Yesterday's Sun

by Amanda Brooke

Holly soothed and reassured Tom, who, like Samson, felt emasculated by the simple act of a haircut. As she tucked in the covers around her, Holly’s gaze occasionally lifted toward the bedroom window. She had all the lights on in the room to neutralize the moonbeams that were trying to invade her peace of mind.

  She had been counting the days until the full moon, but now she was tempted to rely solely on her rational thinking to dismiss the idea of its latent power. Did she really need to put it to the test?

  Still chatting to Tom, Holly reluctantly peeled herself out of bed and crept toward the window. She pulled back the curtains and tentatively opened the blind. The enigmatic face of the moon beamed at her and Holly let out a sigh of resignation.

  “Are you tired? Do you want me to go?” asked Tom, interpreting her sigh as a repressed yawn.

  “Not yet,” answered Holly, and a spasm of fear and anticipation gripped her chest.

  But she couldn’t keep Tom talking all night, so with the pretense that he was guiding her toward a peaceful sleep, Holly said her final good-night with the acrid taste of guilt on her tongue.

  The walls closed in around her as soon as she put the phone down. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room and Holly succumbed to the urgent need to flee the house, grabbing a fleece and slipping on her trainers along the way. Retrieving the wooden box from the kitchen, Holly pushed onward. It was only when her hands touched the cold stone of the dial that she realized that it wasn’t the house she was running from but the dial she had been running to.

  The summer rain during the day had left the July evening damp and humid, and as Holly caught her breath in front of the moondial the sweat was already tickling the back of her neck. She had wrapped the fleece around her waist and hoped that she wouldn’t need it.

  A host of fluffy clouds were scattered across the sky, with the biggest hiding the perfectly round face of the moon. Holly dropped the orb cautiously into the brass claws of the dial and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for a dazzling light show and hoping against hope that it wouldn’t arrive.

  After a second or two of anxious waiting, Holly prized an eye open and looked around her. She took in the comforting sight of the long grass standing to attention at her feet. In the distance, the branches of the trees in the orchard were gently weighed down by the burden of their emerging fruits. The breath that Holly had been holding escaped as a relieved sigh.

  “See, Holly, no magic, no voodoo.” Holly reached out to retrieve the orb just as a gust of wind whipped across the garden and the long grass rustled around her. The cloud that had been hiding the moon’s face was also swept away and moonbeams stretched out greedily toward the dial.

  Holly’s fingertip had barely made contact with the orb when it glowed to life and thin lines of light trickled onto the surface of the dial. Her finger trembled and she pulled her hand away as an explosion of moonbeams danced across the garden. She squeezed her eyes shut and held on tightly to the sides of the dial to steady herself just as her grip on reality seemed to slip away and she felt herself being sucked into an abyss.

  She could feel the dial almost buzzing with electricity beneath her grip, but she held on for dear life. The sound of a ticking clock thudded against her ears and then slowly receded into the distance.

  It wasn’t just the shock from the dial that took Holly’s breath away or the dazzling light show as moonbeams danced around her; it was the sudden plummeting temperature as the warm breath of summer transformed into the harsh gasp of winter.

  Slipping into her fleece, Holly felt the sweat on her neck turn to icicles. She desperately tried to blink away the light shadows and look around, but she didn’t need full vision to confirm the changes in her surroundings. Long grass no longer tickled her legs and her feet felt like they had been plunged into buckets of ice. As she struggled to clear her vision, she realized why she felt so cold. She was standing in over a foot of snow and the remaining light shadows that plagued her weren’t shadows at all but fluffy snowflakes swirling around her.

  Holly was frozen within seconds and couldn’t stay where she was, no matter how much she wanted to. She had no choice but to seek refuge in the house and face whatever horrors awaited her. Across the virgin-white blanket of snow, the kitchen window sent out a beacon of light to her. The only other lights on in the house came from the living room, its warm glow partially hidden by the conservatory. Holly was too intent on reaching the safety of the house and its promised warmth to deal with what was happening or take in the detail of her surroundings. It was only as she reached the partial shelter offered by the side of the house that Holly finally took a moment to collect her thoughts.

