by Alison Tyler
She didn’t want to say too much. If this was a dream, she would just let the visions play out. If it was real, then … Jesus, this couldn’t be real. She couldn’t have … There was no way …
‘Have you had anything to eat yet today? Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee?’
‘Coffee,’ she said gratefully, and watched as he went to pour her a cup. Her head still throbbed from the hangover. How strong had the drinks been the night before? It was her own fault, for thinking she could still drink as much as she had back in college. She stared out through the windows, looking at the cars. The scene was so familiar, and yet …
She bit her lip. Her boss from the beauty salon was heading into the cafe. Bette Ryan. Jesus. Dori felt her insides quiver. She hadn’t seen Bette in twenty years, yet there she was, all rock ’n’ roll goddess, spiky blonde hair tipped in dragon-lady red, shimmering gold eye-shadow all the way up to her perfectly arched chestnut-hued brows, Madonna-inspired black rubber bangles from wrist to elbow. Bette, tough fucking chick, ordering three coffees to go.
Three. One for herself, one for Nina, one for Mica.
Bette didn’t look her way, and Dori continued to stare, taking in the sleek black stretchy skirt as shiny as satin that molded to the fierce body of her former boss. That haughty ass, the slim, feline legs. The woman had on a striped fuchsia and black tie worn as a belt and an off-the-shoulder black top over a hot-pink tank, and she was wearing a pair of perfectly ripped pink-and-black striped stockings. While Dori drank in Bette’s attire, Bette bantered with the owner, her low growl of a voice as sexy as ever. Bette always spoke as if she’d just smoked a pack of Marlboro.
As Bette flirted, Dori flashed back on a memory of a discussion with her boss. Or rather one she’d overheard.
‘I’d let him bend me over the counter any day,’ Bette had admitted about Gael after returning with a cup of coffee.
‘What about Will?’ Nina had asked.
‘Will can watch,’ Bette replied, and Dori had blushed when her boss had looked her way. Nearly everything she knew about sex, she’d learned in that store.
Now, Bette gathered up her tray of coffees and left the café with a hip shake as a goodbye. Dori continued to sit there, numb, watching out the window until Gael came forward with a cup of coffee for her in one of those classic ceramic mugs with the thick rims. She sipped, trying to figure out what was going on.
‘You sit here and take a moment,’ Gael told her. ‘All right?’
She nodded, then watched as Gael picked up a newspaper from the rack outside the store and settled himself at the counter to read.
Should she? Could she? Did she dare?
She finished her cup and walked to the register to pay. He gave her a grin. God, he was sexy. Hadn’t Bette always said that? The silver in his thick dark hair. Those eyes. Liquid-brown, knowing. As a teenager, when she’d looked at him, she’d only seen an older man. Now she looked and saw, wow, George Clooney gorgeous.
‘On the house,’ he said, waving away her attempt to pay.
‘Thanks.’ She took a breath and looked down at the paper he was reading. Above the headline was the date.
Ah, fuck. July 1st, 1988.
Chapter Six
How had this happened?
Dori couldn’t understand. In the back of her mind, she continued to hope that she was dreaming, the way she had done for the first few weeks after she and Bryce had broken up. Those two hellish weeks when she’d canceled appointments, refused to see her friends, refused to answer the phone. She’d been unable to get dressed in anything but an old Police T-shirt from a concert she’d been to at Berkeley, and a pair of striped cotton boxer shorts Bryce had left behind. Unable to eat anything except the occasional bar of Hershey’s milk chocolate with almonds. The whole time hoping, really hoping, that she’d wake up and the wedding would still be on, but knowing somehow, in the back of her mind, that she was awake.
That this was her life.
Yet, her emotions now were different. Then, she’d understood that she was living in a state of denial. This was, well, this was psychotic, wasn’t it? She wasn’t in denial. She was merely in shock. Wouldn’t anyone be, in her situation? How on earth could she have gone back in time twenty years?
All of a sudden, a new thought appeared.
Maybe she wasn’t dreaming. Maybe she was dead.
