by Rysa Walker
Eventually, the diary becomes more interesting, probably because Other-Kate began to skip a day, then several days, and sometimes even a week between entries. So instead of page after page about her training and other daily minutiae, she occasionally had something to say when she finally sat down to log a report.
I’m just about to click on the next entry when my phone rings. There are only four possibilities in my newly truncated social life: Mom, Dad, Trey, or Sorry, Wrong Number. I’m really hoping for Option Number Three.
It’s Option Number One. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Why does anything have to be up? Isn’t it possible that I just want to talk to my darling daughter?”
“It’s possible, but what’s up?”
She laughs. “Okay, I confess. It’s both. Are you free for dinner at O’Malley’s?”
I start to say no, that it’s been a long day, and I’m tired, but it’s only a few minutes after four. Since Mom knows nothing about my time traveling second life, she’ll be hurt if I say no. And O’Malley’s means onion rings. Big, fat, juicy, really, really bad for you onion rings, with just the right amount of spice.
I can tell I’ve hesitated too long, because she says in a flat voice, “But if you already have plans . . .”
“Actually, O’Malley’s sounds great, Mom. Should I meet you there or at the townhouse?”
“No, no. I’ll pick you up.”
“On what, your bicycle? It’s going to be a long ride to O’Malley’s with me on the back.”
“I’m outside that Zipcar place across from campus, and that cute little blue Mini Cooper convertible is there. Do you remember the one?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, it’s taunting me again. I think I’m going to have to rent it for a few hours.”
“Ohhh-kay,” I say, letting just a hint of suspicion creep into my voice. This isn’t Mom behavior. Not only is she renting a car, something she’s done maybe five times since we moved to DC, but she is driving here, to Katherine’s house. That’s her personal equivalent of waltzing into the lion’s den. Now I know something is up.
“Let me guess. You’ve met the man of your dreams, and you’re running away to live au naturel on a secluded island in the South Pacific.”
She laughs again. “Yes. I also won the lottery. Does five thirty work for you?”
My Cobb salad is finished, and there are two onion rings left in the basket next to my plate. I raise my fork and stab it down onto the red-and-white-checked paper lining, a fraction of an inch from my mother’s pinky finger.
She knows better.
“Deborah Pierce,” I say in my best Judge Judy voice, “you are centimeters away from violating paragraph three, section two of the Onion Ring Accords. Keep your fingers on your side of the table, lady.”
Mom and I have an agreement about O’Malley’s. We don’t share our onion rings. If one of us is a pig and can’t make the onion rings last as long as the entrée, she must do without.
Unfortunately, looking at those last two rings on my plate reminds me of Trey surprising me with O’Malley’s on my first test jump to the Lincoln Memorial and on our last day together before the jump to the Expo. That, of course, reminds me of everything else going on in my life that I can’t really talk to my mother about.
Mom, being a mom, naturally notices my change of expression. “Hey, I wasn’t really going to swipe an onion ring. Although I’m pretty sure they gave you more in your order than they gave me. Your flirting with the waiter must have paid off.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I did not flirt with the waiter!”
She grins. “Nope, you didn’t even notice him. And he’s kind of cute, too. Are things so serious with this boy you’re dating that you don’t even glance at a hot guy now?”
I really don’t want to talk about Trey right now. I’ve given her a plausible half-truth concerning our relationship, saying that I met him at a Briar Hill meet and greet for incoming students and that we’ve gone out a few times. All of that is more or less true, and since I have to leave out the parts about alternate timelines, the fact that the meet and greet was on his doorstep, and that I had to pretty much stalk him in order to arrange the meeting and greeting, there’s not much else to tell.
So I stab the larger of the two remaining onion rings and toss it onto Mom’s plate. It’s partly meant as a distraction and partly because they really don’t look as tempting as they did before my thoughts turned to Trey.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?” Mom gives me a fake evil glare, and for a fleeting moment, I see a resemblance to Saul. For some reason, I’d thought of him as Prudence’s father and even as my grandfather, but I’d never really lingered on the fact that he’s her biological father, too. I shouldn’t be surprised that there’s some resemblance, but I have to admit that it creeps me out a teensy bit.
I give her a tentative smile. “The Accords do say that either party can voluntarily grant control of an onion ring to the other party.”
“True, but that’s never happened.”
“Maybe I’m just growing up and have decided that it’s nice to share?”
“Hmph. As long as you don’t expect me to reciprocate.”
“The treaty remains in full force. And I actually do have an ulterior motive. I want to finish eating so that you’ll finally tell me this big news.”
She’s been playing coy since she picked me up. And I was wrong about her venturing into the lion’s den. She called at 5:40 p.m., ten minutes after she was supposed to arrive at Katherine’s, to say that she was running late and I should meet her outside or we’d lose our table. On a Thursday night . . . at a place where reservations aren’t recommended, let alone required. Yeah, right, Mom. You retain your crown as the Queen of Avoidance.
I finish off my last onion ring and wipe my fingers on the napkin in my lap. “Okay, we have now eaten every bite. So spill.”
“You don’t want dessert?”
“No! Stop stalling.”
