“Sure. Everyone does.”
“My theory is that you and Palmer Benson share, um, I guess common relatives.”
“You mean like we’re cousins?”
“In an odd way, I guess. If I’m right, then the device linked with you because you were the closest match to what it knew. How it figured it out…” I shrug. We’re already way beyond my areas of expertise and into pure speculation. I let her live with this for a minute before I say, “You haven’t answered my question.”
She looks at me, eyebrow raised.
“Do you believe me?”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe you. You can just prove it to me.” She hands me back the Chaser. “If I give you a date and time and place, you can go there?”
I smile at the thought of performing the same demonstration Marie used on me. “I can.”
“All right. February 13, 2012, 7:00 p.m.” She gives me an address in a city called San Diego. “That’s my mom’s house. I was still in high school. Oh, probably not a good idea to just appear in the living room.”
Despite the fact that the trip will use up precious power, I owe her this. “All right,” I tell her. “But you should know that as companion, even though the trip isn’t far, it’ll be painful for you.”
“Yeah, I’ve experienced a bit of that already.”
My short trips around the city. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right. Now get going.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Take a slow walk along the other side of the street from my house, right at seven. You’ll know.”
“Fine. But I need a map to figure out the location. The Chaser doesn’t understand your addresses.”
“No problem. I’ll bring it up on Google.”
__________
IF THERE IS a difference between 2012 and 2015, I’m not tuned into the culture enough to perceive it. To me, it looks like I could have hopped a couple minutes into the past to another part of Los Angeles.
I arrive early in the morning of February 14. Since the computer map Iffy showed me uses satellite images of the neighborhood, I’m able to coordinate this with my Chaser and pinpoint my arrival to a narrow space behind several retail shops a few blocks away from Iffy’s mom’s house. Since the space hasn’t been paved over, I can check for footprints in the sand. There are shallow depressions that look at least several days old, but nothing indicating anyone has walked between the buildings since then.
Confident my arrival will go unnoticed, I set the Chaser for 6:30 p.m. the previous day and jump back.
The evening is cool but not unpleasant. I note the addresses and keep track of time as I walk casually through Iffy’s neighborhood. Her house comes into view a minute before 7:00 p.m.
A car has just pulled up in front of her house. A baby-faced teenager straightens his hair and runs a hand down his nice shirt before heading up to the front door. I’m still not directly in front of the house when the door opens, but I’m able to see the large man standing inside. A conversation ensues. The only thing I can understand is when the man yells into the house, “Pamela!”
When Iffy appears at the door, I slow. She looks young enough to pass for a pre-teen. While her skin is pale as ever, her hair has yet to be reduced to her current boyish style and is pulled into a long ponytail. She’s wearing roomy pink pants and a matching bulky top.
The look on her face when she sees the boy is one of surprise, and judging by his demeanor—though I can’t see his face at the moment—he’s surprised, too.
Words float across the street…
“Ready” and “dance” and “I thought” and “way.”
The large man says something to Iffy. She looks reluctant, but he continues talking until she steps outside with the boy. The man closes the door, and the two kids walk slowly toward the boy’s vehicle.
I cross the street, angling my path so that I’ll reach the sidewalk at the far edge of Iffy’s property. It crosses my mind that this could interfere with their conversation, but it soon becomes apparent that they’re so wrapped up in each other, they don’t even notice me.
“…talk about it,” the boy is saying when I’m finally able to hear them.
“That was two months ago. I thought you were kidding. You should have checked with me again.”
“I didn’t…I thought…”
“Ryan, you’re a nice guy and all. I’m just not a dance kind of person, okay?”
“But you said yes.”
“Because I thought you were joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry, all right? I’m so sorry.”
She turns back to the house. When I reach the sidewalk, I continue past a couple houses before looking back. The boy is still standing by his car, staring at Iffy’s house. I turn away, feeling like I’m adding to his embarrassment.
__________
IFFY GASPS AS I reappear in her room. She’s lying on her bed, her hands pressing against her temples.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She blinks multiple times as she breathes deeply. When the tension finally leaves her face, I know the worst of the pain is over.
“How do the companions stand it?” she asks, propping herself up on an elbow.
“They’re sedated and don’t feel much, I think.”
“They’d have to be if they do this all the time.”
I help her sit all the way up.
“So…what did you see?” she asks.
“The fact that I vanished from your room and your nerve endings caught on fire isn’t enough to sway you?”
“Could be that’s just a teleportation device. Which, I admit, would be very cool. But it’s not time travel.”
“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” I know I shouldn’t let this happen, but I’m enjoying our banter.
“Tough enough to survive a bout of crippling pain.” A pause. “Well?”
I tell her about the boy.
Her eyes are wide as I describe him. When I finish, she nods and whispers, “Ryan Smith. We’d known each other for years.”
“And the man who answered the door? Was he your father?”
