I’m drawn to those like a magnet. My favorite shows the three of us when I was ten and Shan was six. We were on vacation, on a tour of the Washington, DC ruins. I run a finger along the side of the glass frame and watch as Dad, holding Shan on his shoulders, drapes his free arm around me. Then Shan and I wave at Mom, who was recording us.
There’s even a digigraph of Vika and me. Dad recorded it at the Christmas party he hosted back in December. Vika opens my present, squeals, and gives me a kiss in front of everybody. I remember how embarrassed I was, hearing the hoots of laughter from Dad’s friends.
I blink and swipe at my eyes, hating myself for being so weak. So not like Dad. He never would’ve been caught standing around crying like a baby. It’s time to man up.
I head to Dad’s bedroom but stop at the doorway. It still smells like him in here. His woodsy scent, though faint, fills the room. I let out a few deep puffs of air and force myself to enter. I keep my eye on my goal—the antique desk.
It’s not one of those cheap replicas you can find anywhere. It’s the real thing, made of maple. When the Department of Temporal Affairs has information about the exact date and time a property is to be destroyed, they’ll send in a retrieval team to confiscate artifacts if they’re worth saving. This desk is one of those. Built in 1850, it was salvaged when the house it was in burned. Dad asked to keep it since it wasn’t the main objective of the mission. General Anderson agreed because Dad was one of his best operatives.
The first time I saw the desk, I was less than impressed. The wood was chipped and had smoke damage. Dad insisted that I help him restore it. That was pretty wild because we discovered some hidden compartments in the desk. Six to be exact. If Dad had anything he wanted to hide, it would be in one of those compartments.
A few minutes pass as I search through the first five. They’re the easiest ones to get to—the false bottoms in all of the drawers. There’s nothing in them. With each empty discovery, my stomach twists a little more. There has to be something in the last one.
Before I can slide the middle drawer open, a chime sounds throughout the apartment.
I groan. Who could that be? I hurry out of Dad’s bedroom as the door opens. Professor March enters the apartment. I stop as if I’ve run into a force field. “What are you doing here, sir?”
“I tracked your DataLink,” he says as he sits on the couch. “You haven’t answered any of my comms, and I wanted to talk to you.”
I ignored them. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly in the mood to chat right now.”
“I can imagine.”
I take one of the seats across from the couch and stare at Professor March.
“So,” he says, leaning forward, “how are you doing?”
“How do you think, sir?”
“Bridger, I know this is rough on you. That’s why I’m here. I thought you needed someone to talk to.”
I want to tell him that’s the last thing I want, but I keep that to myself. “What’s there to talk about?” I ask, my heart thrumming in my chest. “Everybody thinks I’m crazy, and my girlfriend is in a coma because of me. So things aren’t great right now.”
Professor March nods. “I stopped by your quarters before coming here. Zed and Elijah told me your mother was there earlier. What did she say to you?”
“Oh, the usual. She was more worried about how it would affect her or Shan. Then she blamed everything on Dad.”
“So Morgan was riding her broom again, huh?”
“Always.”
A sad look crosses Professor March’s face. I wonder what he’s thinking, but I can guess. He misses Dad too. They were roommates back in their Academy days and used to do everything together. Even after Dad went military and Professor March went civilian for their careers, they still made time to hang out. That used to irritate Mom endlessly.
“It killed me when I found out Leithan had died,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “He was like my brother. I was closer to him than my own sister. So I know what you’re going through.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my throat close. I swallow hard a few times. “I know we have those time traveling rules for a reason, but I don’t get why it would be so bad if you go back right away. Just before the moment someone is supposed to die and save them. How much could that affect the timeline?”
“Nobody knows for sure, Bridger. But would you really want to take that kind of risk?”
He’s right. I just don’t want to admit it. The pain is too much. All I can do is stare at the floor and hope I don’t wuss out in front of him.
After a few moments, he says, “Sometimes I wish cloning tech would’ve worked out. That would be better than nothing.”
I slowly nod. I want to have my dad here more than anything, but I don’t know if I like the idea of him being a clone. Around the year 2103, scientists developed a way to replicate bodies at an accelerated rate. For the right price, someone could have their genetic material stored. Then upon their death, the person’s consciousness would be downloaded, and within days they would be alive again. It seemed like the perfect way to cheat death. But there was just one problem—the clones always went crazy. A few years of dealing with that led to cloning being outlawed by the government.
Neither one of us says anything for a while. Finally Professor March asks, “Where are you staying tonight?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe here. I can’t handle Mom right now.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“It’s mine and Shan’s apartment now.” It surprises me how much saying that hurts. Yet another reminder Dad is gone.
Professor March looks down, taking a few deep breaths, then back at me. “I don’t think you’re ready to stay here. Not alone, anyway. Leithan hasn’t been gone long. It might be too overwhelming.”
“Where else can I go?”
