“What have you done with my sister?” Patti was crying herself. I stood up and put my arms around her and I was relieved when she melted into my embrace.
“She’s safe,” I said against her temple. “I promise you, Patti, she’s safe. I would never do anything to hurt her, or you, or John Paul.”
She let me hold her for a peaceful moment before pushing me away. “You’re having some kind of horrible breakdown or something,” she said, “and I swear, if you did something to Carly, I’ll never forgive you.” She headed across the room toward the wall phone. “I’m calling the police,” she said.
“No!” I grabbed her by the shoulders. She struggled to get free but I held her fast. “Listen to me!” I pleaded. “Listen! I’ll show you. I’ll prove it to you.”
She stopped fighting, but she was breathing hard, facing away from me. “How?” she asked. “Prove it how?”
I let go of her. “Here,” I said. My hand shook as I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out my wallet. Opening it, I took out the yellowed newspaper clipping. I’d been glad I hadn’t needed to dig it out to convince Carly I was telling her the truth. It was too painful for me to look at, but now I knew I needed it. I unfolded the clipping and handed it to Patti, watching her face as she read it. I knew exactly what it said because I had written every word of it myself. It was cut-and-dried. I’d been in no place to pretty it up at the time.
Beneath the black-and-white photograph of a smiling woman with short, spiky dark hair, and plastic-rimmed glasses, it read:
ROSE EVERETT POOLE
March 20, 1988–December 15, 2017
Rose Everett Poole, 29, was killed in a bicycle accident on December 15, 2017. Rose had a masters degree in math education from Georgetown University and a doctorate in physics from Princeton University. She is survived by her husband, Hunter, of Alexandria; her brother, Kenneth Everett of Annapolis, Maryland; and her parents, James and Laura Everett of Charlottesville, Virginia. A service to celebrate her life will be held at 12:00 P.M. Saturday, December 23, at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Fairfax in Oakton, Virginia. In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to Rose’s favorite cause, Saving Grace Dog Rescue.
I watched the color drain from Patti’s face as she read. She sank back onto the chair, then lifted her gaze to mine. “This is real?” she whispered.
I nodded. Sat down again. She was trembling. We both were. I reached out to touch her, but she drew her arm away from me as though she was still afraid of me. As though, in the last few minutes, I’d become something less than human in her eyes. Some strange being. A monster.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she asked. “I mean, I know how Rosie died and that you loved her and all of that. But you left out one very significant fact. That you and she lived in…” She looked at the date on the clipping. “In 2017? How is this even possible?”
“How much of a scientific explanation do you want?” I asked.
“I just want to know Carly is okay.” Her voice caught on “Carly.”
“She’s okay,” I assured her. “My mother’s taking good care of her.” I leaned forward and she didn’t pull away when I took her hand. “Honey, I was there, like I said.” I ran my thumb over her fingers. “Carly stayed at our house. My mother found a fetal surgeon to help her.”
She looked out the window toward the beach. “Does the surgeon save her baby?” she asked.
I sighed, because here was where my reassurances had to end. “I don’t know what happened after she left us,” I said. “I know she went to New York to have the surgery. That much I do know. But I didn’t know she was from the past. I had no idea about that until I met her in the rehab unit in 1965. It was a shock to see her then, but I was glad, too. I’d really liked her for those few days she was with us. She was a nice woman. After she had the surgery, I don’t know what happened to her. I just know she went to New York to have it.”
“She’s there now? With you? In 2017?”
“No, in 2001.”
She shook her head in confused annoyance. “How … how did she get there?” she asked. “How did you get here?”
I told her about my mother’s Temporal Solutions program and how she taught me to calculate portals. I told her about stepping off. I explained it all, while her face filled with something between wonder and horror.
“Why didn’t you tell me this about yourself before?” Patti asked again.
“I just wanted to be a regular guy living in the sixties,” I said. “I was pretty instantly in love with you, Patti, and didn’t want to scare you away. I wanted you to think I was normal. I wanted to be normal.”
