After she exits the freeway and turns down a couple of streets, I begin to recognize the area from my trip into her past. When she turns onto her street, I notice that the knuckles on her hands have turned white from gripping the wheel too hard. I touch her shoulder, hoping to relax her, but she jerks away.
From the sideways glance she gives me, I can see she didn’t mean to do it but couldn’t help herself. I know what’s going on. Her fate is becoming real for her and she’s trying to break away from me, trying to sever a bond already too thick to cut.
She parks near the spot where I saw her tear Ryan Smith’s heart in two. After turning off the ignition, she stares out the front window before finally looking at me.
“I don’t want you coming inside.” Her eyes are watery and her lip trembles slightly.
“If that’s what you’d prefer.”
“It is.” She pauses. “You’re sure? Tomorrow it all goes away?”
“That’s their plan.”
“And they can really do it?”
“Yes.”
I sense there’s another question she wants to ask, but the moment passes and all she says is, “Remember.”
With a quick pull of the handle, she jumps out of the car and runs to the house.
Where do I go? I don’t know. I just walk.
Homes. Busy streets. An ocean breeze. Loud music drifting out the door of a bar. A couple pressed into a corner, kissing long and deep.
As much as I want to push everything away, I hear and see it all, my conscience not letting me ignore any of it. After all, this is the world that soon will never have been, many of its people the pending victims of my second genocide.
I walk from when the sun has yet to reach mid-sky to when it disappears behind the buildings to the west.
As the evening grows darker and I hear the distant sound of waves crashing on a beach, I begin to play the game. At least I tell myself that’s what it is — a child’s game of What If?
What if I get to choose which world should stay, based not on my personal history but my observations of both?
First, I would admit that my knowledge of the world I’m currently in is woefully lacking. A week in a library and a few days wandering are hardly long enough to judge a whole civilization.
And yet, what if that’s what I have to do?
Lists of pros and cons for each world begin writing themselves in my mind, and I compare and contrast. But all this does is confuse me.
Several times I have to remind myself this is just a game, that changing things back is a forgone conclusion.
A bell rings above the door of a tiny food store nearby as a mother and son exit. Heading toward me, the boy, no more than ten years old, opens the small package he’s carrying, revealing a dark brown object. He takes a bite and I see it’s ice cream.
“How is it?” the woman asks.
“Great,” the boy says. “Thanks, Mom.”
My pace falters as a memory of my own mother hits me. My sister and I are in the kitchen, watching our mother make sugar bread. It must be near Christmas, because that’s the only time we would have it. I’m seven, I think, and begging her for a taste of the dough.
It’s a dance we do every year. She tells me no, that it’s better when it’s cooked, and I, unrelentingly, argue that the raw dough is better. Ellie eventually gets into the act, siding sometimes with me and other times with Mom. But like always, as my mother forms the loaves, she pinches off a couple small balls and hands one to each of us.
“Shh,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone.”
I reach the beach as the city behind me is falling asleep. I drop to my knees in the sand. My game of What If is over, and I need to either accept what’s coming or…
I hear the echo of Marie’s voice. “If you’re not true to yourself, this will kill you.”
Moving down to the water to where the sand is firmer, I walk parallel to the sea.
“Do what you think is right.” Marie’s words again, only this time it’s my mother’s voice.
What does she mean? Put things back the way they were?
“Do what you think is right,” Ellie whispers.
“Fix it?” I say out loud. “I should fix it — is that what you mean?”
“What you think is right.” My mother again.
I’m running now, hard and fast, my satchel slapping against my back. But I can’t outrun the voices.
“What do you think is right?”
I stumble to a stop and rest my hands on my knees as I suck in air. I know the voices aren’t Marie’s or my mother’s or my sister’s.
They’re all only one voice.
Mine.
And there’s only one reason they haven’t stopped.
As my breath begins to even out, I know what to do. The only question is—
How?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I don’t know what room Iffy is in. I assume she’s still at her parents’ house because the Prius hasn’t moved from where she left it.
Seeing no other choice, I approach the front door and knock. Several moments pass before a light flicks on inside and I hear footsteps heading my way.
The door is opened by an older version of the man I saw in Iffy’s past — her stepfather. He’s wearing a wrinkled white T-shirt and short pants and doesn’t look happy.
“Who the hell are you?” he grumbles.
“Denny. I’m, um, looking for Iffy.”
“You mean Pamela?” I take it he’s not particularly fond of Iffy’s nickname.
“Yes.”
“It’s a little late, don’t you think?”
It is late, though not for the reasons he thinks. I just hope it’s not too late. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have disturbed you if it weren’t important.”
“You’re a friend of hers?”
“Yes. I’m the one who rode down with her from Los Angeles.”
His already narrow eyes close some more. “She didn’t mention traveling with anyone.”
“Oh, well, uh…”
“Wait here.”
The door closes and the lock reengages. When I hear someone approaching again, the steps are lighter and hurried.
“It’s okay,” Iffy says from the other side of the door. “He’s a friend.”
I hear her stepfather say something from farther back in the house.
“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “It’s fine.”
She opens the door wide enough for her to slip outside, and then closes it behind her.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I just…I…” Suddenly all I was going to say to her seems self-serving. I have a plan now, but I’m scared I’ll be stopped before I can pull it off. In a way, it doesn’t matter if I give her hope. She’ll either see later I’m telling the truth, or wink out of existence without ever knowing otherwise. The problem is, I’ll know.
“What is it?” she asks.
“I…wanted to see you one more time.”
She hesitates before pulling me into her arms. “I’m glad you came back.”
We kiss, soft and tender, and hold each other, the world — all worlds — disappearing around us.
Finally I say, “When I travel back, you’re going to feel pain again.”
“I know. But then it’ll all go away.”
Again, I’m tempted to reveal what I’m planning, but I resist. I tilt her face toward mine and kiss her again. “I’m glad you were chosen as my companion.”
“So am I.”
Nine A.M. is the deadline, so if I stay a second after that and one of the other Rewinders has figured out when the break occurred, I’ll cease to exist like everyone else. I could leave at any time, but I must go as close to nine as possible to give my plan the best chance of working.
I make it to 8:57 before my patience runs out. When I pull out my Chaser, I don’t set it to May 12, 1702, like Lidia instructed, but to several decades later.