Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

  Roth crooks his head. And now he’s overheard that I won’t miss “it” and “I’ll be there” and when he asks what “it” is and I tell him the truth, which of course I have to, he’ll be hurt if I don’t invite him.

  Crickets on a slice of toast.

  We’ve been dating all of four or so months and he has to meet my mother already?

  I’m suddenly light-headed.

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear it. I’ll have your old room ready for you. And your favorite cover band, Hip Hop Hooray, is playing on the eve of the Fourth. Remember them?”

  I hum, or something along those lines, unable to share in her excitement.

  My ears ring.

  I’ll have to tell Roth about my mother.

  And my mother about Roth.

  Why does this feel like the moment of truth? Or sudden death?

  Now Roth is beginning to look concerned. He walks over to me, takes my arm, and leads me to a kitchen chair. I sit, numb, tuning out my mother as she goes on and on about how nice it will be to have me home and all of the girl things we’ll do together, all the while thinking…

  Is the love we share some kind of love to survive a weekend with Candice, or has my fairy tale come to an abrupt, sad ending?

  I guess we’re about to find out.

  12

  Tenerife Sea

  Laurel

  Ten Years Earlier

  July 3, 12:48 p.m.

  * * *

  “You haven’t said a word since we landed.”

  “That’s not true,” I reply, monotone, watching the cornfields fly by out my window. It’s been years since I’ve been back here and man, things have changed. Most notably, the ten-year road construction project to widen I-80 right outside of Omaha is almost complete. It’s slick.

  “You gave me the address to plug into the GPS. That was twenty minutes ago. Before that you said, ‘No,’ when I asked you if you were hungry.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  In fact, I’m pretty sure I could vomit the mocha soy latte and apple I forced down for breakfast before we boarded. I was just wondering if we had a plastic bag somewhere in this rental car. Otherwise, we may need to pull over.

  “Laurel.” Roth slots our hands together. “It will be okay.”

  My strangled laugh sounds near hysteria.

  “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

  After I hung up with my mother, I broke out into an allover sweat and couldn’t catch my breath. This horrific, intense pain radiated from my chest down my torso, and I was convinced, at twenty-eight, I was going to prematurely die of a heart attack. I told Roth to call 9-1-1.

  Turns out it was a panic attack. I’ve never had one before, so I wasn’t quite sure what it was. It was awful, is what it was.

  Roth didn’t call 9-1-1. He talked me through it, telling me to close my eyes and take slow, deep breaths. When that didn’t work, he told me to hang my head between my legs and he made me a cup of chamomile tea. He handled me with care and concern, and eventually, with his help I worked my way out of it.

  This man has the patience of Job or Mother Teresa or anyone who lives in Sweden, and there are many times I don’t feel as if I deserve him.

  “I think I can handle it,” he tells me.

  “I hope so,” I mutter under my breath.

  He squeezes my hand, and we drive the remaining few minutes in silence. As we pull into the outskirts of Lionsville, I feel strangely conflicted.

  This place holds a sense of neglect, deep sorrow, and the remains of people I love dearly. But it also holds memories of hopscotch and knee scrapes and belly laughs and midnight eggings and tree climbing and countless July Fourths. So many good things happened here too. I haven’t allowed myself to actually feel those memories in my bones for the longest time. And I think much of it is because of the man sitting next to me.

  As much as I’m dreading the visit with my mother, I’m also sort of excited about showing Roth around the place I grew up.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Surely, we can make it through seventy-two hours without incident, right?

  “Oooh.” Roth turns up his nose at the same time the ripe stench hits me. “It smells like a—”

  “Skunk in the middle of the road.” I finish, suddenly remembering a long-forgotten game Esther and I used to play. “One-a-skunk.”

  “What?”

  “One-a-skunk,” I repeat. “Now you’re supposed to say two-a-skunk.”

  “Two-a-skunk?”

  “Three-a-skunk.”

  Silence. He’s clueless about what’s going on. Next time he’ll learn to be quicker on the draw.