  There was absolutely no doubt that whatever Holly was experiencing was the same thing that had happened to her before. Holly didn’t want to use the term time-travel, but whatever was happening couldn’t be explained away by something as simple as a hallucination. There had been no blow to the head or other physical trauma this time. She knew where she was; she just wasn’t sure when. It certainly wasn’t a balmy summer’s night.

  Her glance shifted to the conservatory and the first thing she noticed was that the French doors that had been to the side of the structure on her last visit were no longer there. From this vantage point she couldn’t see the front of the conservatory, but she didn’t really need to see it. She knew that was where the doors would be; after all, that was where they were on the partially completed structure Billy was still working on. Holly’s mind still fought to find a rational explanation. If this were a vision of her future then she had changed it in some way, but equally, if it were a vision created by her own imagination, then of course the doors would have moved. The position of the doors proved nothing.

  Holly took one last look across the lawn to the moondial as she prepared herself to enter the house, challenging the dial to give her some clue as to its powers. The dial refused to face her glare, having retreated beneath a blanket of snow. She was just about to turn away from the dial when something caught her attention and it took a few seconds to work out what it was. The snow lay thick between the house and the dial, with a single set of footprints showing the path she had trodden toward the back door. Holly peered into the flurry of snowflakes to take a closer look at the footprints, particularly the ones farthest away, near the dial. Although the snow was falling heavily, it shouldn’t be enough to cover up her tracks so quickly. Yet before her eyes the trail was slowly being erased. The footprints closest to the house were the last to disappear and Holly looked on in disbelief as the snow filled out the foot-shaped holes with perfect precision. In no time at all, the layer of snow on the lawn looked untouched, as if she had never walked across it.

  Turning quickly, Holly pushed down the handle on the back door, but her hand slipped. Remembering the effort she had needed to open the door last time, Holly gripped the handle with renewed urgency. She had to get away from the snowstorm that was invading her surroundings as well as her brain.

  The kitchen felt warm and safe and was thankfully empty. Holly closed her eyes and leaned against the door. She could feel the snowflakes melting from her hair and dripping down her face. They felt like tears trickling down her cheeks, but Holly knew better than to cry. She needed to steel herself for what lay ahead.

  Holly shivered and shook away the tension that was threatening to paralyze her. Opening her eyes, the kitchen was exactly as she had feared, a chaotic mess of dirty dishes and baby equipment. The kitchen table was cluttered and there was a half-opened newspaper teetering on the edge of it. Holly picked the newspaper up and looked for the date. It was January 2012, a full eighteen months into the future. Holly knew she couldn’t keep pushing away the idea that she had traveled in time, but her main objective at the moment was simply to keep functioning and get herself through this nightmare, and hopefully out the other side.

  She was about to replace the newspaper when she noticed a dark, circular scorch mark on the table. She stroked her finger across the grain of the
wood but the mark seemed to be a permanent war wound—one that she had never seen before. Although the sound of the ticking clock that marked her arrival had disappeared, Holly still sensed time ticking by. She needed answers and her only hope of understanding what was happening, or perhaps more correctly, what could happen in the future, was if she kept moving and kept exploring.

  Leaving the kitchen, she paused just outside the living room. The door was slightly ajar and although there was very little sound coming from the room, the shadows that danced across the walls belonged to Tom. Holly was sure of it. Her heart was hammering in her chest but she knew she had to enter the room. Whether it was the workings of the moondial or her own mind didn’t matter. She was here for a reason and she had to face her future.

  Holly stepped silently over the threshold and stayed as close to the wall as she was physically able. Tom was facing away from her, kneeling down over a changing mat. Libby was lying on the mat with her legs kicking furiously in the air, and Tom was struggling to lever her into a pink onesie. Holly was thankful she had stayed so close to the wall, leaning against it for support when Libby twisted around and smiled directly at her.

