“And now,” said Mr. Sullivan, “right here on our stage, all the way from Dorian, here are Clifford Anderson and the Cliffettes!”
The teenage studio audience screamed their lungs out. Clifford was played onto the stage by a 50-piece orchestra. Before he began his first number, he signaled the band to stop, waved the audience into silence, then looked straight into the camera and said, “This song’s for you, Amy.”
I was awakened from my fantasy slumber when I heard a bump in the hallway. I threw back my covers, crept to the door, and opened it slowly. There was my mom, in pink pajama pants and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, reaching behind a flower pot on the floor.
“Mom,” I said. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, straightening up. “I was going downstairs for a snack, when this caught the corner of my eye.” She held up a ring—not a valuable one, but a cheap knickknack. “I’ve been looking for this for years.”
“What is it?” I asked.
Mom held it close to her heart and glowed. “Your father gave it to me when we first met.”
“That?” I said, pointing to the worthless jewelry. “He must have been a cheap date.”
“Neither of us could afford much back then. We kept this ring a secret between us. I was too embarrassed to show it to anyone.”
“Wise decision. That thing’s worth a dime if even that.”
My mom gave me a crabby look. “What do you know about it,” she said. “When you’re in love, it’s the sentiment that matters. I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
Mom leaned into my face. “You’ve got that look in your eye,” she said. “There’s a boy, isn’t there?” I looked away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked,” I said.
My mother looked down at the sentimental keepsake in her hand, then grinned. “Join me in a cup of hot chocolate?” she asked. But before I could answer, she grabbed my hand and led me downstairs to the kitchen.
I sat on a kitchen bar stool in my purple nightshirt, while Mom popped two slices of bread into the toaster. Then she made our hot chocolate—not from a cheap, tear-open package, but with real, dark chocolate from a tin.
This was a mother-daughter nighttime ritual we had shared since I was a little girl. But in the midst of our current legal battle it felt awkward. I hadn’t spoken at length with my mom in months. Now, we were about to have an intimate conversation, and I was a little uneasy about it.
Mom brought our steaming, chocolate treats to the counter, plopped a marshmallow into each cup, then sat down on the stool next to me. I spread apple butter and cinnamon on our toast, just like I had always done. Dad’s sorrowful-looking ring lay on the counter between us.
Then mom opened a drawer and pulled out a large photo album, that I had seen a hundred times before.
“I’ll prove my story to you about the ring,” said Mom, opening the album.
The photos were kept in place with white, corner stickers. The first in the collection were old Polaroid snapshots.
“Look there, on my finger,” said Mom. The faded image showed my youthful mother holding out her hand, and sure enough, there was the plastic ring.
“So that’s what this picture is all about,” I said.
“Your dad was a young writer,” said Mom, “and I was a secretary at a small publishing house. He had submitted a manuscript for his new book, and had come to see if anyone had read it. The editor said he had, and in a very nice way, told him that it sucked. But I read it and loved it, and I told him so.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “He was so moved by your praise that he asked you to dinner. But he barely had a dollar to spend, but you didn’t care. Just being with him was like walking on air. And as a token of his affection, he got you this ring out of a bubble gum dispenser. And as he placed it on your finger, it was like you had been given the Crown Jewels. How close am I?”
“Pretty close, except you left out one detail.”
“What’s that?”
“We did have a splendid dinner that night, and at one of the finest restaurants in town.”
“I thought you said Dad was broke.”
“I paid.”
We shared a quick laugh together, something we hadn’t done in a long time. Then it got quiet, remembering that we were supposed to be bitter rivals. We had exchanged a few, nice words, but we had also said other things in recent months that weren’t so nice—in and out of courtrooms.
“We probably shouldn’t be talking like this,” said Mom, “but I’ve been fortunate to have true love in my life, and I want you to know that it’s something I pray you’ll find someday, too.”
I hesitated before volunteering any information about Clifford. But I figured, what have I got to lose?
“What if I told you I already have?” I said.
Mom gave me a surprised look. “Really? Who is he?”
The circumstances were too incredible for me to go into detail. Still, mothers and daughters are suppose to confide in each other in matters of the heart.
“Well,” I said, “it’s a little complicated, but—”
Mom put up her hand. “Say no more,” she said. “It’s a personal matter and I shouldn’t pry.”
But I wanted her to pry. I wanted to give her a chance to shed tears of joy for me, or lecture me for being too immature, or scold me for making the biggest mistake of my life. I longed to experience that closeness you’re suppose to feel with your mom. But how could I tell her about Cliff?
Just then, Mom splashed a spot of hot chocolate on her nightwear.
“Oh, look what I did,” she said. “I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna go rinse this out.” Then she disappeared into the laundry room.
While I waited for her return, I thumbed through the old album. Her whole courtship with Dad was chronicled in pictures. Jammed between the pages were personal mementos: movie ticket stubs, pressed flowers, restaurant napkins.