  “Now you say four-a-skunk,” I prompt.

  “Wh—”

  “Just say it.”

  His sigh is heavy. He’s clearly not enjoying this as much as I am. “Four-a-skunk.”

  “Five-a-skunk,” I say next.

  He catches on. “Six-a-skunk?”

  I grin and say, “Seven-a-skunk,” and when we get to eight, when he gets to eight, he still doesn’t realize what the game is all about. So, I spell it out for him.

  “You ate a skunk,” I tell him with kid-like glee.

  “That’s a stupid game,” he laments, flipping the radio station. Bruno Mars blasts us with his “24K Magic” gold rhythm.

  “You only think it’s stupid because you lost.”

  He huffs and shakes his head, and I can tell he’s replaying our little banter to see if there’s another angle. There isn’t. You just need to know how many people you’re playing with and the order you need to be in not to be eighth.

  A few miles later, we exit the interstate and Roth quips, “The Hometown with Heart, huh?” as we drive by the massive boulder on the right side of the road, which our motto is carved into.

  “My grandfather’s doing,” I reply with a big swelling of pride.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It was the first thing he did as mayor. He thought we needed a tagline of sorts. Something that would draw people from the big city.”

  “And did it?”

  “No, not the way he wanted. But in 2006, Leone was on Charles Anderson’s list of the best small towns in America.”

  “Well, that’s pretty cool.”

  “Yeah. And while we are most famous for our Fourth of July celebration, it was his idea to start the annual fall festival we call AppleJacks.”

  “AppleJacks? You have a festival for cereal?”

  “No, silly.” I chuckle, forgetting that he’s from sand-and-yacht country. “It’s a three-day weekend to celebrate the fall apple harvest.”

  He eyes me with a cheeky grin. “Do they have an apple bobbing contest?”

  “And water barrel fights and a craft fair and a classic car show. We don’t do anything half-assed in Leone.”

  When we both laugh, I feel a touch lighter.

  Until we pull into the driveway of my childhood home three minutes later, that is.

  We sit in the driveway with the car running.

  Roth doesn’t speak as I stare at the house. The memories that rush over me are as powerful as the waves of a tsunami.

  Ours is a sturdy, 1960s two-story white farmhouse with mint green stairs and porch floorboards. It reminded me of the outside of a Doublemint gum wrapper when growing up. I hated it when we had friends over. Oddly, now I think it gives the place character.

  I spy the extravagant treehouse perched solidly in the backyard maple, veranda fully intact. And the tire swing that still hangs from one of the thick branches where Esther and I would take turns pushing each other. In the tall grass, the outline of where we lay and let whirlers fall all over us is clearly visible, to me anyway.

  Roth pushes the start-stop button, and the engine cuts off.

  I coil my fingers together, anxious.

  My mother swings the front door open as if she’s been standing there for hours waiting for us to arrive. She probably has after my conversation with her the other day.r />
  “You’re bringing a man?” she asks with complete and total surprise.

  “Yes, Mother, I am bringing a real man. Is that a problem?” I reply defensively. Daring almost.

  “No…of course not. I didn’t realize you were seeing someone.” You didn’t tell me, is what she meant.

  “It’s early.” Please don’t screw it up for me.

  “Well, he must be important if you’re bringing him home to meet your mother.”

  “He is.” Which is the most honest thing I have said to my mother in a long, long time.

  “You okay?” Roth asks me.

  Ah, nope. How far from okay can one get, exactly? Recognizing signs from that panic attack I had a couple of weeks ago, I draw in a deep breath, purse my lips into the shape of an “O,” and let it go in a steady rhythm. It’s not working, but “Sure,” I finally answer. “You ready?”

  My gaze hasn’t broken with my mother’s since she opened the door. She’s now stepped onto our minty-green wraparound porch. Minus the color, it’s the kind little girls dream of having, complete with a Sunday porch swing. Esther and I used to spend hours in the summer on that swing, reading Judy Blume books and drinking lemonade until our bellies ached.

