For All Time

by Shanna Miles

  There are Crayola men running everywhere. I’ve called Fayard ten times, but he’s never picked up. Dread curdles in my stomach, and I have to use the paper bag from my lunch leftovers to throw up.

  “You okay back there?”

  I nod to one of the ladies on the bus, an older woman in bright pink scrubs and rubber shoes. I wipe my mouth with a ketchup- stained napkin and ask her how to navigate my way to the hotel where Fay made reservations ahead of time. I’m almost out of the cash I borrowed from him, so I don’t have much choice.

  The hotel is on a quiet street, but it’s clean when I roll in. Unfortunately, the room isn’t ready, so the desk agent suggests the diner next door. She recommends I have the soup, and if I can’t keep that down, they’ve got ginger ale.

  The bell dings overhead and my gut roils. I feel lost, like there’s something I’m supposed to know or perhaps do. A song, mournful and soul-stirring, plays on the jukebox; then the smell of incense in the air, thick and out of place, wakes me out of my daze. Odd choice for an air freshener. It’s like an Old West disco inside: polished wagon wheels sit alongside pictures of a family of Black cowboys that spans decades, maybe a century. Each face appears, ages, and then disappears, only to pop up farther down the wall with a slight change here and there. A larger nose added to the mix, or a pair of dimples.

  A boy in a red hat waves at me as he dips a paintbrush into a cup of dark liquid. He’s painting the front window. My arms feel heavy as I roll down the aisle, and every eye is on me, but not with the usual furtive look people give folks who use mobility devices; it’s something else. A set of twin brothers sitting on slim wooden barrels at the bar unnerves me the most. They don’t speak, just stare, and I don’t have the energy to teach them manners, so I roll on.

  “No one wants to hear any more of that old stuff, Mr. Lucky. Play something else,” the boy calls over his shoulder.

  “This right here is your musical education, Ralphie. Listen up! The closer I get to yooooou,” he croons, and snaps his fingers to the beat.

  A waitress bursts through the kitchen doors to sing along with him. “The more you make me seeeeee,” she trills with her eyes closed, both hands and arms covered with plates full of food. She nearly crashes into me before she opens her eyes and stops short. “It’s your last chance, traveler!” she says, and winks. “It’s our tagline,” she adds after I give her a look. “Says so right on the window.”

  I turn around to see the sun setting just behind the mural on the front window. “Uh… okay,” I say.

  “Go on and take a seat. I’ll get right to you, sweetheart.”

  I settle into a booth and try to shake off the nausea I’ve had since I left Fay on the train. I just needed time to think. I can’t get my thoughts straight when I’m around Fay. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I’m not scared. I’m not. I just want to figure some things out on my own.

  The waitress comes back and sets a glass of ginger ale on the table.

  “But I didn’t order anything,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I know, honey. It’ll help settle your stomach. Want anything to go with that? You should eat. How about some chicken soup? Ooooh, or some of our Tennessee hot chicken. It’s my grandma’s recipe. I guarantee you’ll love it,” she gushes.

  I grip the table as the nausea grabs me.

  “What did you say?” I eke out.

  “I’ll bring you the pie,” she says, and taps the table, singing as she makes her way back into the kitchen, “Your love has captured meeee. Over and over agaiiiiin…”

  “Patience, will you stop that noise,” a man bellows as he passes her. He must be the manager. There’s a little placard next to the kitchen door with his unsmiling face on it. Joseph Williams.

  “Are you gonna sit there all night?” he barks at me. “We close soon.”

  “Daddy!” I clap my hand over my mouth, embarrassed. Why did I call this complete stranger Daddy? “I’m sorry. Um, sir. I… uh… I just sat down,” I protest. “And it’s only six o’clock.”

  I point to the clock on the wall with the over-easy egg in the center. I noticed the butt-ugly thing when I first rolled in, but what I didn’t notice is that it’s moving much faster than it should be, and backward. I blink and realize the sun has set so fast it’s pitch-dark outside. My heartbeat quickens with worry. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I look down at the table and have to cover my hand with my mouth so as not to scream.

