The awkward person in this case is Porter. His hands are in his pockets. The bill of his cap hides his face.
I’m actually glad he feels awkward.
“I’m sorry you had to do that,” he says.
“No you’re not.” I swipe at my eyes with my sleeve. “You called my day with him a ridiculous teenage fantasy.”
He heaves a regretful sigh, like he’s ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry. Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember you’re only seventeen. You were very different in your last life. Very wise, very steady, very mature. I was angry and frustrated with you…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what I was. I should have prepared you better.” He offers a hand to me to help me up, but I don’t take it. He frowns and replaces it in his pocket. “I had to know I could trust you, Alex. I had to know that bringing you here wasn’t a mistake. If I can’t trust you, then everything I’ve worked toward for the past seventeen years will be in vain.”
“And what is it you’re working toward exactly?” I say through the perception of a clogged nose. “Why are we here, Porter?”
“Because I need your help.”
“With what?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. “It’s complicated.”
Of course it is.
I groan and fist my hands. My nails bite into my palms. I’m too exhausted and upset to sit through more of his riddles and nonsense. I need to get away, to go somewhere where I’m allowed to cry and smash things.
I push myself to my feet and lift my chin. “I want to go home.”
The lines around his eyes sag. His shoulders slump under the weight of my glare. “Certainly.”
Within seconds, light rushes in all around me, and my soul slips free from the black like a suction cup. We’re both back at Ristorante Cafferelli. The Polygon stone is still in my hand.
No time has passed at all.
I shove the stone into my backpack, and push my chair from the table.
“I’m sorry,” Porter says again. He pulls a small white card from his pocket and hands it to me. “When you’re ready to talk again – if you’re ready to talk again – call this number.” The card is blank except for a small phone number embossed in black.
I take it and stuff it in my backpack. I glance down at the bright yellow flyer on the table. “What are you going to do about that?”
It takes a moment before Porter realizes what I’m talking about. I can tell he still feels awful for making me go back and erase everything – it’s pressing on him, making it hard for him to concentrate.
“I’ll take care of that later.”
I still don’t know what he means by that – does he have to go back in time and leave it at the garage? – but I realize I don’t care anymore. I heft my backpack over my shoulder and storm toward the door.
I don’t look back.
CHAPTER 13
THE AFTERSHOCK
When I get home, I drop my backpack by the back door and collapse onto a stool at the kitchen island. I peel off my parka and scarf, pull my glasses off, and bury my face in my hands. My body feels like it hiked the length of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I guess traveling back in time almost a hundred years can do that to a person.
The house is quiet and still. Gran must be out shopping. Pops and Audrey are probably napping. Claire is still at school, and Mom and Dad are at work. The silence gives me a little time to think of an excuse for bolting out of Mr Draper’s class a few hours earlier. I figure playing the sick card is the best way to go.
I slide my glasses back on and trudge into the bathroom to give myself a once over. I brush out all the blood from my hair and comb it over the knot on the back of my head. I still have the bruises on my ribs, and a few on my arms, but my sweater covers them up. The only sign of my injuries are a few tiny scratches on my knuckles. I don’t think anyone will even notice.
I head to the family room and slump down at the computer. My arms feel like sodden logs. My fingers pause, resting on the keyboard, wondering if I should go through with what I’m about to do. An Internet search on Nick could bring up a whole host of crap I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with. But I have to know. Did I ruin his life? Did I change it somehow, the path he was meant to take, all because I barreled into his world, selfishly wanting to prove Dr Farrow wrong about the visions? Or did I fix everything by erasing our night together?
I had to know how his life turned out. Did he live a good life? Did he join the Police Academy? Did he fall in love? Get married? Have kids? Are his grandchildren and great grandchildren living somewhere in Chicago? Did Frank ever turn his life around? Did Helena live to a lovely old age, rocking her grandchildren to sleep?
If it was a good life, I think I could forgive myself for being such a selfish ass. For playing with something that shouldn’t be played with. Granted, I didn’t know I was altering time and history when I traveled to Chicago the first time, but the second time...
God, I just didn’t care, did I? I was too caught up in all of it. Too wrapped up in what it felt like to be normal, hanging out with friends, getting into trouble, kissing beside fountains, not worrying every minute of every day about grades and bullies and a sister who has trouble keeping her dinner down. It was an escape. The most selfish of all selfish escapes.
I type in his name. At first, there are no results for Nicholas or Micolaj Piasecki. Mostly because it takes several tries before I spell the name correctly. Finally, though, I spot one result.
An obituary.
Nick’s name is written in bold capital letters across the top. There are no sentimental words, only facts. He was survived by his mother, Helena, and brother, Frank. The funeral was held at the St Stanislaus Kostka Parish.
Nick died on Christmas Eve, 1927, from six gunshot wounds to the chest. It was believed to be the work of the Cafferellis, due to Nick’s involvement with the Fifth Street Gang. He was found in the back of the deli delivery truck he drove for Old Man Nowicki.
Two months after I walked out of his life.
I cover my mouth with my hands. A sharp breath rakes through me. I knew he would be dead and gone, but I didn’t expect it to happen like that. Not to someone so young.
Someone so good.
I grip the keyboard with both hands, wanting to break it in half. I could’ve changed things, but Porter wouldn’t let me. If Porter hadn’t made me go back and erase my night with Blue, my impact could’ve changed the course of his life. I could’ve saved him. Given him more time. He wouldn’t have continued to work for Fifth Street. He’d made a promise to me, but I erased that promise.
He wouldn’t have gotten murdered on Christmas Eve.
I march back to the kitchen and yank my cell phone from my backpack. I fish around for Porter’s business card, then punch in his number.
He picks up after one ring. “Alex?”
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew Nick would die if I went back to erase everything.”
“Slow down–”
“How could you let me find out this way? Why couldn’t you at least let me warn him?”
“I don’t know what you’re–”
I hang up on him, too disgusted to hear his voice or his excuses. I turn off my phone in case he tries to call back.
I wind aimlessly through the house, anger and grief twisting inside me, until I find Audrey asleep in Gran and Pops’ bed. Her thin body is curled onto her side under a threadbare quilt, a pale blue stocking cap pulled low over her ears and forehead. Pops snores away in the wingback armchair in the corner, his head lolled back, his chin twitching under his short, scraggly gray beard. I pull my glasses off again and drop them on the bedside table. Under the quilt, I slide in beside Audrey and hide my face against her warm, bare arm. The tender darkness tries to coax tears out of me, but I’m too furious to give in.