Time After Time

by Tamara Ireland Stone

  “Do you have a quarter?” she asks as she collapses into the chair next to me. She kicks her legs out straight and lets her head fall back against the wall while Justin and I dig around in our pockets.

  “Here,” Justin says.

  Anna reaches across me to take it and stands up. “I’m going to find a pay phone and call Emma. I’ll be right back.”

  Anna’s gone for a full ten minutes, and Justin and I return to our silent state. But then the doctor enters the waiting room and calls out, looking for Mrs. Greene. She stands up and crosses the room. The two of them speak in hushed tones for a moment.

  Her mom’s head spins in my direction. “Bennett, would you go find Anna?”

  I move quickly, out of the waiting room and into the sterile halls, but I don’t have the slightest idea where she is. I turn down corridors and double back when they look like dead ends, and I finally spot her at the far end of a hallway, leaning against the wall and playing with the steel phone cord as she fills her best friend in on what happened.

  She sees me coming.

  Doctor, I mouth, and Anna says something I can’t hear before she slams the phone down hard. The two of us speed back to the waiting room.

  As soon as she’s within arm’s reach, Anna’s mom takes her by the shoulders and pulls her closer, then waves the rest of us over to her. “Go ahead.”

  The six of us stand in a semicircle while the doctor explains far too matter-of-factly that Mr. Greene has had a stroke. She goes into detail about the battery of tests they’re running to determine exactly what time it occurred and the extent of the damage.

  She looks right at Anna’s mom, addressing her more like a peer than the wife of a patient. “Strokes are tricky at first, as you probably know. Everything hinges on how long he was out before your daughter found him. When the medical team arrived on the scene, they administered medication that dissolved the clot, but…” The doctor trails off and Anna starts twirling her hair around her finger. “Until we can pinpoint exactly where in the brain the stroke occurred and how long ago it happened, we won’t know about his chances for recovery.”

  Anna takes a few steps back, as if that’s too much for her to take, and I ask her mom if I can take her outside to get some air.

  We take the elevator down to the first floor and I steer her toward the entrance. The wind outside blows our hair back, but we huddle close to each other on a cement bench next to a tall ashtray. It smells like fresh rain and stale cigarettes.

  “I want to go back.” I don’t wait for her to answer; I just start running her through the plan I’ve been concocting since we left the bookstore. “I’ll go back to this morning. I’ll get Brooke and bring her to your meet, and then I’ll tell you what’s going to happen with your dad, okay? It’ll be fine.”

  Anna shakes her head. “What about the side effects? Last time you ended up with twenty-two hours you could never account for. What if you try, and instead, we all get knocked back somewhere? Or what if we lose those hours and I don’t find my dad when I did? You can’t mess with this one, Bennett.”

  I hear her, but that doesn’t stop me from running through the easier scenarios again. If we went back to the bookstore, I don’t know what would happen to Anna. If we went back to this morning at the race, I don’t know what would happen to Brooke.

  “Stop,” she says, as if she can tell that I’m still trying to figure out a way to make it work. “Listen. You promised me you’d tell me if you ever lost control. But apparently I need to be the one to tell you.” Anna locks her eyes on mine. “You’re not in control. You cannot fix this.”

  My stomach sinks. God, if she only knew how much I want to. That I’d do anything to fix it. But she’s right. I can’t. There’s too much at stake this time. I’m not in control anymore. Not unless I stick to the rules.

  Anna presses her lips tightly together and runs her thumb along my cheek. “You aren’t supposed to change things, remember?” Then she rests her head on my shoulder. The two of us sit like that for a long time, listening to the sound of the automatic doors sliding open and snapping shut as people pass us on their way in and out of the building.

  I tell her I’m sorry a few more times, and she tells me not to be. But I don’t tell her what I’m really thinking: If I hadn’t come here today, she would have driven home with her dad instead of Brooke and me. She would have had three hours in the car with him. Three hours to notice that something was wrong.