  “Are you ready, is probably the better question.”

  I swallow past the angst and turn toward him. “You love me, right?”

  “Yes,” he replies immediately with this tone that is absolute, leaving no room for argument.

  “No matter what?”

  “Laurel…” My eyes immediately water. He can’t possibly understand what I’m feeling right now. Every nerve is charged. Every muscle is wound taut. “I am so in love with you. All that you are is all I will ever need, and there is absolutely nothing that could change my love for you, including whatever is inside that house.”

  Heartache is what is inside of that house.

  I twist the two rings circling my right thumb. Around and around and around they go. “You’re sure?”

  His gaze burns into mine. “Yes.”

  I look away. I repeat my deep breathing and my ring twisting. “Okay, then. I’m ready.”

  He has to know my mother is watching. Either he doesn’t care, or he wants to show her how much I mean to him. It doesn’t matter, because when he leans over to kiss me like no one is watching, I let everything go. I give it to him for safekeeping, trusting in him and in his love for me.

  “I love you, Laurel. No matter what,” he tells me, his forehead pressed to mine.

  “Mi amado.”

  “Christ. You know what that does to me. Do they have hotels around here?” He adjusts himself and that makes me chuckle.

  “Let’s go.”

  “I need this hard-on to go down first.” His eyes sparkle and I do what I hate when other girls do it…I throw my head back and barrel laugh, hand to chest.

  My mother has to be wondering what in the heck we are doing, but I find I don’t care. This right here is perfect. A stolen moment in heaven before a few days in hell.

  “You’d better will it down.”

  “That doesn’t help, love.”

  Love. Wow. The first time he’s called me that. Now I know I can do this.

  I open my door and while Roth moans, I step out of the air-conditioned car into the sticky humidity of Nebraska in July.

  “Laurel,” my mother calls, and then she surprises me by running down the stairs, meeting me halfway up the sidewalk. She opens her arms and embraces me as if we are BFFs. I hug all five feet three inches of her petite frame. She’s thinner than I remember.

  “I am so glad you’re here,” she whispers in my ear.

  Is this for show or did she truly miss me? She sounds genuine, only I don’t say anything back, because I don’t want to lie. I am so tired of the lying. I am tired of needing a reason to lie.

  “Mom.” I break from her and go immediately to Roth’s side, twining my arm around him. He does the same, holding on tight. “This is Roth Keswick. Roth, this is my mother, Candice Collins.”

  “Candice, nice to meet you,” he says politely, extending his free hand.

  But for my mother, that isn’t nearly good enough. “I’m a hugger,” she announces, practically jumping into his arms. She is no such thing. He has no choice but to reciprocate, leaving me in the cold.

  “Just look at you.”

  She holds Roth by both shoulders and scans him up and down as if he’s an endangered species. It’s the exact same thing she did to Johnny Mavin, my junior homecoming date. Then she repinned the boutonniere I’d stabbed myself six times getting just perfect and said, “That’s better.”

  “Aren’t you a handsome devil.”

  Roth’s gaze snaps to mine. I raise my shoulders all the way to my ears, as if to convey, “You’re on your own, buddy.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am? No, no. That won’t do at all. I insist you call me Candice.”

  “All right, Candice.”

  My mother hooks her arm in the crook of Roth’s and leads him up the sidewalk toward the house. I am left in her rearview, forgotten, per usual. “Are you hungry?” I hear her ask him.

  “I could always eat, yes.”

  Roth catches me over his shoulder to make sure I’m following, his eyes wide and round. I smirk and jog to catch up.

  “Well, you’re in luck. I’ve made my famous maidrites.”

  “Maidrites? What’s a maidrite?” He holds the door open for her and waits for me to follow, kissing me lightly on the forehead as I pass.

  “Why, Laurel hasn’t made you a batch of maidrites yet?” She shoots me with a sear of disappointment.

  “You haven’t given me the secret recipe,” I want to heave back. Instead, I press my lips together and force them into a thin smile.

