“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Are you kidding? I knew I was out of my element at a Hollywood premiere in the first place, and I was crazy about you. I wanted to fit into your life, I wanted you to fit into mine. . . . I wasn’t about to say I was afraid I might have a few screws loose.”
“I’ve thought the same thing about myself at times, and I never told you, either, so . . . I guess we’re even.” She yawns again, behind her hand, as if trying to suppress the exhaustion that’s obviously overtaking her.
He holds out his arm and she gratefully snuggles beside him, her weary head on his shoulder. He tells her about the flashbacks he’s been having since they met, with increasing frequency, about completely random things. Like fruitcake.
“I remember that. You said fruitcake reminded you of something but you didn’t know what.”
“Yeah.” He shudders.
“But you did know.”
He nods.
“Tell me,” she says softly—sadly—as if she’s already aware of it herself. “What did it remind you of?”
“I saw this old lady, lying in the snow, bleeding.”
“Minnie Bouvier. She brought fruitcakes to your family every Christmas, and she was hit by a car that December that I was there.”
Those last words jar him. “You were there?”
And all at once, in his mind’s eye, he sees her, standing there with snow falling down all around her. Her hair is different, and her clothes are old-fashioned, and she’s wearing dark red lipstick. . . .
But it’s her. It’s Clara. In the past. His past.
“I went back in time, Drew, like I said. I was with you. It was real.”
“I don’t know. . . . How can this be happening? Maybe it’s just my imagination—our imagination.”
She’s shaking her head before he finishes. “I have proof. From Doris. I can show you.”
Doris! Did you cut up my girdle to make a slingshot?
“She was your sister, Drew,” Clara is saying, and he’s trying hard to focus.
She was my sister.
My sister . . .
“Penny.” The name pops into his head out of nowhere and spills from his lips.
Clara looks startled. “I was talking about Doris, but Penny—she was your sister, too.”
Doris and Penny.
Faces flash through his mind. Sisters. An aura of warmth and affection creeps over him.
“I think . . . I think Doris took Penny’s girdle one time . . . and . . . I think she made it into a slingshot.”
Clara smiles. “That sounds like her.”
“So you . . . knew her?”
“I knew her in 1941—and I knew her recently, too. In New York, she found me, and—”
“Your Doris is . . . is my Doris?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You’re talking about the hummingbird lady, right? The one you used to visit—that One Life to Live fan of yours—right?”
“Sort of. Only she didn’t really find me just because I was on the soap.”
“That’s what you told me.”
“I know, but . . . she found me because of Jed. Because she remembered me from her childhood, and she figured out that I was from the future, and she had been waiting to connect with me again for all those years.”
Why this particular news, of everything she’s revealed, should leave him flabbergasted, he has no idea. But for the moment, he’s tongue-tied, imagining the kid sister in his mind’s eye as an old woman with whom he, too, might actually have connected.
She should have told me, he finds himself thinking with some resentment—fairly or not. It was my sister. I deserved to know.
“Look, I know this is way too much coming at you all at once,” she says quietly, “and this isn’t how I ever wanted to tell you about any of it. But I guess there’s really no good way to find out you’ve been reincarnated and your wife is a time traveler, is there?” She forces a little laugh.
He can’t even muster a smile.
Clara touches his shoulder. “Are we . . . still okay?”
“We’ll always be okay.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
“I love you. I just need to get used to all of this.”
“It’s a lot. I know.”
He can’t hold back a sharp little noise that might have been intended as a laugh, but isn’t.
“A lot. Yeah. It’s definitely a lot,” he tells Clara flatly.
“Are you mad at me?”
Yes.
All at once, he’s furious.
“I have a sister.”
“You have three.”
“Doris. That’s what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” She looks down at her lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you have to see it from my perspective. If I had told you, you would have—”
“Wanted to get to know her? Yeah. I probably would have.”
“There’s still—”
“Let’s not do this now, okay?” He stands abruptly, not allowing himself to look at her face, knowing he’d see hurt there. But he’s hurting, too. Because of her.
“Where are you going?” she asks quietly.
“Out . . . with the dog. I need to walk him, and . . . I just . . . I need to walk.”
“Want some company?”
“No,” he says sharply—and forgets to avoid her gaze.
There it is—the hurt in her eyes.
“Drew,” she says quietly, “let me come with you.”
“No, you’re exhausted. You should take a nap.”
“It’s too late in the day. If I take a nap, I’ll never be able to sleep later.”
“You’re sleeping for two,” he reminds her. “I bet you will.”
He leans over and plants a gentle kiss on her head.
Looking up at him, her eyes are still clouded. “Drew? There’s one more thing I have to tell you about the time travel. . . .”
Dismay courses through him.
He can’t. He just can’t. He can’t hear any more until he’s had time to process all of this.