  Following Libby’s gaze, Tom turned to look in Holly’s direction, but he only frowned in puzzlement. Her heart fell as once again he didn’t acknowledge her presence at all.

  “What are you looking at, you little monster?” cooed Tom, tickling Libby’s tummy. Libby gasped and gurgled in delight.

  Libby’s smile alone had warmed Holly’s insides and she longed to kneel down next to Tom and join in the fun. She knew in her heart that Libby really was her daughter and she desperately wanted to hold her baby, more than anything. The thought that her desire to hold Libby was greater than her need to free herself from this nightmare actually startled her.

  “Now, you stay there while I go get your bottle ready,” Tom told Libby, who was now all buttoned up.

  As Tom stood up and turned, Holly was relieved to see a glimpse of her old Tom, not the haunted man she had seen last time. His hair was still short and neat, although his clothes, jeans, and T-shirt were more creased and worn than ever before. It was his eyes that gave Holly most relief; they were green and bright, a little red-rimmed perhaps, but there was no emptiness, no abject despair.

  Unable to deal with him completely ignoring her, Holly closed her eyes as he slipped past. With Tom out of the room, Holly launched herself onto the floor next to Libby to take a better look at her. She had grown since the first time Holly had seen her, although her eyes were just as green and her cheeks just as chubby. Holly didn’t know enough about babies to even hazard a guess at how old Libby was. It had been three months since Holly’s last vision and she could easily believe that Libby was three months older, but whether she was four months or nine months old, Holly couldn’t even begin to guess. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a pink teddy. It was the one she had bought during her visit to London to meet Sam and Mrs. Bronson.

  A frown of concern creased her brow. “You shouldn’t be playing with that. I don’t know much, but I know you’re not two years old,” she told Libby. Libby gasped and wriggled with excitement at the sound of Holly’s voice. Holly stroked her cheek and the baby reached up and grasped Holly’s finger with a smile.

  Holly lifted the tiny hand and kissed it softly. “Hello, beautiful,” she told her. Libby started to kick her legs again in excitement and Holly copied Tom, tickling the baby’s soft tummy as Libby fiercely held on to her finger.

  Twisting her finger free, Holly slipped her hands beneath Libby. She wasn’t sure how Tom would react to seeing his daughter being carried in midair by an invisible woman, but Holly didn’t care; she desperately needed to hold Libby. Libby’s body, however, seemed to be glued to the floor; struggle as she might, and in a repeat of her previous vision, Holly couldn’t hold her baby in her arms. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I knew why, but I just can’t hold you,” she whispered.

  The smile on Libby’s face faltered and was replaced by a frown as she looked up at her mother. Holly forced a smile and stuck out her tongue, to which Libby blew a wet raspberry in response, and the baby’s smile returned.

  Holly stroked her soft blond hair, but behind her, she heard Tom returning from the kitchen. “I love you, Libby,” whispered Holly, planting a kiss on her forehead. The words had come out before Holly had time to think about what she was saying, but it felt right. Whether Libby was a figment of her imagination or not, Holly knew she was experiencing pure motherly love for the first time.

  When Tom came back she scuttled over to a corner of the room and watched as he picked up Libby. “Beddie-byes for you, my little pumpkin,” he said. With a feeding bottle in one hand and Libby balanced over one shoulder, Tom turned to leave. As he headed out of the room, Libby stretched her hand toward Holly, trying to grab hold of her before disappearing from view.

  “Night-night, sleep tight, my angel,” Holly called out in a hushed whisper.

  Left on her own, Holly felt lost and scared once more and she wondered what to do next. She looked around the room, which seemed remarkably similar to the room she was used to. There were a few additions that could be accounted for by Libby’s arrival, not to mention new scatter cushions and a rug, which were in exactly the right shade of green that Holly had already been scouring the shops for. There was also a pile of abandoned greeting cards on the shelf next to the smiling china cat that Tom had bought for her from Covent Garden on their first official date.