“Stepfather.” Her voice is stronger now. “He made me go out and talk to Ryan.”
“The boy asked you to go with him somewhere but you didn’t want to, right?”
“To the high school Valentine’s Day dance. He asked me, like, months before. I didn’t think he was serious, especially since he never mentioned it again.”
“He must’ve been afraid you’d back out.”
“Yeah. I figured that out eventually.”
“Why did you pick that for me to see?”
She looks down at her hands. “In May, before school ended that year, Ryan and his mother were killed in an accident. A truck driver dozed off and crossed the center line, right into their sedan.” She looks at me. “Same car you saw. I’m positive I’m the only girl he ever asked out, ever would ask out, and I turned him down in the worst possible way. So that night’s kind of stuck with me. Talk about selfish. What would it have hurt to give him one night?”
I could say it wasn’t her fault he never asked out anyone else, but I know it won’t do any good.
“I believe you,” she says, and then leans against me, her head on my shoulder. “I believe you.”
I don’t realize how much tension I’ve been holding until it breaks at that moment. My secret is now a shared one.
Without any forethought, I slip my arms around her. Our faces turn toward each other and our lips meet in a kiss initiated by both of us. It’s my first, and it’s impossible to believe there will ever be a better one.
We lie back on her bed at some point, and I tell her the part of my story I left out earlier—the part that triggered my coming to find her.
A shiver runs through her when I finish so I pull her close.
“You’re telling me in four days everything will go away,” she says.
/> “I wish it were different.”
“It could be.”
I know what she’s thinking, because I’ve spent the whole day at the library thinking it, too, but I say, “Your world shouldn’t be here. It’s a mistake.”
“Which means I’m a mistake.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s true.”
I say nothing.
“If you change things back,” she says a few moments later, “you’ll only be replacing one genocide with another.”
This, too, I know. It’s part of what’s been brewing in the back of my mind, haunting me. “No matter what I do now, I will always be responsible for one.”
She lays her head against my chest. “And you think it should be the one I’m part of?”
I run my hand over her hair and onto her back.
I don’t know what the answer is.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE CREAKING OF floorboards wakes me.
I open my eyes to a sunlit room and the sound of birds. What’s missing is the press of Iffy’s body against mine.
From across the room I hear a faucet turn, followed by the spray of water. A few moments later, I can see steam building in the bathroom through the partially open doorway. I lay my head back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling.
How is she going to feel about me this morning? How is she going to feel about the man who, in now three days’ time, will help erase her world?
If I were her, how would I feel? What would I do?
In all honesty, it’s a wonder she hasn’t called the police and had me locked up, in hopes that would stop what’s coming. But of course she’s smarter than that. If I don’t make the change, the other Rewinders will, so she knows there’s nothing she can do.
The water cuts off, and soon Iffy exits the bathroom wrapped in a towel and running a toothbrush through her mouth. For the first time, I can see her tattoo is more than just birds flying over her clavicle. It extends down her side, the birds turning into a tiger’s tail that continues under the towel.
“Good,” she slurs through a mouth full of foam. “You’re up. Take a shower and get ready. We’ve got things to do.”
“What things?” I ask.
“No time for questions. Get moving.”
Thankful that she’s even talking to me, I make my way into the bathroom and do as she asks. When I finish, I find her already dressed, wearing blue jeans and a black top held up only by thin straps over her shoulders.
After I pull my clothes on, she picks up a small backpack and says, “All right. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
She smiles then heads down the stairs without answering. I grab my satchel and follow.
In the kitchen, we find Marilyn sitting at a round table with a man I haven’t met yet. She wears a silky red robe and holds a steaming cup of coffee near her lips. In contrast, the man is dressed in a business suit, his hair perfectly combed.
“Look who’s up early,” Marilyn says. “Or is it you’ve not slept yet?” She looks at me, a coy smile on her face. “Hi, Denny. Nice to see you’re still here.”
“Good morning,” I say awkwardly.
“Is this one of the new guys?” Iffy asks, nodding at the man.
He extends a hand. “I’m Reece.”
“Iffy,” she says, shaking with him. “Attic dweller.”
“Nice to meet you. My partner, Stephen, probably won’t be up for a while. He’s a late sleeper.” He turns to me and holds out his hand. “Reece.”
“Denny.”
“You an attic dweller, too?”
“Just, um, visiting.”
Raising an eyebrow, he looks me up and down, then turns back to Iffy. “Not bad. You should have him visit more often.”
“Still to be determined,” she replies. “Marilyn, I’m wondering if we could borrow your car.”
“Sure. I’m not going anywhere today.”
“Actually, I was hoping to keep it for a few days. Need to go on a small trip.”
“Something wrong?”
Iffy shakes her head. “Just something I need to take care of.”
“Well, as long as I have it back by the weekend, I guess that would be okay.”
“Friday afternoon works,” Iffy says, not adding that Friday afternoon will never come.
