Time Between Us

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I bet everything will be better in the morning.” He pats my back, and I head for the stairs. “Annie.” I turn to look at him. “If it’s not better, come find me. Okay?”

  I smile and trudge up the stairs. My room looks just like it did when I left it. I was supposed to wash that pile of clothes this morning before I went shopping. My textbooks and notebooks are stacked haphazardly on the desk. My bed is still unmade.

  This can’t be it. I walk to the window and look down, hoping to see Bennett’s car pull into the driveway. I picture him sitting on his bed, holding the letter, and the helpless look on his face when—for the first time ever—he watched someone disappear before his eyes.

  The letter.

  That day he heard my name in the dining hall, he knew exactly who I was. He knew we were together here. And he knew he would leave and not come back. He knew it all, and I knew nothing.

  And suddenly, everything about his first month in Evanston makes sense. He didn’t want to meet anyone because he didn’t plan to stay, and he didn’t want to know me because he knew eventually we’d be separated. But he gave me the choice. I remember exactly what he said that day, when we sat on the top of the rock we had just climbed. You exist in 2012, just like I do, in a future that doesn’t include me. Just knowing me…will change your whole life. He wasn’t only letting me choose to be with him while he was here. He was letting me choose whether or not I wanted to be that Anna. The girl he left heartbroken at sixteen, who grew up and hadn’t forgotten about him.

  I remember her words. My words.

  I got stuck on the wrong path.

  You will leave for good.

  I just need to make a different decision this time.

  I think that will change everything.

  I have no idea what those words mean. What different decision am I supposed to make? What’s supposed to change?

  The street is quiet and dark, lit by a full moon and a cloudless sky full of stars. I cross the room until I’m standing in front of my map, and I touch my finger to Evanston, Illinois. I run it all the way to the left until it stops on the spot marked SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. If only we were separated by this distance. But we’re not. We’re separated by this distance plus seventeen years.

  I take a pin out of the box and stare at it. I spin it between my fingertips. Maybe if I just picture it, maybe if I want it enough, I can take myself somewhere else too. I bring the red plastic tip to my lips and close my eyes, as if I have Bennett’s gift, and I will myself to disappear from this room and reappear in his. I picture the view from the window and the bowl full of ticket stubs and the desk and the bed, and I close my eyes tighter and let the vision of the space fill my head as I repeat the words “May 21, 2012. May 21, 2012” aloud, over and over again, in a whisper.

  When I open my eyes, I’m still here, holding my pitiful little pin and standing in front of my map of the world with tears streaming down my face.

  I look at the dot marked SAN FRANCISCO. The pin makes a sad little pop as it pierces the surface.

  I sit up with a start and grab the clock from the nightstand. Ten twenty-two. In the morning? When did I get into bed? How could I have fallen asleep? That’s when it all comes back to me: I got knocked back here, and Bennett’s still gone.

  I throw on my running clothes, race downstairs, and bolt out the door, ignoring my mom’s chiding about sleeping the day away, her prodding me to eat before I exert myself, and her questions about why I’m training on a Sunday in the first place. But I’m not training; I’m running.

  When I arrive at Maggie’s, four blocks away, I notice immediately that Bennett’s car isn’t in the driveway, and my stomach plummets so far and with such speed that I fear I may throw up again. I leap onto the porch and ring the doorbell.

  There’s no answer.

  I ring again and wait.

  I peek through the sheer curtains into the living room for any sign of activity, but there’s nothing. No movement. No sound. Where is he? Where is Maggie? I lean my back against the window and bury my face in my hands. What now?

  My brain doesn’t come up with any good ideas, so I obey my feet instead, which are telling me in no uncertain terms to go back to the parking lot—to the last place I saw Bennett where he was supposed to be. Or rather, not supposed to be—but where I wanted him to be. Here. In my town.

