Waking in Time

by Angie Stanton

  “Yes, it is. What’s even more odd is that you look exactly the same as you did when I first met you, back when I was a young man.” He smiles and his eyes crinkle.

  I gulp, realizing that means I must travel a lot further back, which I can’t stomach the thought of. A sheen of perspiration covers my forehead.

  “Tell me, who are the people you interacted with on campus before you time traveled?” he asks again. He pulls a pen and a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket.

  Determined to stay focused and not fall apart at my uncertain future, I answer. “I was in my dorm room, alone. It was around midnight.”

  “Before that? What did you do that first night?”

  I think back. Was it only two nights ago? By years it’s several decades. In some ways it seems like long ago and in others, only a blink of time.

  “I was with my roommate, Jada, at a bonfire on Picnic Point. There were a lot of people there.” The sight of the crackling fire comes back to me. Did something happen there that set all this in motion?

  “Anyone specific you spoke to?”

  I cringe remembering Mitch blithering on. “One guy who kept hitting on me. He was really drunk.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Mitch. Why? It’s not like you know anyone in the future.”

  He jots down notes. “Every detail helps. You never know when one small detail will fit into a bigger picture. Anyone else?”

  “A ton of kids I’d never met before, some freshmen, but mostly upperclassmen. I didn’t talk to anyone for very long. Oh, there was this other guy. I met him earlier that day outside the physics library.” I wonder if I should tell him about the name of the library, but decide maybe I shouldn’t. “I saw him again at the party,” I continue. “He walked me home after getting rid of the drunk guy.”

  “He was the last person you saw before going to bed and time traveling?”

  “Yes.” And that was the last time anything in my life was normal. I’d do anything to get that normal feeling back again.

  “And you live in Elizabeth Waters?”

  I nod.

  “Room 4418?”

  I startle. “How’d you know that?”

  “You told me a long time ago.” His amused smile says we really are old friends, something I still can’t fathom. “Did the boy go to your room with you?”

  “No! And why would it matter?” And what if he had? Did the professor really think I was going to reveal every personal thing of my life? He may say he knows me, but to me—at least right now—he’s pretty much a total stranger.

  He must read the frustration on my face. “I’m trying to consider every minute detail to see if there is anything specific you did, or some peculiarity that someone else did, that might have triggered your time travel. Please, tell me more about this boy.”

  “You think he has something to do with it?”

  “Anything’s possible.” The professor averts his eyes, acting evasive. I want to know why, but it’s becoming painfully clear he isn’t going to tell me anything. I sigh.

  “He’s tall, he’s from somewhere near Madison, he has brown hair…”

  “Are you sure it was brown?” He seems perplexed.

  “Positive. Why?”

  The professor shakes his head as if disappointed and ignores my question. “What else? What’s this boy’s name?”

  “Colton.”

  The professor creases his brow but doesn’t look up. “And his last name?”

  “I don’t know. He never mentioned it.”

  The professor leans closer. “Are you sure? Think back to that time very carefully.”

  His intensity is starting to freak me out. “It happened two days ago. I’m positive. He just said Colton.”

  “Tell me more about him. What does he look like?”

  “His hair was pretty short. He maybe had brown eyes, I’m not positive. Is that what you want to know?” The professor nods as he records all of this into his notebook.

  “What else?” I say to myself, trying to remember our conversation. I was pretty drunk. “He was friendly, easy to like. He mentioned he has a big family with lots of siblings and cousins.” I can’t imagine how any of this can help.

  “Yes, yes,” Professor Smith mumbles, scribbling notes in his notebook.

  “Does it mean something?”

  He looks up, peering at me through the thick lenses of his glasses. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  I sigh. This is a waste of time. Colton had done nothing more than walk me home. He hadn’t even come into the building. Other than being incredibly likable and kind of cute, I can’t imagine how he had anything to do with me flying through time.

  The professor and I talk about each and every person I came in contact with at my dorm, from Jada to the students working at the front desk. We discuss all the places I’d gone, my class schedule, everything.

  Students begin filing into the lecture hall for the next class.

  The professor frowns at their interruption. “I’m afraid we have to end our talk for now.” He stands.

  “What? You’re the only person here who really knows me. I need your help.” Does he seriously think he can just walk away? I don’t think so.

  The professor gathers his briefcase. “Walk with me.” I follow him out of the lecture hall and down the stairs. “Abbi, you’re understandably frightened, and all of this is overwhelming, but maybe these words will help.”

  He pauses near the doors. “A wise girl once told me that no matter how bad things seem, they will work out, so never lose hope. Believe in yourself. And she was right. Have faith. Stay strong.” He smiles thoughtfully, opens the door, and we exit into the bright daylight.

  “There is so much promise in this field of research. I have every reason to believe that the answers are within reach.” He says the words with such confidence, but he’s leaving out a critical issue.

  At the corner, I stop, forcing him to face me. “You don’t know if I ever make it home, do you?”