  “Laurel is a great cook, Candice. I believe she mentioned that’s on her list for me try, but she wanted to surprise me.”

  No, I am not and no, I did not, but his little gray lie makes me feel all sorts of mushy.

  “Oh, well that is sweet.” Regarding me, she says, “I’m sorry I ruined your surprise, dear.”

  “It’s fine, Mom.”

  “Well, a maidrite is simply a loose meat sandwich.” When Roth scrunches his face up in disgust, she pats him on the arm and asks with horror, “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”

  Oh God, Mother. Like vegetarians are a breed of their own or something.

  But Roth takes it in stride, as he usually does. “I am a carnivore, Candice, but thank you for asking.”

  “Good, good. We live in meat-and-potato country here. Don’t know what I would feed you otherwise.”

  ’Cuz there’s not a single vegetarian in the Midwest…good grief. Face palm.

  “A bullet dodged then,” Roth replies, biting a smile back.

  “Well, why don’t we get you one and see what you think. Laurel, could you get the plates, please? Roth, you can make yourself comfortable. I’m sure you’re tired from all that traveling.”

  “Laurel is probably more tired than I am,” Roth replies as I go and do my mother’s bidding on autopilot. He comes to take the three plates now in my hands and walks to the table to set them out. “She didn’t sleep well last night.”

  While that is true, it takes me aback when he says it. I’ve had no one to defend me since Esther died. My mother didn’t make these subtle digs around my grandparents, or anyone, really. And the slight bite in Roth’s tone makes me believe that Candice has managed to get under his skin in under three minutes. Maybe he sees what I’ve seen all along?

  My mother is not outright mean. It’s more of a subtle, molten undertone. I’ve often wondered if I’m overly sensitive or if I read between the lines too much. When she told Roth to make himself comfortable because he was probably tired, what I heard was, Laurel, Roth is our guest, so it doesn’t matter that you traveled the same distance as he did. If you’re tired, suck it up.

  Is that what she meant, or is she oblivious
?

  “Where are the glasses?” Roth asks me.

  I start to answer but my mother jumps in. “Laurel, grab the frosted mugs from the freezer. I bought a gallon jug of fresh A&W root beer just for you. I know it’s your favorite.”

  And then she goes and does something like that…

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  We stare at each other so long I get prickly. Then she hugs me, and I can almost imagine I am ten again. “It really is good to have you home, Laurel. It means a lot to me that you came.”

  Roth watches us. His face is passive, but his eyes brim with questions. A lump grows in my throat. “I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I choke out past it.

  “I know it’s hard for you.”

  It is, but does that excuse my behavior? It’s hard on my mom too, and she lives it every day.

  When she releases me from her hold, she hangs her head, but not before I notice a rare display of vulnerability. A lone tear streaks down her cheek.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” I suggest, suddenly noting the shadowy circles under each eye. My gaze automatically gravitates to the faded inch-long scar above her left eyebrow, remembering the story she’s told me many times about it. “I’ll get everything.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ll help,” Roth offers. “Sit, Candice. We’ve got this.”

  “Thank you. I am rather beat.”

  Should I be worried? Why am I so worried? I sneak a glance at her every few seconds as we grab condiments from the fridge and slap meat into our buns. But I don’t notice anything else overt besides the draw of her lids as if she hasn’t slept in days. Her facade is squarely back in place.

  A few minutes later, we’re all digging into our tasty maidrites and frosty root beers.

  “These are incredible, Candice,” Roth praises her. He’s already on number two.

  “They are exactly as I remember. Amazing.” I take another bite and moan.

  My mother beams from ear to ear. “Just ground hamburger and a few other simple ingredients.”

  “I have never heard of this. Is it a Leone thing?”

  “Not Leone, per se, but Midwestern.” Then she goes on to tell the story of how the maidrite was born in Iowa one hundred years ago and how it goes by several different names, and that people try to fancy it up, but her mother kept it simple and so does she.