“I don’t mind if you stay with me for a while. I’m not due to go back on Warden Duty for another two weeks.”
The professors at the Academy rotate staying in the residential halls with the cadets, to make sure we “behave like proper trainees.” Most of them let us do what we want as long as we don’t do anything stupid. But some of the professors actually enforce all the rules. Like Professor Cayhill.
“Okay,” I reply. “I’d like that.”
Professor March stands and claps his hands together. “Good. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Are you ready to go?”
I almost tell Professor March that I want to finish searching Dad’s desk, but I bite back the words. He didn’t believe me when I said I saw Dad at the Foster Assassination. He’d think I really am crazy.
But I can’t leave without checking the last compartment.
“I need to go to bathroom first,” I lie. Not the most original excuse, but it works.
“Sure, I’ll wait.”
Back in Dad’s room, I fly to the desk and ease out the middle drawer. I set Dad’s things on top of the desk and run my fingers along the right side behind the inkwell. It takes a few tries before I find a depression in the wood and press it. The back side of the inkwell pops out with a soft click, revealing two small hidden drawers. My fingers tremble as I check the first drawer. It’s empty.
The second one better have something, or I might wild out. I will my pulse to slow as I slide the second drawer out and reach inside. I can’t find anything at first, but in the back corner I touch something. Feeling relief, I snatch it out. It’s an old-style envelope. I tear it open and nearly fall over when I check the contents. The envelope is stuffed with hundred dollar bills. Those went out of circulation when the North American Federation was formed and credits were designated as the new currency. I’m so shocked to see the money that I almost miss the DataDisk tucked in the envelope. I’d give anything to check it out now. But I can’t keep Professor March waiting.
I slide the envelope into a leg pocket of my uniform and replace everything in the drawer before rejoining Professor March. We’re on the way o
ut of the apartment when my DataLink chimes. I check to see who is calling and let out a groan. “I wish she’d forget I exist.”
“Morgan?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to listen to her anymore today.”
Professor March frowns. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but she’s your mother. And since you’re a minor and she’s your only legal guardian, you need to talk to her. She could make things really unpleasant for you.”
I want to tell him what I think of her, but once again he’s right. Better to just go ahead and find out what she wants so she’ll leave me alone. I accept the comm and try to keep a neutral expression on my face as her image appears above my DataLink. “What are you doing at your father’s apartment? I thought I made it clear that you were to come to my place.”
Here we go. “I don’t remember you saying that.”
“I most certainly did. I want you to get over here immediately.”
“I can’t, Mother. I’m a Time Bender, not a Space Bender.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Would you rather I be a dumb-ass?”
Mom lets out a stream of very un-Morgan-like words. I smile, but Professor March’s expression wipes the smile away. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling at me.
“What?” I ask, not happy with the way he’s acting.
“That’s your mother, Bridger. Show her a little respect.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Who are you talking to?” Mom asks.
“Professor March is here with me,” I say, feeling a split second of satisfaction when her lips curl in disgust.
“Telfair? What does he want?”
“He actually cares about how I’m doing, and he said I can stay with him.”
Mom shakes her head. “Oh no, you’re coming here.”
Anger courses through my body, but I keep my voice calm. “I want to stay with him, Mom. Just for a few days so I can think things through.”
“I said no.”
“Don’t you care about what I want for once? Dad was right, you’re selfish.” The words are out before I can stop them. Maybe I shouldn’t have said them, but I’m glad I did.
Mom recoils like I slapped her as Professor March barks, “Bridger, that’s enough.”
“She never thinks about what’s good for me. It’s always what’s good for her or Shan,” I protest. I don’t get it. Why is he defending her? I thought he was on my side.
“I know,” Professor March says. “But you’ve been suspended from the Academy for a month, and you’re going to be investigated. I suggest you do whatever she says. You don’t need any more blemishes on your record, and Morgan could do that if you defy her wishes.”
I want to scream at how unfair it is. Why should she be allowed to control my life when she doesn’t care about me? But a very small part of me knows Professor March is right.
“Bridger, I’m giving you exactly one hour to get here, or I’ll report you as a runaway,” Mom says.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“Because contrary to what you think, you’re my son and I do love you.” Her voice is softer, more like the one I remember from my childhood, back when our family was still intact.
It’s an act. She hasn’t shown any affection for me since the divorce. Not since I supported Dad when he decided to leave.
“Bridger, don’t do anything stupid,” Professor March warns.
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll go.”
8
ALORA
APRIL 9, 2013
After Sela deposits me at the house, I plunk my books and bag of donuts on the porch and sit in one of the white rocking chairs. I rub my arm where I felt the touch back at The Gingerbread House as if I can make the memory disappear. I don’t know why I keep thinking about it like someone actually did touch me. Nobody was there except for Mrs. Randolph, and she was too far away from me when it happened.
What if I’m losing my mind? First I skip school and can’t remember what I did or how I got home; now I’m imagining invisible people grabbing me. Next stop, the loony bin.
