A short story by MB Dahl with the help of Tammie, David, and Teresa who shared their words of the year to be included in the story.
Time and I have a love/hate relationship. I love to hate it. Maybe I should have said hate/hate. Time has no feelings, and all I am is feelings. A big bundle of messed-up feelings. Like I want to scream at the top of my lungs right now and take a running leap across the slowest opening drawbridge in the state of Maryland.
But I won’t do that because people might think I’m crazy. They’ll gasp and point and say, “Who’s that lunatic? She just tore by the crossbar and took a flying leap,” and I’d be screaming the whole way, “I’m going to be late for work. Get out of my way!” The words “I hate time” would be the last thing they hear before the splash. Because, of course, I wouldn’t make it. My long legs would tangle just as I stepped into the jump.
And it would all be for nothing anyway, because no one at my aunt’s law office even cares if I’m late. The ticking oppression of time pricks my soul with each passing second, but not theirs. At least not in relation to me. Whenever I finally get there, they will nod and give me a sad smile and ignore the time clock. I’m the poor daughter of my aunt’s brother who died in a boating accident. They give me all kinds of leeway with my punctuality challenges. Though, Aunt B promises me the “real” world won’t be so kind.
Nope. No one gets on me for being late, but I know. I know I’ve failed to meet an easy standard. I can’t blame the lady taking up the whole sidewalk with her ancient Cocker Spaniel, or the three old guys on their way to the coffeeshop or even the stranger in his million dollar sailboat who decided to head down Spa Creek at precisely eight forty, causing the drawbridge to go up and stop me in my tracks. I can’t blame any of them because it’s my own fault for being late. I laid in bed too long, couldn’t decide if it was a pants or skirt day, and forgot my phone and had to go back.
It is my own fault I can’t manage time, and that thought cuts me to the very core. Not for the minutes I’d lost because of my carelessness but for the person I’d lost. My inability to pay attention to the clock is the reason my dad died. No one else would ever spell it out so plainly, but I know it’s true. It’s something I’ll never be able to change.
A car honks on my left, and I realize I’m crying again. It’s been ten months since Dad’s accident, and I still cry at random times for no apparent reason. Except my Dad’s gone, and he was the only one who really understood me. The drawbridge finally lowers, and I practically jog the rest of the way.
Traffic’s backed up on Duke of Gloucester Street again. This is why I walk when I can. That, and I hate driving. Mom forced me to get my license before I decided to take my gap year after graduating and move down here. And then she gave me Dad’s Mini Cooper. My sixteen-year-old sister, Becky, griped for a month and made me drive her everywhere.
The fresh scent of mint greets me as I turn the ancient doorknob on Aunt B’s office door. The swinging sign, “Law Office of Beatrice McSally Reed,” hangs over the stoop. Everything about being in Annapolis makes me feel like I just stepped back in time. That’s probably why Dad liked it so much. He should have been a history professor instead of teaching physics.
As I click the door shut, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimes the quarter of the hour. Fifteen minutes late. “I’m here,” I call to Kelly, B’s sixty-something receptionist. I hear her mumbling and realize she’s on a call.
The foyer of the office is a mudroom. Nothing muddy about it, though. Aunt B has my grandfather’s vintage clock as the focal point of one wall, and three cubbies with our names on them grace the other side. I stuff my jacket into the cubby marked Harper. Then, I slip into the kitchen down the hall to put my sandwich in the fridge.
B pokes her head out of her office. “Good morning, sleepyhead. You didn’t budge when I said goodbye.”
I nod and smile. I had heard her leave, but I didn’t feel like talking. A bad dream had woken me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling I had missed something super important.
“Can I ask a favor of you?” She leans farther out the doorway. Her long, wavy hair falls past her shoulders. She’d look like a hippie in a heartbeat if you put a headband on her and swapped her cat-eye glasses for those small circular ones John Lennon wore. People say I look like her, but I think she’s prettier. “Would you mind heading back to the house and getting the folder I left on the side table of the screened porch? I forgot to grab it this morning.”
I stare at her for a good three seconds before responding. The frustrating events of my commute to work flit through my mind before I say, “Sure, Aunt B. No problem.”
She retreats back into her office, and I swivel on my left heel and head for the door. What I lack in time management, Aunt B. equals in her lack of organization. I think she would never make it as a lawyer if she didn’t possess the ability to argue her way out of a pit of angry influencers without breaking a sweat.
I know better than to point out the fact I just left the house, and it would have been helpful to know she needed something before I got all the way here. I never talk back to B. My mom, yes. Teachers sometimes. But not B. She offered me this internship because she knew I needed to get out of my house and away from my mother’s idea of the perfect boyfriend and be closer to the memory of my dad. And though B has never brought it up, I think she knows I’m a little broken. Not just from my dad, but just because I’m me.
