If I Could Turn Back Time (20 page)

“Really?” Was that true? I didn’t remember that. Certainly she’d been a huge part of my teen years. There was almost no event I could think of that hadn’t included her. But that was because we were friends. It had never occurred to me that for some reason Brendan might not have liked that, or might not have liked
her
.

“It doesn’t matter.” He drove on and changed the subject to the fate of next year’s varsity football team, now that he and his pals were going to be gone. It was funny to hear him speculating about such small pieces of the future as if they mattered, when what I really wanted to know about was how his life
had
gone.…

Questions I’d never be able to ask him right now.

When he turned into the driveway off Persimmon Tree Road, I recognized it. I remembered the mailbox with cardinals on it and recalled wondering if cardinals were lucky or if that was just bluebirds. Not a significant memory by any means, but it had happened. And when we came to the house, a tall white structure with a long porch, sort of like
The Waltons
house on steroids, I remembered that too. A pretty place. Probably a very peaceful retreat on a summer’s evening when there weren’t two hundred recently graduated teenagers blasting the Black Crowes and throwing back beers. The pungent, earthy scent of weed also hung in the air, of course. Hell, I’d smelled that outside the school itself, though it wasn’t something I was into.

We followed the cacophony to a huge crowd of people in the backyard, covering a patio and extending into a stretch of grass and dark woods, occasionally lit by random fireflies flickering on and off, making me think of high piano notes with every flash.

As I had in the halls of the school, I recognized many of the faces and knew the sad fates of more than one. But also as I had in school, I felt tight and anxious, like I didn’t belong here—which I didn’t—and like I couldn’t breathe.

“You okay?” Brendan asked, clearly seeing the change of expression on my face.

“It’s hot,” I said. My skin was tingling. I felt flushed. Nauseated. “Is it hot?”

“Hot?”

“Stuffy.”

“We’re outside.”

“Ugh. It feels stuffy to me.” As I said this, though, the feeling began to ebb. As it receded, I recognized it as a premonition. Whether that was significant or not, I couldn’t say. I’d never been a huge fan of crowds, so this might have been the reaction I’d had the first time around as well. Whatever had happened originally, not only had I survived it but it hadn’t mattered enough to register in my memory, so I had to just let this play out the way it needed to.

“Do you want a drink?”

I considered. “Yeah, could you see if there’s a Coke or Pepsi or something?”

“Sure.” He eyed me questioningly for a moment, then headed into the crowd.

For my part, I backed off a little and sat down on a stone garden wall, hoping to recede from the crowd and observe. Maybe pretend I was home, comfortable, watching all of this on TV, rather than standing right here where it was happening, trying to make sense of something that couldn’t be logical.

And all the while, I kept having flashes of recognition. Only brief seconds—probably not even seconds, just fractions of a second—where it felt like d
é
j
à
vu. But with all of the moments being so small and insignificant, it was hard to hold on to them and examine then. Why would my mind have held on to the fleeting image of Janet Brooks huffing past, looking pale and angry, with her hapless boyfriend, Tom … something … following? I’d seen it before, my subconscious told me that, but that was all. It didn’t matter. It was gone quickly, and left little trace.

Naturally Anna Farrior was here, and, naturally, she was the first to approach me. “Um, I don’t think
you
were invited to this party.”

“Better call the police.”

She acted as if she didn’t hear me. “Where’s your invitation?”

“My
invitation
?” I repeated automatically. What a stupid notion, that a teenage keg party would have invites.

She took my question the wrong way, though, and found it tremendously funny. “See? You were so totally
not
invited that you don’t even realize there are no invitations!”

I looked at her evenly. Had I not realized how very
stupid
she was back then? I knew she was a nasty bitch, but how could I have let such unimaginative insults bother me, ever? “Why do you feel so bad about yourself?” I asked her.

That threw her. “W-what? I don’t! Why do
you
?”

“It’s pretty basic psychology. If you’d paid attention in Mrs. Breen’s class, you’d know it, but you were too busy unconsciously demonstrating it to understand and learn about it.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult? That I didn’t pay attention in class?” She looked around to where her entourage would normally be, but she didn’t have them at the moment.