“Can it wait?”
She hesitates. “Sure. Of course it can wait. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And right about now, that’s the only thing he knows for certain.
Chapter Twenty
“Come on, Drew . . . call me back! Please, please, please, call me back . . .” Telephone receiver clasped in her hand, Clara paces around a stack of boxes in the living room.
Over three hours have passed since she figured out the hang-up call was from Drew’s phone and left him a message in return. She’s dialed the number several times since, getting his voice mail every time.
And she’s left a message every time, trying not to sound frantic—nearly impossible when your heart is in your mouth.
Practically in tears when she left the last message, she was able to say little more than “It’s me again. Please, call me.”
So why hasn’t he called?
It’s a weekday. Drew is the kind of person who checks his voice mail regularly even when he isn’t at work.
Maybe something’s wrong with the phone.
For whatever reason, he didn’t get the messages, or he hasn’t had a chance to call back yet . . . even though his wife is very pregnant and told him that it’s urgent?
It makes no sense.
Oh, God, what if—
The grim thought is curtailed by a sharp movement from deep inside her belly. She gently presses a hand over the spot, and it promptly happens again.
She smiles, realizing that a tiny foot has just given her a good, sharp kick.
“Thanks,” she tells her unborn child. “I needed that.”
Comforted by the reminder that she really isn’t alone here after all, she paces on, negotiating the cluttered landscape of her home, stepping around Dickens, taking a nap in the middle of a doorway.
There are boxes e
verywhere. Maybe she should start opening them, looking for clues.
But what if a moving van shows up to take them all away? For all she knows, that could happen at any moment. Maybe Drew is at the new place even now, with their child, waiting for her.
9 Sequoia Way? Is that where they’re going?
It isn’t her dream house, but if they’ve fallen on rough times and that’s where they’re headed, then she’ll make it a home for them.
It doesn’t matter where they live, as long as they’re together.
Drew, please, please, call me back.
Passing the spot where their Christmas tree stood just yesterday—three years ago—Clara can’t help but wonder how on earth it came to this.
So they’re moving. So what?
Couldn’t they have postponed it until after the holidays? Or, at least, have gotten a small tree? Put up a string of twinkle lights?
She looks around the barren room. Christmas without a tree. No lights, no stockings, not a hint that it’s the holiday season, even with a toddler in the house and a baby on the way . . .
Where is her other child?
Maybe Drew took him—her—away for a few days—skiing, or something, and I couldn’t go because I’m pregnant. . . .
A two-year-old on a ski trip?
Over Christmas?
No. It would never happen in a million years. Not just the skiing, but a family—this family—spending the holidays apart. That only happens to other families. Families that are splintered, like her own family was, growing up; families with custody arrangements—
No! Not us!
To believe that’s what’s going on here would be to stop believing in her husband. In his love for her. In his promises that he’ll be here for her, always.
I believe in Drew. He would never, ever leave me. Not willingly, not on Christmas, not with our child, not ever.
And so . . .
Even though Drew promised her that everything would be fine with the baby . . .
There isn’t a child.
The terrible truth barges in on her so abruptly that she sinks into the nearest chair.
Before she can absorb the realization, the telephone in her hand rings, almost—like the baby’s kick—on cue.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Clara! Are you all right?”
It’s him.
He’s alive.
Overpowered by a tide of emotion, she can’t even speak.
“Clara? Are you—”
There’s a burst of static on the other end.
Seized by panic, she recovers her voice. “Drew? Drew?”
No response.
She wails in disbelief and looks helplessly at the phone in her hand. Then, realizing he can’t call her back unless the line is open, she hurriedly disconnects.
It rings again almost immediately.
“Drew! Where are you?”
Static. She can hear his voice, but it’s garbled. That’s okay. He’s alive. He’s out there somewhere.
Nothing else matters.
She wipes a sleeve at the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Drew, you’re cutting in and out!”
“. . . you okay?” she hears him ask. “. . . messages . . . happened?”
“I just needed to talk to you! I was worried and—”
“Are you okay?” he cuts in.
“I’m fine! I just didn’t know where you were and why you weren’t calling me back!”
“. . . still in . . .”
“What? Drew, I can’t tell what you’re saying! This connection is really bad. Where are you?”
“. . . Doris and I are—”
The line goes dead.
Again, she disconnects it hurriedly.
As she waits for him to call back, she goes over what he said.
Doris and I . . .
Is he with someone who happens to be named Doris?
Or is he with Clara’s Doris? Jed’s Doris?
But . . . he doesn’t even know her.
Rather, he didn’t know her, back in 2009. Maybe he met her after that. She is, after all, his sister. In a sense.
If that’s the Doris he was talking about.
How many Dorises can there be in the world?
