So the cars are different. That doesn’t mean anything.
Except other, smaller differences nagged at her, like street signs with bolder fonts and pedestrian crossing lights that flashed a white silhouette of a person or an orange hand instead of WALK or DON’T WALK.
The tip of her nose and ears went numb as she walked, and her wool coat protected her body against the bracing temperature only so much. Hopefully, she’d find someplace warm soon.
A short while later, she reached an avenue filled with shops, bars, and restaurants. Outside a corner café with an iron crow hanging above its door, a man and woman stood smoking, coats open to the wind. They had the unsteady stances and glassy eyes of the inebriated, and their breath created small patches of fog indistinguishable from their exhaled cigarette puffs. Nothing about their appearance screamed futuristic, either. If anything, the man’s vaudevillian handlebar moustache and suspenders and the woman’s top bun and prim schoolmarmish dress made them seem more suited to an older era.
Oona approached the couple. “Excuse me, where’s the closest subway?”
The man pointed down the street. “Five blocks that way.”
“Happy New Year,” slurred the woman.
“Is it really 2015?” Oona couldn’t resist asking.
“I know—last year totally flew by, right?” An eye roll, a short sigh, and she flicked her cigarette into the gutter.
It still didn’t mean anything. The drunk woman could’ve misheard her.
Ever since Oona and Dale had been mugged, she’d been scared to ride the subway alone, especially late at night. She focused on this fear as she headed down Seventh Avenue, which diverted the bigger fear at the threshold. Had she really ended up thirty-two years in the future, robbed of her potential and her rightful place in time?
In the station, she did a double take at the subway map; it no longer looked like it was designed on an Etch A Sketch, though the modern curved lines did little to improve its clarity. “F train to Fourth Avenue, switch to the N,” she murmured, memorizing the route to Bensonhurst.
There was an agent inside the station booth. Oona gave the middle-aged man behind the safety glass a relieved smile and handed over a five-dollar bill. “One token, please.”
“We haven’t sold tokens in years. This’ll get you a MetroCard good for two rides.”
She fought a panicked frown. “Okay … I guess I’ll take one of those.”
Moments later, “Here you go, ma’am.” The attendant handed her a plastic card.
Ma’am?
Such a small but jarring reminder: she was no longer nineteen to this world.
A rumble below signaled an approaching train.
It took a few card swipes, but Oona made it through the turnstile in time to catch the F. Her brain was overloaded with information that refused to be sorted into tidy shelves. Maybe she should read the letter? Not yet. Whatever it might explain, the arithmetic was impossible; she couldn’t tackle it right now. It was easier to dwell on smaller things without adding them up. Like this updated subway car—so bright and clean, graffiti-free, with no broken windows or flickering neon lights. Or the surprising number of people taking public transportation this late, the N train even more crowded once she transferred. If this really was the future, at least it was safer, less gritty. And not wholly unfamiliar. Even the clothes weren’t dramatically different—no puffy sleeves, shoulder pads, or ruffly skirts in sight, but nothing like the Jetsons attire she would’ve envisioned for 2015. The silhouettes were sleeker, with many formfitting outfits which looked constricting, uncomfortable. Other ensembles were collages combining several decades of past trends.
Enough. Stop procrastinating. Read the letter.
She took out the envelope. OONA LOCKHART: 2015 was spelled across it in block letters. Inside were two pages of unlined paper covered in tidy script with an upward slant, her penmanship recognizable by the quirks of the letters—g’s like figure eights, oversize loops on the l’s and h’s.
A high school English teacher had once told Oona her uphill handwriting was a sign she was an optimist. As she unfolded the letter, she wondered if this still applied to the version of herself who’d written it.
Dear Oona,
Welcome to your future. It won’t be so bad once you get to know it.
Don’t panic. You’re not crazy or dead or dreaming. This is your true reality. It really is 2015 and you really are 51 years old (on the outside). The sooner you accept it, the sooner you’ll adjust. But there’s more to it.
What is “it,” exactly? If Kenzie was able to keep you from running off, he’s filled you in, but you’re probably reading this on the subway, so I’ll tell you.
First off, know that none of this is your fault. Or anyone else’s. There was no science experiment gone wrong, no other explanation for it. And there’s no way to prevent or fix it. Here’s what’s going on:
Every year, on your birthday, right at midnight, you travel through time to inhabit your body at a different point of your life. For exactly one year. Then you “leap” to another random age you haven’t lived before (could be older, could be younger). You’re physically and mentally healthy, but you’re experiencing your adult life out of order.
Oona lowered the letter and stared up at an ad for a storage company. The train’s motion shook her down to her bones, as if she were made of glass and would shatter to pieces at any moment.
Now. Please. Let me wake up now.
But the train continued rattling on its tracks, and she continued being jostled by people sitting on either side of her during turns and stops. When the train went aboveground, the passengers took out small, flat devices the likes of which she’d never seen and began tapping on and speaking into them.
This isn’t the eighties.
The cold hadn’t woken her, the noisy subway hadn’t woken her, and her surroundings were painfully tangible, despite her wishes to the contrary.
No more denial.
This isn’t a dream.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. Oona tried to check the time, but found she wasn’t wearing a watch. A flash of color on the inside of her wrist made her pull up her sleeve. She gasped and revealed a tattoo: an hourglass with swirls of galaxies in place of sand, a ribbon across its base spelling out M.D.C.R.
She brought her wrist in for a closer look.
When did I get this? What do the letters stand for?
M for her mother, Madeleine; D for Dale; C for her father, Charles … what about the R?
Perhaps the letter would offer more clues. She resumed reading.
I’m sure you’re bursting with questions, and I’ll explain a few things, but you’ll have to discover the rest yourself. I won’t be able to protect you from all the bad surprises, but I don’t want to ruin the good ones for you, either. There’s this popular modern expression: no spoilers. It’s a warning not to give away key plot points (or endings) in movies, TV shows, or books. That’s how I feel about our mixed-up life; I don’t want to give away too many spoilers. It might take the fun out of living it. That’s why I don’t keep diaries. Instead, I try to write a letter at the end of each year, to prepare you for the next as best as I can.
You have a lot of incredible things to look forward (backward?) to, but this first leap will be rough. To make things easier, I’ve laid out some … guidelines (I won’t call them rules, because as much as you think you love rules, you also kind of hate them). Some of these might seem odd or annoying, but you need to trust me. After all, I’m Future You.