Time's Edge

by Rysa Walker

  The next entry, again with no descriptive title, begins with Other-Kate looking much more relaxed. She’s sitting in a room that seems a bit smaller than this one, and the skyline in the window behind her doesn’t look like DC. Other-Kate folds her legs into a half-lotus position and takes a deep breath:

  Okay, this is my first diary entry, and I’m not really comfortable with this thing yet, but Katherine says it’s a good idea to keep a record of everything we’re doing, and this is a lot faster than writing it all down each day. I’d rather do it on my computer, but I guess this will help me get used to the equipment. It has been an insanely crazy month in more ways than one, and, I don’t know, maybe this will do me good. So much change in just a few weeks can really mess with your head. Maybe if I vent here, I can avoid seeing a shrink. Although I still have moments when I think all of this is some sort of psychotic episode and that I should be seeing a shrink. I suspect Mom would agree if she were here.

  Where is Mom in this timeline? Is she okay? Unfortunately, I don’t have a psychic link to this Other-Kate, and she barrels onward with her monologue:

  Where to start? Okay, this week I’ve been learning about stable points. What they are, how to set them, why they’re important. Katherine has this big book of them, some of which are also in my CHRONOS key. And I can create new ones, too—or at least I’ll be able to create new ones in a few weeks when Katherine thinks I’m ready.

  Mostly it’s just history right now, an all-day-every-day history class. Either I’m getting a future history lesson on this CHRONOS place or a past history lesson on the areas and times when the historians were stranded. We’ve been at this for nearly a month, and it’s getting really boring.

  Although my CHRONOS initiation was the condensed version, I remember well having to stare at the Log of Stable Points for hours on end while trying to figure out exactly when and where Katherine had been killed. I raise my coffee mug in a sympathetic salute. “I hear you, sister. Been there, done that.”

  And that’s when it occurs to me that this is how I need to think of this other me on the screen—like a long-lost, identical twin sister. Not me. The same cellular makeup, yes, but a different consciousness. Some shared experiences, but also some different experiences. Not the enemy, but still not me.

  I wake up on the couch, unsure why I’m there. Then I notice the diary on the floor. I close my eyes again, still a little sleepy. Other than learning that Mom took some sort of fellowship for the year at a college in Italy, I haven’t picked up much information from the other timeline. My alter-self is bored, Katherine and Connor occasionally get on her nerves, and she’s nervous about starting a new school in the fall. I’m increasingly sure she’s not in Bethesda or anywhere in the DC area—she mentioned going to some mall called Water Tower Place.

  Then I remember that Trey will be here in a little over an hour, and that brings a short burst of energy. Unfortunately, it’s the nervous variety. I’m simultaneously really looking forward to seeing him and totally dreading it. I just know I’ll say something stupid and Trey will decide this isn’t going to work out. I never felt like that the first time around, and I doubt he ever worries that he’ll do something to screw things up. When the relationship starts with the girl saying she’s in love within the first five minutes, the guy’s work is pretty much done, right?

  I get into the shower, taking deep, calming breaths as I wash my hair. I’ve had dinner with Trey, here in this house, at least a dozen times. Nothing to freak out over.

  I’m still kind of freaking, however. And for the first time since I handed him the envelope with the DVD inside, I wonder if I did the right thing. I mean, I promised Trey that I would find him as soon as I got back, but this thing is still far from over. Even if the pieces of our relationship magically fall into place and we become us again, how long will it last? How long before another time shift steals those memories?

  I resolutely push those thoughts back into the corner of my mind. The fact that Trey is coming here tonight and I’ll see him in a little less than an hour should be making me happy, not sad.

  I rinse away the shampoo, and a small leaf that must have been caught in my hair slides down my leg toward the drain. It’s red, dappled with gold, and I realize that I must have carried it back from Dealey Plaza.

  I watch this leaf that was in the air the day that Kennedy died, decades before I was born, as it dances around the bathtub with the shampoo bubbles, rushing toward the drain. I’m suddenly seized by the urge to save it, but before my fingers can latch on, the leaf is sucked away.