  Those three hours should have been his, and I took them away.

  Today, after we found her dad in the bookstore, we both went straight to one question: What if we could do it over? We never once thought: What if we hadn’t changed anything in the first place?

  As Justin and I leave the hospital, the wind slaps us hard in the face. We pull our coats tighter around us as we march, heads down, plowing toward the car. He climbs in first and unlocks my door for me.

  “You okay to drive in this?”

  His shoots me a look and turns the key in the ignition. “Yeah.”

  And that’s the last thing he says for the next twenty miles. Every time I look over at him, he has this strange look on his face and his fingers are white-knuckled from gripping the steering wheel so hard. We’re traveling down Lake Shore Drive, at or just under the speed limit, but the wind packs a wallop. Each time it slams into the side of the car it feels like it’s about to wrap its fingers around this lightweight Honda Civic and hurl it straight into Lake Michigan.

  I try to make small talk. “I didn’t know you had a car.”

  “I got it over the summer.” He turns onto a side street. “It’s nice, but it’s light. When it starts snowing, I’m going to have to load the trunk with sandbags so I don’t skid.”

  Now that we’re off Lake Shore and heading into the wind, the car feels a little less squirrelly. I see Justin’s shoulders relax slightly and his fingers uncurl. He takes one hand off the wheel and squeezes the back of his neck.

  “I’ve known him since I was a little kid,” Justin says, his voice deeper than usual. “Our parents have played bridge together every other Saturday night for as long as I can remember.” He takes a deep breath. “He’s so healthy, you know? Healthier than my parents. God, he’s been trying to get my dad to go running with him for years.”

  “I know,” I say. Of course, I don’t know. I’ve never heard any of this. But I have no idea what to tell him right now.

  “This whole thing is just so weird…” Justin trails off as he takes another turn, and I resist the urge to say that I’m sure Mr. Greene will be okay, because I have no way of knowing this, and he may not be. The air in the car is thick with tension, and Justin keeps looking at me like it’s my turn to talk.

  I haven’t known Mr. Greene very long. I don’t have years of collected stories that substantiate his impact on my life or anything. I just know that I like him, that he’s a nice person and a good dad, and that he doesn’t deserve to be hooked up to machines right now.

  Justin blows a mouthful of air at the windshield. “They say he could be totally fine, and make a full recovery, but I can’t help but wonder.” When he pulls up to the stoplight, he turns to me. “I mean, I don’t know anything about strokes, but it seems pretty far-fetched that there wouldn’t be any damage to his brain. He had to have been out for at least…what did the doctor think? Twenty…twenty-five minutes?”

  This is the part I can’t think about, let alone talk about. Anna and I were just down the street during those twenty minutes. What if there had been a parking space in front of the bookstore? What if we hadn’t stopped for coffee? What if I hadn’t come here today?

  “I guess we’ll know more tomorrow when the test results are back.”

  “I guess. But man, doesn’t it make you wish you had future sight or something? I mean, if we could just know, right?”

  As the light turns green, he looks away from me, shaking his head as if it’s a ridiculous thought.

  The deadbolt clicks open
with a loud thunk. I tiptoe inside and shut the door behind me, grateful to find the house is silent and dark, save for the glow of the light that Maggie always keeps on over the desk.

  My feet drag across the hardwood floor and it takes far too much effort to lug myself up the stairs. My brain is working overtime, but my body can’t wait to fall into bed.

  I head straight for the bathroom, where I splash cold water on my face and check out my reflection. My skin is pale and my eyes are bloodshot, lids half closed despite the cold jolt I just gave them. I flick off the light and head back to my room.

  I should have insisted on staying with Anna at the hospital, even though the look on her mom’s face made it pretty clear that she didn’t want me there. For the hundredth time tonight, I picture Anna’s expression when she told me I couldn’t go back, and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not even trying. Especially when I remember how Mr. Greene blinked at me.