But would an eternity spent in the 80s be heaven or hell? She laughed out loud, surprised by the sudden noise, and then clamped one hand over her mouth. She sounded a bit crazy, didn’t she? Apparently, she sounded crazy to other people, as well.
‘Are you sure you’re okay, Miss?’ That was Gael again, coming to her rescue once more. ‘You’re looking a bit faint again, so pale. Why don’t you sit back down for a while? Do you want to use the phone? Do you have somewhere you have to be?’
Dori tried hard to stifle the insane laughter she heard bubbling in her head once more. Yeah, she had somewhere to be. On an airplane back to New York. But the plane wouldn’t take off for another twenty years, so she supposed, all things considered, she had time for another cup of joe.
At Gael’s offer, and the worried look in his eyes, she sat back in the booth, her mind racing. What if she was stuck here forever? She’d never see her mom or dad again. Or if she did, they wouldn’t recognize her, would they? She was nearly their age. A shudder ran through her with each new and disturbing thought.
‘You visiting?’ he asked next, using a quiet, soothing tone, as if talking to a spooked animal. ‘I haven’t seen you around before. And I pretty much know everyone in town.’
The truth was that he did know her. He’d seen her every afternoon for the past four years, coming in for an iced tea or a coffee. He didn’t serve lattes or cappuccinos or any of the fancy drinks. Not back then. Nobody did. It was coffee and pie at Gael’s diner. Classic diner food. Retro for the 80s, but the Creamery had been in the same location since the 50s, handed down from Gael’s grandfather to his father to himself.
‘You look familiar,’ he said next, nailing what she’d thought. ‘Do you have relatives in town?’
‘Yes,’ Dori finally managed. ‘The Martins.’
‘They’re out of town for the month, though, aren’t they? He’s on sabbatical in London. That’s what I heard, anyway.’
Dori nodded automatically, grateful for the information. She’d forgotten the trip to London. Forgotten when she’d gone, anyway. Twenty years could blur the timeline for anyone. ‘I’m just visiting from Manhattan,’ Dori added quickly.
‘Manhattan,’ Gael nodded. ‘That explains it.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, just your outfit. Doesn’t really look like the clothes around here.’ He eyed her dress, as if what she was wearing was proof that she was an outsider, and Dori felt suddenly self-conscious. She had on a Juicy Couture minidress, all white, puffed sleeves, one that was so short that she felt odd crossing her legs. The outfit was the height of style for 2008, but apparently not appropriate attire for 1988.
To her, Bette had looked as if she’d been on her way to a costume party. Part Pat Benatar, part Madonna. All 1980s. Like an alien in Dori’s world. Is that what Dori looked like to Gael?
While he went to serve a new customer, she gazed out the window once more, watching as several of the city’s workforce strutted past. Bette wasn’t necessarily the fashion icon for the town. Yes, she blended in with the gang of misfits at The Beauty Box – the women who refused to grown up like Peter Pan’s band of brothers – but Dori saw that most working women had taken their style guides from somewhere else. There were quite a few ‘girl suits,’ navy-blue with bulky shoulder pads, and some women even sported those ridiculous blouses with bows at the neck. She blinked at the trend of nylons and sneakers. She’d forgotten all about that look. None of her friends would ever wear something so blatantly ugly.
On top of her own dress, she had on a thin, crocheted cardigan. Because she was wearing all white, she’d chose
n brightly colored shoes, high with scarlet soles. Christian Louboutin. Had he even been making shoes in the 80s? She couldn’t remember. She always dressed to travel, and she was heading for a photo shoot as soon as she landed in New York. But clearly her outfit was unusual for the time. She’d have to rectify that as soon as possible.
But how? Where?
Suddenly, she wanted to be in motion. Sitting made the experience feel too real. The hot coffee. The print of Nighthawks over the counter. The scent of the café. Oh, God, the smell. She’d always loved that dark coffee smell. She stood, and was heading to the door when Gael stopped her.
‘Don’t leave yet.’ She saw in his eyes that he liked her. How strange. Flattering even. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a make-up artist.’
‘Have you done anyone I would know?’