  It’s filled with plate after plate of half-eaten cherry pie.

  “Oh, hey!” a voice calls over to me.

  I look up and see a familiar face, but it’s a memory from a life that doesn’t feel like mine. Her life. “Rose?” I say, and the woman shakes her head.

  “No. I’m Iris. Though I do have a cousin named Rose. A sister named Clover, too. Nana loved her flowers.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought… Never mind,” I say like a confused fan who just approached the wrong celebrity for an autograph, but then I catch myself. Iris spoke to me.

  She’s copper-haired, with dimples, wicked eyeliner, and a kind of old Hollywood glamour about her. Beautiful iris tattoos bloom from her forearm to her shoulder.

  “Mind if I sit with you until my date shows? Those stools at the bar just won’t do.”

  “No, please,” I say, because she’s right. The seating options for bigger people aren’t really that great here.

  “You okay, hon? You look a bit squeamish.”

  “I think I might have a bit of motion sickness. I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. She doesn’t need to hear about my PTSD.

  “You know what you need? Some tea.”

  She raises her arm to call the waitress over, and before I can object, the pie plates are gone and there’s a steaming cup of hot water in front of me. I stare at her as she tells me all about this band she’s supposed to go see tonight and watch as she takes a small tin filled with pouches of loose tea and a strainer spoon from her purse.

  “Loose tea is always better than prepackaged. Half of what you get is no better than the stuff that comes out of a lawn mower.”

  She’s about to dump the tea into the strainer when I put my hand over my cup. Our eyes connect and she smiles warmly, too warmly. She’s got an ease about her that you just don’t have with a stranger.

  “I think you’re lying,” I say.

  “About the lawn cuttings?” she says coyly.

  “No, about the tea and about not being Rose. You know me.”

  The entire diner becomes eerily quiet. The hiss from the dishwasher stops; no one tinkles the edge of their coffee mug with a spoon; there’s no laughter, no chatter, just the pop of the speakers from the jukebox, amplifying nothing. I can feel everyone’s eyes back on me, but I don’t take my gaze off Rose. I think she’s going to protest, but she winks and settles herself back into the seat, completely letting her guard down and her posture with it. The track changes on the jukebox again.

  “ ‘Les Fleur.’ Minnie Riperton. 1970! She that SNL girl’s Mama. Uh, what’s her name? Maya,” music-historian guy yells, and his party bursts into conversation again.

  “You are smarter than you give yourself credit for,” Rose tells me.

  “What is going on here?” I ask; nothing is making sense anymore.

  “Well, you’re right that something is going on here, and wrong that I’m Rose. I look like her, but I’m not her, not in this timeline anyway. It can get real complicated,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Am I Tamar?” I ask.

  She laughs and pours herself a cup of hot water from the pot the waitress left on the table. “You’re always Tamar. That’s the cool thing about people like you.”

  “People like me? What am I?” I ask, officially frightened.

  “I’m not sure. All I know is that most of us live just one life and that’s it, but there are people like you who live over and over again. And there are people like me who kind of hop around.”

  “I want to stop it.
I need to stop it,” I beg.

  “There are worse things than being a perpetual teenager,” she says.

  “I’m not a vampire. I don’t get to live forever. I get to live and… die,” I whisper. Involuntarily, I rub my hand over my belly, gingerly pressing my fingers against a mortal wound that isn’t there. I take a deep breath. We’re not seeing ourselves get older for a reason. “I die, over and over again, or he does. That’s a form of hell. Fay thinks that we’re caught in some eternal love story, but he’s wrong. This life is wrong,” I say bitterly.

  “Well, then, obviously, there’s something you’re not learning, and the universe is sending you back for a do-over. Over and over again.”

  “You’re a psychic. I mean, you are a psychic, right?”