  The light in his eyes dims, and the hope in my heart is crushed. The professor looks away to avoid acknowledging my fears, then glances at his watch.

  “Darn it. I have a faculty meeting with the head of my department. I’d skip it, but I’ve been working on a grant proposal to fund my research. Your research,” he says pointedly. “Ironic timing.”

  We continue, me trudging reluctantly along, ignoring the people we pass as I imagine myself floating through time for the rest of my life.

  “If I’m not at the meeting, the funding could all fall apart, and we can’t have that, especially now that you’re here again. Abbi, I know your situation is difficult, but you must believe that I am working hard to rectify it. You are the reason for my entire field of study. To think—I almost went into what was then the new field of computing instead. I’d just received a job offer in New York when you appeared in my life, but I was so inspired by your plight, I knew I had to pursue physics instead.”

  While it’s nice that he’s so dedicated to helping me, that’s of little help at the moment. I’m stuck in a foreign time and don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be left alone, and he’s my only hope. “What should I do now? When will I see you again?”

  “I’m afraid it must wait until later this evening.”

  A stab of fear hits me in the gut.

  “I’m sorry to leave you like this, but this meeting really is crucial. I wouldn’t put you off if it were anything else. I want to show you the theories I’m working on. I’m close to proving how we can tie this phenomenon to string theory.”

  “And then you’ll be able to send me back?” I ask, imagining myself back where I belong.

  “Slow down. It’s much more complicated than that. I’ll explain it all tonight, say, in my office at eight o’clock? That should gi
ve me time to have everything ready for you.”

  We turn the corner and there are student protesters picketing in front of a large gray building. They chant, “Smash Army Math!”

  I turn to him. “What is Army Math, and what’s so bad about it?”

  “Abbi, the Vietnam War is going on. I assume you’ve learned about that in your history classes.”

  “Yes, but honestly, I don’t remember much about it other than that there was a lot of controversy about the U.S. being involved.”

  “That’s putting it lightly. Many believe the federally funded Army Math Research Center is doing work in support of the military operations in Vietnam.” The professor frowns at their chanting, then turns to me and takes my hand. “I’m sorry, but right now I’ve got to run. We’re at a huge turning point, Abbi. Don’t give up.” He pats my hand, then steps away.

  “But what should I do until tonight?” I call out.

  He turns back. “Experience 1970. You’ve been given a rare gift. Not many people can move through time, but I caution you to be careful and avoid interacting with others as much as possible. We don’t want to take a chance that you alter the future.”

  “Not many? Don’t you mean I’m the only person who moves through time?”

  An odd expression colors his face, and he steps back to me. He’s about to say something, then hesitates.

  “What?” I ask. He’d better not pull his big secretive act again.

  He looks into my eyes and must see something that convinces him. “Abbi, you aren’t the only person I know of who moves through time. There is one other.”

  I swear my world stops on its axis. “Who?”

  The professor pauses. He glances at me, then at the picketers, and then at his watch. “I’m incredibly late, and this is one meeting I can’t miss. But here, take this.” He pulls a red bandana out of his jacket pocket and pushes it into my hands. “Be wary of the picketers. You never know when the police will throw tear gas to clear them away. Keep the bandana handy. I’ll see you at eight o’clock.”

  Professor Smith turns and crosses through the picket line as students yell, “Down with Vietnam!” He disappears into a building. Above the door, engraved into the stone, is the name Sterling Hall.

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon and evening I try to follow the professor’s advice. I explore campus, discovering changes. The enormous Helen C. White Library that was perched on the edge of the lake a few days ago is still under construction. The trees appear smaller, there seem to be fewer parking lots, and the cars in them are models I’ve only seen in old movies.

  But the biggest difference is the presence of Vietnam protestors. These long-haired students, many of the guys with thick mustaches, chant, “We won’t fight another rich man’s war!”, “Down with Nixon!”, and “Make love, not war!” I skirt around them.

  In contrast, I spy other students studying under the shade of giant oaks, girls wearing suede fringed vests leisurely strolling to class, and guys with shaggy hair playing Frisbee on the Bascom Hill lawn. Now that I look more closely, nearly all of the students have a bandana tied loosely around their neck or hanging from the pocket of their hip-hugging, flared out jeans. Apparently the tear gas threat is real. I pat my pocket to make sure the professor’s bandana is still there.

  For dinner, I head to the Student Union and grab a burger, which seems puny compared to the size of the burgers served in my time. Instead of sitting inside the dimly lit Rathskeller dining room with its arched entryways, German murals, and shelves of beer steins, I take my tray outside to the Union Terrace and sit by myself.

  The late-afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, warming my skin and sending ripples of light off the water. I don’t want to mix with the girls from my dorm. They know me, but I don’t know them. How can that be? It’s my creepy reality now, and it’s lonely. The colorful green, orange, and yellow chairs that I’d sat in a few days ago are now a similar sunburst style, but different enough to remind me I’m an outsider in this time. I eat my burger and a bag of Cheetos while staring out over the lake, but my food is tasteless.

