Waking in Time

by Angie Stanton

We stand in front of the mirror over my dresser. “See, you look beautiful with your hair done. Let me take your picture.” She pulls a boxy camera from her drawer and aims it at me.

  “Wait. I want you in it too.”

  “All right. Let me go get someone to take it for us.”

  I laugh. “Silly girl. We don’t need anyone’s help.” I pat the spot beside me and take the camera from her. “We’ll take a selfie.”

  “A what?” She sits next to me, confused.

  “We’ll take it of ourselves.” I examine the camera. “Where’s the button on this thing?”

  Sharon shows me a round button on top. I flip the camera around so the lens faces us and hold it up. Grandma and I lean our heads together and smile.

  “Say cheese,” she says.

  “Cheese!”

  As I snap the picture, a flash goes off, and for a moment I can’t see. Then I blink and realize this is the picture that eventually ends up in the hatbox. The one that Jada and I looked at and thought we’d found my twin. I stare at the camera in my hand and think of all the years and places that picture will travel before it eventually comes back to me.

  “Are you all right?” Sharon asks.

  I look up at her wonderful face. “I’ve never been better.” She leans over and we hug, and for an instant it’s as if it’s my dear old grandma hugging me.

  When it’s nearly dinner time, Sharon pulls out a pair of stockings. They look like panty hose that were cut off at the thigh. I watch, fascinated, as she slips a foot in and carefully pulls the sheer material up her leg, then slides a white band of elastic up her thigh to hold it in place.

  Sharon glances up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I force down a giggle and turn to my dresser, finding I have several pairs too. Acting as cool as possible, I slide my foot in and gently tug the fabric up. Once I get them on and the elastic band tightly on my thigh, cutting off circulation, I go for shoes. Sharon snickers.

  “What?”

  “Your seams are crooked as lightening bolts.”

  I strain to look behind me and see two jagged seams zigzagging up my legs. Who knew there was an art to putting on panty hose?

  “Here, I’ll help you.” She kneels behind me and, with little pinches that tickle, she tugs the nylon one way and the other until the back of my legs have two lines straight as railroad tracks.

  After dinner in the cafeteria, I’m ready to snuggle in for the evening and see if I can figure out a way to stay here with Grandma instead of skipping backward again. It occurs to me then that I haven’t thought of Professor Smith or Will all day, but being with Grandma is far more important than either of them right now. I kick off my clunky shoes and search for a warm sweater in my dresser, wishing some modern-day pajama pants and fuzzy socks had time traveled with me.

  “What are you doing?” Sharon asks.

  I slip into a navy blue cardigan and climb onto my bed. “Getting comfortable?”

  “Oh no you don’t. We’re going out.” She grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet.

  “Where? It’s snowing again.”

  “Yes! It’s beautiful, it’s Thursday night, and we’re going to the College Club, so dig out your makeup and let’s get gussied up.”

  How can I say no? We primp and preen in front of the mirror, powder our noses, and paint our lips red. By the time we’re ready, several girls are waiting for us in the hall.

  Bundled up in our thick coats and snow boots, we tromp our way up one side of Bascom Hill and down the other. I shiver as the cold February chill flows freely over my stockinged legs. When we cross Lake Street toward Library Mall, I see that the Memorial Library hasn’t been built yet, creating another void in the landscape. In fact, Library Mall isn’t built yet either. It’s an extra block of State Street with houses and businesses, and vintage cars parked at the curb.

  The College Club, or “Kollege Klub,” as I see it’s spelled, is located in a building I don’t recognize. Inside it’s a cross between a soda fountain and pub. The place is packed with students abuzz with the energy fresh snow and college hormones bring.

  Sharon seems to know everyone. Tom, the guy from sledding, buys us our first beer. We spend the night dancing to the jukebox, drinking and cracking up over stories of how Tom befriended a baby skunk and made a pet out of it. Lots of guys talk to Sharon. She’s a ball of fun, but it’s Tom who monopolizes most of her time, flirting with her and making her laugh. When we finally return to our dorm room, I’m exhausted.