  She blows on her tea and gives me a small smile. “I am.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what I’m supposed to learn, then?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. The most I can do is guide you. We’re like the church, or more like angels and demons in that movie with Keanu Reeves. I can’t remember the name. Jesus, that’s gonna bother me.” She frowns. “Anyway, we can encourage or discourage, but we can’t make things happen or stop them from happening. We don’t have that kind of power.”

  “Then why are you here?” I ask. I grip the cup so hard and long that it starts to burn.

  “The same reason you are. The universe has led me here. I really am meeting a date tonight. I can’t see everything, and even if I could, you still have to make a choice. You have to turn left or right, and they both lead to infinite possibilities, infinite realities. Maybe I’m here to help you see that you actually have a choice,” she says. “Think hard. Is there something you haven’t done, or something you keep doing that maybe you shouldn’t? Where are the forks in the road that you keep turning down that lead you into a ditch?”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, Iris bobbing her head to the music and me trying to think of the right questions to ask her and coming up empty. The bell dings over the door, and her smile brightens. Even knowing what I do about each life I’ve lived, even with the coincidence of meeting a psychic from one of my previous lives hundreds of miles from home, I still have a sliver of doubt about destiny and fate in this world.

  Until Dr. Carl Little Feather walks into the diner and right over to our table.

  50 FAYARD

  THE BELL DINGS AS I walk into the diner and I immediately get the sense that someone is right behind me. I turn around and look up and down the empty streets. The hair on the back of my neck stands up; the bubbly déjà vu feeling hits me like a bad odor and then passes just as quickly as it came.

  “It’s your last chance, traveler!” a waitress sings to me as she pours more coffee for a pair of twins at the bar. Both men, Black but red-haired and freckled, turn toward me. They’re older and remind me of someone, but I can’t remember who. The staring contest gets weird, so I focus on finding Tamar. The desk agent at the hotel said that a girl in a wheelchair checked in earlier and I might find her here. Sure enough, I see her sitting at a booth, talking to a man I do recognize.

  “Dr. Little Feather?”

  The esteemed archaeologist from the museum news clip turns toward me and thrusts out his hand. “Yes. And you are?”

  I take his hand and shake it, almost expecting him to accuse me on the spot of stealing his precious artifact, or make some sort of citizen’s arrest, but he just smiles as I introduce myself. His hand is warm and dry, and he really doesn’t pay much attention to me. His eyes are glued to the woman sitting across from Tamar.

  “I’m Iris,” she says, and I shake her hand too. “Oooh, Carl, there’s a booth opening up. Let’s grab it and let these two chat.” She smiles, and the couple slinks away. I settle into the warm space Iris left behind.

  “Is this why you left? To find Dr. Little Feather?” I ask.

  “I’m amazed you think I have that kind of foresight. No. Iris and Little Feather are here purely by coincidence.”

  “I’m not so sure I believe in coincidences anymore. Not with what I know.”

  “But that’s just the thing, Fay. How much do we really know?” she says apprehensively.

  “We know we love each other.” I slide my hands across the table, and she laces her fingers through mine. “We know we belong to each other.”

  Her brow wrinkles a bit like I’ve said something insulting.

  “Looks like you loved that cherry pie,” the waitress says.

  “But I didn’t order any pie,” I say, and look down at the table, where two plates of gutted pie slices remain.

  “You are funny and cute. Now that you’ve had our world- famous chili, you’ve got to try our cheese fries,” she chirps. I’m about to protest again, but Tamar hands me a napkin and motions for me to wipe the chili sauce from the corners of my mouth.

  I blink a few times, unsure if I’m blacking out and if the waitress will still be there when I look up, but she is.

  “Pie?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say, realizing it may be best if I just go with the flow.

  I look over at Tamar, and while her hands still feel as solid and real in mine, she looks different.

  “When did you get braids?” I ask.

  “What? I’ve always had braids. You sound… strange.” She holds the last word, and I can see, clear as day, that she’s worried.