All right—there are plenty. But not in their world—hers and Drew’s.
That call seemed to be coming across a great distance. The way it kept cutting in and out, the static, the poor connection . . . All of it would seem to indicate that Drew wasn’t calling from around the corner.
He’s far away. In New York?
Wherever he is, he’s with Doris.
The knowledge should be comforting—and on some level, it is.
Unless . . .
What if Doris is another woman? His new girlfriend, or his new wife? Could Clara have been wrong about her marriage as well?
The thought makes her physically ill.
No. No way. I believe in Drew. No matter what.
I’m pregnant with Drew’s baby, for God’s sake.
But how can she know that for sure?
For one thing, hello—he’s your husband!
Clara shakes her head. It’s ridiculous to even imagine that Drew is no longer in her life—particularly by his own choice.
Anyway, Amelia from next door asked about him. She seemed to think he might be around.
Then again . . . didn’t she give the impression that she hadn’t seen Drew—or Clara, for that matter—for quite a while? What if something happened in the interim, something Amelia didn’t even know about yet?
Clara tries to remember the driveway conversation, but her brain is swimming in fragmented details and emotion, and . . . and . . .
And the phone is still silent in her hand.
Maybe she didn’t disconnect the call after all.
She presses the talk button, lifts the receiver to her ear. There’s a dial tone.
He could have gotten through, had he tried.
She hurriedly dials his number.
He’ll pick up, and they’ll have a better connection, and he’ll explain where he is and why he’s with Doris and everything will make sense at last.
“Hello. You’ve reached the voice mail of Drew Becker. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
She swallows hard.
“Drew, it’s me. Please call me back.”
Hanging up the phone with resignation, she knows there’s nothing to do but wait.
Chapter Twenty-one
Clara awakens in darkness, instantly aware that she’s in her own bed.
But in which year?
As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she’s pretty sure that there are no stacks of boxes in the room. And there are candles in the windows.
She reaches down beneath the covers.
No tremendous belly.
It’s 2009.
The digital clock glows on the bedside table; it’s 4:40 a.m.
She hears a sound and realizes that Drew is snoring softly beside her.
Thank God.
She reaches out and rests a hand on his back. He doesn’t stir. The warmth of his body and the rhythm of his even breathing soothe her.
With a yawn, she tries to think back to what happened yesterday. . . .
Drew called, and he said something about being away with Doris or someone named Doris, and then the phone went dead, and she waited and waited for him to call back, and she was exhausted so she must have dozed off—
Wait—that was 2012.
She remembers visiting her in-laws down in San Francisco, too, and the conversation at the kitchen table about the kitchen table, and spilling the whole long story to Drew when they got home. He left to take the dog for a walk; she fell asleep on the couch, utterly spent. . . .
Great. So you remember two different yesterdays. That’s not the least bit confusing.
And apparently, you’re capable of being in two places at once—here, in the present, and in the future, too. At least
, your brain is.
It seems crazy—but when you get right down to it, what, about time travel, doesn’t?
When she visited the past, though, it made more sense. Clara McCallum wasn’t around in 1941, so she wasn’t stepping into her own life. She was simply visiting a world she had never seen.
This time, she’s visiting her own life; a world she will, indeed, see—three years from now.
But why, when she’s in the future, doesn’t she know what’s going on around her? Why doesn’t she remember anything about the three years between 2009 and 2012?
That doesn’t seem fair.
It seems that although she’s in her own future body—and a very pregnant one, at that—she still has her 2009 brain. Apparently, she—2009 Clara—is capable of slipping forward in time and glimpsing the future—her future—but she hasn’t yet lived the years in between.
Terrific. That’s some feat.
For my next trick, I’ll walk the high wire without a net.
Oh, wait—that’s what I’ve been doing all along.
That’s what it feels like, anyway, to pop up in 2012 without Drew there to catch her if she falls.
Drew. Where, oh where, is Drew in 2012?
Clara sighs, and the sigh turns into a yawn.
She rolls over again, plumps the pillow, tells herself to go back to sleep. She needs it. The baby needs it.
Sleep. Come on, sleep.
Instead of drifting off, she finds herself thinking about the mysterious Doris. Misgiving slithers through her and she’s wide awake, thinking about the future.
Gradually, she becomes aware of a slight ache in her stomach. Not nausea, for a change, but . . . pain.
According to the book, she’s going to be feeling all kinds of unusual aches and pains as the pregnancy progresses. And she did already experience firsthand the heartburn and lower back pain that comes with the third trimester. Maybe abdominal pain goes along with the morning sickness and aching breasts of the first trimester.
I’ll have to call the doctor. Or at least find that book and check out the normal symptoms again.
She presses a hand against her stomach, wishing the baby would kick in response. But of course, that can’t happen just yet. Not for at least another few weeks.