“Fine,” she says with a nervous little hand gesture that really isn’t typical for her. “I’m just very excited about this, and a little . . . well, hesitant. I don’t know whether you’ll be all right with it.”
“Um, okay.” I give her a quizzical look. “I’m going to repeat back to you a question you’ve asked me many, many times. ‘Exactly who is the mother and who is the daughter here?’ Last time we discussed this, the answer was that you were the mother, so unless something has changed, why would you need my permission?”
“I don’t need your permission, but I don’t want you to feel abandoned. It’s—I’ve been offered this incredible opportunity, a research sabbatical with some minor teaching duties. But it’s in Italy. For a year.”
My expression must shift a bit, because she immediately says, “But I don’t have to take it, Kate. I’m sure there will be other opportunities—”
“No, no.” I can’t tell her that the expression was due to déjà vu because I just heard something very similar in the diary entries by Other-Kate. “Really, Mom. Tell me more.”
She looks skeptical. “It’s just a research grant. I could probably delay it for a few years, until you’re in college,” she says, although I can tell from her voice that she doesn’t really believe it.
“Um . . . I said tell me more, not tell me why you shouldn’t go. Where in Italy? What would you be doing? When would you need to leave?”
“It’s near Genoa, but I’d be traveling to five or six different cities in Europe and also in Africa. There’s a private donor who is funding oral histories of women survivors of the genocides in Rwanda and Bosnia. It would be a comparative study, and I’d pull in my research on women survivors of the Holocaust and maybe even have a chance to interview the few still alive in Europe. Someone else must have backed out at the last minute—I’ve never heard of anything moving this quickly in academia. The grant would cover my salary, plus my traveling expenses, and even compensates my dep
artment for having to cover my classes at the last minute. They want me there a few weeks before their fall semester starts, which gives me a whopping six days to get things in order. That’s counting today, so five really.”
Her eyes are wide and excited throughout that long speech, which might strike someone who didn’t know her as odd, given that she’s talking about the prospect of an entire year filled with some pretty grisly and emotional stories. It’s not like she revels in the suffering of others. This is just the one subject she’s passionate about. She wants to be sure these women’s stories are told and remembered.
“I think you should take it, Mom. I mean, I’ll miss you, but I could come over on vacation, right? Or you could fly back here?”
She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Are you sure, Kate? A year is a long time, especially at your age.”
“True. It would be a shame for you to miss my first step.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. But I’ll have Dad document every homework assignment and report back to you if I grow an inch or my shoe size changes. You should do this, Mom.”
I try to make my expression as sincere as possible, both to counteract her earlier assumptions and to hide the fact that part of me really and truly doesn’t want her to go. It’s not just that I’ll miss her. I was also looking forward to having a part-time refuge from CHRONOS and Katherine. A few days a week at Mom’s house, being a normal teenager, going to school, sleeping in my tiny, cluttered room, curling up on our battered, old sofa with her to watch a movie—all of that would have given me a break from the current insanity.
I’m also pretty certain Katherine is behind this grant, although I’ve no idea why I think that. With few exceptions, this timeline seems much like the one in which Other-Kate existed, so maybe this opportunity came Mom’s way based on her professional reputation. There’s just something about the phrase “private donor” and the fact that the university is in Italy, where Katherine lived for a number of years. And the timing . . . this just came out of the blue.
The bottom line is I know Mom needs this. Dad has his teaching and me and also Sara. He has Grandma and Grandpa Keller, who raised him from the time he was five. He loves teaching, but if he had to switch jobs tomorrow, I doubt it would change him. Given the breach between Mom and Katherine, she has her work and me, and I’m at Dad’s half the time. Sometimes she looks at me with this odd, sad expression, and I’m pretty sure she’s imagining what it will be like in a few years, when I’m on my own and all she has is her work.
I haven’t seen her eyes light up like this about anything in years—maybe not since she and Dad split up—so there’s no way I’m going to let on that I’m suspicious. If Mom thought Katherine was involved, her interest would evaporate instantly. And it would be so selfish for me to keep her here just because I want an escape from round-the-clock Saving the Universe duty.
“You should do this,” I repeat.
“Nothing is decided yet. I’ll need to be sure it’s okay with Harry . . . and your grandmother, I guess. But I wanted to discuss it with you first, because if you don’t want me to go, I’ll tell them no deal.”
“It will be fine, Mom. This will be a busy year for me. I’ll have Dad, Katherine, and Connor around if I need them—and you and I can video chat, email, text. It’s not like you’re going to Mars. And this opportunity was tailor-made for you.” All of that, especially the last part, is totally honest, so I don’t have to struggle to look like I’m telling the truth.
She holds my gaze for a long time before responding. “And you’re not saying this because you know that I really want to do it? Like I said, I can probably get a deferral.”
“Mom, go! Live a little. Embrace your academic destiny.”
That earns me a laugh, and I can tell she’s relieved but also still conflicted. Which guarantees that she’ll be asking me these same questions up until, and possibly well after, she arrives in Italy, so I need to keep my game face on.