  “Katherine, can I get something different for you? There’s chicken salad left from last night.”

  The rest of us have been finished for several minutes now. Katherine, on the other hand, has only picked around her plate, taking a few bites of the limp noodles in the middle and pushing aside mushrooms and anything even slightly crispy.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “I’m just not very hungry, Harry. The lasagna is fine, even with having to be held warm for so long.”

  Trey was only twenty minutes late, which really isn’t bad around here, given that traffic can be unpredictable. He called to let us know he was running behind and apologized profusely, so it’s really rude for Katherine to bring it up again, even indirectly.

  I’d chalk it up to her unpredictable moods, but I’m pretty sure this is intentional. She thought it was foolish of me to give Trey the DVD, and she wasn’t too happy when I told her I was inviting him for dinner. Any second I’m not spending with my nose in a diary or off tracking down the CHRONOS keys is apparently time wasted. Still, she could at least be polite.

  I might have restricted my response to a dirty look, but I catch Trey’s face—embarrassed, a little hurt—and can’t hold my tongue. “The lasagna is perfect, Katherine. It’s lasagna, for God’s sake. It’s supposed to be crispy around the edges.”

  And then I realize I sound shrill and mean, which isn’t really the picture I want to paint for this Trey who barely knows me. So I give her a smile, hoping to pass it off as a joke.

  She doesn’t smile back, just slides her chair from the table and says, “Trey, it was a pleasure to meet you . . . again. I think I’m going to skip the rest of the evening, since I’m feeling tired and I suspect Kate will just have to introduce you to us all over again at some point. And please, try not to keep Kate up too late—she has a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  Trey, as always, is super polite. “My pleasure, Mrs. Shaw. I promised my dad that I’d be in by ten, so I’ll have to clear out within the hour anyway.”

  That seems a bit odd. We usually wrapped things up by midnight . . . before. If Trey had a curfew, he never mentioned it, and ten o’clock? Yikes. That was my curfew in middle school.

  I help Dad serve the cheesecake. Connor takes his and exits, probably checking on Katherine. Dad, Trey, and I chat briefly about Briar Hill, whether Trey liked his school down in Peru, and something about a sport-fishing trip Dad took to Costa Rica a few years back.

  I watch Trey as he tells Dad about fishing down in Peru. His hair is a little longer and blonder than I’ve seen it, and his skin is a few shades darker. His nose is a little pink in places, like it suffered a bit of a sunburn a few days back. I guess this is his summer look. We never made it to summer last time. I want to just sit there and drink him in with my eyes, but I make myself look away to avoid giving off a stalker vibe.

  I put the dishes in the sink, and Dad makes some excuse about course planning, which leaves me alone with Trey. Well, except for Daphne, but I’m kind of glad she’s still here, because I’m suddenly feeling awkward and petting her gives me something to do with my hands.

  “I’m sorry about Katherine,” I say. “Earlier.”

  Of course, earlier, since she’s not in the room now. He must think I’m an idiot.

  “It was rude of me to be so late, and she called me on it. Not your fault.”

  “Not really yours, either.”

  Trey sh
rugs. “No, it was my fault. I should have left earlier. There were just a bunch of things that Dad wanted me to get done today, and it took a lot longer than I thought.” Then he reaches down to pet Daphne, too, and I’m reminded that this is at least as odd for him as it is for me.

  This awkwardness feels a lot like our last date. We watched the movie, which was okay, but it was the sort of generic date-night flick that neither of us really likes. In retrospect, I should have taken him up on the offer to pick the film, since I have a better idea of what we’d both like. We held hands in the theater, which was nice, and he kissed me good night, a kiss very similar to the one he gave me on the porch that first night in the other timeline—brief, tentative, a little shy.

  “You want to go outside?” I say. “It’s kind of dark, but there should be enough light from the patio for the Frisbee.”

  He looks surprised. “You want to play Frisbee?”