  After changing into a soft flannel nightgown, I sit up in bed and lean against the cool outside wall. I pray I won’t travel tonight. After everything I’ve been through, is this why I traveled? To see Grandma one last time?

  I’ve been missing her so much, and now we’re together again. Granted, she doesn’t know me as her grand daughter, but this is the best gift I could have ever imagined, and I can’t let it end.

  “Tom sure seems to like you. Are you two an item?” I ask.

  Sharon is futzing with the lamp and alarm clock cords behind her nightstand. “Gosh no! He’s just a good-time Charlie. I’m never getting married.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t see the point. Why would I sign up for a life of servitude and spend the rest of my days worrying about how to make the perfect pie crust or iron the wrinkles out of a shirt sleeve?”

  I bite back a laugh. Grandma was far from a happy homemaker. She was incredibly independent. But then I worry whether history can be changed, like the professor warned. What if she never marries or has my mom? I’ll never be born.

  “If I marry, how will I see the world?” Sharon goes on. “I can’t go to China or Greece or the Amazon.” She shakes the electrical cords and almost knocks her lamp over.

  “What are you doing?”

  Her head pops up. “Making sure the cords don’t cross and start a fire.”

  “Seriously?” I hide my grin.

  “I’m quite serious. It would be tragic to wake up on fire.”

  “I can’t argue with that. So tell me, how do you plan to pay for all your exotic travel if you don’t have a wealthy husband to bankroll you?” I hope to steer her toward the marriage market.

  “Well, I certainly won’t be able to afford to travel if I’m a school teacher or a nurse.” She pushes her nightstand back in place and climbs into bed. “I’ll have torrid affairs with handsome men who are ridiculously rich.”

  “That’s scandalous!” I say, and we giggle. I can almost see her going through with it. “But you won’t marry any of your rich boyfriends?”

  “Goodness no! I’d be bored silly with them after a trip or two.” She pulls down her covers and slips her legs under.

  Little does Sharon know that in a few years she will meet my grandfather while on a field dig in South America. She’ll marry him, and they’ll travel the globe together on research assignments.

  But in case she can alter the future, I say, “I hope you change your mind, because if you don’t have a family, then you’ll never have grandchildren. Wouldn’t it be fun to have little grandbabies to spoil when you get tired of traveling?”

  She wrinkles her brow in thought. “That’s true. I suppose grandchildren could be fun.” She’s quiet for a moment, considering the idea, and then blurts, “I think I’d like eleven of them.”

  I laugh. “That’s random. Why eleven?”

  “Because it’s my favorite number, of course. I will teach them to ski and horseback ride, and when they turn eighteen, I’ll take them to Las Vegas gambling!”

  But she won’t get eleven. She only gets me. She does teach me to ride horses and water ski, but by the time I turn eighteen, her cancer has limited her activities to quiet card games at home—although she did teach me poker. Toward the end we did a lot of jigsaw puzzles of the amazing places she visited throughout
her life.

  Sharon yawns. “I’ve changed my mind. Just for you I’ll marry, but only at the last minute, after I’ve seen all there is to see.”

  Just for me, I think with a smile. How true that becomes. “Sounds like a solid decision.” I relax just a little that she hasn’t written off marriage entirely and that her line will continue on.

  Sharon turns off her light. My bedside lamp glows. I look at her young form in the bed across from me and shake my head in amazement at the fabulous, impossible odds that brought us together. “Does my light bother you? I’m not tired and thought I’d sit up and read for a while.”

  “I don’t know how you can be wide awake. I’m exhausted. As long as you aren’t clacking away typing up a term paper, I can sleep through most anything,” she says through a yawn.

  But I can’t afford to fall asleep and take a chance that those blasted bells might ring and suck me back in time again. If I’m awake, I can’t travel, right? Finally, I’m in a place I want to stay, at least for a while before going back home. I’ll sit up all night every night if that’s what it takes.