“You should have gone with her,” she said. “You should have made sure she was okay.”
“I couldn’t,” I said. “It’s because of the ‘fifth-trip rule.’ Trying to return to 1970 would have been my fifth trip and for some reason, the people who’ve attempted to travel a fifth time have—” The word “disappeared” sounded too frightening. “We lost track of them.”
She pressed her fists to her temples. “This is crazy,” she said.
I nodded. “I know it sounds that way.”
“But Carly’s safe?” she asked, lowering her hands to the table again. “You can promise me that?”
“Yes,” I said, because I knew that at that moment in 2001, she was safe.
“When will she come back?”
I told her about the portals I’d calculated for her return, and Patti’s eyes grew wide.
“She’ll be there for months?”
“Yes. She needs to be there until the baby’s born.”
“Months by herself?” she said. “In a strange place without us? With no friends? My poor baby sister. You should have sent me with her. John Paul and me. I hate that she’s alone.”
“I thought of it,” I admitted, “but I knew you didn’t go with her.”
She looked annoyed. “What do you mean, you knew I didn’t go with her?”
“Because Carly showed up at our house alone.”
Patti pressed her fists to her temples again, eyes squeezed shut. “This is making my head hurt,” she said. “It’s too bizarre.” She gave her head a shake, opening her eyes again. “Hunter,” she said, “if she doesn’t come back safe and sound, in one piece, baby or no baby, I will never, ever forgive you.”
I nodded without speaking, but I was thinking: if Carly doesn’t come back safe and sound, in one piece, I will never, ever forgive myself.
13
CARLY
April 2001
Princeton, New Jersey
I wondered what this adolescent Hunter saw in my face as I sat on the sofa looking up at him. My smile must have seemed positively goofy to him and I had to resist the urge to jump up and hug him.
“You must be Hunter,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, pulling headphones off his head, leaving them looped around his neck. “And you’re the lady my mom said is staying with us for a while.”
“Right,” I said. “I like that shirt.” He was wearing a black shirt with NIRVANA printed across the chest in gold letters, and I guessed this young Hunter was dabbling in Buddhism.
“You like Nirvana?” He gave me a you’ve got to be kidding me look of surprise, and I realized Nirvana had a different meaning in 2001 than it did in 1970. It was probably a music group.
“I’m not really familiar with it … them,” I admitted, wondering if that was a stupid statement. Was it like saying someone wasn’t familiar with the Beatles in 1970? But he didn’t seem surprised. “I just like the shirt,” I said.
“They broke up, but I still like their music. Want to hear them?”
“Sure,” I said, clicking off the TV with the remote.
Hunter sat down next to me on the sofa and put the headphones over his ears. They were attached to a small plastic box he pulled from his pants pocket and he pressed some buttons, then handed the headphones to me. I put them on and was instantly assaulted by some throbbi
ng music. I pulled the earphones away from my ears. “It’s a little loud,” I said, and he laughed and turned down the volume. I nodded along with the music then, trying to look like I appreciated it. The musky scent of adolescent boy wafted toward me, unrecognizable from the Hunter I knew. Still, for the first time since my arrival in 2001 that morning, I felt safe. I felt grounded, somehow, sitting next to him.
After a minute, I took off the headphones and gave them back to him.
“Thanks,” I said. “They’re … interesting.” I smiled.
“You’ve got a Southern accent,” he said, getting to his feet.
“I know,” I said. “And you’ve got a New Jersey accent.”
He laughed, seeming to find that funny. “I gotta do homework,” he said, putting the headset back over his own ears. “See ya later.”
“Okay,” I said, wishing he would stay longer.
I sat smiling to myself after he left the room. So this was why the grown-up Hunter reacted to me the way he did when he saw me in the rehab unit in 1965. He remembered me from today. And this was why he picked 2001 to send me to. He knew I was here then, in his house. The circular thinking made my head spin. It was mind-blowing. I hoped I would have a chance to talk to him again.