  But of all the things that happened tonight—of all the things that were said—Justin’s words are the ones haunting me and keeping me awake.

  He said he wished he could see into the future, with absolutely no idea that I can.

  I can’t fight it anymore, so against my better judgment, I dig my heavy boots out from the back of the closet and step into them, and then I zip myself into my black parka and pull my wool cap low to my brow. I fill my backpack with bottled water and a wad of cash.

  I’m not changing anything. I’m not manipulating the clock, and I’m not doing anything over. I’m observing, just like I’ve always done. This time, I’m not breaking the rules, and when it’s over, no one ever has to know what I did.

  The doctor said it would take time and patience; that even if he made a full recovery, it would probably take a year or two. With her words in mind, I stand in the center of my room and close my eyes.

  I visualize the yellow paint that’s chipping and peeling on the side of the Greenes’ house, and clear my head of everything but today’s date: November 15.

  I pick a time I know he’ll be home: six thirty A.M.

  And I choose a year in my past, but in Anna’s future: 1997.

  I arrive on the side of Anna’s house, exactly where I planned to, and slowly peer around the corner. It must have snowed last night, but not hard. I can still see tiny tips of grass poking up through the thin layer of ice covering the lawn. I feel overdressed in my heavy winter gear.

  Peering in the window, I find that the kitchen looks exactly the same—same appliances, same bar stools. I can see the coffeepot perfectly, in the same spot it’s always been. I look around, waiting for someone to appear and preparing to duck down fast when they do.

  By now, Anna must be away at college, but this is a good time to catch Mr. Greene making the morning coffee.

  I hear the front door open and peek around the corner just as footsteps land on the porch. The feet look like they belong to a man, but the door is blocking my view and I can’t be sure. The newspaper disappears and the door closes again. I race back to my spot at the window.

  Mr. Greene steps into the kitchen and walks straight for the counter. He unfolds the newspaper, removes a section, and tosses the bulk of it onto the kitchen table.

  As he steps away from the counter, I notice the slight limp on his right side. Over at the coffeepot, he treats his right hand like it’s cumbersome and in his way, and when he tries to use it to open the bag of coffee he quickly gives up and uses his left hand and his teeth instead.

  As the coffee brews, he reaches up into the high cabinet above him and pulls down two mugs. He shuffles over to the refrigerator and returns with a carton of milk.

  He’s about to bring it back where it belongs when Anna comes around the corner. She rests one hand on his shoulder, takes the carton from him, and puts it away. Then she gives him a quick peck on the cheek, and heads over to the counter for her mug.

  Her hair is shorter, hanging loose and just brushing her shoulders. She’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. It takes me a minute to realize that it reads NORTHWESTERN CROSS COUNTRY and to put the pieces together. Anna still lives here.

  Mr. Greene starts off for the pile of newspaper again, and Anna speeds past him and grabs it first. She hands him a section and he folds it in half and uses it to smack her on the arm. She laughs, but I can hear him through the glass as he tells her to stop helping him.

  A few minutes later, the doorbell rings, and I look around the corner and find Justin standing on the porch. He’s wearing a baseball cap and his backpack is slung over one shoulder. The door opens and Anna yells, “Bye, Dad,” before stepping out and shutting it behind her. The two of them head down the walkway toward campus.

  I’ve seen all I needed to see. I close my eyes and bring myself back to my room at Maggie’s.

  My temples are throbbing. I sit down on the floor next to my bed and reach into my backpack for the water. I down both bottles without stopping, and reach for a room-temperature Frappuccino. When the bottle is empty, I let my head fall back onto the bed and I wait to recover.

  I’m in pain, but the symptoms feel more like what I’m used to—a fierce headache and a dry mouth—but no nosebleeds, no piercing sounds, and most important, no losing control of my place on the timeline. I’ve managed to stay in 1995, successfully go to 1997, and return to 1995 unscathed.