Not that it would have mattered to me if she had. This was a principle all of them should learn. It would serve every one of them later.

“You try to make yourself feel bigger,” I said, “by making others feel smaller. But it doesn’t really work, does it?”

“You’re crazy.” She cranked her finger by her temple. Classic third-grade behavior.

“Everything you attack me for is something that you envy or because you envy me on the whole. It’s really obvious. Like, the makeup thing.”

She unconsciously raised a hand to her cheek. “What
makeup thing
? The fact that you can’t put it on?”

“The fact that I don’t feel like I need it as much as you do. Because really”—I shrugged—“is that such a biting insult? That I don’t wear as much makeup as you? Ouch?”

“You’re being weird.” She was visibly disconcerted. “What are you on now? Brendan should see this.”

“Brendan brought me here.”

She winced. And there it was. The main, if not the only, thing about me she really hated. I had Brendan. “You’re a pretty girl, Anna,” I gave her, perhaps too generously. “Just because Brendan’s taken doesn’t mean you can’t find another boyfriend.”

She had nothing to say to that. She just looked at me, fuming, then turned on her heel and stalked away.

I watched her go and for the first time in my life I actually felt sorry for her. Not hugely. She’d been a real jerk to me, over and over, and I resented the unpleasantness she’d brought to my teenage years, but what would have been the point of telling her that I was sure she’d spent an hour covering the one zit she had that would have been far less noticeable with no makeup? That might have given Teenage Me a satisfying moment, and Teenage Me was definitely still inside, but it would have been cruel. One thing I’d learned with age was that
an eye for an eye
never left anyone at peace.

“
R
a
mie!
” I felt, as well as heard, Tanya’s voice as she came toward me from the dark to my left. “
There
you are! Where the hell have you been all night?”

Clearly she’d been drinking beer. A lot of it. It sloshed over the sides of the red Solo cup she was holding so tightly that it crunched slightly under her grip.

“He’s not here!” she wailed.

No sense in asking who. Kenny Singer. “Looks like you’re having fun anyway.” I nodded at her cup and held out my hand. “Give me your keys.”

“I’m
fine
!” She laughed and handed over the keys. “I’m so not fine. Either you or Brendan had better be, because I’m pretty sure I’m gonna need a ride home.”

“We’ll give you a ride and you and I can come get your car tomorrow.”

She took another gulp of beer. “Thank god. Because I need to find a boyfriend tonight. This is ridiculous. Do you
know
how
long
it’s been since I had a boyfriend?”

“Like, a month?”

“A boyfriend I
loved
?” She gave an anguished moan. “I’ve never had what stupid you and stupid Brendan have.”

I had to laugh. “Yeah, stupid us.” But I knew she was going to find something even better than what Brendan and I had because she was going to find something warm and happy and lasting and she was going to have two beautiful children to show for it. I couldn’t reassure her any more specifically than I already had; she’d think I was crazy, and maybe that “prediction” would even interrupt her path, I couldn’t know. Everything I knew about this situation came from movies like
Back to the Future
. Not exactly a clear blueprint.

“You guys are gonna get married,” she said, then took another glug of beer and sniffed, as if the prospect of Brendan and me getting married caused her great distress. “You’re gonna get married and I’m going to be an old maid forever.”

“I’m pretty sure neither of those things are going to happen,” I told her. “In fact, I’m
really
sure.”

She looked at me, surprised. Suddenly more sober than I thought she was, and latching on to the one thing I didn’t want to have to dive into. “You don’t think you and Brendan are going to get married? Since when?”

And I remembered that back in those days I
did
think I’d be with him forever. For a while, anyway. Once upon a time, I had been sure—deep-in-my-soul sure—that Brendan was
The One
for me. Was that based on something real, or was it just the lies of hormones and teenage attraction?

It made me wish I could have a little sit-down with Teenage Me, instead of Teenage Tanya. Tanya wasn’t the one who turned out to need good advice, once all was said and done. Tanya found her way all by herself into a happily-ever-after anyone could envy.

