I know how this scene will look a few hours from now—I clearly remember the “after” photo of the building: windows shattered, framing exposed, stucco piled on the sidewalk—but when I look at the little girl in front of me, I remember the other picture that ran with the news story. She’s still standing astride her light blue, untwisted bike, and craning her neck to see what happened on the next block. Suddenly, she catches me staring at her. She hops off and hits the kickstand with her foot, and walks over to me.
She crouches down low. “Is your leg okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. I think it’s okay.” I’m sure I look ridiculous, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, wearing this goofy smile.
Then my dad is by my side, his voice loud and direct. “Stay here. We’re going to go check on the driver.” The little girl and I watch as our fathers take off running toward the scene of the accident.
“I hope he’s okay,” she says.
“Don’t worry,” I say in a tone of voice that’s probably far too enthusiastic for this situation. “I have a feeling he’s fine.”
Dad opens his eyes and looks around at his office, like he’s seeing the bookshelves and paintings for the first time. “Did we do it?” He drops my hands and starts pacing back and forth in front of me. “How do we know if we changed it or not?”
I look at the clock above the door. It’s only a quarter to four.
He crosses the room in three long strides and stands behind his desk, shuffling papers. “Where is it? Where’s the story you brought in here?”
I keep my voice calm to offset the anxiety I hear in his. “It’s okay, Dad. That hasn’t happened yet.” I point up at the analog clock above his desk. “I came down here and showed you that story around seven thirty. That’s four hours from now.”
His eyes follow my finger but he only gives it a quick glance before he returns to digging through the stacks on his desk. “Dad. Stop.” I rest my hand on one of his. “We’ll check the news tonight, but now there probably won’t be a story. Or, I guess, there will be a story but it will be a completely different one. Are you okay? You look pale.”
He gropes around for his chair, sits down hard, and rolls it toward the desk so he can rest his head in his hands. I can see his shoulders rise and fall with each slow, deliberate breath, but aside from the panic attack, he doesn’t seem to be showing any post-travel reactions.
Which makes me realize I feel pretty good too. My heart is racing and my stomach feels light and I just want to…move. I want to go outside, hop on my skateboard again, and power down the hill, feeling the wind prickle my skin and lift my hair off my forehead. I feel incredible—no nosebleed, no migraine—just buzzy, like my whole body is vibrating, surging with adrenaline.
Dad’s head springs up and he starts typing on his keyboard. I come around to his side of the desk and watch as he types in every possible combination of words that could lead us to today’s events: “bicycle” and “accident” and “intersection” and “manslaughter.”
He’s not getting it.
“Dad, you’re not going to find anything yet. The accident just happened. It won’t show up for a while. Dad…” I lead his hands away from the keyboard. “We’ll check later tonight, okay, but trust me, it won’t be there. It worked. Everyone’s fine, except the kid driving the truck, who’s a bit banged up but probably being arrested right now for reckless driving and not vehicular manslaughter.”
Before I can comprehend what’s happening, Dad stands up and pulls me to him and hugs me so hard I can’t breathe. Eventually, he releases me, but he still keeps my arm in his grip. He stares at me like he’s trying to decide what to say, and finally settles on “They were really nice people, weren’t they?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, Dad, they were really nice.” I picture that little girl, worried about the condition of the driver who—in a version of a timeline that no longer exists—left her family fatherless and cut her life short at age nine.
“I’d better get back to my homework,” I say, gesturing toward my bedroom. “I have an essay I need to start all over again.”
Dad pats my arms hard and chuckles. “Sorry. That sucks,” he says.
“That’s okay. So did the essay.”
My backpack is a lot lighter without the skateboard. As I throw it over my shoulders and readjust the straps, I steal one last glance at the clock on my nightstand. I’m not supposed to be in Evanston until homecoming this weekend, but I can’t help it. I have to see Anna right now. I have to tell her what I just did.
I grab my car keys off my desk and speed out to the Jeep, and a half hour later, I’m backing it into the garage on the other side of town. I switch off the ignition, lower the door, and close my eyes.
I open them on the cross-country course that sits adjacent to the Westlake track. I’ve arrived exactly where I intended, in a quiet spot off the trail behind a cluster of trees and a fat shrub that conceals me from sight. Resting my backpack on the ground, I feel around inside until I find what I’m looking for. Then I sneak out toward the trail, listening for their footfalls. I can’t hear a thing.
It doesn’t take me any time to find the perfect spot. Smack in the middle of the trail I spot a log, large and intentionally placed to be hurdled, and I jiggle the postcard into a crevice so it’s standing up straight. Then I duck back out of sight.
The adrenaline is still surging through me, and even though I know I should stay silent and still, I can’t stop pacing across the dirt. I’m waiting and listening and ready to burst out of my skin. Finally, a few minutes later, I hear the rhythmic sound of feet padding against the dirt, followed by heavy breathing and the occasional grunt. I force myself to relax, pressing my back firmly against the tree bark.
Then the footsteps stop.
“This was just sticking out of the log,” someone says.
“What is it?” asks another.
“A postcard. From Paris.” I still don’t recognize the speaker, but I laugh under my breath when I hear the fascination in her voice as she says the word “Paris.”
