Ida

by Alison Evans

‘What?’ I’m not sure what she means. In context, probably she’s asking where do I live. But the wording’s different enough that she might be being racist. Which, really, is not that surprising.

  She blushes. It was the first one, but she was wondering the second question anyway.

  ‘It says on my résumé, right in front of you.’ My voice is stiff and I’ve fucked this up; I can see something change in her face, a frown that wasn’t there before.

  She asks me a couple more questions, but she doesn’t write anything down and she’s not really paying attention. I want to yell at her, scream, but then I’d just be wild, hysterical. So I sit there in silence with this knot forming in my stomach, and then she tells me we’re done. I don’t take her hand when she offers it, and I’m in the elevator trying not to cry.

  I clench my jaw. I won’t cry, I won’t do it. I fucked up the job interview, I’ve lost Daisy again, I don’t know if my family even likes me anymore. But it’s okay … It’s not. My watch ticks as I stand in the silent elevator. The train home is long and silent; I shove in my headphones to drown out my watch.

  I sit in my bedroom, alone. The calendar is blank.

  There are jobs to do

  Damaris is wandering. Wandering is what she does, it’s what she’s good at, and she does a lot of it. Being paid for it is just a bonus. When the need to save the fate of a girl arises, though, it causes a few bumps along the otherwise smooth road.

  Assignments are usually horrifically easy for her. This one is too finicky, too hard to just figure out. She should be able to, and she hates herself for thinking these thoughts. She’s good enough, of course she is.

  But she’s not, really.

  She needs a break from this. Five hundred years and she’s finally beginning to feel old. She doesn’t look it, though. She never looks it. It doesn’t seem fair, when she feels like this. Her body is a betrayer. The skipping between universes takes too much energy, it is better to stick with just the time travel.

  Examining her smooth face in the window of a shop window she passes by, she has the sudden urge to smash the glass. She continues walking.

  There is an Ida coming out of the supermarket. Damaris begins to walk up to her.

  When it sees her, it quickens its pace and comes right up to her. Damaris sighs. This is the wrong one. It’d be easy if Damaris could just go back to the right Ida in the gallery, but she can’t go back to the same time and place that she’s been.

  ‘Who are you?’ the Ida asks her. ‘How do I stop this?’

  ‘Sorry, thought you were someone else,’ Damaris says, and closes her eyes.

  She thinks she catches the words please help before she leaves, but she’s probably imagining things. These things can’t be helped, sometimes. She has a job to do.

  When she opens her eyes, she’s in the house she’s been temporarily lent by Adrastos. It’s more of a shed with two rooms, but she can’t really complain. She could go to a hotel, but once in a while it’s nice to be away from people.

  Damaris shivers in the cold. The roof is leaking in a corner and she fetches a bucket to catch the water. She had never expected Adrastos to own such a place and the knowledge that he does is comforting. So he is capable of keeping secrets of his own.

  She rubs her hands together and gets out a packet of two-minute noodles from the cupboard. She’d have liked some vegetables, maybe make a nice soup, but she didn’t bother going into the supermarket after running into the wrong Ida. She starts to boil some water and searches the house for another layer of clothing.

  It takes a bit of her strength, but she manages to get the heavy doors of the old wardrobe open. It is full of what she assumes is Adrastos’s clothing, fancy and expensive and useless. There are some light, more feminine clothes hanging up that Damaris remembers him wearing in the summer, however many years ago. He always looks so comfortable in whatever he’s wearing.

  Trawling through the multitudes of clothes, she eventually finds a plain jumper that she puts on underneath her jacket.

  She goes to check the stove. The water’s boiled and she throws in the dried noodle cake; it doesn’t take long until she has the bowl of noodles in the lounge. They warm her insides and she wolfs them down, not realising until now how her stomach ached for sustenance.

  She finishes the noodles and sets the bowl down on the floor. She lies on her back and wonders what Ida is doing at the moment. The right Ida.