  My gait feels stiff and awkward as my feet pound against the cement, but as the scenery goes by in a blur, it’s what my eyes are taking in that’s just plain wrong. The sun is casting a warm glow on each house I pass, igniting the patches of rosebushes and new tulips that act as colorful dividers between red-brick walkways and lawns so green they nearly sparkle. The air I’m breathing in is warm and humid, and unlike the cold that prickles against the lining of my lungs, this air makes me feel like I’ve inhaled a pillow and it’s suffocating me from the inside out.

  Two miles later, I finally arrive at the office building and come to a full stop. Bennett’s car is gone, and for a moment, I let myself think maybe the whole thing was just a dream after all. But then I spot the amorphous blob of puke changing color in the hot sun, and that’s all I need to confirm that it was real.

  I feel the tears start to well up behind my eyes, but I push them down and turn back the way I came instead. There’s nowhere else to go, so I run back to Maggie, the only person who might know where he is. Or at least where his car went.

  I wind back through the same neighborhood, past the same houses and cars I ran by just minutes before. When I see the street sign for Greenwood up ahead, I pick up my pace, and that’s when I see Bennett’s Jeep moving toward me. The right-turn signal starts flashing and the car turns and moves out of sight.

  I fly around the corner just in time to see his car pull in to the driveway. He’s home. I feel my feet kick into a totally new gear I didn’t even realize I had. I knew he’d come home. “Bennett!” I yell as I slap my palm against the rear window and race around to the driver’s-side door. “Bennett!”

  The door opens slowly and I watch Maggie plant her feet on the cement and carefully lower herself onto the driveway. “I’m afraid not.” Her voice is soft, controlled. I crowd Maggie’s path as I lean past her, looking in at the passenger side, into the backseat. It’s empty.

  “Where is he? Maggie, where’s Bennett?”

  She closes the door behind her, shutting off my view of the interior. Her silver hair glimmers in the sunlight, her face is drawn, and her eyes—Bennett’s eyes—seem to be searching mine for something she can’t quite put her finger on. “You really don’t know where he is, do you?” she asks.

  I shake my head, even though it’s not entirely true. I know where he is. I could tell her, but she’d never believe me.

  She wraps her arm around my shoulder and guides me toward the porch. “Come on in. Let’s talk.” On shaky legs I let her lead me up the steps, and I follow her into the house and wait while she hangs her coat and purse in the closet. I trail after her into the kitchen and stand in uncomfortable silence while she takes two teacups out of the hutch and fills a kettle with water.

  She looks back and sees me leaning against the doorframe for support, shuffling and fidgeting. “Relax. Have a seat.” Maggie points to the kitchen table and turns her attention back to the tea bags. I sit.

  I should be thinking about what I’m going to say to her, but instead I just look around the room, taking in the stark white cupboards, the dark granite countertop, the flower vase on the windowsill. My eyes settle on a stained-glass mountain scene that’s affixed to the kitchen window by a suction cup and a hook, and I follow the stream of sunlight as it shoots through the colored glass and transforms itself into orange and blue and green streams of light that streak across the room and land on the white table.

  “My daughter made that for me in high school,” Maggie says from across the room. She doesn’t give me time to respond, which is good, because I don’t
know what to say anyway. “I love the way the light comes through that window. Those colors just take my breath away.” She puts the teacup in front of me, and a streak of blue light bounces off its side.

  “I’ve just come from the police station,” Maggie says as she takes her seat. “They found Bennett’s car in an empty parking lot last night. The alarm was sounding, and a neighbor finally called to complain.” She lifts her cup to her mouth and takes a sip.

  “Oh, really?”

  She gives me a suspicious look over the rim of her cup. “Weren’t you together last night?”

  I reach for the tea but my hands are shaking too much, so I just slide the saucer closer to me instead. “Yes, we were together. We went to the movies with some friends. We parked in that lot.” I look at her. “And then we got in a fight, I walked home, and I haven’t seen him since.” To my own ears, I sound rehearsed, but I hope I’m telling her enough pieces of the truth to keep her suspicion at bay.

