I just wasn’t ready to talk to him about something so significant as my relationship with Nick and what I’d given up for it. For years, I’d fantasized about long drives with Dad again, his random talk shows playing on the radio, but now that it was happening, it felt too little, too late. Dad had absolutely no idea who I was, let alone why I’d done this. Plus, what was the point of rebuilding our relationship if I was only going to leave again?
After a radio program about the connections between people’s desires and brain activity, we resumed light chatter about Dad’s pet birds, my latest jewelry ideas, and how funny Ruby was, until we were deep into the suburbs of Boston. He insisted on driving me all the way to MIT, and I had no reason to protest.
He pulled up outside the main entrance and jumped out of the car, stepping onto the sidewalk to hug me. I let him, breathing in the scent of his shampoo that hadn’t changed in ten years.
“Bye, Dad,” I said. “Thanks so much for the ride.”
He squeezed my shoulders, his olive-colored eyes shining. “Let me know when you have a new phone number.”
“What do you mean?” I said as he climbed back into his silver Camry. Cars were beginning to queue up behind him.
“I must have tried to call you fifty times in the past few months,” he called as an irate driver honked her horn. “I’ve been emailing, too—I wanted to know how you were settling into London. That was before I knew you never turned up, of course.”
I waved as he drove away, grappling with his statement. Dad had tried to call me before he even knew I was missing. Sure, it came after years of neglect, but it was something.
I turned to face the imposing columns of MIT, which reminded me of pictures of ancient Greece, the impressive sight flooding me with hot pride for Mia. The temptation to just walk through the doors and find her residence was eaten up by nerves that upset my stomach. But I couldn’t. For now, I had to stay focused on my mission: finding Jane Stuart.
At the bus station, I bought a sandwich and a ticket to Newton and parked myself on a bench, plugging my phone into a socket to charge. A few minutes later, I sucked in a deep breath and switched on the phone. The background selfie of Mia and I beside her swimming pool last summer lured a smirk to my face.
The messages and voicemails arrived in a flurry of beeps and flashes. Tensing my muscles like I was preparing for battle, I opened the texts from Mia. The last message appeared first.
* * *
Emmie, I don’t understand this at all. If I’ve done something wrong, PLEASE tell me. Please.
* * *
Chewing my lip, I scrolled back further.
* * *
You better be dead or I’m going to KILL YOU myself!! Seriously. WHERE THE F ARE YOU?
* * *
I clicked the icon to reply, but my fingers stiffened over the empty speech bubble. What could I say?
* * *
Hey babe, I’m SO sorry for the delay, I was back in Tudor England. They don’t have cell phone reception there.
* * *
My love! I would’ve been in touch sooner, but I was planning my wedding to Nicholas the Ironheart. OMG, he’s so intense.
* * *
How are you?? I’m good. Been missing everyone, but Hampton Court Palace is awesome…apart from the Duke of Norfolk wanting me dead, ugh. How’s MIT?
* * *
My bus rolled into the stop with a strained squeak, and I slid my phone back into my pocket.
Downtown Tudor London was hardly a perfume store, but the buses of modern-day Boston weren’t much of a step up. I sank into my seat, tugging the collar of my sweatshirt up to my nose. The city was neat and impressively developed, but I’d forgotten how much hideous gray concrete had been dumped onto the earth in my time. If I shut my eyes and ignored the poisonous smell of exhaust fumes, I could still see the broad meadows and smoking chimneys scored by a steady clop of horses’ hooves.
I missed Tudor England already. I missed Nick, and the revelation of how far away I was from him felt blisteringly disorienting. This was so much worse than a long-distance relationship: wherever he was, I couldn’t even look up at the sky and feel comforted that he was sharing it somewhere. He may as well have been on another planet. I didn’t think I’d ever truly understand a world in which people were executed purely for their beliefs, and our relationship had issues the size of a continent, but nothing felt right in my time anymore. Coming back home alone hadn’t been the respite I thought it would be. The thought of never feeling Nick’s protective arms around me again turned my whole body cold.
It was early afternoon when I scaled the cement steps of the Cedar Lake Rest Home. There weren’t any cedar trees or lakes in sight, just a brick building scrawled with illegible graffiti. The cheerless foyer smelled like disinfectant, and the reception desk sat vacant beside a locked pair of doors. I peeked through the gap like a creeper, watching for Jane Stuart.
A young guy strode into the foyer from the street door, balancing three jumbo-sized packages of toilet rolls on his chest.
“Hey, can I help you?” he said in a friendly voice. His dark hair was carefully blow-dried into a fifties-style pompadour.
“I’m looking for a resident called Jane Stuart,” I stammered. “She came here in July. I’m a really good friend of her daughter’s.”
“Janie has a daughter?” he said with a squinty grin. “I had no idea.”
“Her daughter lives…far away. I just came from Hatfield, where Jane used to live.”
He dumped the toilet rolls beside the lavatory door. “Janitor didn’t show up this morning,” he explained with an eye roll. “Come on, I’ll take you through. I’m Ajay, by the way.”
He waved his ID card over the panel beside the double doors, and they clicked open. I followed him down a short hallway leading to a recreation room that smelled faintly of urine. At the far end sat Jane Stuart in a tattered armchair, her white, wild hair and vacant stare unchanged since the last time I’d seen her. An elderly lady was seated beside her, brushing her fingertips up and down the arm of her own chair.
“You’ve a friend here, Janie,” said Ajay, crouching in front of Jane with a cheerful smirk. “Her name’s Emily.”
“Emmie,” I corrected, pulling up a wooden chair beside her. Jane didn’t look at me, her knobby fingers tightly clutching two plastic forks.
The woman beside her tilted toward me. “Hello, Chris,” she said in a frail voice, clip-on crescent moons dangling from her paper-thin earlobes. “Look at your pretty face.”
Before I could reply, Ajay guided the lady up onto her worn ballet flats. “How about we find that fashion magazine you like, Molly?” he said, throwing me a sympathetic smile.
“Oh good, Chris,” she said to him, stumbling a little as they walked away.
Jane Stuart hadn’t moved the entire time.
“Jane, do you remember me?” I said softly, leaning forward.
She looked right at me but revealed no recognition. I gave her a reassuring smile, scouring her for evidence of an earlier century. Her polyester shirt and checked pants were straight from a discount clothing store rack downtown. Triangles of dry skin peeped from the sides of her slippers.