The line of grumpy cars from before has moved on as I exit the law office. Now, the street is calm and clear. I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, and take off the jacket I had just put back on. October in Maryland is hotter than I’m used to. That’s when I see the messages I missed. Three texts and one phone call from B. Oops.
I had silenced my phone last night when my mom kept texting about the intern from her office she’d set me up with. “Joey Heckler asked about you.” I bet he asked about me. We’d gone out through spring semester. He had even taken me to my senior prom. Looking back, I can see how it was a joke to him. At the time, I couldn’t see anything, though. I needed the pain inside to stop. Instead, I added to it.
Joey Heckler is the second biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and how my mom can’t see this baffles me. Who encourages their seventeen-year-old daughter to go out with a frat boy from Penn State? I’m sure he charmed everyone in my mom’s office as the perfect picture of decorum and respect. But outside the office, Joey Heckler was a different story. A story I didn’t know how to handle. Not after losing my dad. Probably not ever.
I pick up my steps and make it across the bridge into Eastport without any slowdown. Two midshipmen jog past me in their blue shorts and white t-shirts. A thin layer of clouds stretches across the light blue sky, and speckles of color dapple the tired trees lining Severn Avenue.
B’s cottage is on Riverview Avenue. I stroll down Severn from Sixth Street. Everything in Eastport yearns for the sea. Only businesses specific to the maritime industry are allowed, except for restaurants. I pass a line of high-end eateries all in a row before I get to the quaint, colorful homes that have graced these streets for a hundred years, some even longer. I pass the Williams place. There is a sign out front about how it’s the oldest home in Eastport.
My favorites are on First Street. The old Inn at Horn Point always makes me slow down as I pass. A huge three-story house with a wrap-around porch, it’s the talk of Eastport. Aunt B says the neighborhood council is trying to get the owner to sell. At ninety-eight years old, Abigail Robertson Harris refuses to relinquish the jewel of her family. It’s not a jewel anymore, though. Her son, Mike, has turned it into a shabbily run apartment building. The porch sags in the middle. The backside has a different siding than the front, and the yard is overrun with someone’s wildflower patch gone am0k.
Plus, the people who live there are not without their own drama. I hear screaming as I approach.
“Take all your junk too.” A skinny girl in jeans and a red tank top throws a box of electronics into the yard from the side porch. It lands askew in a patch of daisies.
“What the—” the receiver of her tirade runs around from the front walkway. “You’re crazy.” He lobs his stuff back in the box while she strings words together I never thought would make a coherent sentence.
He flips her off, then jumps in his Ford Focus and whips out. The girl’s still on the porch, arms crossed in front of her. I catch sight of a little boy standing behind the screen door. He heard all of it.
Out of the corner of my eye, a shimmer of light, like a veil, glimmers over the doorway. I want to look back, but the girl is still standing there, and I don’t want to get involved. B’s house is down the next avenue and around the corner. I keep walking and nearly trip over the uneven bricks of the sidewalk.
It takes me ten seconds to grab B’s file. I can’t shake the shimmering light thing, though, so instead of skirting First Street where the inn is, I head back the way I came. The girl’s not on the porch now, so I take a closer look. The door looks normal. Must have been a reflection or something.
Whimpering comes from the bushes on the other side of the street, and two little feet poke out. I lean down to find tear-filled big blue eyes staring up at me. The little boy’s bottom lip is puffed over his top one. He’s dressed in only a pull-up, and red streaks mark his arms and chest where the bush has scratched him.
“Hi there.” I drop to my knees and swing the satchel with B’s folder in it over my back. “Looks like you’re in a prickly spot. How’d you get back there?”
He whimpers again. “I stuck.”
I take my jacket and hold the branches apart so the kid can squeeze through. He tumbles into me and wraps his arms around my neck, crying like I’d pulled him from a raging river. I have zero experience with kids. Babysitting was never my after-school job. Kids are sticky, noisy, and smell bad, and this kid hit all three of those in the fraction of five seconds.
I am scared to pick him up because I don’t want his lunatic mom to come out and use her middle-school vocabulary on me, so I pull out of his little grasp and take his hand. “Let’s get you home.” Then I notice his bare feet, so I pick him up anyway and carry him to the porch.
“Hey, what are you doing with my kid?” the girl yells through the screen door.
I still have his hand. “I found him across the street in some bushes. I was just bringing him back.” He swings my hand back and forth and looks up at me with those big blue eyes. “He-” I pause. “What’s your name, kid?”
The screen door slams open, and the angry chick crosses her arms and looks me up and down. “That’s none of your business.”