With a nod, Marilyn says, “You know where the keys are.”
“Thanks.” Iffy grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”
“Have fun,” Marilyn calls after us.
“Nice meeting you,” Reece says.
__________
THIS IS MY first time inside one of this world’s personal motor carriages. Iffy tells me it’s called a Prius and that it’s a hybrid, running on both electricity and oil-based fuel she calls gas. The word is an odd choice, as I soon learn the gas is liquid and not, well, gas. In my world, we call it petrol, which I’m pretty sure is the same thing.
“What are we doing?” I ask as we drive west on Hollywood Boulevard.
“Hold on. I need to concentrate.”
She studies the numerous vehicles around us. Given that it’s about seven in the morning, I assume the abundance of traffic is due to people heading to work. Iffy gives the wheel a sudden jerk and we enter the lane next to us, which seems to be traveling marginally faster than the one we were in.
“I hate rush hour,” she says.
Yet another term to add to my vocabulary list. “You were going to tell me what we’re doing.”
She checks the traffic once more before saying, “You’ve spent most of your time here sitting in a library. So I was thinking, if there are only three days of this left, then you should spend it actually experiencing my world. That way, somebody will remember it.”
The full weight of what she’s proposing falls onto my already overburdened shoulders. To be both the eraser of her world and the one who remembers it—dear God, how will I ever be able to handle that?
A part of me wants to tell her to let me out now, to scream, “Please, no! I don’t want to see any of it!” And grab my Chaser and jump back to the meeting point in 1702. But I already know too much about her world and there’s no going back from that. Anything more I learn won’t keep away the pain I’ll feel when it disappears. That torture is already guaranteed.
“Okay,” I say. “Show me.”
__________
WE STOP AT a place called Runyon Canyon and hike up a trail that was once a road. A lot of others are also doing this—some in groups, some alone, some with dogs, and some with baby carriages.
Iffy sets a fast pace but says little. After a particularly steep part, the road begins to level, but instead of continuing along it, she leads me onto a dirt path that takes us out on a bluff above the canyon. From here we can see the road as it winds back down the hillside. But that’s nothing compared to the view we have of the city.
Los Angeles spreads out as wide and far as I can see, stopping only in the far west where it meets the grayish-blue Pacific Ocean. I can see the buildings that make up downtown, and smaller clusters of similar structures spread across the city.
“Does New Cardiff look like this?” Iffy asks.
“I’ve never been in these hills before, but no, it’s not this large.”
“I’ve only been here since last summer but this is my home, Denny. This is where I live.”
We stand in silence and watch the city for nearly half an hour before Iffy touches my arm and says, “Remember it.”
“I will.” How can I not?
We drive from Runyon to the beach area she says is called Santa Monica, where we park on a large pier and walk out over the ocean. There’s an amusement park in the middle with rides and games, but all are closed until later in the day. We go out as far as we can and look back at the coast. From this vantage point, everything seems peaceful.
Around the edges of the pier, fishermen tend their lines. Most, though not all, have the darker skin and hair of those coming
from the former Spanish possession in the Americas.
Iffy sees I’m looking at them. “Some come out every day. It’s how they feed their families.”
The same thing is true in my world. There might not be a state-sanctioned societal structure here, but there are certainly economic divides that serve some of the same functions.
We eat breakfast at a restaurant on the pier near the beach end, and then Iffy drives us down the coast a few miles before stopping again.
“We should really come here on a weekend afternoon when it’s packed with people,” she tells me as we get out, “but since there won’t be any more weekends, now will have to do.”
The day has grown warmer as noon approaches, and I have to squint to keep from being blinded by the sun.
“Welcome to the Venice Boardwalk,” she says when we reach the beach.
The wide, concrete walkway runs along the edge of the sand, paralleling the ocean several hundred feet away. On the opposite side are all sorts of stores. Several are already open, while many others have yet to unlock their doors.
“On weekends, you can’t walk without knocking into someone.”
I’m amused by a man and woman rolling by on shoes with wheels. Iffy tells me the footwear is called rollerblades. Scattered along the beachside, people set up stalls where they sell oils and candles and paintings and other things.
“What’s wrong?” Iffy asks when I stop in the middle of the walkway.
“Don’t you have decency laws here?”
“What are you talking about?”
Trying not to be obvious, I nod toward a man and woman walking in our direction. The only difference in what they’re wearing is the skimpy brassiere-like top the woman has on. The bright gold covering between their legs is barely big enough to hide anything.
Iffy snickers and says, “Don’t stare.”
I force myself to pull my gaze away.
“Thongs,” she says.
“What’s a thong?”
“Just wait.”
As soon as the couple passes our position, Iffy turns to watch them walk away, so I do, too. The cloth in the front is only connected to a string in the back traveling up the crack of their butts. Their cheeks are out for all to see.
Rewinder Page 17