The wedding photos came next: the bridal party posing with the bride and groom; Mom throwing her flower bouquet; Dad tossing my mom’s garter in the same manner.
Then came the children’s photo history. My siblings and I each had our own pages in the album. The photos in each section weren’t much different from the others, highlighting typical childhood milestones: your first pony ride, your first day at summer camp, and your first time riding a bike without falling over.
I then came to the section with Amy across the top of the first page, but something was horribly wrong. The page was empty! The white, corner stickers were there, but the photos were gone. The pages that followed were also empty. I had been erased from the family album!
I skipped to the back where my birth certificate had been mounted. It was gone, too! My brother and sister’s certificates hadn’t been touched.
My falling out with my parents was more hurtful to my mom than I realized—and here was the proof. Our relationship had been hanging by a thread as it was, then I had to come along and sever it.
Maybe it was time we started communicating.
I closed the album, just as my mom returned to the kitchen. We had spent such a pleasant time together, I didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up what I had just seen.
My mom reached for the album to put it away, when I placed my hand over hers.
“Mom?” I said. “What’s happen to us?”
Her lower lip quivered. Then she threw her arms around me, and gave me the biggest hug I can remember ever getting from her.
Tears filled my eyes as I hugged her back. “I thought that leaving home was what I wanted,” I said. “Now I’m not so sure.”
Mom looked at me, then cradled my face in her hands. “It’s okay, Amy,” she said. “How things got to this point, I’m not sure. I suppose I’m to blame as much as anyone. But your dad and I taught you to follow your own path, and where you go from here is up to you. Don’t worr
y too much about me. You have love in your life, and that makes me happy. And if someday you should ever have children of your own . . .”
Mom’s voice went suddenly silent. Her expression darkened, like a sinister shadow had passed over her face.
“What is it, Mom?” I said, frightened.
She grabbed the handle of her cup. “Nothing,” she said coldly.
“Was it something I said?”
“No.”
She got up without uttering another word, tossed her cinnamon toast in the trash, and poured the rest of her chocolate down the sink. Then she walked out of the kitchen.
I picked the ring up off the counter as she started for the stairs. Grabbing hold of her arm, I held up the cherished reminder of her past.
“You forgot this,” I said.
She looked over her shoulder at me, slowly lifted the ring out of my hand, then placed in on her little finger. Her eyes shimmered as she stared at it wistfully.
“We all have our secrets, Amy,” was all Mom would say. Then she continued up the stairs.
I went back to the kitchen to clean up what was left of a bewildering evening. I put the photo album back in its drawer. Whatever dark secret Mom was hiding, those photos held no clue.
Chapter 11
Telling Hubert
I hadn’t told a living soul about the magic clicker. The only other people who knew it existed was Bob Phillips and Zeb, the half-zebra—if indeed he existed at all. But the deeper I got involved with Clifford, the more I felt the need to confide in someone with what I was up to. Hubert was the only person I could trust to keep my secret.
Hubert and I had just gotten off the Spit Buckets—a Theme Farm ride where an overhead skyway transports guests across the park. The buckets were actually oversized, cow-milking pails suspended from cables high above the ground.
While skyways are a common sight at theme parks, they usually prove to be a major headache for Management. Countless complaints are routinely filed by park guests who have been spat upon by discourteous riders. Theme Farm took a different approach to this problem. The park regarded this tasteless behavior as a form of free expression, and since people were going to do it anyway, why not encourage it? The difference was that the Spit Bucket ride employed an invisible shield that prevented the wet projectiles from ever reaching the ground, keeping the unsuspecting guests below comfortably dry.
We had just exited the ride as our stomachs were telling us: “Lunch, please!”
“Suppose we try Democracy Diner today,” I said.
This was one of our favorite Theme Farm restaurants. It’s the only place I know where you are served a tasty meal while getting a lesson in Civics at the same time. Liberals are seated on the left; Conservatives to the right; counter seating is reserved for Independents only. Menu specials include the Presidential Veto Burrito and Rhetoric on a Stick. I “elected” to order the Minority Whip Dip, while Hubert got the Sex Scandal Platter. For dessert, we voted unanimously to each get a slice of the diner’s most popular dessert: Impeachment Pie.
This was as good a time as any to let Hubert in on my covert activity.
“Remember that Theme Farm attraction you told me about,” I asked him, “Used-to-Be TV?”
“I hear that communicating with anyone on it is pretty fruitless,” said Hubert. “There’s some kind of detection system that censors anything it doesn’t want you to say. A constant bleeping keeps a slip of the lip from changing history.”
“That’s true. But what if I told you I didn’t have that problem?”
“I’d say that would be very dangerous. Can you really say whatever you want to people in the past?”
