“Mope some more and then get on with things, I guess. It’s weird—like I’m grieving for someone I never knew because I won’t get to know him. At least with Dale, I know what I lost. With Crosby … it doesn’t make sense for me to be sad about him.”
“The day love makes sense, check the pork chops for feathers.” A weak grin at her own corny joke.
Oona twisted the satin hem of her blanket. “Last year I was in denial about the time travel stuff, but now … now that I believe it, it’s different. I have to figure out how to manage this. The more I think about it, the more I realize I won’t be able to have anything lasting in my life. Any boyfriend, band, friend—it all comes with an expiration date. What’s even the point of getting attached to anyone, anything? Or even getting up in the morning.”
“That’s always been the biggest struggle for you.”
Oona shed the blanket and sat up straighter. “Of course. Why didn’t I ask you right away? You’ve been with chronologically younger versions of me, but also older ones. Did I ever figure it out?”
“Not what causes the leaps. But how to manage them? I suppose. As much as any of us figure out life.”
“Do I ever find any kind of stability? Or do I live life year after year like some kind of existential hobo?”
Teeth bared in a grimace, Madeleine said, “You know I can’t tell you. Some years will be more volatile than others. But you have me for all the stability you want.” The way she squeezed Oona’s hands begged for no more questions.
On TV, a woman with badly permed hair and a missing front tooth sobbed. Sally Jesse crouched beside her, the red of her lipstick—a perfect match to her glasses—making a sympathetic O.
Oona took the remote and muted the sound. “Mom, you know I love you … but I need something more.”
A tug-of-war took place behind Madeleine’s eyes, and her chest inflated with a deep breath. “Okay, I can tell you this. You like to assign a theme to some years.”
“A theme? Like a prom theme? Like 1991 Under the Stars?”
“Not quite. Well, for example, the theme of one year was travel. You found such a sense of peace exploring foreign countries.”
“I can’t even imagine. Everything feels like a foreign country right now.”
“I know. But you’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Will I?”
* * *
Once she recovered from the flu, Oona still couldn’t shake off her muddled emotions. She’d known Crosby for less than twenty-four hours before she wrecked their relationship. Not enough time to reestablish true intimacy, but she’d had a taste of it. A good man had gone from adoring her to despising her in the span of one night. Something precious was now destroyed and unknowable. Guilt and disappointment haunted her for letting Crosby and her 1990 self down.
Then again, why had 1990 Oona left her letter so close to the fireplace if she knew the cheat sheet would get incinerated? Was a flimsy warning on the envelope supposed to be enough to prevent that? And why go to the club with Crosby on New Year’s Eve if she knew she’d end up having sex with another man? Had she really believed a Post-it note could change her fate? If this Oona had let last year’s self down, it was because Earlier Oona had set her up to fail.
Either way, despite the promises of a year full of fabulous people and wild outings, Oona found herself alone, unsure of how or when she’d see any of her friends again, hesitant to venture into New York’s nightlife scene in search of them.
Instead, she kept to a familiar limited radius, though after a year spent being fifty-one, Oona felt revitalized physically. Her bones and muscles were stronger, and her skin had a flawless sheen. Last year’s fatigue was replaced with an urge to move move move, as if small motors powered her limbs. She expelled extra energy by taking walks in Prospect Park, which were typically soothing, but now made her restless, uneasy. People gawked at her, candy-colored hair being uncommon in the early nineties and rarely seen in Brooklyn. 1990 Oona must’ve wanted that kind of attention, but 1991 Oona couldn’t handle it. So she went to a salon in the East Village.
“I’d like something that’ll make me look like a different person,” she told the stylist. Pointing to a wall covered in black-and-white photos of Old Hollywood starlets, she added, “Like that black bob with bangs.”
“One Louise Brooks, coming up.”
Once Oona’s hair was chopped off, colored, shampooed, and blow-dried into a sleek new style, she didn’t look like a new person, only like herself wearing a flapper wig.
“It suits you,” the stylist told Oona.
Did it? She didn’t know what truly suited her anymore.
As she was about to leave the salon, the stylist called out, “Hang on,” and handed Oona a glossy electric green postcard. On it was an image of a bald man with flower petals for eyelashes and an X of black masking tape over his mouth. Glittery blue letters spelled out SOMA 3000 above his head. “My brother’s a club promoter. This new weekly party at Antenna should be pretty hot. I bet you could use a fun night out.”
Outside, Oona gave the flyer a closer look. I could use a fun night out. The dress code demanded “fab, funky, or freakish” attire. Unsure if anything in her current wardrobe would qualify, she went shopping. Obeying Crosby’s wishes, she bypassed St. Mark’s Place to avoid the store where he worked, swallowing bad feelings and a lump in her throat. Instead she went west on Eighth Street, past countless shoe stores and shops selling bongs, Zippos, and other tobacco/cannabis paraphernalia, until she reached a window display whose mannequins were adorned with vibrant, skimpy clothing: Patricia Field.
She entered the basement level of the colorful store. Ten feet away, sifting through a rack of rhinestone belts, a tall black woman with spindly arms and a pastel-pink Afro wig greeted her with a grin. “Look at Miss Thing and her new haircut.”
“How’d you know?” Oona put a hand up to her freshly shorn hair.
“Because no wig looks that good except the ones we sell upstairs, and I know you don’t buy those. Now are you gonna give me some sugar or do I have to come over there?”
She cautiously approached the woman, who pulled her into a suffocating hug.
“What happened to you? You haven’t been out in ages. I was starting to think you and Crosby ran off and took that trip to Japan you’re always talking about.”
Did I just find one of my friends?
“Crosby and I actually broke up. Then I got sick. I’ve been … taking some time.”
“Oh, baby girl. What a shame.” She scooped Oona into another hug, enveloped her in a cloud of perfume that smelled of lilacs and baby powder. “I thought the two of you were the real deal. He didn’t play around on you, did he? Because Jackie Hammer has a mobbed-up uncle—we can get his kneecaps busted if he needs to be taught a lesson.”
“No, no, Crosby was great. It just didn’t work out. After the breakup, I needed to be a hermit for a while. And now I need to stop moping.” She fished out the SOMA 3000 flyer. “I was thinking of going to this tomorrow.”
“The new night at Antenna? There’s nothing to think about.” She zigzagged an admonishing finger. “You’re going, period. We’re all getting ready at Jenny’s. Now let’s find you something to wear.”