  Damaris still can’t believe she made such a clumsy mistake when she found her the first time. Who would follow a complete stranger, who knew their name, to an unknown location? Goddammit.

  In the morning she wakes, barely, from a shallow sleep that has not left her refreshed at all. She blinks in the harsh, bright, winter light and looks around, momentarily forgetting where she is.

  Maybe she should have gone to a hotel. Then she would have proper food; maybe she could have even had it delivered up to her room and she wouldn’t have had to even get out of bed.

  Instead, she stares at the cupboard full of non-perishables. She picks up a can reluctantly and finds the can opener where she left it on the sink.

  ‘I thought you liked beans,’ Adrastos says from the doorway. ‘You look so sad.’

  Damaris jumps and the can opener goes flying. She turns around. ‘It’s rude to turn up uninvited.’

  ‘This is my house, though.’

  ‘It’s also rude not to knock.’ She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I did, you didn’t hear so I thought maybe you weren’t in. Sorry. How are you getting on with the assignment?’ He walks into the kitchen, shoes making dull noises against the compacted earth floor. He bends to pick up the can opener from near his toe.

  ‘Fine.’

  She takes the can opener from him. ‘Did you come for breakfast?’

  He smiles at her and she wants to snap at him. This assignment is his fault, and even though she messed it up he messed it up first.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Just came to see you.’

  ‘Aren’t you busy?’

  ‘You’re not sleeping well.’

  She stares.

  ‘You should rest, Damaris,’ Adrastos says seriously, and it’s the seriousness that worries her. ‘When this is completed, maybe you could have some time off.’

  Time off? ‘I’m not getting old, if that’s what you’re saying.’ She is; she is so old.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I messed up once, Adrastos. I do not need time off. Unless you are planning on giving me these kinds of assignments in the future that you messed up before I did. Remember that. You left this too long.’

  ‘I just thought …’

  ‘Well, don’t.’ She shakes herself slightly. ‘I’m fine, Adrastos. Really. I can do this.’

  ‘I know you can, that’s why I gave it to you. But don’t push yourself too hard.’ There’s a moment. ‘Please.’

  The please momentarily makes her stop. After a beat, she chooses to ignore it. ‘What then afterwards? Get another job? Other jobs need birth certificates.’

  ‘Just think about what I said.’ He checks his slim watch. ‘I have to go. But I’ll see you soon.’

  She nods at him and he leaves by the front door.

  She makes her way to the bathroom and studies her face in the mirror as she uses some mouthwash. Short brown hair, average-sized nose, some freckles. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

  Except for the eyes. They are different. Her face looks, at the oldest, twenty-five. But the eyes are different. She doesn’t notice when she’s travelling constantly, but when she’s on an assignment like this one, staying still, there is too much time to reflect.

  She can see people look at her in strange ways once they glimpse her eyes, sometimes.

  Closing her eyes, she spits the mouthwash into the sink and then rinses with water again.

  She goes to the toilet and washes her hands. She splashes some water on her face and relishes the sudden coldness. She blinks t
he water out of her eyes and surveys herself again.

  Still looks too young, she thinks. Sometimes she wishes she would continue to age and then die. She hasn’t aged in over five hundred years. She is sick of life, a lot of the time. She doesn’t even know if she can die. She hasn’t tried.

  Sometimes she wants to get grey hair and have creaky bones and wrinkles.

  She could retire. Not have to ever work again in her life. And she could sit around and watch bad television and read wonderful books and all kinds of things that she never has the chance to do with this life that she has.

  She sighs. Thinking about all this will not make it real. She’s not going to start ageing now, no matter how much she wants it to happen.

  ‘Get a grip, Damaris,’ she tells herself.

  She should go back to her own time, but who knows what awaits her there. She wants to go back, of course she does, to see people who grew up the same way she did, in the same world with the same rules and the same government and she just wants to be with people who know her. And she would if she could. Go back to after she disappeared. But it’s too far, and it’s been so long.