I turned on the TV once more and was watching CNN news about an experimental unmanned spy plane when Myra returned home. She stood in the doorway of the room for a moment, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder, and looked at the TV.
“Learning about the screwed-up state of the world?” she asked.
“A lot of it’s going over my head,” I admitted. “But I know you have a Republican president named George W. Bush.”
Myra rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me,” she said, sitting down at the other end of the sofa. The late afternoon sunlight coming through the front window caught every line in her face, and I suddenly realized that my showing up the way I did had most likely thrown her day into chaos.
“Thank you for helping me,” I said.
She didn’t acknowledge the sentiment. Instead, she reached inside the canvas bag. “Some goodies for you,” she said, and I clicked off the TV to give her my attention. “Here’s your driver’s license.” She pulled it from the bag and examined it. “It says you live in Raleigh, North Carolina. That’s the capital, right?”
I nodded. “And it’s actually the city where I grew up,” I said.
She leaned over to hand it to me and I studied it. The laminated license had the picture Myra had taken of me—had it only been a few hours ago?—along with my height, which was off by an inch, and an unfamiliar Raleigh address.
“It’s a fake address,” Myra said. She handed me a second card, this one bearing my new social security number, and another card for Blue Cross Blue Shield insurance. “Top-of-the-line insurance,” she said. “Only the best for my travelers. Now”—she gestured toward the cards she’d handed me—“memorize your address and your social security number,” she said. “And your phone number. The things everyone knows by heart about themselves.”
“I don’t have a phone,” I said.
“You do now,” Myra said. Reaching into her bag again, she pulled out a small phone that looked much like hers, the word NOKIA printed above the buttons. “This phone will store numbers, make calls, and send texts.”
“Thank you.” I reached for the phone, but she held it away from me.
“I’m going to put my number in it right now so you’ll always have it with you,” she said, pressing some buttons on the phone. “And this is your number.” She leaned forward to show me the small screen and told me how to view the numbers any time I needed them. “But memorize your own, like I said. It’d look odd if you don’t know it by heart.” She handed the phone to me, along with a plastic package containing cords. “You charge it every night,” she said. “Otherwise, it’s useless.”
I loved the size of the phone. The light weight of it in my hand. What a miraculous little thing! “Can you show me how to use it?” I asked.
“I’ll ask Hunter to show you,” she said. “I’ll also ask him to show you the iBook basics.” She pulled a large blue and white plastic case from the bag. The computer. She handed it to me. “This thing is gonna rock your world,” she said.
So this was an iBook. I set it on my lap and ran my hands over the smooth plastic, shell-shaped top.
“You’re never going to want to go back to 1970 once you start using that thing,” Myra said.
I smiled, but she was wrong. I didn’t care about computers or fancy phones I could carry in my pocket. All I wanted was to have a healthy baby and take her home to the people and the life that I loved.
She tilted her head and gave me a curious look. “Was it weird talking to Hunter?” she asked, but before I could answer, she held her hand up to stop me. “No,” she said. “Don’t tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“All right,” I said. I was happy, though, that she was going to ask Hunter to help me with the phone and iBook. I couldn’t wait to talk to him again.
Myra had brought a couple of bags of Mexican food home with her, and she and Hunter and I sat at the small kitchen table to eat food I’d never laid eyes on before. It was all from a place called Taco Bell, and I had no idea what any of the paper-wrapped items were.
“I bought a bunch of everything, since I didn’t know what you like,” Myra said, littering the top of the table with the small packages. They were labeled “taco,” which was something I’d heard of but never tasted, and “burrito” and “enchirito” and a few other alien-to-me items. “These are for you, Hunter.” She handed him three of the packages.
“They’re cold,” Hunter complained, his hands on top of two of the packages.