I nod. Not being part of this is fine with me. I peel my hand loose. “Okay, bye.” As I begin to turn, I notice the shimmering light thing again. It’s right behind the girl in the doorway. I stop. The girl wipes a tear from her cheek, and I don’t think first. Instead, I say, “Are you okay? I heard you with that guy.”
The anger creasing her brows melts, and more tears flow. The kid grabs my leg, and I immediately regret getting involved, except the light shroud is still there. She waves me inside. As she steps back, the light dissolves, and the doorway is normal again.
I follow her in, if for no other reason than to make sure the kid is safely inside and to see if there is something causing the screen door to light up. As I walk through the doorway, I hear buzzing like when you’re near a transformer.
She guides me into what I guess used to be a sitting room but now serves as her studio apartment. This house is huge, but she doesn’t even have an actual bedroom. A curtain separates her room from the front living room. And an Asian-printed divider blocks the other entry into the kitchen.
“I’m hungry,” the kid says. A bad odor wafts from the kitchen, something you might smell in the alley behind a restaurant. I can’t see much past the divider, but I get the sense there are piles of dirty dishes on the other side.
“Here.” The girl tosses him a few pieces of Halloween candy from a bowl sitting on her small table. She motions to a chair. “Have a seat.” Now that I have a better look at her, I realize she’s not a girl but a woman. I figured her to be my age, but she’s got to be in her mid to late twenties at least. “I’m Celeste, and this is Ollie.” She pulls the little boy to her and tousles his blonde mop. “I’ve seen you around. Are you in the condos?”
“No, I live with my aunt. I couldn’t afford anything down here.” I look back at the doorway. No light and nothing that could be causing it. I slide into the chair.
“Yeah, it’s crazy. The only reason I can live here is because my family owns it.” Ollie snatches another piece of candy and runs and jumps onto the futon pushed against the far wall, blocking the unused fireplace. “My grandpa said I could stay here for a few months until I find something. It’s rent-free. That’s why I don’t have an actual door or anything.”
Music blares from upstairs. It sounds like screamer metal or something. “You’re related to Abigail Robertson Harris?” I can’t hide my surprise.
She laughs. “I’m named after the grand dame of the family, Celeste Robertson. She was my great, great grandmother. What’s your name?” A breeze blows through the open window and whips up the scent of old cigarettes from the ashtray on the table.
“Harper. Harper Reed. I grew up near Philadelphia, but my dad was from Annapolis, and my aunt’s still here.” My throat gets tight. I clear it. “She’s waiting on me to bring something to her at work, so I better get going.”
Before I can get up, Celeste grabs my wrist. Not too tight, but enough to send a jolt through me. “I’m not a bad mom, you know.”
I can’t help it. My gaze circles around the table. Dirty bowl of dried cereal and old milk at nine o’clock. Full cigarette dish at five, and a half-drunk bottle of beer by Celeste’s other hand. When I finally make it back to her eyes, a thought strikes me. She has a story.
My dad used to say everyone has a story. He didn’t think the adage “You can’t judge a book by its cover” said enough. He would always follow it up with, “Everyone has a story.” Everyone’s choices and life circumstances form their story. For some, their stories are told for them. Celeste seemed to be one of those people. Someone whose life had more downs than ups. Someone whose mistakes dictated where her story would go. Like how Joey Heckler caused me to leave Lansdowne and come here. And my mom’s inability to grieve has left me with an even bigger hole in my heart. And how losing my dad has made everything feel tired and useless.
But then my dad would say some people write their own stories. They understand themselves. They navigate their downs as tools to betterment instead of stepping stones to despair. They create out of their brokenness. I never quite understood that, but a deep part of me really wants it to be true.
Celeste’s eyes meet mine, and I see the longing for redemption there. She’s an injured animal, hoping for help but also scared to accept it.
“We all have our stories,” I say, hearing my dad’s voice in my head. “I don’t tell people this—” I lower my voice. “But I don’t even like kids very much. They’re sticky and loud. You’ve been able to keep Ollie alive and happy. That’s no small feat.”
Ollie’s now spread out on the bed with Celeste’s phone, giggling at a video. He looks up at me and smiles like he’s saying, “Thanks, Lady,” and didn’t just hear what I said.
Celeste loosens her grip and laughs. “I’m not sure you can call this living.” She leans back like we are old friends. I glance toward the door. The light thing isn’t there, but the hum is back. It had died off after I sat down, but it’s there lightly buzzing behind me. Celeste doesn’t seem to notice. “I always wanted kids.” Her mouth tilts upward in a sad smile. “I begged Ollie’s dad to let me keep— I mean have kids. He always said no. Said he ain’t fit to be anyone’s father.”