  I laugh. “Well, not especially, but Daphne will be all over it. You used to . . . I mean, I . . .”

  I sigh, understanding a little better now why Kiernan has such a difficult time finding the correct pronouns when he talks to me.

  “Sure,” Trey says. “Sounds like fun.”

  And it is fun. It’s hard not to have a good time when Daphne is so enthusiastic. Trey tends to overthrow it, because he’s not used to her range, so she keeps bringing it back to me, giving him these disappointed side glances. And I have to wonder—does she remember him? She’s been under the CHRONOS field, too. Is she juggling two sets of memories—one where she’s just meeting Trey and another where he should already know exactly where she likes her ears scratched and how far to fling the Frisbee?

  Trey overthrows it again, and this time it lands near the garage, skidding under the base of this rusty, swinging bench left behind by the previous owners. The Frisbee is wedged in pretty tight, and Daphne is a little spooked by the fact that the swing moves each time she tries to grab it.

  I run over to help her, and Trey follows. He holds the swing back as I dislodge the disc, and then, after I toss it to Daphne, he pulls me down onto the bench.

  This kiss is much closer to right. And Daphne doesn’t even pretend to play chaperone this time, so maybe she does remember Trey.

  “Were you serious about needing to be home by ten?” I ask when the kiss ends. “Because we could watch a movie or—”

  “No,” he says. “I really do have to go. Dad actually wanted me to cancel because . . . well, we’re flying out to see my mom really early tomorrow morning. She’s on assignment in Haiti, and she wants to be with me for my birthday, so . . .”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “Neither did I. Dad just told me yesterday—he’s suddenly all about surprises.” Trey’s voice takes on a slightly snarky tone, and I’m about to ask why, but he continues. “Anyway, it was very last minute, so the only flight he could get leaves at five thirty in the morning. I’ll need to be up by around three.”

  “Ouch. How long will you be gone?” I try to keep the tone light, because I don’t want to be that kind of girlfriend, the one who clings too tight, especially since I’m not really even his girlfriend at this point.

  “Should be back the Friday before school starts.”

  “What will you do in Haiti?”

  “Well, we won’t actually be in Haiti. Mom wants a break—this is her vacation time—so we’re going to meet her at Punta Cana, over in the Dominican Republic. It looks nice, but to be honest, I’m a little beached out. I’d rather stay in DC. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.”

  “I completely understand about family members dictating travel plans. I have a few trips coming up that I’d much rather skip, believe me.”

  “So . . . you really went to Dallas 1963 today? Did you bring back any souvenirs?”

  I might be imagining it, but there’s a tiny hint of doubt in his voice, and I suspect that when he said souvenirs what he really meant was proof. I’m not surprised, but I make a mental note to give him an actual demo at some point in the near future.

  “No souvenirs,” I say, although my mind flashes briefly to that leaf tumbling down the drain earlier today. “It really wasn’t a sightseeing trip. I met my grandparents, although it’s really hard to think of them as grandparents when they’re maybe six or seven years older. I got their medallions. And I stood on the infamous grassy knoll. I may have even seen the so-called second shooter, but we had to leave the area before there was any evidence one way or the other.”

  “Incredible. Just wow.” He shakes his head. “Where to next?”

  I shrug. “We’re still debating. It’s looking like World War II Australia. At some point, I’m probably heading into Soviet Russia. And 1938 Georgia, but that one is apparently complicated, so I’m saving it until the end.”

  “You mean you can go anywhere, to any time you want?”

  “If a stable point has been set, then yes, I could. There are stable points going back to early civilizations and going forward to just before CHRONOS was established in the late 2100s. But I’m not sure I want to know that much about the future—I’d like to live a normal life when this is all over—and when I go back in time, there’s always the risk of changing something that affects the present.”

  He laughs. “ ‘I wish, I wish I hadn’t killed that fish.’ ”

  I give him a blank look.

  “Homer with the toaster? The dinosaurs? Ned Flanders as Big Brother? You’ve got to be kidding me—you’ve never seen that one?”