  Being the mysterious figure in the background was fine for a while, it was even fun at the start and she enjoyed it, but now she just wants to be laid bare without any mystery or charade or anything.

  A thought creeps into her mind. The person who knows her the most, whom she does not have anything to hide from because he knows it all, is Adrastos.

  He will not leave her alone. She rarely meets the same person twice, given how many people she has met over the many, many years, but their paths have crossed numerous times.

  Although Adrastos was an excellent con artist, a liar and countless other things, she’s always depended on him and he’s not yet let her down in the time they’ve known each other.

  Sometimes she wishes they could just be friends. They used to be, but now are more … accomplices. That is not quite the word to describe their relationship, but she is not exactly sure what their relationship is anymore, if she ever was.

  She kneads her knuckles into her forehead.

  She must make a good impression on Ida as soon as she finds her; the next time could be her last chance. She wonders how Ida is doing, trapped in a universe so far from home.

  Damaris shakes her head to clear it. She needs to focus, to stop thinking of Ida as a person. This will not help. She needs to get her job done, reach the target and convince said target of what is happening. She does not need to be distracted by any kind of emotional response to the girl. The target.

  Slipped

  ‘Have you spoken to Daisy recently?’ I ask Dad as he flicks through the channels on the television. He pauses in the steady rhythm and the telly shows the weather report. Rain, rain, foggy rain. Showers, clearing.

  He looks at me, eyebrows drawn. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you seen them around?’ There’s something in his face. ‘They’re a … friend?’

  He won’t blink. Bags under his eyes, silver in his hair, his face is made of years. ‘Ida,’ he finally says. ‘Ida.’

  ‘That’s my name.’ I try to grin but he still won’t blink.

  ‘Maybe we should talk about this later. Do you want to take a nap?’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Or have some tea?’

  I close my eyes.

  I’m in a cold bed. The lightdark was barely there, I didn’t feel it at all. Just slipped through. There’s sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains. It takes a moment, but I’m in my own room. I haven’t drawn the curtains in a long time – seeing them like that doesn’t feel right. I walk over, wrapped in my doona, and open them. My eyes become slits in the harsh light as I look out at the valley.

  The calendar says I’ve got work in an hour, so I find my work shirt. It doesn’t smell too bad and there aren’t any food stains on it, so I pull it on and head downstairs, suddenly aware that my stomach is empty as all hell and it’s trying to eat itself.

  The cereal’s gone in seconds and I drink the leftover milk. There are still fifteen minutes till I have to leave, so I make tea and sit in front of the telly. I’m not paying attention and my tea spills all over the couch arm.

  ‘Shit,’ I mutter and, instead of switching, I walk over to the sink and grab the cloth. I wipe up the spilt tea, dry it with a tea towel, and stare at the clean patch. Was that so hard? Like, did I really need to run from this my whole life and fuck everything up?

  It’s time for work, anyway, so I grab my keys and tie my shoes. Maybe I’ll call Daisy when work is over. Hopefully I’ve got their number. We could go to the movies. The house in this universe is clean, my calendar is filled out. Daisy must be here.

  I heave the air out of my lungs. It’ll be easier at work when I only have to think about coffee and who ordered what. Hopefully it won’t be too quiet, when each hour takes a whole day. The door’s half open when I pause. I wonder if I should say goodbye to Dad. It’d be better for the me who lives here, I guess, so I check and see if he’s asleep. I’m not even outside his room when his snores sound out.

  I whisper goodbye anyway and make my way to the car. It’s beginning to show rust on the roof. It cracks off paint as I run my hand over it; red dust comes off onto my skin.

  When I turn on the heating, the car shudders and starts whining. I roll my eyes. Gonna have to book the shitty thing for a service soon. The road isn’t long so I switch off the heating and lean into the bends. I could drive this road with my eyes closed. I pass the place where I had the crash and don’t pause at all. I used to get shivers when I’d think about near-death experiences, but there are too many now, not fresh enough to make me hollow. This one is barely a blip.