Dori hesitated … She’d worked on big names, but mostly young stars who wouldn’t even have been born in 1988, or would still have been in diapers.
‘You know, The Beauty Box is looking for someone. They’re just down the street. Their make-up lady just ran off to get married. Are you looking for work while you’re in town, or is this strictly vacation?’
Dori hesitated for a moment. Was she looking for work? She had no idea. She was hoping that something would slip in her vision and knock her back into reality. But Gael was still talking.
‘What’s your name?’
What was her name?
She hesitated once more and watched Gael’s brow furrow. Her silence seemed to worry him once more, and Dori didn’t want that. She couldn’t have him call for an ambulance, couldn’t take the risk of being brought to a hospital. Quickly, she said, ‘I’m Emma Martin,’ using her middle name. It was fine to state her real last name. She’d just outed herself as a relative. A cousin. A cousin on Dori’s father’s side.
‘I hope you’ll stop back while you’re in town,’ he said. When she turned around, she could feel his eyes on her ass, watching her leave.
She was dealing with this brilliantly, wasn’t she?
It was 1988, and she was 38, and the world was a crazy fucking place to be.
Chapter Seven
After leaving the café, Dori did the only sensible thing she could think of. She tried to call her therapist. Marjorie Dawson, who had come with the highest of recommendations, and whom she’d started to see when she and Bryce had first broken up. Her friends had insisted she visit a professional, worried about her when she started to look too thin, too hollowed out. Their concern grew when she refused to go out for drinks with them after hard days, feeling as if there was no way in the world she was ready to be back at zero.
‘Zero?’ Violet had asked when she’d tried to explain.
‘God, Vi. I have to start at the beginning again. I have to meet the boy and fall in love. I have to doll myself up to impress the parents …’
‘Not always,’ Violet had interrupted her. ‘Not any more, Dori. Sometimes the parents are dead.’
And the two had laughed together, delighted that they’d come up with one of the few good things about being single when you were older: sometimes the parents were dead.
But thinking of Violet made her feel dizzy again. She’d just seen Violet shoot off on her Vespa. An eighteen-year-old Violet off to God knows where. Christ, she had to talk to someone now, someone who could explain her hallucination to her.
Outside the Creamery, she tried to use the candy-apple phone in her purse, but she couldn’t even get a signal. A man passing her glanced openly at the device in her hand, and she remembered that nothing electronic was this small at the time. A Walkman was a bulky yellow plastic device the size of a brick. There were no X-Pods, no tiny GameBoys, no MP4-players, no Bluetooths. When she was in high school, the only blackberries around grew on bushes by the side of the highway.
Quickly, Dori headed to the payphone on the corner, bemused to find that a local call cost ten cents. She was even more surprised to spot a bit of graffiti etched into the Wall: DM + RG = TLA.
Her mind spun, remembering. She’d made out here with Rowan so many times, the two of them pulling the door shut, not caring about steaming up the windows. He’d pushed her up against the wall, kissing her, stroking her hair, touching her through her clothes.
Rowan was on her mind so often now. What if they hadn’t gone their separate ways after high school? Would her life have ended up so differently? As she had so many times over the past two days, she wondered why he hadn’t shown up at the reunion. Then she wondered if she’d ever see him again, and her breath caught in her chest.
No. She couldn’t cry. There wasn’t anybody to help her in 1988. She had to figure out a way to help herself. But how could she, when she couldn’t even make the fucking phone work? Her credit cards wouldn’t go through, no doubt because their start date was more than a decade in the future. And she never carried change.
What was she going to do?
She looked into her red leather wallet to see exactly how much cash she had on hand, and then realized in a flash that the new tens and twenties wouldn’t be accepted by any savvy shopkeeper. Did she have any bills dated before 1988? A five, a few ones. How far would eight dollars get her? Further in the 1980s, at least, than in 2008, but not very far.
Her thoughts traveled randomly from one concept to the next. How had she gotten here? She didn’t know. How could she get back home? Didn’t know that either. She exited the phone booth and wandered through the streets, heading vaguely in the direction of the hotel where Violet and Chelsea were staying, but when she arrived at the location, she found a row of bungalows.