  “And you don’t know where he went?”

  I shake my head no, even though this time it’s a lie. I know where he went, but again, she’d never believe me.

  “Well, I have no reason to spend my time trying to track down a Northwestern student who’s simply renting a room from me. Why would I go through all that trouble for a complete stranger, right?” There’s a certain bitterness and sense of bravado in her words that confirms what I already know: she’s come to care about Bennett, too. I hide my hands under the table and clasp them together for stability. “What I find most interesting is that the police called me when they found the car.” The lines on her face seem to deepen with concern, confusion. “Do you know why I was the one they called?”

  I feel my face squish up, and I say, “No.”

  “First, because I’m on the registration as the owner of his car. And second, because, according to Westlake Academy—where he apparently attends high school—I’m his grandmother.” She slowly takes another sip of tea and rests her forearms on the table. “I assume you know I was under the impression that he was a student at Northwestern. I also assume you know, that I am, in fact, not his grandmother.”

  I try again to bring the cup of tea to my lips, but when I start to take a sip I discover it’s still hot enough to scald. I return the cup to its saucer.

  Maggie takes a big sip of tea, unaffected by the temperature. “Do you have any idea why he lied about me, Anna?” Stay calm. Breathe. Take a sip of scalding tea. “Why he listed me as his grandmother?”

  All I want to say is “Because you are,” and then run through all the events of the last three months, starting with the day Bennett moved to town. But I can’t tell her that the boy in the photos on her mantel and the boy who’s been living in one of her spare bedrooms are the same person. “I don’t know, Maggie.” Her expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know.” I repeat the words like that will make them true.

  She stares at me with those eyes, and my stomach turns over with guilt. She lets out a heavy sigh. “I really don’t know what to do. The police want me to file a missing-persons report if he’s not back in twenty-four hours. If you know anything, Anna, you have to tell me. Please.”

  I look down into my cup and take a sip.

  “This boy has been living in my house and lying to me the entire time. I’ve liked him, but now it turns out I don’t even know who he is. I never did.” Maggie stares right into my eyes. “But something tells me you do.”

  She’s right, of course. I know. And right now, all I want to do is tell her everything, because I want her to know who he is, and because I’m tired of being the only one who does and, mostly, because I want her to like him again. And she would, if only she knew who he really was and what he’d done for her.

  I want to tell her that four years from now, she’ll be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. The decline will be gradual, until 2000, when it will speed up and never slow down. By 2001, she’ll start forgetting more than small details and minor events. She will forget to pay her bills, forget where her investments are located, forget to tell anyone enough to help before it’s too late. By 2002, she’ll no longer be able to function on her own. She will have forgotten her family. Her daughter, Bennett’s mom, will be too far away in too many ways to make it better. And then, when Bennett is eight years old, Maggie will die.

  But five years later, Bennett will start coming back to 1995. To 1996. To 2000. To 2003. Eventually, he’ll start bringing Brooke. The two of them will knock on Maggie’s door, pretending to be students soliciting donations, just to hear her voice. When she’s really sick, they’ll show up in the middle of the night to clean her kitchen and pay her bills. When she leaves for appointments during the day, Bennett will mow her lawn, and Brooke will plant new flowers. They’ll stuff cash into strange hiding places around the house, because, even though they know it will cause her confusion, they also know she’ll find it. And eventually, Bennett will let Maggie in on his secret. Even if she doesn’t remember it for more than a moment, she’ll die knowing that the last years of her life would have been very different if it hadn’t been for Bennett’s gift.

  “Anna?” Maggie interrupts my thoughts.

  “Don’t let the police search for him.” My voice catches in my throat, and even though I want to say so much more, I don’t.

  Her eyes grow wide with curiosity. “Why not? Please, you have to tell me. What do you know, Anna?”

