If I Could Turn Back Time

by Beth Harbison

  “No kidding.”

  “Back to you, back to you. What else do you remember? Anything else discordant?”

  “There were voices,” I recalled. “Sometimes I heard voices that didn’t quite make sense. But I was so tired so much of the time that a lot of it had a dreamlike quality.”

  Sammy looked interested. “Wow. I guess that was a clue that you were here. A little bleed-through between your two realities. Did you do anything to, you know, try and change the future?”

  “It wasn’t a movie, Sammy.”

  “I know, but we don’t know exactly what it was, so it’s not a stupid question.”

  “It was a dream.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What else could it have been?”

  “An actual alternate reality. A road not taken. A preview of what could have been. Or even, if you buy the business of time being all over the place, maybe even an alternate future.” He widened his eyes dramatically and did flouncy things with his hands. “You never know, it might have been some sort of fortune-telling.”

  “Okay, or a dream.” But I didn’t like that explanation either. A mere dream was so simple, and this had felt so much more profound than that. This had shown me the road not taken. My questions had been answered. Was that a trick of my mind or something greater?

  Maybe it didn’t matter.

  So I answered Sammy the best I could. “It didn’t seem like anything was all that delicate a thread,” I said. “It wasn’t like the movies where you turn right instead of left and half the population disappears. I don’t know about the butterfly effect in general, but it sure didn’t seem to be at play in this case.”

  He looked disappointed. “I guess that’s not really all that surprising. If you’re going to believe in fate, you have to believe it’s not so delicate that an extra beer is going to blow it.”

  And yet for how many people had that exact thing made the difference? The extra beer, the extra five minutes in one place before hitting the road and either knocking down a pedestrian or missing a runaway train. Sometimes those small things did make a difference.

  Didn’t they?

  “I hate to think the whole thing is meaningless,” Sammy concluded. “Here we were, scared out of our minds that you weren’t going to come back, and you did.” He sighed and shook his head. “After the odds said you wouldn’t, you did. I wish you had something to show for it, other than a head wound.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  About a year before the accident, I’d begun having panic attacks. Not the wimpy, imagined, oh-my-god-I-was-so-scared-I-was-totally-having-a panic-attack variety, but the real deal: The adrenaline surge in the middle of an otherwise relaxing time, or even in the midst of a deep sleep. The kind that paralyzes you and eventually makes you change the route you drive to work, or the time you go to the grocery store, or your willingness to sit in a crowded movie theater.

  The kind, in short, that can really interfere with your life if you let it.

  My job was a stressful one, but I’d handled it well for years. But in my mid-thirties, out of the blue, I started having panic attacks and the doctor told me to stop drinking coffee. That was the upshot. I didn’t want to take medication, and meditation was just so boring that I made the one sacrifice that seemed the most obvious for someone who was having trouble with heart palpitations. I stopped drinking coffee.

  And in so doing, I’d stopped going to one of my favorite haunts, Brewed Awakening, downtown. A nice little café with a great, colorful, lively space both inside and out. The owner, Miguel, made the best damn cup of coffee you can imagine. Everything you ever wished coffee could be, but which it always fell short of in real life, Miguel brought to beautiful, delicious life. A toasty, roasted savory drink, smoothed by cream and enlivened with just a hint of sweetness.

  Brewed Awakening had legions of followers, and it was always crowded. I’m sure no one noticed when I stopped going, but I sure missed it. Admittedly I could have gone in for the decaf, but something was lacking without the caffeine, and I hadn’t wanted to go back and put myself in the way of all that temptation. It was like an alcoholic hanging out in a bar; it would have made my resolution a whole lot harder.

  But the day after I got out of the hospital, I decided to defy panic and had Sammy meet me there for a cuppa. Just for old times’ sake. I was not only craving the coffee; I was craving some sense of normality. My sense of identity had been seriously shaken, so I wanted to return to some places where I knew I’d felt happy and sane.

  The coffee shop was a small thing, but it felt important.

  “I can’t believe you never told me about this place before,” Sammy said, starting on his second cup. We were sitting outside on the sidewalk, the small shade of a palm tree skittering across us as the wind nudged it back and forth.

  “I told you about this place a thousand times. I came here every single day for more than a year and begged you to meet me sometimes so I didn’t have to sit here like a loser.”

  He waved that away, as if I were missing the point. “You didn’t tell me I had to try it.”

  “I believe I did.”

  He took another sip, then closed his eyes for a moment to relish it. “You should have forced me.”

  I laughed at the very idea. “Because it’s so easy to force you to do things.”

  He gave a conciliatory nod, and took another sip of coffee. “So there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  Did any conversation ever start that way and end with laughter and happiness?

  Not usually.

  “Tell me you’re not terminally ill.” Because that’s how my mind works. If I could burn calories leaping to the worst possible conclusion, I’d be thin as a rail.

  “What? No!”

  “Good.” My relief was genuine. All that angst over him saying he wanted to talk to me about something. This was the kind of thinking that had led me to the anxiety problem in the first place. “Now tell me I’m not terminally ill.” I was kidding, but for just a moment it occurred to me that maybe he’d learned of some test result at the hospital that I didn’t know about.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, twirling his finger at his temple. “Does that count?”