“That’s weird.”
More footsteps.
“What’s up?” Ah, there’s Anna’s voice. I stand still, listening.
“It’s nothing. Come on, we’re losing time,” another voice says, and I hear footsteps on the trail again.
“Here, check it out. This was wedged into the log.”
“Huh…” I picture Anna taking it from her teammate, flipping the postcard around in her hands. “Weird. Come on, Stacy’s right, we should go.”
They run off and everything’s quiet until I hear footsteps on the trail again, this time coming from the opposite direction. Leaves crunch and twigs snap, and Anna’s face comes into view as she clears the short incline and peeks around a bush.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, clearly surprised to see me. “I’m in the middle of practice.” She’s taking long strides, beaming as she walks toward me. I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her off the ground. “Ew, what are you doing? Put me down!” She laughs and smacks me with her hand. “I’m all sweaty.”
“I don’t care.” I tighten my hold on her and plant a kiss in her hair. I’d been hyperaware of the adrenaline surge, but now I don’t notice it as much. I feel a headache coming on but I ignore it.
“Is everything okay? You’re shaking.”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. I have to tell you something.” I comb my hands through my hair. “You’re not going to believe what I just did—”
Suddenly, I don’t know where to start. Anna stares at me, looking confused and curious and waiting for me to continue. Every detail of everything that happened over the last forty-five minutes is swirling around in my head, flying around too quickly for me to grasp on to just one. Did all of it actually happen? The bikes. The crash. The girl.
“You’re not supposed to be here until Friday.”
“I know, but—” A faint ringing in my ear makes me stop in midsentence,
and before I can say another word it completely changes pitch—high and piercing and constant—and I grab the sides of my head and crouch down on the ground in front of her.
I hear Anna say my name, but her voice sounds far away. I try to take my hands off my head so I can steady myself on the ground, but I can’t move. I feel my whole body grow weak, like my muscles are atrophying as I sit here. I feel my knees buckle and my cheek hit the dirt.
My eyes are open so wide they’re stinging and watering, and I feel pebbles and mud collecting under my fingernails as I claw my way back to sitting. I fall into the ground again and my head hits something that feels like a rock. Without my ability to control them, my eyes shut tightly. And suddenly, the piercing sound is gone and everything falls silent.
The pain hits me all at once, so hard and so unexpected I don’t even have time to grab on to anything for support. My head falls forward and my face slams against the ground, and when I open my eyes, I see the blood, pooling under my head. I stare down at the pattern that unmistakably places me in Dad’s office.
No bushes, no trees, no Anna. And no garage, no Jeep.
I crawl over to the end table next to Dad’s leather chair. Using it for support, I try to push myself to standing, but my knees can’t hold me and I fall sideways, collapsing into the side of the ottoman. I feel it slide out from underneath me, and I try to keep my grip, but it’s useless. I’m back on the floor in a crumpled heap within seconds.
The front of my shirt is drenched with blood, and it’s only getting worse. I can feel it trickling down my upper lip, warm and thick, sneaking into my mouth so I taste it too, metallic, disgusting. Using a clean corner of my shirt, I bring my hand to my nose, pinching hard. I sit up again and I let my head fall backward, feeling the edge of the end table dig uncomfortably into the back of my neck.
Every time I blink, my eyes feel like they’re on fire, and I can feel the sweat beading up on my forehead. My head is pounding and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls.
Everything goes dark.
“Bennett!” The voice is far away and muffled, unrecognizable. I try to open my eyes but nothing happens. “Bennett. Wake up. Drink this.”
“Anna?” I can’t see anything, and when I speak the words “Where am I?” I hear them come out slurred and unrecognizable. I try again to open my eyes and finally see a sliver of light. I feel the ground beneath me for clues. It’s soft. Like a rug. “Anna?” I ask again.
“Bennett.” There’s a hand on my shoulder. My head wobbles and I send all my energy to my neck in a desperate attempt to keep it in one place.
“Where am I?” I try again. This time my voice sounds clearer, but still, there’s no reply.
The hand squeezes my shoulder hard. “Drink this, son.”
I feel something cold and smooth at my lips, and before I can even process what’s happening, I feel the liquid, ice-cold on my tongue but searing my throat as it slides down. I cringe and push the glass away.
“Keep going,” he says, and the glass is back at my lips. I take small sips at first, but the water feels so good, so wet, that I lean into it, suddenly desperate for more. The glass tips up and I take huge gulps until it’s empty.
“Good. That’s better.” I open my eyes. Dad’s face is full of worry as his hand settles on my shoulder again. I hear him set the glass on the table next to me. “Do you think you can sit up?” I give him a weak nod and use all my energy to push myself up from the floor.
This bloody nose is nothing like the last one. This time my T-shirt is soaked in blood. I remember the feeling, the taste, and it makes me slump down again, feeling nauseous. Dad grabs me by both shoulders this time and props me up again.
“I’m going to get you some more water. I’ll be right back.” I want to ask him to make it room temperature, but the door clicks shut behind him before I can get the words out. I stare at the ceiling and fix my gaze on a small crack in the plaster. I won’t close my eyes, even though they’re watering and burning and begging me to shut them.