  Holly tried and failed to return the cat’s smile as she turned her attention to the pile of greeting cards. Picking up the uppermost card was almost as difficult as picking up Libby and when she finally had it in her grasp, she realized with a shudder that it was a sympathy card and let it drop. A cloud of dust wafted into the air and Holly imagined it wrapping around her like a shroud.

  She quickly stepped away and moved toward the fireplace, running her finger along the top of the mantelpiece as if she were a matron inspecting the cleanliness of a ward. It, too, was covered in a sheet of dust. Tom obviously had more on his mind than housework; still Holly couldn’t help but think it wasn’t a good thing for Libby to be in such a dusty room. Unable to help herself, Holly pulled at the sleeve of her fleece and used it as best she could to wipe away the dust. She stood back to admire her work only to watch in growing horror as a new layer of dust settled on its surface within moments.

  Holly sensed she didn’t belong here, but she was determined not to be frightened off. Perhaps her life depended on it. There was little else in this room to offer any clues, so Holly decided to extend her exploration to the study. She crept out of the living room and listened for Tom. He was now upstairs, feeding Libby, and Holly resisted the urge to go up and watch them go through their bedtime routines. Instead, she headed past the stairs and entered the study, which was draped in shadows and lit only by the moonlight seeping through the window. She took a risk and switched on a lamp, surprised this time by how easy it was to flick the switch. Perhaps her presence was growing stronger along with her determination to make sense of everything.

  Tom’s desk looked far more used than she had ever seen it. Leafing through the debris of his work, she spotted various research notes and scripts that fit in with the news anchor position he would now have started, if this really were eighteen months in the future. There were penciled notes at the edges of some pages in Tom’s familiar scrawl, although the sharpness of the postscripts and the harshness of the comments didn’t feel like Tom’s writing at all. It had a tangible anger to it.

  Propped upright on a bookshelf, Holly found what she was looking for. It was a box file and it had one word handwritten on its spine. It simply said “Holly,” and in contrast to his notes, Tom had obviously taken his time writing each letter perfectly. Inside the box there were official documents and letters, all relating to Holly’s death, but there was only one document that would point her to her destiny.

/>   Her hands trembled as she held aloft her death certificate. The certificate recorded the cause of her death as an aneurism on September 29, 2011, following childbirth complications. Holly took a deep breath and focused on the sensation of her blood flowing through her veins and her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She was most definitely alive. “Can’t believe everything you read,” she told herself, forcing a smile and ignoring the weight that this knowledge had placed on her shoulders.

  Hearing soft footfalls coming down the stairs, Holly quickly put away the papers and switched off the lamp. She entered the hall just as Tom disappeared into the kitchen. He was back out in a matter of seconds with a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. Holly followed him into the living room, although with some reluctance. There was something about the look on his face that had given her a sense of foreboding.

  Tom sat down heavily on the sofa and stared at the bottle in his hand. He looked deflated, less like the man who had left the room with Libby bouncing on his shoulder and more like the ghost of her previous vision. Holly watched from the safety of the doorway, unsettled by the sense of desolation creeping across the room toward her and feeling the need to keep an escape route clear in case she had cause to use it. Tom poured a generous measure of whisky for himself and swirled the golden liquor around his glass, staring into its depths.

  He suddenly gasped as if suppressing a sob and Holly jumped out of her skin. She hit the door behind her and the half-open door closed slightly. Tom looked straight at her and for a second Holly felt his gaze on her, but the connection didn’t last. Tom’s face lifted imperceptibly with expectation, only for a tidal wave of grief to sweep away all remnants of hope.

  Tom shook his head and turned his attention back to the glass. “Hello, Holly,” he whispered. “I know you’re watching me. I know you’re shaking your head at me and telling me to pull myself together. So why don’t you come through that door right now? Why don’t you march in and tell me to tidy up all this mess?”