  “Good night, Abigail.”

  “Good night,” I say, and then silently mouth, “Grandma.”

  * * *

  It works. The next morning I’m awake, exhausted, but still here with Sharon. As soon as she leaves for class I collapse into bed and sleep for half the day. When I’m up and trying to decide what to do, I realize finding Professor Smith is my top priority, and after that, Will.

  The year is 1951, so I don’t think the professor could possibly be old enough to teach yet. I check his office in Sterling Hall anyway, and my suspicions prove correct. No Smiths on the faculty list. This campus is huge. How will I possibly find him? What is he doing in 1951?

  I trek out to Tripp Hall, hoping to run into Will. I watch the entrance for a half hour, shivering in the cold, but no Will. Finally I ask a few guys if they know a Will, but no one does. I want to curse the stubborn guy for not telling me more about himself. I don’t know his last name, what he likes to do, or anything that might give me a hint at where he’d be, if he’s here at all. I desperately want to dig up his treasure, but until the snow melts, I know I’d never find it.

  Though I haven’t been able to find Will or the professor, each day brings new excitement with Sharon. She goes from being my beloved grandmother to my best friend, and she’s a whirlwind of energy.

  Every night after another adventure, whether it’s building snow forts overlooking the frozen lake or helping her spike the punch at the Winter Carnival, I make certain everything important to me is on my bed, especially the hatbox. I sit up until Sharon, and hopefully the rest of the dorm, is asleep. Then I wander the empty halls. It takes a good twenty minutes to make a full loop of each of the three stories and five wings. I also use the time to do my own version of research on time travel, lugging heavy books home from the library and pouring through them while everyone else sleeps. But most of what I’ve found is either fictional stories or too scientific for me to understand.

  One night Grandma wakes up as I open my drawer for a warmer sweater to hold off the chill during my nightly patrol of the vacant halls. When I claim insomnia, she joins me, and we sneak into the cafeteria kitchen. She fries us up some grilled bologna and mayonnaise sandwiches.

  A couple of times I accidentally fall asleep near dawn, but thank God, I wake up to Sharon singing. Usually it’s Sinatra tunes, but sometimes it’s Perry Como, whose smooth, “dreamy” voice I’ve come to love. Surviving on barely five hours of shuteye a day isn’t so great for my GPA, but I know better than to assume I’ll stay here with Grandma forever, so I don’t worry too much about it. After a week, I receive a warning letter about my missed classes, but I ignore it. I know I’m only one bell gong away from being sucked back in time again.

  On an unusually warm afternoon two weeks later, I venture out to enjoy the nice weather. The snow is melting, creating little streams that run along the edge of the sidewalks. Students mill about with their winter coats hanging open. I’m finally used to seeing all the girls wearing wool skirts that reach below their knees and hairstyles achieved by sleeping all night in painful-looking pin curls.

  I find myself checking out every sandy-haired guy who passes. Could Will end up here too? He would have known the answer to this the last time I saw him, but, of course, he was too stubborn to say.

  A student walks by and something about his gait catches my eye. His brown hair is buzzed short, so it definitely isn’t Will. He turns a corner, giving me a glimpse of his profile complete with thick-framed glasses.

  Professor Smith!

  I race after him. “Professor!” But he doesn’t slow. I push by a cluster of students and yell again, but still no reaction.

  He puts his hand on the door to Bascom Hall. “Professor Smith!” I yell. This time he pauses and looks my direction. “Wait up!” I call and run to catch him. He is so different, with the narrow face and skinny frame of a young man. The last time we met, he had the build of a man, but he hasn’t filled out yet in 1951.

  “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not even close to being a professor,” he says shyly, giving me a covert once-over.

  Crud. Of course he isn’t. He looks far more like a student than an instructor.