“Yes, I can. And it is dangerous. You may not believe this, but I said something stupid that changed the color of Jiffy Fizz Cola cans from red to blue.”
Hubert smiled and shook his head. “What do mean, red? The color of their cans is a universal trademark. They’ve always been blue . . . haven’t they?”
Hubert wasn’t smiling now.
I pulled the magic clicker out of my pocket.
“What’s that?” asked Hubert.
“The device that can change history.”
“Can I see it?”
“If you’re careful.”
I checked to see if anyone was watching us before I handed the clicker to Hubert. He put it up to his eye, checking it out from end to end.
“I don’t suppose you’ll let me see inside,” said the incurable tinkerer.
“Better not,” I said. “I don’t know how fragile it is, and as far as I know it’s the only one there is.”
“How do you work it?”
“You aim it at any TV in the attraction, hit that button, and you can speak freely with whomever is on the screen with no bleeping. I’ve been using it to talk to a boy I met in 1963.”
Hubert looked at me with deadly seriousness. “How much have you told him about the future?”
“Not much.”
“Not much could turn into a whole lot if you’re not careful. That was a pivotal time in American history. I hope you’re not thinking of meddling with the ‘60s.”
“There is a certain power you feel with this clicker in your hand. I don’t deny it. But I’ve resisted the urge to give away any damaging information. The Jiffy Fizz thing was just kind of an accident.”
“You idiot!” snarled Hubert. “I should destroy this thing right now.”
“Don’t you dare!” I yelled, grabbing the device out of his hand.
“An accident, you say!” said Hubert, his face red with rage. “You burn yourself on a stove. That’s an accident. You hit the wrong number while dialing a phone. That’s an accident, too. We can recover from those. The Fukushima nuclear power plant melt down. Even that we can survive. But you reveal one slip up about the future, in some stupid theme park ride, and your ‘accident’ will be permanent.”
Hubert had put into words what I did not want to admit to myself. I was playing with fire, like a willful child who should know better. Changing the color of a soda can was one thing, but changing the landscape of the future was quite another.
“But I can’t destroy the clicker,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I will also be destroying the sunshine of my life.”
“Oh, no!” said Hubert, his hand on his forehead. “Don’t tell me. You’ve fallen for some schlep in 1963.”
I bowed my head while raising my eyes up at Hubert, like a puppy that just got caught soiling the carpet.
“I should have known,” he said. “You always make the worst choices when it comes to boys. When are you going to start listening to your head instead of your heart?”
Under normal circumstances, I would have stood up to Hubert and defended my integrity. I would have blasted him with a million reasons why he was wrong—only this time he wasn’t. I was in way over my head, and I knew it.
“You don’t have to be so cruel,” I said.
Hubert placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Amy,” he said softly. “You’re the last person I would ever want to hurt. I just want you to understand how serious this is.”
“You haven’t told me anything I don’t already know. I just wish I knew what to do about it.”
“Tell you what. I don’t agree with what you are doing, but if you ever get the urge to alter history, I want you to call me. I’ll be your own personal support group. It’ll be like Alcoholics Anonymous for people who want to destroy life as we know it. Okay?”
“Okay, Hubert. I’ll call you if I start to get the shakes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Chapter 12
Time Lapse
November.
The corn had been harvested and the sheep had been sheared. The cows were in the meadow and the hay was in the barn—and I was back at Shanksonville High School.
What direction my personal life would take was still up in the air. After much haggling with Judge Hi
ggins, Bob Phillips had finally gotten me a court date on the Family Court calendar. My final emancipation hearing would take place at the end of the month.
At home, I held my breath every time I walked through the front door. My parents and I had simply stopped talking to each other. All there was to say had already been said.
Now it was just a waiting game to see how the judge would rule.
It was also November in Dorian. Between school activities and homework, Clifford and I decided to limit our get-togethers to weekends. He was in his final year of high school, and looking ahead to college. Furthering his music education was a natural choice. He had already won a few professional writing contracts, composing jingles for radio commercials.
1963 saw the birth of a revolution in music. Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul, and Mary, and other musical talents were gaining in popularity with their politically-charged protest songs. Now politically active himself, Clifford joined this dissident movement. It was totally unlike him, but I didn’t complain. I had watched this introverted boy blossom into a concerned young adult, and it was good to see him climb out of his shell.
I was also impressed by how much Clifford’s songwriting chops had improved. I was a little bias, of course, being his inspiration for much of his best work. There was no shortage of joyful, up-tempo tunes:
“You Make Me Smile”
I looked up to the sky
The sun was shining through
And we will be alright
‘Cause now I see the light in you.
“By The Time You Get This Letter”
If you feel the way I do
Then I’ll be yours forevermore
I’ll be at your side
To keep you satisfied
Until I’m ninety-four.
“As Long As You Come Back To Me”
You say you wanna get out for a while
You wanna set your spirit free
Well don’t you know it’s alright
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