  “Not as news, no.” I took a gulp myself. God, it was good. Almost chocolate, but not quite. A hint of coconut, but that wasn’t quite it. A creamy mouthful that beat the heck out of any hot chocolate I’d ever had, even at Shake Shack in New York City, which tasted like warm, melted ice cream. This was heaven.

  I couldn’t believe I’d managed to go a year without it.

  Forget it, I’d take up meditation or something so I could return to my daily habit. Ironically, sitting here drinking the familiar beverage was actually relaxing.

  “Not everything is about you, missy,” Sammy went on. “As it happens, this is news about Tod and me. Good news,” he hastened to add. He knew me well.

  “Okay. Renewing your vows?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. It was hard enough to choke them out the first time! For him, not for me. If I offer him the chance to renew them, he might just decide to revoke them instead.”

  “You’re not fooling me,” I said. “Not a chance.” Tod and Sammy were completely devoted to each other. Sammy could afford to joke like that because in his heart he could be absolutely certain it would never, ever happen.

  Tod was no scumbag.

  No danger of that.

  “Okay, okay, I guess he’s going to stick around a little bit longer. But no, we don’t have plans to renew our vows. You know how Tod hates parties.”

  It was true. Lucky for me. That was why I’d been able to have Sammy be my plus-one for so many events. Tod was always working and Sammy was bored, so it worked out for all of us.

  “All right, I’m listening,” I said. “What’s really up?”

  “Do you remember what we talked about on the boat … that day?” Sammy asked carefully.

  No question which day, obvious
ly. “We talked about a lot of things. Lisa being pregnant?”

  “Yes, and … Tod and I adopting.”

  “That’s right! I remember that.”

  “Well, what I didn’t tell you then was that after talking about it for ages, we started the official process last year.”

  “You did? Sammy, why didn’t you tell me?” I felt awful. I was such a shitty, self-centered friend that he hadn’t even felt like he could tell me the biggest thing in his life. “I think it’s wonderful!”

  “You do?”

  To be honest, inside I felt a twinge. In my head, I’d recently been pregnant. Admittedly I’d had mixed feelings about it, but not all negative. It had reinforced the necessity of the right life partner. I could only imagine the joy Lisa was feeling, but right here, right now, I could see the joy Sammy was feeling.

  It was written all over his face. His eyes were alight; his face was flushed; he couldn’t stop smiling. Part of that might have been Miguel’s coffee, of course, but, all joking aside, this was the look that any prospective parent should have.

  Lucky kid.

  “Of course I do!” I assured him immediately, enthusiastically. “Just because Lisa’s uterus made me question my own doesn’t mean I’m not thrilled for her, and for you, and for anyone who gets to take that step when they really want it.”

  “But your thing with Brendan—”

  “Was a dream! Or a warning. Or something completely unrelated to this.” I was jealous. He was right; my miserly little heart was finding a way, deep inside, to make this about me. “Please. Tell me all about you. You said you started this a year ago, so I guess that means there’s been some movement?”

  “Yes. We are traveling to Ethiopia in a couple of weeks with a group of other new parents to pick up our son, Abera.” His eyes filled with tears. “That means he shines.”

  He had my full attention now, and soon I was crying too. The way he felt, the way he was expressing himself, was the way a person should feel about marriage and family. This was his whole life. These people were everything to him. Work was just a means to support the happy home he was building.

  “Tod’s work schedule isn’t letting up very soon, so I’m not going to, you know, be able to hang out and play so much anymore. Probably won’t be any more champagne on yachts for a while.”

  “Of course! You’re going to be Mr. Mom. I’ll go over to your place and we’ll drink champagne from sippy cups.”

  “Or coffee.” He raised his cup to me. “You’ve created a monster here. I may never be the same.”

  “It’s good stuff.”

  He smiled, then leaned over and gave me a hug across the table. “I love you, sista. Soon you’re going to have it all too.” He kissed my cheek. “I know it. I have a feeling.”

  I was glad he was hugging me, because the tears began to flow freely. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, with what I hoped was convincing bravado. “I’m so happy for you, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  He drew back and looked at me. “Thank you, my friend.”

  I sniffed quickly and hoped he didn’t notice. “So when are we going shopping for baby things?”

  “As soon as we have Abera. I haven’t wanted to put the cart before the horse, you understand. Bad luck. That’s why we didn’t tell anyone about this until we had a pickup date.”

  I nodded. “Everything will go smoothly, I know it.”

  He touched my lips and pointed at the sky. From your lips to God’s ear.

  “Gotta fly,” he said. “Talk soon!”

  I blew him a kiss and watched him very nearly float down the sidewalk to his car.

  It wasn’t the coffee. It was happiness. I wondered what that brand of happy felt like.

  But as I gazed down the sidewalk where he’d just been, I realized I was genuinely happy. It was good to see my friend so excited, and, for that moment, that was enough for me too.