  The sun sinks lower in the sky, turning the thin clouds to warm pinks and oranges. Small waves wash to shore as an evening boater speeds by. Ducks bob easily over the turbulence, some looking like gawky teenagers ready to fly the nest and the safety of Mom and Dad. And here I am, desperate to fly back to my family. I toss bits of bread from my bun into the water, and the ducks motor toward me as if propelled by underwater engines.

  I still have time before meeting up with the professor, so I cut through Library Mall to Lake Street with thoughts of checking out Headliners to see if it exists yet in this time. Maybe there’s something there that will give me some answers. But when I hook a right onto Lake Street, I see a mob of protestors. An air of anger marches with them.

  I rush around the group, set on my mission. I’m halfway to the end of the block when three cop cars squeal to a stop across the middle of the street, effectively blocking it. I attempt to sneak around on the sidewalk, but then a mass of cops appears around the cars in riot gear. I halt in my tracks, pretty sure this is a sign they don’t want to be approached. I turn to see the protestors coming closer and their numbers growing.

  “Halt where you are and clear the street,” a cop demands over a megaphone, but the crowd surges forward. I’m stuck between the two warring factions with nowhere to go.

  There are two guys and another girl on the sidewalk with me, and they’re as startled as I am. The guy wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt moves quickly, dodging inside the McDonald’s. “Come on!” he says, and the rest of us follow, not sure what else to do.

  We watch out the windows as the chanting grows louder and the protestors push closer, challenging the cops. I’m relieved to be safely away from them, even though I’m sort of stuck. If I have to be stranded during a Vietnam protest, at least there are french fries available.

  Feeling nervous about being too close to the windows, I duck behind the others pushing to see out and take a seat in one of the booths. I wonder if this is what the professor had in mind when he said I should experience 1970. It’s then that I realize I’m going to be late for my meeting with him. I can’t let that happen. I approach the door, considering the repercussions of trying to sneak through the standoff. I’m just an innocent bystander, right?

  I’m about to push the door open and take my chances when several loud pops explode and smoke fills the air. The protesting students scream and back away, and the cops advance, gaining ground. Inside the McDonald’s, the people holing up with me all gasp and move farther into the restaurant.

  “Don’t even think of opening that door!” a girl wearing a peace sign medallion yells at me.

  I’m about to ask why, when an overwhelming burning sensation reaches my nose and throat. Like an invisible hand has pushed us, we all back away from the door and in unison begin coughing up the awful chemical.

  “Quick, block the door,” another yells. A worker from the kitchen runs forward with damp cloths and presses them against the bottom of the door where the gas is seeping inside. He locks it to ensure no one opens the door and lets more of it in.

  My eyes burn and I blink to clear away the tears. I see others tying bandanas over their faces, and I reach for mine.

  “Come on, the bathroom has got to be better than this,” a woman yells, and a few people squeeze into the ladies’ restroom.

  “What’s going on?” I choke out.

  “You must be new here,” a woman in a McDonald’s uniform says.

  I nod. She has no idea.

  “The cops shot pepper spray at the protestors. We’re going to be stuck here until the air clears and the cops have broken up the crowd.”

  I look around the cramped, tiled room. “How long will that take?”

  “Depends,” she says. “I’d say at least an hour.”

>   Great. I’m stuck hiding out in a dingy bathroom when I should be meeting with the one man who can possibly help me.

  The minutes tick by like slow, drawn-out water torture. The lingering scent of pepper permeates the air and we all take turns running our bandanas under the faucet to soothe our burning noses and eyes.

  Two hours later we’re finally sprung from our fast food refuge. The street is empty except for a pair of cops keeping the peace with their stoic presence. I’m incredibly late for my meeting with Professor Smith. I hope he doesn’t think I stood him up on purpose or, worse, traveled again before we could talk.

  The quickest route to his office is up and over Bascom Hill, and it’s like conquering the harshest StairMaster ever created. I finally reach Sterling Hall and locate his name on the staff directory in the lobby. I climb the stairs only to discover his office dark and locked. A note is taped to the door with my name on it.

  I rip it off, panting for breath.

  Abbi,

  Perhaps our lines got crossed. I’ve gone to Liz Waters dorm to wait for you.

  Professor Smith

  Great. I jog the two blocks to my dorm expecting to find the professor in the lobby, but he’s not there—just a couple of girls working in the office as others come and go. I realize I haven’t seen a single guy in the dorm. Apparently it hasn’t gone coed yet.

  With no sign of the professor, I head to my room to see if somehow he’s there. Without air conditioning, the girls have propped open the doors and windows, allowing the warm air to flow through the building. Girls gossip and giggle while Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” fills the air, unaware and unaffected by the pepper spray event I just endured across campus. Does this sort of thing happen all the time in the seventies?

  When I reach my hallway, there is no professor waiting, no note on the door. I let myself into my room, my last hope to find him waiting for me. No luck. Shit. Where can he be?