  I look at her, holding her gaze in mine. Finally, I return my eyes to the tableful of colored light. What do I know? Well, at least that’s a question I can answer. Sort of. I run my fingertip along a streak of green. “I truly don’t know how to find him. But I know he’s safe,” I begin, my voice a whisper. “I know he’s back in San Francisco. I know he didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t have a choice. I know he didn’t want to lie to you. Or to hurt you.”

  “Who is he?”

  Over the past two months, I’ve never been tempted to divulge Bennett’s secret—not to my family, not to my best friend—but sitting here, looking at Maggie’s sad eyes, I just want her to know him like I do. But I remind myself that it’s not my place. “I can’t tell you, Maggie. It took him a long time to confide in me, and when he finally did, I promised I wouldn’t share his secret with anyone. It’s killing me not to tell you right now, but it’s his story, not mine. But he’s not a bad person.” I want to add He loves you, but I stop short of saying too much. “He’s just going to have to tell you himself when he gets back.”

  She leans forward. “And when will that be?”

  Another question I can’t answer, but this time it’s not because I can’t break my promise. It’s because I truly don’t know. “I have no idea. But he told me once that he’d come back, and I have to believe him.”

  I sit there watching her, waiting to hear what she’ll say next. I feel sick.

  “What should I tell the police?”

  I think quickly. “There was an emergency back at home. An illness…in his family. A friend gave him a ride to the airport, and he left his car in the parking lot. But now he’s called, and he’s fine. He’s…” I take a deep breath so I can finish my sentence without breaking down. “He’s back in San Francisco with his family.”

  “I’m supposed to lie? To the police?”

  “It’s not a lie. That’s where he is. You can tell them that, or you can say nothing, file a missing-persons report, and let them search for him. But they won’t find him.”

  “If he comes back—”

  “When,” I clarify. “When he comes back, I’ll be the first to know. I’ll make sure you’re the second. And I’ll be sure he tells you everything. Okay?”

  She nods a few times as she considers my solution. “What am I supposed to do about all his things? What about his car?”

  The car. He told me the SUV was Maggie’s, and now that I think about it in context with everything else, it fits. “I think Bennett bought the car for you.”

  She furrows her brow and stares at me a
gain. “Why on earth would he do that? He doesn’t know me well enough to buy me a brand-new car.”

  I smile at her and let out a sigh. “He doesn’t. But he does. And I know that doesn’t make any sense.…” My voice trails off while those last words echo through my mind, and somehow, I find myself repeating the words I read last night in San Francisco. The words I will write in a letter to Bennett seventeen years from now. They worked on him. Maybe they’ll work on his grandmother. “Someday,” I say, “it will all make sense. For now, you’ll just have to trust me.”

  For the last hour I’ve been leaning against the foot of my bed, dressed in the oversize sweatshirt Bennett wore after our first date in Ko Tao and staring up the black silk sheath I’ve bought to wear to tonight’s auction party. When I first brought it home and hooked the hanger on my closet door frame, this dress looked almost magical, like something cartoon birds and mice had stitched together from scratch while I slept.

  But tonight’s the one-week anniversary of the night I got knocked back. Of ever since. And now the dress is just another museum piece, in good company with my map, a bag of sand, six postcards, and four new pins. All the things I can no longer look at without thinking of him.

  I’m still staring up at the dress when I hear the knock at the door. I’ve been expecting it, but I’m not sure which one of my parents lost the coin toss.

  “Come in,” I mutter.

  Emma?

  I stare up at her from my spot on the floor. She’s wearing the dress I helped her pick out, the strapless, floor-length gown in a deep, dark orange that looks as incredible on her now as it did in the dressing room. Her hair is pulled back in a tight twist at the nape of her neck, with a few strands of hair pulled out to frame her face. “Wow. You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks.” She takes a seat on the floor next to me, leans against the footboard, and reaches for me.