“Nuke ’em,” Myra said. She turned to me as Hunter got up from the table, opened a metal-and-glass cabinet above the stove, and stuck his paper-wrapped food inside.
Myra followed my gaze. “Microwave,” she said under her breath to me. Then louder, “What would you like?” she asked. “Taco? Burrito? Or—”
“I’ve never had Mexican food before,” I admitted, hoping that wasn’t a giveaway to my 1970 status to Hunter. He was already back at the table with his food and I was wondering how the food could be warm and the paper around it not at least charred.
“You’re kidding!” Hunter said. “You’ve never had Mexican food?”
“I guess Taco Bell hasn’t reached North Carolina yet,” Myra said smoothly. “I’m sure you have some food down there we don’t have here, either.”
“Like what?” Hunter asked, unwrapping the package labeled “burrito.” He took a bite and spoke around it. “What do you have that we don’t have?”
“Um…” I tried to think of quintessential Southern fare. “Grits,” I said. “We eat a lot of grits. I bet you don’t even know what that is.”
“Sounds gross,” Hunter said.
“Some kind of ground corn, right?” Myra guessed.
“Ground hominy, yes,” I said. I opened the package marked “burrito” and followed Hunter’s example, holding the wrapped tube and taking a bite. It was on the lukewarm side but I didn’t dare try to operate that microwave machine. The burrito had a mealy texture but the flavor was delicious.
“If your homework’s done, I’d like you to help Caroline learn how to use her iBook and phone after dinner,” Myra said to Hunter. “She’s never had either of them.”
He looked reluctant. I’m sure there were a million things he would rather do, but he shrugged. “Okay,” he said.
“Thanks, Hunter,” I said. It was so hard for me to look at him without grinning. “Are you going to follow in your mother’s footsteps?” I asked. “Do you think you’ll work for her Temporal Solutions company someday?” Myra gave me a kick under the table, but I thought I’d been careful with my question and I was so curious to hear his answer.
“No way,” he said as he opened a package labeled “enchirito.” “I’m gong to be a music producer.”
“O
h,” I said. “I bet that’ll be exciting.”
“It might help if you’d study music,” Myra said.
He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to be a musician to be a producer, Mom,” he said.
“I think maybe you do,” Myra countered.
“Whatever,” he said, dismissing her.
Myra looked across the table at me. “He’s a genius at math and science, but they come so easily to him that he gets bored with them.”
“I’m not a genius,” he muttered, obviously annoyed with his mother. He was such a teenager. I was having a hard time not laughing as I witnessed this snotty side to my future brother-in-law.
Hunter had finished devouring the contents of three of the wrapped packages while I was still working on the burrito, bits of which were oozing out of the bottom onto the paper wrapper on the table.
“Would you like a fork and plate?” Myra asked. She looked amused.
“I think I can manage, thanks,” I said.
Hunter stood up from the table without asking to be excused. He had pretty terrible manners. “When do you want to learn the stuff?” he asked me.
“Right after dinner?” I asked.
“Okay. Come to my room.” He took a can of soda from the refrigerator and disappeared from the kitchen.
“So,” Myra said quietly with a smile, and I realized it was the first smile I’d seen from her. “He doesn’t become a music producer, huh?”
I returned the smile, and shook my head. “No, but I can tell you this, Myra. He turns out to be a wonderful man. A wonderful husband and father.”
She looked away from me and I thought I saw a hint of sadness in her face. “You shouldn’t be telling me this,” she said.
“I’ll say no more.” I ate the last of the burrito while Myra quietly folded the empty wrappers, laying them one on top of the other on the table.
“I always worry about him, growing up without a father.” She took my empty wrapper and added it to the pile.
“He never talks about his father,” I said. “He said he never knew him.”
“His father was a sperm donor,” she said quietly. “And I mean that literally. Number 1026 at the sperm bank. I never had any interest in a relationship, but I did want to be a mother, and when I turned forty-four, I knew I was running out of time.”
The Dream Daughter Page 10