  “Not ringing any bells, so I must have missed it.”

  “Oh, wow, we will most definitely have to fix that right now. You do watch The Simpsons, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Mostly the old ones that come on around dinnertime.” To be honest, I haven’t actually watched anything lately, because Katherine doesn’t have a TV and Dad has our old set in his room. But I used to catch the reruns most evenings while eating dinner at Dad’s and sometimes at Mom’s, if we didn’t watch Wheel of Fortune instead.

  Trey lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank God. You had me worried that my alternate self had fallen for someone who wouldn’t get a lot of my jokes.”

  “So unfair. I miss one little episode and you doubt me. Tsk, tsk.”

  “Hey, it’s not just any episode. It’s a Treehouse of Horror. Must fix.”

  He pulls out his phone and types something in. “Just a sec. Trying to find the right one.” Another pause and then a muted curse. “They only have clips online . . .”

  After a few seconds, he says, “Okay, this is it. It’s not the whole thing but may be enough to patch that gaping hole in your cultural education.”

  I dig my elbow into his ribs, and he laughs, putting his arm around me. We watch the video, laughing at the same bits, and I realize that it’s this kind of thing, just being together, doing little or nothing, that I’ve missed the most. The earlier chats on the phone and our date at the movies and even dinner tonight all seemed staged, like we were playing roles. This is the first conversation we’ve had where Trey feels like my Trey. It’s the first time that it feels easy.

  The video is almost finished when his phone rings.

  “It’s my dad,” Trey says, a bit unnecessarily, given that we’re both looking at his screen and the word Dad just popped up in big, bold letters. He gets up from the swing and walks a few steps toward the house.

  “Yeah, Dad. What’s up? . . . Yes. Estella told me. I’ll stop by the drugstore on the way back . . . Yeah, Dad. Five minutes . . . Yes.” His voice is a bit sharp. “Everything’s ready . . . I said I would, didn’t I?”

  He listens for a moment and then says, “Fine,” and hangs up, shaking his head.

  Something’s wrong with this picture. Trey’s dad was so relaxed when I met him, and I didn’t get the feeling he was the type to set many boundaries. I think back to all of the nights—many of them school nights for Trey—when we were on the computer for an hour or more, often well after he should have
been in bed.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t really sound like it’s true. “Dad’s just jumping my case about everything lately. But, he’s right—I probably do need to get going.”

  He trusts my judgment. I remember Trey saying that about his dad on more than one occasion, and I can’t help but wonder what happened.

  We walk around to the front of the house where his car is parked.

  “Is there a stable point on that key of yours for Punta Cana?”

  I laugh. “Unless some historical battle or something happened nearby, I seriously doubt it.”

  “Too bad,” he says. “I’ll try to give you a call in a couple of days. Maybe we can do something when I get back?”

  I nod. “I’d like that.”

  He gives Daphne a quick pat on the head and me an equally quick peck on the cheek and then takes off down the sidewalk.

  As he gets into the car, I have the strange sensation that we’re being watched. I glance around and realize it’s probably because I’m standing almost exactly where I was when Simon tried to snatch my medallion. I’m outside the protective zone, inches away from the spot where Trey whacked Simon over the head with a tire iron. Inches away from the spot where Katherine disappeared.

  I quickly retreat four or five steps toward the front porch and give Trey a final wave as he flips on his headlights and pulls away from the curb. And then a second set of headlights flips on about half a block down the road, and a dark blue van drives off after him.

  Just the neighbors going out for a gallon of milk or something.

  Probably.

  Except I don’t really remember seeing that van around before. And the feeling that I’m being watched disappears along with the van.

  ∞4∞

  I spend the entire next day with Dear Diary, and the only real accomplishment is that I manage to pinpoint Other-Kate’s location—Chicago. That seems weird, because I’ve never been to modern Chicago, just the one in 1893. It’s hard to imagine that the skyline I see outside her window is the same place I visited a few months back.