That’s right. The hotel had been built in the 90s, when Silicon Valley had started to boom.
She sat down by the railroad tracks and tried to figure out what to do next.
A blur. That’s how the day went by for Dori. She wandered through the town, noticing the differences that hadn’t occurred to her when she’d first arrived. Subtle changes, like trees in the park that were mere saplings in the 80s, but full-grown in 2008. Major changes like whole neighborhoods existing in 1988 that had been demolished in favor of hotels, malls, and urban sprawl in the future.
She had to think hard to focus on what wasn’t there just as much as what was. At least there wasn’t a Starbucks on every corner. Her home town didn’t resemble Every Town, USA any more, the way it had over the weekend. A Chico’s, a Cheesecake Factory, the Gap, an IHOP, and a Starbucks every third block.
As the day slid past, she kept thinking that if she made the right turn, took the right route, she would end up back in the future. But it didn’t happen. She simply walked and walked, her mind whirring the whole time, certain she’d wake up any moment, with one hell of a dream to share with her friends in the morning.
Walking came naturally to her. She’d lived in New York for a decade, logged miles every day. But as the sun grew lower in the sky, realization came with it. She was stuck here, at least for the time being, and she’d better find a place to sleep. But she didn’t have enough money for a hotel. Maybe she could hang out at the café until a new idea occurred to her.
She walked slowly back through town. Her feet hurt. She felt not only exhausted, but mentally whipped. If this was a dream, it was the most realistic one she’d ever had. The smells, the colors, the memories she didn’t even know she had. How could she have recreated her town in the 1980s so accurately?
She took a shortcut to the Creamery, using the series of alleys that ran behind the stores. She thought that she must look as bedraggled as she felt, and she didn’t want to have to pretend to be normal right now. But when she got close to the mouth of the alley behind Gael’s shop, she stopped.
What was that noise?
Quietly, she continued onward, and peered around the corner to see Gael and a thin indigo-tipped blonde kissing by the dumpsters. God, it was Bette. Had she changed her hair since her morning cup of coffee? It certainly looked that way. Dori had forgotten what a chameleon Bette was, red
oing her entire visage on a whim.
Now, Dori stayed still, watching, surprised at herself. Should she pass by, or retreat in the direction she’d come?
‘Did you hear something?’ Bette asked, and Dori held her breath.
‘Was nothing,’ Gael said softly. ‘A cat.’
He kissed her, and Dori saw that Bette no longer seemed to care about her privacy, just the way she and Rowan had felt whenever they’d made out in the phone booth. Or maybe the two thought they had plenty of privacy, half-hidden as they were in the doorway. It was only Dori’s angle that let her see them so easily. She hesitated, watching as Bette turned around, putting her hands up on the scuffed brick wall, offering herself to the café owner from behind.
‘Wait,’ he said, his voice mesmerizing in its command. ‘Not yet.’
He spun her back again to face him, then tugged at a chain around her neck, coming up with a tiny silver vial, which glinted in the light. Dori remembered that heart-shaped necklace, remembered thinking that the vial held perfume. She’d never considered the fact that Bette might be wearing a container of cocaine around her neck. How naïve she’d been. Now, she stared as Gael opened the top and helped himself to the contents. Dori couldn’t see the white powder that she sensed was in the ornate pendant.
‘Don’t use it all,’ Bette cooed, watching him inhale.
‘Plenty more where that came from, pretty baby,’ Gael assured her, offering a bit of the coke to his lady. Bette followed his lead.
Dori watched, breathless, as Gael then bent on his knees in the alley and slid Bette’s skirt to her hips. Below, her boss’s ripped stockings disappeared into the tops of her knee-high Doc Martens. She was like Pippi Longstocking on acid with those crazy, striped tights.
And now that she’d done the coke, she seemed even less concerned that someone might catch her. Especially since Gael was pressing his mouth to the front of her lemon-yellow panties. Bette gripped his broad shoulders, holding him to her. She closed her eyes and leant her head back against the red-brick wall, taking obvious pleasure in his mouth against her, even through the filmy barrier of her knickers.