  He peers at my face. “Oh my goodness, I know you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You’re Abigail. It’s me, Smitty. We met freshman year. On the Union Terrace,” he adds, a broad smile of recognition covering his face.

  “Right, now I remember.” I’m totally freaking out inside. He and I have met before, but he doesn’t appear to know about my time travel. And he goes by Smitty? My heart drops. This is not the professor I need to help me.

  “That was what, three years ago? You haven’t changed a bit,” he says.

  “So that must mean you’re a senior,” I say, hiding my dismay at learning I’ll be traveling again, at least as far back as 1948.

  “Actually, I’m in grad school. Once I decided on my major, everything kind of clicked.” He pulls the door open. “It’s nice to see you again. I wish I had time to catch up, but I’m running late for a lecture.”

  I can’t let him slip away without knowing more. “Of course. But would you be free for coffee some time?”

  He releases the door, adjusts his glasses, and stares back at me as if I’ve said something shocking. “Certainly. How about tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Great. Three o’clock, in the Rathskeller?” I offer.

  “I look forward to it,” he says with the hint of a smile and disappears inside the building.

  Professor Smith’s been a comforting authority figure to me, but now he’s a regular guy running late for class. I’m devastated to discover that he doesn’t seem to know anything about my time travels. Still, there’s a sense of relief to see his familiar face ... albeit a much younger version. I didn’t realize how much his existence means to me. I can’t wait to tell Grandma. Of course, I won’t tell her how I know him, just that I’ve met a guy and am meeting him for coffee. There are so few things I can tell her, but sharing my new friend, Smitty, seems safe enough.

  I rush back to Liz Waters. Once inside, when my eyes adjust from the bright outdoors, I notice a barrel-chested man standing off to the side of the foyer, gripping his hat and wearing a somber expression. There aren’t too many middle-aged men who venture into Liz Waters.

  I dart past and weave my way through each wing, then barge into our room to tell Grandma about Smitty. She is hunched over an open suitcase with her back to me.

  I stop short. “What are you doing?”

  She turns, her face blotchy and tear-stained.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “My mother died.” She bursts into fresh tears.

  I rush to her side and hug her. She weeps, her whole body tremblin
g with grief. “I’m so sorry.” I desperately wish I could make it better. My tough, gutsy grandmother has finally been faced with an insurmountable challenge.

  When her tears subside and she’s wiped them with a handkerchief, I lead her to my bed to sit. “What happened?”

  “My mother’s been ill on and off for a few months, but I had no idea it was serious. Father says that Mother didn’t want me to worry and asked him not to tell me until near the end, but then the end came suddenly.” She presses the handkerchief to her face. I lightly rub her back and lean my head on her shoulder.

  She pulls herself together, dabbing at her tears. “My father’s waiting for me now to go home for the funeral.”

  “Sharon, I’m so sorry.”

  I can’t imagine losing my mom, and especially not getting a chance to say goodbye. Except that’s sort of what happened to me. I lost her in time. Is Mom worried about me? Does she even know I’m not there anymore? It’s been easy to stay happy these past weeks with Grandma, but now the reality of being away from her comes rushing back.

  Sharon sniffles, clutching the damp handkerchief. “Gosh, Abigail. I already miss my mother desperately. What am I supposed to do without her?”

  I take a moment to consider what advice Grandma would give to me. “I guess you take it one day at a time.” I brush her hair back from her face, thinking about how this wisdom applies to me as well.

  “But I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next hours.” She twists the hanky.

  “Then maybe you take it hour by hour, or minute by minute. If you can get through one, then you can get through the next.” I squeeze her hand. “Tell me, what can I do to help?”

  “I need to hurry and finish packing. I can’t think straight enough to know what to take.”

  “Of course.” I pick up a dress laid across Sharon’s bed and carefully fold it. I realize I know so little about Grandma’s life. She settles in Ohio after college, but I’ve never even thought to ask her where she was born. “How far away do you live?”

  “Sheboygan is a couple hours east of here on Lake Michigan.”