I check my phone— a quarter to ten. B will wonder where I am, but I’m not sure how to get out of here or if I should. Maybe I have some part to play in Celeste’s story. “Where is he, Ollie’s dad?”
“Dead.” She took a swig from the beer bottle.
The word hits me like a slap in the face.
“He got hit by a car two months ago. That’s why we’re here.” She starts to cry and sadness slurs her words together. “He didn’t want kids, but he loved little Ollie and me, and I should have picked him up like he wanted me to, but I was busy, and I knew he was probably drinking again, and I told him he could walk it off.”
I froze as she spoke. The intensity of her despair opened up my own well of sadness. I’ve been living in this place for the last ten months. I want to tell her it’s not her fault. She couldn’t have known, but I can’t. I can’t because it’s not true for me. It is my fault. I got the time mixed up. I didn’t care enough to make sure I was right. Dad should never have been on the water when that ship came through. Everyone said he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he hadn’t been there, the accident never would have happened, and he would still be here.
Celeste strikes a match and tries to light one of the cigarette stubs.
I swallow. Focus. I’ve got to say something. I can’t just leave. But what do you say? There are no words to fix anything like this. I know this too well. All I can manage is a lame “I’m sorry.” And then tears flood my eyes. One of those heavy sobs is coming. I need to get out of here.
Celeste looks up at me. I’m not sure if my pitiful attempt at comfort offended her.
Popping up, I nearly knock my chair over. “I’m late. I need to get back to my aunt’s office.” My voice cracks, and the words barely make it past the lump of emotion clogging my throat. I don’t wait for her to respond. All I think is I’ve got to get out of here before I start to really cry. It’s hard to breathe.
Three things happen simultaneously. I swivel on my heel and bolt for the screen door. The hum gets louder, and the shroud of light appears between me and the door. As I go through it and out the door, a shock pulls all the hairs on my body up a fraction.
The door falls shut behind me.
Birds chitter in the bush by the sidewalk, and the bright blue boards of the porch look almost like the blue in the clear sky. I take two steps and stop. I can’t just leave like this. I turn around and crack the door open to say goodbye, but Celeste isn’t there. The table, the futon, Ollie, they’re all gone. Instead a small sofa, two chairs, a coffee table, and the entrance to a bright kitchen look back at me.
“What?” I step inside. Where Celeste’s table by the window had been, there is now a long, slender sideboard with a beautiful flower arrangement. A lush oriental rug graces the dark hardwood, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafts from the kitchen.
A woman in a flower print dress and an apron moves to a drawer and takes out a set of potholders. As she walks out of view, she hums a tune. When she returns, she notices me. “Oh, hello. I didn’t hear you knock. Just a second. I need to get the bread out.” She disappears into the kitchen.
My skin tingles. I go back out onto the porch. It’s blue. Was it always blue? Rocking chairs and small tables line the porch. Instead of weedy wildflowers overtaking the yard, there are hydrangeas and a well-kept lawn. The house across the street is gone, as are the line of condos on the other side of Chesapeake Avenue.
“Did you want a room?” The woman holds the screen door open. “We have two available.”
“What?” I stumble and catch myself on a rocking chair.
“Are tight pants the new fashion?” She points to my pants and blouse. “I’ve seen some pictures. Are you from New York?”
I look down at my clothes. My jacket. I left my jacket inside the house, but it’s not the old, beat-up house anymore. It is, but it isn’t. “Where’s Celeste? What just happened?”
A huge smile takes over her already friendly face. “I’m Celeste. Celeste Robertson.” She holds her hand out. “It’s nice to meet you. And you are?”
Her hand takes mine and shakes it, but it feels like I’m watching everything happen. I somehow manage to speak. “Harper Reed.”
She loosens her hold. “Reed. Seems like we had another Reed not too long ago. I’ll have to check the guest book. Is that how you heard of us? So far, word of mouth has been pretty good for bringing people. And the Naval Academy, of course.” She turned. “C’mon in. I’ll get you a muffin and some coffee.”
I take a step back. “No, I gotta go.” I tear down the side steps. The same steps the other Celeste had thrown the box of electronics from. I bolt onto the sidewalk. The new bricks are lined up neatly. Nothing’s the same. I run toward Severn Avenue. Murphy’s row is on the right where it’s supposed to be, but not the same. Two men in trousers with suspenders standing on the sidewalk give me sharp looks.
The Williams’ house on the corner is there, but the sail shop across the street has been replaced by a wooded lot. A glass factory stands where the shipping company used to be. The Marina is there, but not all the shops. As I turn on Sixth Street to head across Spa Creek to my aunt’s office, I stop. There’s no bridge.
“Where’s the bridge?” I say to no one, but a man walking by pauses.
“It’s right there.” He points to the right. “On Fourth Street, where it’s always been.”
