“What about me?”
Pages of results filled the screen; websites, blogs, and social media profiles from around the world. Melbourne’s Oona Lockhart was a tattooed vegan with three kids. Cleveland’s Oona Lockhart was in college and collected antique board games. Oslo’s Oona was biracial and photographed reindeer.
“None of those are me,” she said. “I didn’t think my name was so common.”
“It isn’t. I pay for special services to create fake Oona pages to flood the Internet. Makes it tougher to find the real you and easier to bury any info we can’t erase. We’re careful about you keeping a low profile. Sometimes you use aliases.”
“And I’ve lost touch with all of them? All my friends?” She stared down at the laptop’s keyboard, the letters swimming before her. “I must be so lonely.”
There was a loaded pause before Kenzie replied. “You form other friendships over the years. And you’ve gotten a lot closer with your mom. For what it’s worth, I’m here, too.”
Right then it wasn’t worth much, but it was better than nothing. “Thank you for…” Her hand wove through the air, unable to pluck out the right words. “Just thank you. I think that’s enough for tonight. You can stay over if you want.” There was a tremor in her voice.
“Of course. I’ll show you your room. We should try to get some rest.”
“Yeah.” Though how could she sleep? The new information coursed through her head like cars on a busy freeway.
But when Kenzie led her to a bedroom dominated by a chrome four-poster bed piled high with pillows, she slid beneath the covers, curled up into a ball, and dropped right off. It would’ve been a small solace to dream of Dale, her friends, that mirrored basement, to return to 1982 for even a little while—before she knew how the story ended for all of them—but her sleep was a deep inky void.
* * *
Oona woke up after a few hours, oddly rested. Early morning’s pale yellow light illuminated the room. She blinked at the celling.
I need to tell NYU if I’m going to London.
I need to tell the band if I’m going on tour.
I need to decide—
Except it was the wrong room. Instead of the popcorn ceiling of her teenage bedroom or the tangled wires suspended over Dale’s bed, above her was an ornate tin ceiling.
Shit.
There was nothing to decide. She was in 2015.
Oona got out of bed, still in last night’s skirt and sweater, eager for a fresh set of clothes.
Is this really my room?
She took cautious steps around the bedroom, like a guest snooping in someone else’s house. Too nervous to touch anything—the nightstands resembling aluminum cubes; the glass shelves lined with silver vases, each containing a single violet calla lily; the iridescent lavender walls. A small display case in one corner of the room bore the only personal traces. It was filled with colorful knickknacks: a pyramid inside a snow globe, a porcelain Venetian mask, a model car made of crimson crystal, a Fabergé egg, a glass igloo, dozens of other items. Gifts? Souvenirs? Above the display case was the anniversary wristwatch from Dale, mounted and framed.
Why is it behind glass? I should be wearing it.
A desire to break the glass rose within her, only to be extinguished as the answer came:
It’s too precious.
She turned away and refocused on finding a change of clothing, only there were no dressers or wardrobes in the minimalist room. There were three doors, though. One opened to a hallway and the rest of the house. The second revealed a bathroom done in creamy marble and mother-of-pearl. The third led to a humongous walk-in closet. It housed a wardrobe of classic styles in neutral colors for a range of body types, which made it easy to find something to fit her current size. At the far end was a rack containing more colorful pieces like vinyl catsuits, crinoline skirts, bustiers in metallic fabrics, and dresses made of improbable materials (Christmas lights, duct tape, plastic shingles…).
Are these leftover Halloween costumes?
As she changed into black jeans and a gray turtleneck, there was a knock on the bedroom door.
“Be right there,” she called out.
When she opened the door, her mouth fell open. Her mother stood before her, smiling a crooked, expectant smile. Oona had anticipated wrinkles, frailty, gray hair, a stooped posture, but instead found a woman in leather pants and a low-cut sweater, brimming with bawdy vitality.
“How’s my little time traveler?” Madeleine hugged her, enveloping her in a cloud of dark curly hair, periwinkle mohair, and Chanel No. 5, the same perfume she’d worn her entire life.
A stunned silence gripped Oona as she gawked at a woman who’d surely been trapped in amber. True, the decades had left some fingerprints on Madeleine: they added a plumpness to her petite form, framed the mouth and eyes with lines, made her neck tendons more prominent. But her face was pulled tight, copper-green eyes still bright, even if tilted at a new feline angle, eyebrows higher by a few degrees, lips fuller. And where Oona covered up her older body, Madeleine showed off ample cleavage, the loose skin of her bustline only faintly discernible.
“How is this possible? How do you look younger than me?” Oona put a hand to her face, as if she could read the mark of years like Braille.
“You’re afraid of needles, my dear. To say nothing of knives.” A kind chuckle at her daughter’s perplexed expression. “Plastic surgery. You frown upon it. I adore it. In fact, you’ve accused me of being a little obsessed with it. But look at me. You’d never think sixty-eight, would you?” Madeleine twirled around.
“I don’t know what to think, period. Why weren’t you here last night?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you—2014 You—thought it would be best that way. I may be well preserved, but she—you thought it might be frightening to see me older so soon, before you had a chance to read the letter and let it all sink in a bit. Goodness, I can’t imagine how trying this first leap must be for you. Come, let’s eat, and then we’ll have a little adventure.”
Madeleine stepped aside to reveal Kenzie in the hallway, bundled in a royal blue scarf. “Good morning.” He held out a lidded plastic cup. “Before you say or do anything else, try this.”
Was it always going to feel this way, like being thrust onto a treadmill, running to catch up as everyone around her calmly walked? Oona took a sip from the offered cup—coffee, but with a creamy, nutty flavor. “It’s good.”
“Soy latte. See? Not gross at all,” he added with a wry smile.
“Plus you don’t have to worry about me breaking my robot coffee machine.” Oona smiled back. The coffee and friendly faces added a normal patina to the morning, crammed the darker feelings away like closing an overflowing junk closet. It would all come tumbling out eventually, but the door would hold for now. “Mom just told me we’re going to have a ‘little adventure.’” She graced Madeleine with a quick eye roll. “Because when I woke up today, thirty-two years into my future, you know what I decided I needed most? Adventure.”
Madeleine swatted her shoulder. “You don’t even know what it is.” A shake of her head, a look as if she were trying to find her daughter in a crowded room. “It’s going to be like having a moody teenager again.”