A few minutes later, Dad’s back at my side, pressing a glass of water into my hand and a cold washcloth against my forehead. He opens my other hand, palm up, and sets three pills in it. I give him a weak shake of my head. “They’re just Advil,” he says. “Take them. They’ll help.”
I start to tell him that the headache is normal. That it always passes on its own, and all I need is water, coffee, and twenty minutes to rest. But it occurs to me that this particular headache is different from others, and that what I know about what “always” happens most likely doesn’t apply in this situation. I throw the pills into my mouth and chase them down while Dad watches me. I drain the water in a few gulps.
My hands are still shaking so I clench them into tight fists by my sides. “I’ll go get you a clean shirt,” he says as he heads toward the door.
“Dad.” I stare at the crack in the ceiling again, but in my peripheral vision I can see him stop.
“Would you stay here? Please?” I ask, and before I know it, he’s back by my side, sitting on the ottoman, watching me. We sit like that for a long time, neither one of us speaking.
“Are you ready to tell me where you’ve been?” he asks.
I rub my temples hard with my knuckles, and look across the room at the clock on the wall behind his desk. My eyes narrow as I strain to read it, but the hands keep coming in and out of focus. “Where I’ve been?” I ask, forcing myself to walk through everything that just happened. We were waiting to see the news story about the accident, to see if it was different from the first one I printed out for him. Then I went to see Anna, everything went dark, and when I opened my eyes, I was a bloody mess on the floor and Dad was here with water. “What time is it?” My voice still sounds weak, scratchy. I rub my throat.
Even though the clock is in plain sight, Dad looks down at his watch. “It’s a few minutes after two. Bennett, I need to know where you’ve been.”
“After two?” I repeat, ignoring his question entirely. I rub my temples even harder. That doesn’t match at all. It had to be four o’clock when I left to see Anna.
Suddenly, everything falls into place and I start to realize what’s happening. I was knocked back. Hard.
My heart speeds up as I piece it together in my head. The news story I printed and brought downstairs to show Dad said the accident occurred around three thirty. We haven’t done it over.
Now I’m fully conscious, eyes wide as my head spins in Dad’s direction. My sudden movement startles him and he recoils, but I don’t even try to keep the fear from my voice. “Please tell me we stopped it. We stopped it, right?”
He looks confused. “Stopped what?” Dad asks, and my hands immediately start shaking. “Bennett, I want to know where you’ve been.”
“The bikes?” It comes out like a question. My hands clench by my sides again.
“The bikes?” I can hear the confusion in his voice. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. We didn’t stop it. I got knocked back and we didn’t stop it after all. I cover my face with my hands.
“Dad,” I say without looking up. “There was an accident with these bicyclists and we went back…I brought my skateboard and caused a distraction and you helped. This little girl—” I choke on the last word.
“I know,” he says, as if he’s now concerned about my mental state in addition to my physical one. “She’s okay. They’re all okay. Just like you said they would be.”
I pull my hands away from my face and stare at him. “What? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I was waiting for you to get home so I could show you the article.” He sounds pretty certain but I keep staring at him anyway, as if I’m waiting for him to change his mind. “The news story read exactly the way you thought it would. A kid crashed his truck into a building. There wasn’t a single word about a family of bicyclists.”
He remembers. If he remembers, it happened. I didn’t wipe it out. None of it makes sense, but a huge smile spreads ac
ross my face anyway, and as it does, my face feels tight, like it’s cracking. I scratch at my skin and pull my fingernail away. It’s caked with dried blood, but I don’t care. I let out a laugh.
“Bennett, that was yesterday.”
I stop in midlaugh and the smile disappears. “What?”
Dad nods. He’s still looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Yesterday? No…that can’t be right.” I was just in my room. I was just with Anna.
“Bennett, it’s Thursday afternoon.” He scoots the ottoman a little closer to me, and he seems to be choosing his words carefully. “Your mother and I have been worried sick. You left my office, said you were going upstairs to work on an essay, and when your mom tried to find you for dinner, you were gone. You didn’t come home all night. An hour ago, I found you here on the floor.”
I think about the day. I can’t even bring myself to say it out loud. Thursday?
“Son.” Dad draws out the word, nice and slow, like I need more time than usual to process what he’s about to say. “The accident happened yesterday. Do you remember what happened when we got home?”
I try to. I remember returning from the do-over and leaving his office. I walked upstairs, grabbed a postcard from my desk drawer, and stuffed it into my backpack. I closed my eyes and went to the cross country track at Westlake. I hid off the trail, listening to Anna and her teammates speculate about the mysterious postcard. She found me right after that, and we talked. I felt great until the piercing sound brought me facedown into the dirt. And then I was back here in Dad’s office. It all happened fifteen minutes ago, twenty tops.
But it wasn’t twenty minutes ago. It was yesterday.
“I need to know where you’ve been, Bennett. You need to tell me the truth. Why didn’t you come home all night?”
The truth. I look away from him and shake my head. I can’t tell him where I’ve been because I have no idea.
Time After Time Page 14