  I lie there, picturing Mr. Greene moving around the kitchen, the way Anna helped him, and the way he scolded her for doing so. He’s okay. He’s not back to normal, but he’s alive, capable, and obviously in good hands. And while I know that part of him is relieved that Anna’s still living at home, I’m sure that a larger part feels guilty, knowing that Northwestern was never her first choice.

  My eyelids are heavy and I can’t wait to let them close and drift off to sleep. But just as I start to doze off, something the doctor said tonight jolts me awake again. She said it would be a slow recovery. That it might take years. Her comment makes me wonder what I might have seen if I’d gone forward even farther. Maybe I’d have more solid news for Anna tomorrow.

  I stand up and return to the center of the room. I stomp hard until the last of the snow has fallen from my boots. I close my eyes and picture a date in the future when I know Anna will no longer live at home, but will certainly be visiting: Christmas Eve, 2005.

  I’m at the wrong house.

  The driveway is in the right spot. The kitchen window is where it’s supposed to be. I walk around to the front of the house and look up toward Anna’s window. I’m in the right place, but the house is no longer covered in yellow, peeling paint. It’s now painted deep gray with white trim. It looks nice.

  It must have been snowing just hours ago because my feet are buried deep in this light, white powder that doesn’t look or feel at all like the snow I remember. It covers my jeans, up to my shins, and I can feel my toes turn cold inside my winter boots.

  I look through the window. The kitchen looks different too, with fresh paint and new cabinets, new granite countertops and a bunch of new appliances. It could be the work of new owners. But then I notice that the bar stools are exactly the same, and I smile when I think back to the first time I came to Anna’s house and perched myself there, carefully studying her for signs of fear as I disappeared before her eyes.

  Anna’s mom walks in and I duck back down under the windowsill and count to five. Then I peek inside again, studying her as she reaches into the oven and removes a roasting pan. She scurries around the kitchen, stirring pots on the stove and putting rolls in the oven.

  I’m starting to get concerned about Anna’s dad, when he breezes into the room and sticks his finger into one of the pots. Mrs. Greene slaps his hand with the wooden spoon she just took out of the gravy, and I can practically hear her chide him from here. I can’t hear his response, but it makes her throw her head back and laugh.

  I watch him walk through the kitchen and into the dining room and notice a slight limp. When he returns he’s carrying a silver platter, and he rests it
on the countertop. It’s hard to see from this vantage point, but his hands appear to be working like they’re supposed to.

  Then I hear tires slowly crunching their way through the snow. Lights reflect off the snow on the front yard, and I stand still and watch as a car pulls into the driveway. I come out from behind the house and hide behind the large oak tree so I can get a better look. I’m just in time to see Anna step out.

  The driver’s-side door opens, and someone else comes around the front of the car. The house lights are illuminating Anna’s face perfectly, and I’m close enough to see every detail, but he’s in shadow, and all I can see is the back of his head. He casually grabs her hand, like he’s done it a million times before. Then he kisses her. He says something that makes her smile at him. My chest constricts and I suck in a breath.

  It’s a smile I know well. I thought it was the one she reserved for me, but here in 2005, it seems to belong to him.

  The two of them walk toward the porch, holding hands. Before they’ve even hit the first step, Mr. Greene flings the door open wide and scoops Anna up in his arms. She laughs and says, “Hi, Daddy,” as she regains her footing.

  Mr. Greene turns to the guy and says something I can’t hear from this distance. He pulls him in for a fatherly hug, patting him on the back. He releases him but keeps one arm over his shoulder, leading the two of them into the house. The door closes behind them.

  I head across the lawn, over to the driveway, and look inside the car for anything that will tell me who he is and where they came from, but the interior is completely clean. I walk around the back of the car and look at the license plate, and spot a sticker from the rental car company in the corner. They flew in from someplace. Or at least he did.

  I retrace my footsteps until I’ve returned to my position under the kitchen window. I must be a glutton for punishment because once I pull myself up into the corner and peek inside, I find myself stuck there. I want to stop watching them, but I can’t.