  I look around at the patrons in the diner and everything looks just as it did when I walked in, but Iris catches my eye, and I notice that her dress is white with green polka dots now, instead of red. She nods at me like we’ve shared a secret, and I turn back to Tamar.

  “Something is going on in here,” I tell her.

  She nods ominously. “I know, but I can’t figure out what. I think…” She pauses, then squeezes my hand. “I think we’re doing this wrong. The plan, our lives… us.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, and I work hard to try to tamp down that sunken-belly feeling that something bad is about to happen.

  “And here you are. A good cup of tea. Your friend over there said it’d help settle your stomach,” the waitress says, and points a slim finger over at Iris’s table. The aroma from the tea is strong. Licorice and rose.

  “Now, she said it’s best to drink it hot,” the waitress says before hopping over to see to someone else’s needs.

  Tamar pulls her hand back, and she seems more than just a table away—miles, lifetimes.

  “You say we belong together, that you remember us, that we always find each other,” she says.

  “Right,” I reply.

  “But you don’t remember everything, do you? You don’t know how all our lives end.”

  “So what?”

  “So that’s the problem.”

  I think she’s being a little paranoid. So what if the memories stop? We have the rest of our lives to watch them unfold. I take a sip of the tea, ready to launch into my argument and reassure her, but as soon as I swallow, the warmth rolls over me like an ocean and the diner drifts out of focus.

  “Tamar? T!” I call. I’m yelling her name until I realize I’m not yelling. I’m not even speaking. I’ve got no voice at all.

  * * *

  Durham, North Carolina, 1924

  Tamar rushes to put her things into a suitcase. I take a minute to just admire her: no makeup, pin curls in a hairnet, and a cotton nightdress that can’t hide what God made. I’m broke, jobless, and more than a little beaten up, but I still consider myself lucky. This angel’s gonna conquer the world with me.

  “Almost done,” she whispers, her smile digging out a hidden dimple in her cheek.

  “I guess that’s a yes,” I laugh, and turn back to the melee below. Dawn hasn’t sliced open the night just yet, but Tamar’s would-be father-in-law has made it outside in his robe and slippers. A pregnant girl and her shotgun-toting daddy have come to call. It’s the perfect cover for our getaway.

  “We gotta get going while they’re still caught up w
ith Norman’s soon-to-be betrothed. Oh-ho-ho! Daddy Norman is bolder than he looks—he’s going for the rifle. Wild, I—”

  Tamar’s bent over. She doesn’t see. Honestly, I don’t either. I only hear. A shot. Shattering glass. I tumble back. I open my mouth to say her name, but I can’t. She screams, pouring out the pain I can’t voice as my shirt soaks through with blood flowing so fast… so very, very fast.

  Her words jumble as I gasp for air.

  “Fay! Breathe! No! Don’t—”

  * * *

  “Breathe!” Tamar urges, and I blink and then open my mouth to draw in huge gulps of air. I push the teacup so far away from me and so fast that it crashes to the floor.

  The waitress rushes over to clean up the mess. “Oooh, don’t worry, dear. I got it.”

  I have to grip the table to orient myself back to reality, or what is passing for reality in this place. I close my eyes and do what Tamar asked me to do—breathe.

  “We die,” I say flatly.

  “We die,” Tamar agrees, as if she’s known this all along. And here I thought we were acting out some grand love story across the ages. As soon as my heartbeat settles down to something like normal, I open my eyes. Tamar’s eyes meet mine, but they aren’t worried, just sad.

  “You were the first to realize what was happening to us, that the dreams weren’t fantasies but memories. You woke me up and forced me to see what was really happening. I have trouble voicing my feelings. For whatever reason I keep them locked up behind a wall, and no matter where I am in time, you find a way to scale the wall or blow it up entirely. I love you and I’ll always love you.” She pauses, and I think back to every one of our lives together. She’s never told me she loved me. I knew she did, but this is the first time she’s said the words.