It’s nearly ten when we get back to Katherine’s. Mom decided we should celebrate with a bit of shopping. So there’s a new pair of leggings and a gorgeous red sundress in the bag I’m carrying as I swing my feet out of the little rental car. Mom even bought a few dresses for herself, and she’s normally as much of a jeans-and-T-shirts sort of girl as I am.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come in? Everyone is still awake. Connor’s actually a nice guy. You could tell them about the research trip, and you could meet Daphne . . .”
“Maybe next time. It’s late.”
“Katherine doesn’t bite, you know, or at least not often. You’re just afraid you might actually like your mother if you gave her a chance. So . . . I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to call chicken.”
“Ahem. Thin ice, Kate. And I really do need to get the car back before I owe for an extra hour.”
I shake my head. “Just be sure to clear all of the feathers out of the car, or else they’ll charge you extra.”
She snorts. “You are so like your father. Get in the house before I run you over.”
“Threatening to run someone over with a Cooper really isn’t a credible threat, Mom. You should rent a Hummer next time. Love you!”
I had mixed feelings about her coming in tonight anyway. Trey called while I was in the dressing room. I didn’t answer but sent him a quick text saying I’d call him as soon as I got back to the house. That was over an hour ago, and my stomach has been doing little flip-flops ever since.
I kick my shoes off and stack them in the closet in the foyer. The living room is empty, so I’m guessing Dad is either asleep or out with Sara, and Katherine and Connor are probably in their rooms. Hopefully, I can slip upstairs unnoticed. Katherine was moderately grumpy about me going out when we had work to do, and I suspect I’m still on her list for the smart remark when Trey was here.
No such luck. I’m halfway to my room when Katherine sticks her head out of the library on the second floor. “Kate, I’m glad you’re home, dear. Did you have a good time with Deborah?”
“I did. She said to tell you hello.” Which isn’t true, but I’m going to pretend that Mom just forgot to say it. “I’m just—I’m going to sleep now.”
“Okay. I was just wondering whether you learned anything from the diary?”
I shake my head. “Not really. It was just starting to get interesting when Mom called. I do know that I was in Chicago with you and Connor—not sure about Dad. Mom’s off on some sort of research trip.”
I watch Katherine’s expression to see if it changes when I mention Mom going on a trip, but she just smiles. “Chicago. I’m not too surprised. It’s a wonderful city if you know which years to avoid. Well, get some sleep so that you can get back at it bright and early, okay?”
After saying good night to Katherine, I hang up the new dress and stash the leggings in a drawer. Then I change into a nightshirt and curl up on the couch to call Trey.
No answer. I start to leave a message, but then I notice that he left a voice mail for me earlier, and I decide I should listen to that first.
“Hey, Kate. Just a quick call to say we arrived . . . and I . . . uh . . . are you going to this barbecue thing the Saturday before school starts? I’m guessing not, because it says new students—Briar Hill and Carrington Day. Anyway, it says RSVP and number of guests, which probably means they expect parents, but neither of mine can make it, and I kind of need to go. It’s also a farewell party for this guy who taught both Dad and Granddad, and I promised them I’d stop in and say hello, or goodbye, I guess. I’m sure it’ll be hideously boring, but it would be a lot more fun if you were there. So . . . um . . . just let me know, okay?”
I suspect he’s right about the hideously boring part, but he could invite me over to help clean out his refrigerator—a chore I truly detest—and I’d still agree in a heartbeat.
So I call again. When he still doesn’t answer, I leave a message saying, yes, I’d love
to go.
As I get up to plug my phone into the charger, a glint of light outside the window catches my eye. At first, I think it’s a CHRONOS key, because the light has a bluish tint, but it’s not the right shade. It’s just the street lamps, their light already kind of blue, reflecting off the top of that blue van, which is parked in the same spot it was yesterday.
The view from my window is just treetops—a big expanse of green. It’s the thing I like best about this room. I like seeing the trees when I wake up, and seeing the moon and stars at night reminds me of the skylight in my room at the townhouse, so I’ve always left the curtains open.
But now as I stare out at the van, I have that same creepy feeling of being watched . . . which is stupid. Seeing the van parked in the same place could just as easily confirm that it belongs to the neighbors. It doesn’t mean we’re being watched.
I close the curtains anyway.
∞5∞
The smoke stings my nose and throat as I run through the hallway, panicked, the fingers of one hand trailing against the wall to keep from losing my way in the pitch-black maze. I glance behind me, and the man with the lantern is still coming, and he’s moving a lot faster than I am. It’s like I’m running through Jell-O.
In my other hand, the CHRONOS key is activated, but it’s speeding through dozens of stable points so quickly that I can’t lock on to anything. As Holmes gets closer, I see the gun in his hand, and then there’s this burst of flames, red and gold, barreling straight toward me. Just as they reach me, they morph into a cascade of autumn leaves, falling around my face.
I bolt upright and look around for a minute, disoriented, then fall back onto my pillow, rubbing my eyes. The dreams have been coming a little less often in the past few weeks, and although my heart is still pounding, at least it’s not the same blind panic I felt the first few times sleep dragged me back to the World’s Fair Hotel. And the whole flames-turning-into-leaves thing is a strange, new addition.