I backtrack. There is a bridge on Fourth. For the first time, I take a good look at the people. Men mostly walked the streets. A lot in work clothes. Coveralls, pants, everyone with a cap on. And the few women who were out and about wore pullover dresses in plaids and prints. I looked more like one of the men than the women. I should have chosen skirt day.
Deep down, I know what this is— what it had to be, but how? My dad used to talk about the physics of time travel. I thought it was the perfect blend for his love of history and physics. And as much as he always tried to convince me it was possible, the conversations usually ended in laughs and talking about how cool it would be to see Elvis in concert or the Declaration of Independence get signed.
I remember one time Dad halting the laughter and saying, “It’s no small thing to travel in time. It can change lives for the better and the worse.” Then, Mom made some comment about Back to the Future, and the laughter started again.
Once Dad had tried to explain the physics of time travel, what to look for, how it could happen, but I hadn’t paid attention because it wasn’t supposed to be possible. What if my being here screws up something? What if I cause someone else not to exist anymore? And what if I can never get back?
One thing at least is for sure. The sky is bluer in the past. I decide to go back to Celeste’s. The light thing must have been a portal or something.
Within two knocks on the door, the older Celeste is back, beaming and happy as ever. She’s a complete opposite of the sad woman I had left in the present.
“You’re back.” She opened the door wide. “We’re down to one room now, but I have saved it just for you.”
I really hope I’m not spending the night here. “Thanks,” I say.
A small girl about five years old comes running from the front living room. “Mommy, Barkley needs a cookie.” She lifts up a little sock dog and ruffs.
“Abigail, we have a guest.” Celeste turns the girl toward me. “Say hello to Miss Reed.”
“She’s wearing boy pants.”
Celeste’s hand goes over Abigail’s chubby face to her mouth. “Excuse her. She is not into the latest trends yet.”
Abigail wiggles free. “You want to play with me.” When I don’t respond, she runs into the front room and then bounds back with another sock dog. “You can be Puddles.”
“Puddles?” I say and take the dog.
Abigail giggles. “Yeah, cause she is supposed to be an outside dog.”
I can’t believe Abigail Robertson Harris is standing in front of me, coming up to my waist, with pigtails, a pink dress, and shiny black shoes. I think of everything I know about her. The sad story I just heard from her great granddaughter. How her son supposedly lost the family fortune because he has no self-control. How at one time this house served as the mainstay of Eastport. Next to the Williams home, the Inn at Horn Point…hey, I am actually standing in the real Inn at Horn Point— the one on the placard on the street.
Celeste squeezes my arm. “You don’t have to play doggy puppets. I’ll get you a muffin now. Do you like coffee?” Celeste looks like her granddaughter. Thin and beautiful, everything the younger Celeste could be if life had treated her differently.
“Yes,” I say a little louder than I intended. “And I can play with Abigail for a few minutes, if we can play in here.” So I can be near where the light shroud thing was. I don’t say that last part. There’s no light or humming. Nothing. I don’t understand.
Abigail plops on the floor, and I join her.
“I suppose pants are better for playing.” She crawls to the couch and grabs a thin pillow. “Let’s put these guys to bed.”
As I lay Puddles on the pillow next to Barkley, Abigail pushes my dog off. “No, Barkley doesn’t like to share. This is his bed. Get your own.”
I sigh. This is another reason I don’t like kids. They’re naturally selfish, and it’s acceptable.
Celeste brings out a tray with a muffin, napkin, and coffee. “I’ll be right back. I want to check something.”
I grab the napkin and lay it over Puddles. “There you go, Puddles. Sleep well.”
Abigail yanks the napkin away. “Barkley wants it.”
Good grief. I roll my eyes, but then I think about Abigail’s future son and how he is spoiled and unable to control himself, and I yank the napkin back. “Sorry, this Puddle’s. You’ll need to get another one for Barkley or he will have to go without.”
Abigail snaps up and looks at me like I grew another head. “What?”
“You heard me.” I take a sip of coffee. It might be the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.
“But he wants it.” Her bottom lip puffs out.
It’s the same look Ollie gave me. It shores up my reserve, and I lean toward her and with the quietest voice say, “It’s not good for toy dogs or real children to always get what they want. It makes them selfish, and they grow up to be people who spend their family’s fortune, ruin their home, and stick their granddaughter and her son in a side room with no doors, no food, and no one to help them out of the horrible pit they’ve found themselves in. Do you want to be like that?”
She wags her head no. Her eyes are saucers.
“Good,” I say. “Then tell Barkley no sometimes. It will be good for him.” A low hum starts behind me. No weird light shroud, but the hum’s a good sign. I jump up just as I see the faint shimmering of light.
