A waiter came by, and Oona asked for another round of drinks and the check. She usually picked up the tab, which didn’t bother her. If she spent more time sober, it might. She glanced around the table: these people would be strangers to her in a matter of months. Maybe she’d chosen them as friends because they were strangers to begin with. And there she was, little girl lost, with buckets of money.
On New Year’s Eve, they went to Antenna, arriving early for “refreshments” in a VIP room before the countdown. Dressed in a black-sequined top hat, sleeveless shirttails unbuttoned to her bra, and glittery fishnets, Oona played a shinier, skimpier version of a modern-day Marlene Dietrich. She wouldn’t be out long—only wanted to enjoy a few final moments of whimsy—and palmed the Ecstasy tab Jenny gave her, nursing her champagne for the next hour.
A little after eleven, she slipped out while the group was distracted by one of Jenny’s stories.
Down the hall, a few feet from the stairs, a voice over her shoulder.
“Where are you sneaking off to?” Cyn asked.
“Just going to the bathroom.”
“Upstairs? To the one five times as crowded?”
A breezy shrug. “I wanted to walk around a bit.”
“It’s not as fun when you’re sober, is it?” Oona opened her mouth to protest, but Cyn clucked her tongue. “Don’t even, girl. I saw you palm that E. And you’ve been sipping champagne looking like Michael Alig’s pissed in it. What’s the real story?”
“I’m just tired.” But she owed Cyn more than that. “And it’s becoming less fun even when I’m not sober.”
“The law of diminishing returns.”
“Yeah. Exactly. I keep thinking about a conversation I had with my mom a while back. Turns out, my dad drank a lot. I never thought about it as a kid, because he never got angry or violent, and he and Mom rarely fought. He liked his beer and would get a little loud after finishing a six-pack. Then he’d get sleepy and go to bed. It wasn’t a problem, until the day he drank a six-pack and fell off a fishing boat.”
A grim understanding darkened Cyn’s voice. “And we’ve all been drinking our six-packs and getting a little loud. But you gotta go before you fall off that boat. I get it. I don’t know how much more of this scene I’ve got in me, either.” Her tone was unconvincing and they both knew it. “Not like I got anything better to do. I did just inherit five grand from … an older gentleman friend I knew. So that should keep me in wigs and lashes for a while yet.”
But there was another way Oona could show her gratitude. “Cisco Systems. Forget wigs and lashes—invest some of the money. You missed Cisco’s first split, but I have a feeling it’ll split again.” It was more than a feeling: the stock would split eight more times in as many years. She clutched her friend’s wrists with urgency. “If you invest two grand now, in eight years, you’ll have close to … half a million. Please trust me on this.”
The purse of Cyn’s mouth projected suspicion, but there was a glint in her eyes. “I’m not gonna ask how you know, but I’ll believe you on this one.” She whipped out a lipstick and scrawled CISCO across her bare arm in red. “Any other names you wanna add?”
“Dell, but ditch it in March of 2000. Oracle. GE. Apple—hold on to that one for a while.” When her friend was done writing, she said, “Cyn, I need to thank you—”
“Uh-uh. You thanked me plenty. And I think you just gave me a future as a rich lady. Anything else you say is gonna ruin my makeup.” Fervent waving at her damp eyes. “I’ll take a hug, though.”
The women embraced. “Happy New Year, sugar.” Cyn winked and shooed her away. “Now get the hell off this boat.”
And with that, Oona’s year of frivolity was over.
It took fifteen minutes to hail a taxi, and once she climbed inside, she let out a long breath. She’d miss 1991. Would she ever have this much fun again? She probably wouldn’t. She probably shouldn’t.
“Traffic is bad. You might not make it to Brooklyn in time,” the driver warned.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I won’t be here for the new year, anyway.”
In the rearview mirror, the driver arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
He was right about traffic. She wouldn’t get home in time to write her 1992 self a letter, but that was okay. That Oona would be far more wizened than this one.
They were on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway when the countdown began over the radio. This time she didn’t close her eyes. She watched the Manhattan skyline crawl past and wondered if it would look the same the next time she laid eyes on it.
“Three! Two! One!”
PART IV
Some Kind of Stranger
2004: 40/21
13
A rhythmic rattle and the ground beneath Oona lurched, sent her tumbling. On hands and knees, more rumbling as nausea roiled through her. Blink blink blink. Focus. Yellow and orange molded seats with wood panel trim. Strips of fluorescent light along the ceiling. Stainless-steel poles running down a center aisle. A picture window bearing an orange circle with the letter F.
Why am I on the subway?
Oona got to her knees.
There were a handful of passengers in the car, but their appearance gave Oona no hints as to the possible year.
Am I still young … ish?
A twenty-something woman in a houndstooth coat rushed over. “Are you okay, ma’am?” she asked.
Maybe not.
“I think so.” Oona used a nearby pole to help herself stand. “I just spaced for a second.”
A deep male voice called over the loudspeaker, “Next station, Fifteenth Street–Prospect Park.”
“I found a pen,” the woman said, holding out a ballpoint. When Oona didn’t take it, she added, “You were just asking for one. You seemed pretty upset.”
The station came into view as the train slowed down.
“Why was I upset?” Oona asked. And what did I need to write down?
“Fifteenth Street–Prospect Park,” the conductor announced as the doors opened. “Next stop, Fort Hamilton Parkway.”
“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “I didn’t hear all of it.”
“Shit, this is my stop.” Oona was half in and half out of the car. “What did you hear?”
“Please stand clear of the closing doors,” said the conductor.
Oona stepped back to be fully on the platform as the woman’s blank stare brightened. “Edward! You mentioned someone named Edward. And Peter.”
Before Oona could ask anything else, the doors slid closed and the train pulled away.
As she exited the station, she checked her pockets. One was empty. The other contained a MetroCard, house keys, a few twenties, and the silver watch from Dale, which had stopped at three o’clock (When did I start wearing it again?). Nothing else. No letter, no Post-it, no clues as to why she’d been on the subway, who Edward or Peter might be, or what year it was. She was in a black lace dress and high heels. Maybe she’d come from a party?
Thanks for nothing, Earlier Oona!