At the end of each day, Oona washed the sand and salt off her body and imagined shedding a layer of skin. The sun darkened her limbs and lightened her hair, which made her chameleon eyes glimmer like etched glass, her teeth pearly and blinding. Her face grew thinner, her chin and cheekbones sharper as the heat and tranquility of her surroundings absorbed her appetite. When she became restless on one island, she’d head to Ko Pha Ngan for a Full Moon Party, dance all night, and sleep on the beach. Or she’d move on to a different island, where she found new splendors even as the sand and surf provided a constant rhythm to her days. She’d felt like a castaway for so long, why not play at the real thing?
How foolish that she’d let her broken chronology confine her for so long. Even the trip to Egypt had been born of avoidance, running away from fate as she was catapulted toward it. But this year abroad wasn’t about trying to hide or subvert, it was her rage giving her a choice, to fry or fly, say no or say yes. So she chose yes. She said yes at a snake farm, when offered a cobra’s head to kiss for good luck. She said yes to playing guitar at a party of German divorcées at a beachfront café, and yes again all four times they asked her to play Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do.” She said yes at a shooting range, firing off rifle rounds at paper targets. She said yes to piercing her navel and yes again to removing the hoop a month later when the piercing became infected. If her future wasn’t malleable, why put limits on the present? So she said yes, yes, yes, and sometimes she wished she hadn’t, but mostly she was glad she did.
No wonder Kenzie had stayed away a full year. (Though how did he afford it? Working odd jobs? Family money?) It felt good to get lost and was tempting to stay lost. When December came, she thought, Where to next? India? China? If culture shock was now her favorite drug, either one should provide an ample fix.
But as she considered new destinations, the months apart from her mother became magnified. It was time to return to the familiar. It was time to go home.
Oona had called Madeleine regularly during the year, and though she hadn’t felt homesick while exploring villages and jungles and cities and beaches, the moment she arrived at the airport for the journey back, she missed her mother with such ferocity, she could barely endure the day’s worth of travel before reaching JFK.
Madeleine greeted her at the airport with a big bouquet of orchids, which was semi-crushed in their ensuing hug.
“How was it?” her mother asked.
“I didn’t want it to end. But I’m also glad it did.”
“Sounds like you had a lot of fun.”
“Yeah, even though bad things also happened. I got pickpocketed and sunburned and my belly button turned into a horror show and I never wanna hear that Sheryl Crow song again. Still, it was one of the best years of my life.”
“Pretty remarkable, considering how it started off.”
Edward. A part of her still wanted to say his name aloud, the cinders within her still smoldering. But there was a freedom in making mistakes, feeling broken, falling into the void, and then climbing out. A freedom in letting go, setting aside, moving on.
She gave her mother a tired, exasperated smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to mess with my future again.” Doesn’t seem like I can outrun it, anyway. And maybe that’s okay.
They ended the year drinking champagne in the Park Slope brownstone, Oona no longer feeling bereft or betrayed. She missed nobody and regretted nothing. If she could explore foreign countries with ease, she could handle yet another foreign timeline. She was ready for anything.
But there are some things nobody is ready for.
PART VII
More Than This
1999: 35/24
24
“Happy New Year! And Happy Birthday!”
Oona’s eyes fluttered open as if from a refreshing nap. No shock, no queasiness, no physical jolt. She was getting used to leaping.
Normally, she’d be flooded with a yearning for a return to the sequential, for a remission from this time illness. But she didn’t wish for any specific year.
Whatever comes next, I can handle it.
“Happy New Year, Mom.” How steady her voice. How relaxed her shoulders, her hands folded in her lap. How wonderful to begin the year serenely instead of disoriented, to float instead of free fall.
“It’s 1999 and you just turned thirty-five,” said her mother from the other end of the couch.
“Great. I can’t wait to see what the year brings.”
Madeleine tilted her head, eyes bright with intrigue. “There’s something different about you.”
“There is.” She offered a secret smile and glanced down. The light caught her platinum ring, the wings winking at her as she turned her hand. What was this? There was writing on her left palm.
“I never know what to expect when you leap…”
As her mother continued to speak, Oona surreptitiously read the note on her hand:
Ask Mom about tattoo/check her bag for answers.
“… and even though it’s still the same you each time, I swear, it’s almost like your face changes somehow and—”
“Can you tell me about my tattoo? I think I’m ready for an explanation now.” She tried to bury the note of strain in her tranquil tone.
Madeleine, reaching for her champagne glass on the coffee table, froze in the awkward position. Retracted her arm and sat back against the sofa. “Oh, sweetheart, you can’t force these things. The right time will present itself and you’ll know what you need to know when you need to know it.” She stood and put her hands on her hips. “Shall we have some cake with this champagne?”
“Actually, I’d love some tea.” Better to choose a beverage meant for warmth and comfort. Plus, it would keep her mom busy for a few extra minutes.
“Of course. I’ll make you a cup.” Madeleine pointed across the room. “In the meantime, your letter’s on the mantel.”
“Okay, thanks.”
The letter could wait. Once Madeleine was out of the room, Oona went over to the armchair, to her mother’s handbag.
She sifted through its contents: leather gloves, a day planner, a tube of hand lotion, receipts, two slim books (Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince and Rilke’s Duino Elegies), a key chain shaped like a miniature dream catcher, a pack of tissues. Would any of this help her figure out her tattoo? But then a flash of yellow in a side pocket caught her eye: a greeting card envelope. A birthday card? It couldn’t be for Oona; she loathed yellow.
She slipped out the buttery envelope. Four capital letters were handwritten on it in black ink: M.D.C.R.
Her gaze ping-ponged from the envelope to her tattoo, from her mother’s cursive to the permanent calligraphy on her wrist.
“I hope chamomile is okay.” Madeleine came in with a steaming mug. “I put in extra—oh, shit.” Hastily setting down the mug, she plucked the envelope out of Oona’s fingers.
Her daughter stared at the space the yellow rectangle had occupied, hand still raised. “Sorry I went through your things, but … what’s in the envelope?”
“I shouldn’t have … I should’ve…”
“What’s in the envelope, Mom?” In her head, a trickle of snowfall obscured logical thoughts, the cold white intensifying.