I wish I could tell Aunt Grace what’s going on, but she’d freak out and drag me to the emergency room. Besides, I think I have an idea of what could be happening. The dream I’ve had with my father and the two women are ones I’ve dealt with on and off for years, ever since I came to live in Willow Creek. Usually I just have them once or twice a month.
But I’ve had that dream every night for the past two weeks. Could this be a side effect of my memories trying to resurface?
I can’t remember why I came to live with Aunt Grace when I was six years old. She just said that my dad left me with her and wouldn’t tell her what was going on. I don’t believe that for one minute. It seems weird for him to have left me without telling her why, but for some reason Aunt Grace doesn’t want to talk to me about it.
“I’m home,” I yell once I’m inside.
“Back here,” Aunt Grace replies.
In the kitchen, I find Aunt Grace peeling potatoes by the sink.
“What’s for supper?” I ask as I place my books on the small table to my left. I extract a donut from the bakery bag and take a bite.
Aunt Grace gives me a disapproving look. “Don’t eat another one. I’ll have supper ready in about a half hour. Shrimp, fries, coleslaw, hush puppies, and chocolate cake for dessert.”
“That sounds good, but why are you cooking so much?” There are way more potatoes than Aunt Grace and I can eat.
“Because, my dear, we have a guest,” she says, beaming at me. “Now can you take up those shrimp before they burn?”
“And you invited him to supper?”
“Yes. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to show a little extra hospitality tonight.”
I scoop the shrimp out and drop them on a paper towel-lined plate. “So, how long is the mystery guest staying? Long enough to pay some serious cash I hope.”
“He’s supposed to leave on Sunday, but he said he might stay longer if he gets another assignment around here. He’s a photographer for a magazine in Atlanta, so be extra nice. We might get some free advertising out of this.”
I allow myself to smile. That’s good news for once.
After I polish off my donut, I ask, “Do you need me to do anything else?”
“Yes. Frost the cake.”
Aunt Grace has a bowl of homemade frosting on the center island resting next to the cake. I grab the spatula and start spreading the chocolate goo across the bottom layer. We both work quietly for a while. I watch her, noting how relaxed she seems. Maybe I should strike while she’s obviously in a good mood.
“Aunt Grace, I need to ask you something,” I say, placing the spatula back in the bowl.
“Uh oh, that sounds serious.”
“Well, it’s been so long since I moved in with you and I’m so grateful for you taking me in, but I was wondering if you—”
Aunt Grace shakes her head. “I can see where this is heading a mile away and the answer is still no.”
“But you don’t know what I was going to ask.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s the usual ‘Why did my parents leave me?’ Am I right?” Her face is grim as she attacks the bowl of potatoes, slicing them into thick strips.
“Yeah, but I thought you would be willing to tell me what really happened now, since I’m older.”
“I’ve told you a million times I don’t know what happened. Your dad dropped you off and you were unconscious. He said there had been an accident and he needed you to stay here while he took care of things. He didn’t have time to answer all of my questions. And that’s the last time I saw him.”
“But don’t you think that’s weird? That he shows up, dumps me off, and leaves without any explanation?”
Aunt Grace slams the knife on the counter and faces me. “I don’t understand why you’re asking all these questions now. It’s been a long time since you’ve brought
it up.”
“I need to know the truth.”
“Why don’t you let it go? Whatever happened must’ve been bad if you can’t even remember.”
A sick sensation makes my stomach heave. I force myself to breathe slowly a few times before I speak. “I just don’t understand why you don’t want to help me remember. I know I’ve got the memories up here somewhere,” I say, tapping the side of my head. “Please.”
Her face softens. “Sweetie, it’s more complicated than that. My brother would’ve never left you like he did without a good reason. Whatever happened to y’all must’ve been awful. And because of that, I’d rather you not remember. And besides, kids forget things all the time. I can’t remember half the things I did last week, much less when I was young.”
“But this is not normal. I can’t even remember what my own mother looks like.”
“Drop it, Alora. I’m done with this discussion.”
“You’re not being fair,” I shout. “I’m not a porcelain doll. I won’t break. I need answers.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she whispers.
“No,” I say, hating how my voice quivers. “You won’t.”
My head feels like it could shatter into a million pieces. I have to get away before I say something I’ll regret. I bolt out of the kitchen, ignoring Aunt Grace calling my name. I know she won’t follow. She has to finish cooking for our precious guest.
I stomp up the stairs, not caring that I probably look like an angry toddler. I’m so busy thinking dark thoughts about Aunt Grace that I don’t notice the guest at the top of the landing until I almost smack into him. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
I have to strain my neck to look up at him. He’s tall, with graying brown hair and an athletic build, probably in his late thirties or early forties. He’s actually kind of nice-looking for someone so old. But for some reason, he’s staring at me with a shocked expression on his face.
The Edge of Forever Page 6