  The grass is still frozen from the cold on the edges of the car park. I park, take a deep breath, and go through the back door of the cafe.

  By nine o’clock I’ve set up everything and there are three people waiting by the door to come in. They’re shivering and by the look of the sky, it’s about to rain. I turn the sign around to open and unlock the door. The people come in, mumble their thank yous as they sit and start chattering in another language. Because we’re in a tourist park, we get mostly tourists. Tourists rarely complain about prices and are almost always decent. It’s the local arseholes who are the problem; I had to explain to one white guy that it’s not my fault the park was built with no ATMs. The concept seemed beyond him, though, and he shouted at me for five minutes.

  The different languages are my favourite thing about working here, maybe the only thing I like. Last week I had a stilted conversation with a bunch of German tourists and we laughed at my terrible pronunciation as they tried to correct me. I ended up giving them free coffee when my boss wasn’t looking. Thank fuck she’s not working today, there’s only so much I can handle of her. Tuesdays we’re dead so there’s only one staff member rostered on. I don’t really mind working alone, but it can be so boring. As the weather gets colder, fewer people are coming in, too.

  I drag the sign outside, prop it open. It’s advertising ice creams, a bit useless in this weather, but we’ve gotta put it out anyway. After that’s done I manage to get inside before it starts drizzling. I close the door and shut out the creeping breeze, but not before a few leaves make their way inside.

  I take the trio’s order in my messy handwriting and they down their coffees almost as soon as I bring them over. They leave without a goodbye.

  My phone buzzes in my hand and it’s an unknown number. The only calls I’m waiting for are for job applications, I think, and this could be one of them. I don’t know who it would be – maybe just one of the retail positions.

  I accept the call, and then I’m pulled away.

  It’s cold and I drift, make it out.

  My phone’s in my hand. I’m in the same position. The call’s coming. Who is it? I wait, but my phone doesn’t light up. A minute passes.

  I check the calls log; did I somehow miss it? There’s nothing there, the last c
all is from Dad two days ago.

  I muck around on my phone for a bit, nothing really grips me and I keep switching apps and end up in a puzzle game. After another ten minutes of waiting, there’s still no call. I sigh. Should have known they’d push me out into a place where I’m still stuck forever in my shitty job.

  The sky’s getting darker, the trees are starting to sway in the wind. There won’t be many customers today, I should have brought a book. I sigh, resting against the counter. I put on a quiet album, one that sounds like rain and winter and loneliness. Today’s going to be a long, long day.

  And I had to be right, didn’t I? There have been a grand total of five customers today and I’ve made myself three cappuccinos and a latte. Totally only to practise my latte art, of course … While I’m contemplating my dependence on caffeine and how really it’s only while I’m at work so maybe it’s okay, a customer walks in and sits, looking out the window.

  Even though I’d been wishing for customers all day, now that one’s here I just want them to leave. I was quite happy in my all-consuming boredom, thank you very much. I pull out my pen and pad and walk over.

  I clear my throat. ‘Hey, can I get you anything?’

  The customer turns and smiles up at me. ‘A long black, thank you.’

  I stop breathing and forget how to hold a pen. This customer is the person from the gallery, the one that knew my name. They’re not wearing a suit, this time. Just some black jeans and a loose stripy jumper. They haven’t slept in a while, looks like, and their hair is all mussed. I take a step back and go to close my eyes.

  ‘No, don’t!’ the gallery stranger says, and their voice is so panicked that I pause.

  Besides, I do want to know how they know my name. ‘All right,’ I say. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘A long black,’ they say, smiling wryly. This person has perfected the art of smiling wryly without making me feel beneath them. I might like to be beneath them, they’re attractive as all hell, but oh God what if they can read minds? They know about me, can they read minds?