at my clothes, I see I’m still wearing the nightgown. I brush my fingers across the silky material, smearing soot across it. “I—”

  “Look…” Will sighs. “It’s been a long night, and I don’t want to fight with you.” He places his hands on my shoulders, gently kneading my muscles, and I fight the urge to pull away from his touch. “I love you. You know that.” He smiles.

  “I-I know,” I reply, my voice faint.

  “Good.” He kisses my forehead. “Now, how about we go to bed? Together?”

  “Okay.”

  With his arm draped over my shoulder, he guides us toward the bedroom, making sure to turn off the lights behind him.

  I walk around the bed to my side. The sheets are cold against my skin. The mattress dips as Will gets into bed. He moves around a bit, trying to make himself comfortable. It only takes a few minutes before he’s asleep.

  I lay on my side, staring blankly at the clock. I feel numb, as though pieces of my heart have been ripped out and scattered throughout time.

  My mom once told me to find a man who gazes at me as though I’m the sun, moon, and stars. But what she failed to tell me was how to move on from a love that spans decades.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up bleary-eyed and disoriented. My muscles scream in protest when I sit up. I look around and immediately get the sense of déjà vu. This was the exact feeling I had when I woke up at Belgrave.

  It takes me a few seconds, but last night’s events come back to me. I remember sleep never came and lying in bed next to Will seemed wasteful and wrong. I went to the couch, but I was too restless to sleep, so I paced the living room, feeling as if I was going to crawl out of my skin. It was the most unnerving, terrifying feeling. I’m back in the era I belong in—the one I was born in—yet I’m looking at everything with new eyes, and it’s a shock to my system.

  It was only when the sun started to rise that I calmed down, sat on the couch, and promptly fell asleep.

  This all feels like a bad dream that I don’t know how to escape.

  Around seven, Will’s alarm goes off. A few minutes later he comes into the living room and stops short when he sees me sitting on the couch. Before he can ask, I tell him that I couldn’t sleep. He’s too tired to question my excuse and heads to the kitchen.

  “I can make the coffee today,” I blurt.

  What I’m offering is not our normal routine and Will knows it. He glances at the kitchen and over my shoulder at the bedroom before he shrugs and heads to the bathroom to get ready for work. That was easier than I thought.

  It’s ridiculous, but I’m nervous to be around him. I don’t know how to explain everything that’s happened. Pretending that nothing is wrong is out of the question; he knows me too well.

  The same feelings I had as I tried—and failed—to be the Serene of 1912 come rushing back to me. Will expects the Serene he went to dinner with. In reality, he’s living with a stranger. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  My movements are unhurried, almost robotic, as I move toward the kitchen. I’m on autopilot as I make a pot of coffee. Leaning against the counter, I watch the oven clock, anxiously waiting for Will to walk through the doorway. I don’t want to see him. For a second, I entertain the idea of grabbing my coat and keys and getting the hell out of here, but never in my life have I gone out of my way to avoid Will. We’ve always gotten along so well, there’s never been a need.

  At seven fifteen on the dot, he comes walking in smelling like his body wash. Will hesitates when he sees me leaning against the counter, and I know he’s thinking about last night.

  “Thanks for making the coffee.” When he walks by me, he kisses the top of my head.

  I clutch my coffee with both hands as I stare at the tile floor. “No worries.”

  He takes in my disheveled appearance. “Why couldn’t you sleep last night?”

  Wordlessly, I look at the nightgown. It’s a physical reminder that I didn’t dream up Étienne or time traveling. It happened. I wait for Will to bring up what I said last night about helping one of the men in the picture. It was a big bomb to drop. He’s silent as he makes himself breakfast. The quietness is speeding past the bounds of awkward toward painfully uncomfortable.

  Tell him everything, my mind chants. Just get it all out in the open! But when I open my mouth, my tongue suddenly becomes three sizes too big.

  “I-I…”

  Will takes a bite of his toast and glances at me. “Maybe you should call Liz and tell her you’re not feeling well so you can catch up on your sleep.”

  Work.

  Shit.

  I’d completely forgotten about Past Repeat. “That’s a good idea.”

  “In all seriousness, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” I say deadpan.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Will steps toward me, and without thinking, I back away. Immediately, he stops in his tracks and stares at me with hurt in his eyes. I didn’t mean to recoil from him. It simply happened.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say weakly. “I’m going to lie down.”

  The silence between us becomes so strained. I fight the urge to leave the room and escape his keen gaze.

  Will looks at his coffee mug and clears his throat. “All right. Feel better, okay?” He lifts his head. Hurt still lingers in his gaze, but now it’s accompanied by a handful of questions I don’t want to answer.

  “I’ll call you later.” I don’t know if I will. It just seems like the right thing to say.

  My delivery must’ve been off-target because he mutters, “Sounds good.” Then he turns and walks out the front door.

  My shoulders slump in defeat. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. That went wrong.

  Outside, the world’s coming alive. People in our apartment complex are slamming front doors, their footsteps echoing in the hall. I walk back to the living room and peer through the blinds as people start their cars. All this bustling activity is overwhelming and reminds me that I’m going nowhere.

  Not forward.

  Not backward.

  Standstill. That’s me.

  I was so convinced when I first time traveled that I needed to help Étienne in order to go back to the present. But here I am, and I didn’t help him. At least I don’t think I did. I knew there could be consequences for stealing the ledger and placing it on Étienne’s desk. But I think more than anything, it’s me falling in love and sleeping with Étienne that sent me back to my own time.

  Étienne still needs my help.

  There’s a good chance we’ll never see each other again. There’s a good chance time will dull the sharp ache of missing him, but I won’t forget him.

  I should try to move on. Before I found the picture, my life was pretty damn good. I had a fiancé I loved deeply. I had a store I was passionate about.

  I had it all.

 
; None of that seems to matter now.

  I’ve been home not even twenty-four hours, and already I feel disconnected from Will. More than anything, I want to tell him the truth. I know that the chances of anyone believing me are incredibly slim. Most people will probably think I’ve gone insane and recommend the nearest therapist. But this is Will. If anyone will give me a chance to explain what happened, it’s him.

  I can’t tell him everything. I can’t disclose how I feel about Étienne without genuinely sounding batshit crazy.

  I can see it now. Hey! I’m in love with someone born more than a hundred years ago.

  Yeah, that won’t go over well at all.

  Sighing, I lean against the wall as I continue to watch people go about their day and tuck my hands into my pockets. My hand meets cold metal. I lower my head the same time my fingers curl around the metal, pulling the key out of my pocket. Sunlight glints off of the skeleton key as I slowly turn it back and forth.

  My heart starts to pound. So much has happened since I had come back that I completely forgot about the key. My left hand tightly grips the key as I hold it close to my chest. I’m not letting this out of my sight.

  I don’t have the photo anymore.

  But I do have this.

  I BELIEVE THERE are many ways to lose your mind.

  But nothing consistently drives people to the brink of madness like love. That emotion is a sure-fire way to fuck up your heart. It makes you do things you would never think of doing.

  I breathe. I live. But I’m barely functioning, and I want to blame Étienne. His memory is a second heartbeat that echoes against my own. It’s driving me insane. If I hadn’t fallen in love with him, I wouldn’t be awake at 3:34 a.m. I wouldn’t be pacing my living room in the pitch black like a madwoman.

  If I hadn’t fallen in love with him, my life would be going in a different direction, but the fact is I did fall for him. Everything happened so fast, I didn’t notice the fall down, and now I have to figure out what to do. But I’m struggling to climb away from the memory of him.