“I knew you looked familiar.” Celeste comes bounding in with a book in her hand. “You said your last name is Reed, right?”
I don’t take my eyes off the light. It’s getting thicker, and the humming louder.
Celeste holds the book up. “Look, I guess this is where you heard about us?” She points to a signature. “Jonathon Reed.”
My heart stops. “What?”
She hands the book to me, and there, as plain as ever, is my dad’s signature and a date. July 10, 1933. “He was here?”
Celeste takes the book from my limp hands. “Just a few months ago. Did he tell you about the inn?”
I reach back for the chair, but it’s not there because I’m not in the present. The humming is getting louder, and the shroud of light is fully covering the doorway now. “Do you see that?” I point to the light.
Celeste looks out the door and shakes her head. “What?”
Abigail butts between us. “Mommy, I think Barkley needs to take his nap in his own bed not the parlor.”
Too many things are happening in this moment. The doorway which I feel certain somehow is my way home shines in front of me. My dad’s signature is in a book, saying he traveled here two months ago, and the crazy fact that this is even happening keeps my feet from moving. No one will believe me.
“Are you okay?” Celeste touches my arm.
I look into her bright eyes. “Jonathan Reed is my dad. I haven’t seen him—” I swallow. “In a while.”
“Oh.” A look of understanding fills Celeste’s kind face. “He did seem to be unsure of himself. Said he hadn’t been home in a long time. If it helps, I think he really misses you and your brother and sister. He talked about you a lot.”
“Really?” The hum got louder, and I had the distinct feeling I needed to leave now or I wouldn’t be able to, but I had questions. “Did he say why he came here?”
“So strange. He said he didn’t know why he came here. He only stayed a few days— I don’t think he ever figured out what he needed to do. He met with everyone. My husband, the neighbors, even my parents. The only person he didn’t spend time with was Abigail.”
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I need to go. I grab Celeste’s hand then throw my arms around her. “Thank you.” Then, I turn and rush through the shroud of light and out the screen door.
Two steps, and I’m standing on a gray porch with wildflowers reaching over the edge. I’m back. I turn and bolt into Celeste’s makeshift apartment, but it’s not there. Instead there’s a comfortable sitting room, complete with a bookcase and table of fall flowers, and the scent of apple cider wafts from the kitchen.
A door slams and a boy runs in from the kitchen, “Ollie?” I blurt out. It’s the same kid, but he’s fully dressed, hair combed, and he’s holding a badminton racket in his chubby three-year-old hand.
Two other kids follow, both a few years older. Ollie looks back at them. “Let’s play.” Then to me, “Thanks, again.” He and the others run past me.
Celeste follows from the kitchen. It’s the first Celeste, the broken one, but she’s put together and smiling like I didn’t think possible. “Oh, are you still here?” she says. “Thank you again for helping Ollie find the shuttlecock.”
As she speaks, a memory flashes into my head. I stopped on my way back to the office to help Ollie find his shuttlecock that got knocked into a bush. I see my jacket on the sofa.
“I forgot my jacket.” I grab it.
“Harper? It’s Harper right?”
I nod, still feeling like I’m in an episode of some strange sci-fi show.
“Ollie’s dad and I would love to have you and your aunt over for dinner sometime. Maybe on Saturday?”
Right now, I think I’ll be glad to never step back into this house again, but I nod anyway. “I’ll ask her. I gotta go.” This time I exit and nothing weird happens. The kids are playing in the yard. The wildflowers reaching for the porch are part of a special irrigation pond system. There’s now a small bridge linking the house to the sidewalk.
Everything is back to normal. The row houses look like they always have. The condos are back. The bridge is on Sixth instead of Fourth, but I don’t think anything will be the same again.
My dad had been in the past. He must have traveled there before he died. I wish I would have kept the page with his signature from Celeste’s guest book—I needed something to prove all of this wasn’t in my head. I now had two sets of memories. The one where I find Ollie in the bushes, and the second one.
What made it all change? And what else has changed? I take a deep breath as I crest the bridge and look down Spa Creek at the sailboats lined up. I want my dad to not be dead, but that memory remains unchanged.
I pick up my pace to Aunt B’s office. Bursting in, I call, “I’m back.” Kelly’s on the phone again and waves. I march straight to see B. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” I take a breath.
B looks up from the mound of papers on her desk. She glances at the large clock on her wall as it begins to chime. “It’s only ten. I’d say you made pretty good time walking a mile and back.
Only ten? It feels like I’ve been gone for hours. “I stopped to help the little boy who lives at the Horn Point Inn.”
“Ollie?” B smiles. “He’s so cute with those big chubby cheeks.” She takes the file from me and sets it on her desk. “I met Celeste the other day when I went to give my condolences about her grandmother.”