  My father (or my dream subconscious?) had reminded me that everything happens for a reason. Absolutely everything. So maybe time and place did matter after all. But maybe not to an exacting degree; perhaps fate gave us more than one chance at the right time and place.

  But, as Benjamin Franklin pointed out, God helps those who help themselves.

  I’d learned that companionship was really important to me. More so than I’d ever admitted, to myself or to anyone else. So it was time I took matters into my own hands.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It doesn’t take long to sign up for a matchmaking service online. I was able to sit there, at that beautiful little coffee shop, and become disheartened by countless men in just a matter of about forty-five minutes.

  I know plenty of people have had really good luck with those services, so it’s not that I think there’s anything inherently wrong with them, but something about my list of likes and dislikes seemed to bring up a bunch of young men looking for cougars.

  What is that?

  For men, that would be a dream come true. A bunch of much younger women coming on to them, perhaps openly eager for gratuitous sex. No romance. No commitment. It was perfect.

  For some.

  For me, it was discouraging. I think I’d been hoping, still, that fate was alive and well and working its butt off for me, and that whoever that man in my dreams was, my opening myself to online dating would call him in immediately. The angels would sing and God Himself would whisper in my ear, I’ve been waiting for you to take just one tiny step forward so I could help you! Welcome to your own Paradise!

  I’m saying this like I’m joking, but, actually, I think part of me really thought it might go that way.

  And I wasn’t giving up; I didn’t shut down the account, but after CallMeMaybe178 sent me a picture of his erect self, I decided I’d had enough for the day. I mean, for one thing, if 177 other people have chosen the handle CallMeMaybe before you, maybe you can come up with something more original? And, more importantly, if you’re still in the “maybe calling” stage, perhaps that’s not the time to go around showing your oddly bent dick to strangers.

  That’s how I see things, anyway.

  So I closed my computer with a sigh, and then closed my eyes for a moment, trying to block out all I’d seen and wished I hadn’t. Guys with twenty-eight nearly identical unattractive pictures, mostly taken shirtless in bathroom mirrors; guys with one single picture, in which they’d clearly cut out a woman, whose hand usually remained draped over his pictured (tuxedoed) shoulder; guys standing in front of a faded backdrop that pegged their picture as at least fifteen or twenty years old; and of course the ubiquitous Frat-Boy Guys with their mouths frozen in silent post-beer-bong roars of triumph.

  There were a lot of those. More than any one of them probably thought.

  Why weren’t things the way I’d always thought they’d be? Why didn’t people who were meant to be together just gravitate toward each other in real life and end up living happily ever after? It was so easy in high school and college; everyone was expected to be dating, and every classroom had a daily round of speed dating with no expectations and no real disappointments. When one person didn’t work out, there was easily another. And another.

  Often one of his friends.

  Youth is all about constantly meeting people.

  What was supposed to become of those who didn’t meet their forever mate in youth? The whiny, petulant me wanted to complain that it wasn’t fair. I’d been dating for over twenty years now and it was all miserable.

  I took my wallet and went to the counter to order another coffee. This time I went all-out on a white mocha latté with sugar and full heavy cream. What did I care? It was one day, at my favorite coffee shop. Why not live a little?

  As I waited for the coffee to be made, I looked around the crowded shop at the people. Many were tourists; this was a historic part of town, so it drew a lot of tourists, whether or not they’d read in the guidebook how great the coffee was. Most of those people were coupled up.

  There w
ere also artsy types. Multipierced college students who looked impossibly young. A pair of lesbian couples, one of which looked seriously happy and the other looking like one was ready to bitch-slap her partner. Love always had its bad days, I supposed.

  I went back to my table. No one had disturbed my computer, so I sat down and opened it up again. Maybe I’d been too hasty.

  The minute I pulled up the Web site, though, my discouragement came back.

  “Excuse me. Miss?”

  At first I didn’t realize the voice was talking to me, but then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  I looked up and was instantly blinded by the sun. A looming figure was next to it. I moved to try and position the sun behind him so I could see. “Yes?” Spots dangled before my eyes from the glare.

  “I’m really sorry to interrupt, and I know this is going to sound like a come-on, but it’s not.… Do we know each other?”

  I looked up into the face of a very good-looking man. “I don’t think so,” I said. Unfortunately. Then again, if it was a come-on, then maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe I should let him come on.

  “Sorry.” He gave an embarrassed smile and I had a momentary twinge of thinking maybe he did look familiar. “I know it sounds stupid, and definitely sounds like a lie, but I had the strongest feeling. But it would have been from years ago.”

  I smiled. “Oh, well, there you go. I haven’t lived here that long. Only about five years.”

  “Yeah? Where were you from before that?”

  I laughed. “You’re pretty good at this!”

  “No, it’s not that.” He gave a very embarrassed smile. “It’s just—you’re not from Maryland, are you?”

  The air rushed into my lungs, like I’d been hit. No way. “Actually I am.”

  “Potomac?”

  “Yes.” I shaded my eyes and looked closer, but the sun was too much. “Have a seat,” I offered, indicating the empty chair in front of me.

  “If you’re sure.…”

  “Why not? We’re in public. You can’t mug me easily.” I gave a laugh.