But Teenage Me, on the other hand—the
real
teenage me, not this spooky thirty-eight-year-old who was inhabiting my teenage body—that girl could have used some good advice. It was all really excellent to go to school and start a successful career, and there was a whole lot to be said for never being financially dependent on a man.

Yet, at the same time, there was a lot to be said for having a good, solid companion, someone to traverse the difficulties of life with. For better or worse, as they said.

I’d never really had that.

Honestly, I don’t think I ever really believed I’d had that with anyone, though there had been a moment, when I was thirty-six and still saw hope for a family, that I thought maybe I could have it with Jeffrey. I certainly knew now that he hadn’t been solid, but he made sense in more ways than not. Dating him was the correct move at approximately the right time. It was a math calculation, not a warm heart decision.

We’d met at a conference in Reno. At first the one thing we had in common was that we both disliked Reno. As things to bond over go, that wasn’t really all that stellar.

But then we’d learned that we lived in towns that were only about forty-five minutes apart, so I guess that fact and a mutual physical attraction was enough to get us together. But it never drew us closer; we’d stayed forty-five minutes apart.

The sex was pretty good. Not great. Not earth-shattering. But satisfying. I’d been out there dating post-Brendan for eighteen years by the time we met, so I’d had plenty of disappointing encounters, believe me. And sex is
important.
I told myself for a long time that it wasn’t, but it is. So that part of our relationship was okay.

But not good enough.

And that was the last relationship I’d had. The closest I’d come, so far, to
forever
.

“Can you get me another beer?” Tanya’s voice interrupted my thoughts, and I was back in the past.

Teenage Me probably would have done it.

Real Me knew she didn’t need more beer and so Real Me wasn’t going to contribute to that.

“How about I get you some water?” I suggested, sounding noticeably parental.

“Not quite what I asked for.”

I put a finger to my chin and pretended to think. “Yet exactly what you need.”

She got it. She smiled. “Fine, fine.” She waved an airy hand at me, and sat heavily on the stone wall. “I’ll be here.”

“Okay.” I headed into the house to find the kitchen and hoped she wouldn’t start puking before she started to sober up.

“Ramie.”

I stopped and turned back to her. “You’re not going to puke, are you?”

No
me wanted to deal with that.

She shook her head. Then stopped and looked as if she were reconsidering.

My nerves strung tight.

“No,” she said finally. “I’m think I’m okay. But can you try and find, like, a cracker or a piece of bread or something? A graham cracker would be perfect.”

“I’ll look but don’t count on it.” I left her and went into the house, which was far, far bigger than my own. Where mine was just a foyer and three rooms, including kitchen, on the first floor, this one seemed to have dens, parlors, family rooms, living rooms, everything but a bowling alley. I took a few wrong turns on what I had thought would be a simple mission. And one of those wrong turns took me to the entrance to a small, dark room where a girl was crying, hanging on some guy, her arms draped over his shoulders.

I froze.

I’d been here before.

I knew how this night had ended, obviously. But the truth was, at the time I’d been a bit more tipsy than I was now—I hadn’t had the close call with my parents because of the vodka so I’d arrived earlier—and also I hadn’t registered all of the things leading up to The Event. After all, it was only The Event that ended up mattering, and the only things that had been left to my memory were a blur of tears, betrayal, and anger. And more betrayal. It was the betrayal that had ended it for us.

“Why can’t you just tell her it’s over?” the girl whined, followed by a dramatic sob as she buried her face in his shoulder.

A shoulder I knew well, by the way. A shoulder I had just been clinging to, naked, in the backseat of a car a few nights earlier. Past me and present me both felt the sting of jealousy. Anger rose in one of us, and I had to stop myself from lunging at both of them and ripping them away from each other.

It was clear that I wasn’t just inhabiting my old (young) body; I was commingling with all of those old emotions. And even though I knew where this would lead, and I’d intended to go into it with a more adult head on my shoulders, the rage took over and all but obliterated every other thought I had.