“Abigail’s dead?” I blurt out.
“I thought I told you. Yes, Miss Abigail died peacefully in the house with her family around her. She left the house to her granddaughter. It was a bit of a scandal that her son, Mike didn’t get it. He really wanted it, but he took it like a champ. He said his momma always told him it wasn’t good for people to get everything they want.”
I don’t know what to say. B went back to work, and I fade down the hallway. Kelly is still on the phone, but she points toward the mudroom. A young guy around my age is standing with a hat in his hands and a serious look on his face.
I shake off the craziness of the last hour. “May I help you? Are you here to see Beatrice?” My phone dings, but I ignore it.
The guy’s dark brown eyes are deep. “No, actually, I’m here to see you.”
“Me?”
“You’re Harper, right?” His navy suit has silver buttons and pin stripes. A white envelope sticks out of his front pocket. He extends a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I shake his hand. Worry sidles up to curiosity inside me. Handsome strangers don’t come looking for me. Ever. “Should I know you?”
His smile broadens. “No, but I have a feeling we will be good friends one day. May we speak outside?” He opens the door. I follow.
“First, I want to say congratulations. We have had three travelers visit the Robertson’s, and you’re the first to make a real impact.” He pauses, and the worry and curiosity inside me clamor over one another and hold my mouth shut. I can only nod. He leans toward me and whispers, “It was the little girl.” He straightens. “No one else saw that. Good job.”
“It really happened,” I whisper. My mind jumps in ten different directions. I’m not sure what question to ask first. A line of cars take off when the light changes and file by behind him.
Before I can ask anything, he holds up a hand. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Persival Tupilla.” His full bangs fall forward, and he shakes his head to move them back. “My friends call me Val.” I shake his hand, and I feel a slight tingle ripple across my palm and up wrist. I pull away.
“I know you have a lot of questions, and I wish I could explain everything, but a lot of it just needs to be experienced. It’s all about community, you know. We’re all in this together, helping one another. Everyone has a role to play, a seed to plant. That is if they’re willing. Are you willing, Harper Reed?”
My heart pounds at my chest. A breeze with the sharp edge to hit whips up the sidewalk, and B’s sign creaks overhead. “This is a lot. I’m still processing.”
Val holds up his hands and smiles. “I know. It’s a lot.” He has an easy way about him, a familiarity with my thoughts. “You’re not alone, though. And you’re not the first one to go through a window. Although you might be the first one to accidentally do it.”
“A window? You mean the light shroud thing?”
“Yeah, it’s an opportunity— a chance to help someone. You know, this wasn’t the first window to come across your path. It’s just the first one you noticed.”
“What? I am pretty sure I have never seen a time portal pop into the air before.” My phone chimes again.
“Are you sure?” Val motions to my phone. “Or have you just been too distracted to notice?” His light jab hits its mark. “Anyway, there are some rules. I don’t actually know who came up with these rules, but you have to follow them or you could really mess things up. Ready?”
So far, he hasn’t answered very many of my questions. Right now the biggest one is about my dad having visited the Robertsons.
Val holds up a finger. “First rule, you can’t tell anyone. I know this sounds like a red flag, especially since it’s coming from a complete stranger, but trust me. You do not want to tell anyone. Your life will never be the same and not in a good way. Got it?”
I nod.
“Rule number two, always take the window. I know this seems a little weird, but you’re supposed to travel in time, not stay in time. If a window opens, it’s for a purpose. Once the purpose is fulfilled, you’ll return home.” The sureness in his voice sank, and he cut his eyes away from mine. “Most of the time.
“And rule number three, just be yourself. Don’t force it. Don’t even try to figure it out. Just be in the moment and do what you think is right. I’ve seen people really screw up but then it’s exactly what needs to happen. I’ve also seen people try really hard, like in the case of your predecessors and Miss Abigail, and completely fail. Just be who you are and trust it’s exactly what’s needed.”
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a card. “Here’s my information.” The antique white card has a linen feel to it. The words CREATE – A Time-Slip Society is on the front with Val’s name in the bottom left corner. “On the back are instructions for making contact.” I flip it over. The instructions are an equation which reminds me of my dad but also looks like a foreign language to me.
Val laughs. “Yeah, I had the same look on my face the first time I saw it. You’ll figure it out. The next time you go through a window it will make more sense too. Any questions?”
“My dad.” I force the words out. “Jonathan Reed.” I hold my breath.
Val’s dark eyes flicker with understanding. He pulls the envelope from his jacket pocket. “He said to give this to you.”
The envelop has the same linen feel to it as the business card, and my name is written in my dad’s handwriting. “And he also asked me to emphasize that you don’t have to do this. What we do is a choice.” He leaned forward. “It’s a also a gift. That part’s from me. You’re dad only said it’s your choice, but I think you should also know there are only a few of us who have the exact set of markers needed to see the doorway, and even fewer have the constitution to go through the split. You have both, and these things shouldn’t be squandered.”
I slip the envelope from his hands and hold it like it might break.
“Of course,” Val continued. “Jonathan’s correct. This life is a choice and not for everyone. It will require sacrifices, and it takes more than it gives, but it’s worth it.” The conviction in his voice moved my gaze from the envelop to his sure eyes. “There’s nothing like what we do. We help them. Sometimes it’s just with a word or two, like with you and Abigail. Other times it’s pulling someone back from the edge or giving them the push they need.”
This is way too much to process, especially standing outside my aunt’s office with a letter from my dad in my hands. “I really need to think this over.” My hands are shaking.
“That’s understandable.” Val taps my shoulder, and I look into his dark brown eyes. “Just know if you ignore the window too many times, it will stop being shown to you.”
I don’t really care about the window or what happened with Abigail or any of it right now. I want to look inside the envelop.
Val tips his hat. “Okay, nice to meet you. I’m sure I will see you again. Time for me to go.”
Before I can say thanks, Val takes two steps back turns toward Compromise Street and then disappears mid step. I look around to see if anyone noticed, but no one did.
My phone chimes again. I check, and I’ve gotten four texts from my mother. I put it back in my jacket and sink down to the steps. I’ll deal with her later. Right now, I have to see what is inside this envelope.
The back is sealed with a gold stamp. I tear it open and read:
#
Dear Harp,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve gone through a window. I knew you would see one. We share the same markers. I could see them in you, but you know, rule #1. I couldn’t tell you. I had hoped we would be called to the same window one day, and then there would be no need for silence.
I asked Val to make sure you understand you have a choice. You have a gift few have, but you have a choice to use it or not. I have had this same choice. It’s not always been easy. You go through the window, and you don’t know what you will find or when you will return, but you always know you have a chance to do good— to help someone else on their journey.
That’s why, when the window opened on the boat, I only hesitated for a second. I knew there could be complications. Windows on the water and in the air are not as dependable as the ones on solid ground, but I took the chance, and someone lived because of it.
I miss you and your brother and sister. My heart aches for you. Please know I would have come back to you if I could. I love you. If you want, we can communicate through Val. Give him a letter, and he will see I get it. And maybe one day the windows will bring us to one another.
Forever and always,
Your crazy dad who loves you more than you will ever know.
#
Tears splash onto the page. I read it again and again until some grumpy lady comes up and wants to go into B’s office.
He’s alive. My dad’s alive, and it wasn’t my fault. I hug the letter to my chest and whisper, “Thank you.”
My phone chimes, breaking the moment. It’s my mother again. I open the texts, and it dawns on me my dad didn’t mention my mother in the letter, just me, Wes, and Becky.
Mom’s texts are a litany of requests for me to not break Joey’s heart, to respond to his texts, to make a clean break and not just disappear because “he’s a really great boy and deserves to be treated better.” The last one mentions something about Joey hanging out with the family, and I see where this is going, and there’s no way that frat boy is going to date my sister. I text back a short message.
Joey is bad news. I’ll call you tonight and tell you why.
I want to add “stop texting me. I’m at work,” but I don’t. Part of this is my own fault. It had never occurred to me to tell my mom about Joey. I was embarrassed and hurt and didn’t want anyone to know, especially not her, but she’s my mom, and this is my truth.
It’s strange how we tell ourselves lies and ignore the facts. I had convinced myself I killed my dad by telling him the wrong time to meet his friend on the bay. Celeste blamed herself for her boyfriend’s death. If something bad happens, it must be our fault. I don’t think it’s a righteous desire to take responsibility and own our mistakes that motivates this kind of blaming and shame. I think these lies come from us refusing to deal with the truth because sometimes the truth is so bad, it’s easier to just blame ourselves.
Dating Joey Heckler was a mistake, but not saying anything to anyone may have been an even greater one. It gave the lie more power and made the truth seem small and weak. But that’s the lie. The truth is greater, and the truth is what sets us free.
I know the truth about my dad now, and my heart leaps inside me. And in a few hours the truth will be out about Joey and me, and I feel like the chains are falling off, and I am ready for whatever comes next.
(From Mary Beth: Let me know what you think! I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment on the blog post!)
And for more on the history of Eastport, click HERE! The markers mentioned in the story are taken from the actual ones you can find lining the streets of Eastport.
Great story. I wasn’t sure at first because it’s not typically my genre, but once I got into it was easy to stay engaged and follow. Interested in reading more.
Thanks for reading and for the encouragement! I’m working on more stories. Stay tuned!