I close my eyes and grip the filthy mattress against the sensation of falling. I never grow accustomed to that feeling. Behind my eyelids I see flashes of white, then grey similar to a heavy fog. The falling sensation gradually abates, and when I feel all is still, I open my eyes again.
I am lying on a bed of scratchy hay in our old barn, now empty and dilapidated, the moon peeking through gaps in the roof. I listen for several minutes, not moving until I’m certain I’m alone. Then I grab the pen light from around my neck and shine it about my new surroundings, searching for John’s sign.
Nothing inside the barn. I step out into the night and study the exterior, trudging through weeds up to my knees and swatting away mosquitoes. Finally, near the ground and almost overlooked, I see text in black paint against the faded red of the barn. “OCT 15 1945 23:15”
I press a finger against the paint and it comes away stained. Anticipation and fear thrill through me. I’m not far behind him now.
I look around and up at the sky. Billions of stars wink down at me, as if trying to convince me everything will work out, but I know better. John could have more tricks up his sleeve. I will jump through all his hoops, right to the end.
No houses in sight, not yet. Food will have to wait until after the Second World War.
I sit with my back to the wall in a crowded pub, tearing great chunks of lamb leg with my teeth. In my haste to drink I’ve dribbled red wine down the front of my white blouse. The waist of my skirt is pinching, but I dare not fiddle with the belt in public. I’m making enough of a spectacle of myself.
It hadn’t taken long for the abandoned barn to be replaced by a public house, for the empty field to be replaced by a dirt-packed town road. Our home, long forgotten, unwanted, no longer exists.
A young, clean-shaven man approaches me as I spear the last of my potatoes. He stands for a moment, uncertain. I smile, swallow the potatoes, wipe a napkin over my mouth. He sits down across from me.
“I believe I have a message for you,” he says.
I stare at him, heart in my throat. It’s not John, but I’m closer than ever. Possibly only an hour or two behind. It is tea time on the 16th. John knows very well we can’t choose the time down to the minute. This was the best I could do, and apparently it’s more than good enough.
“He says…” The young man looks up to the ceiling, as if trying to recall a lengthy passage. Why hadn’t either of them just written it down? “He says he loves you, and you can be together soon. He hopes. He said he hopes you can be together soon, that’s right.” The young man smiles.
He loves me now, does he? He loves me about as much as he’d love a paper cut. “Anything else?”
“Yes, just a date: December 25th, 2002.”
That far ahead. I look down at my empty plate, then over the man’s shoulder to study the other patrons. Could John still be here, watching me? Would he have a beard? Would his hair have greyed, as mine has? Would he have lost or gained weight? Would he deliberately change his appearance so he could witness my suffering without my knowledge? That would be just like him, the smug bastard.
I’m tempted to ask the young man what John looked like, what he sounded like, what else he may have said. If he’d mentioned the reason for this pursuit. I’d love to know what this person thinks we’re talking about. Probably assumes it’s a strange lovers’ game we’re playing. Two thousand two must seem an impossible year to him. He’ll be long dead by then—or perhaps not. He might be a spry old man in 2002. You never know how these things go.
I reach out a hand and stroke his cheek—smooth, baby-like—and with the other I grab my pen light.
It is night, but I can’t see the stars for all the light pollution. It is chilly, but I don’t have a coat. I tug my sweater sleeves over my hands and hug myself.
The pub is long gone, replaced by a standalone movie theater that itself looks decades old. I haven’t been to the cinema in years. Decades. Centuries? I stifle a laugh and look up and down the line. If he’s here, I don’t recognize him.
This should be the last stop; the chase should end tonight.
I watch my breath plume in the still air and try to imagine what I’ll say, how I’ll act. I want to remain aloof, but the excited teenage girls behind me have me on edge. I finger the equipment in my pants pocket, convince myself I can do this. We’ll be in public the entire time, unless I can convince him to leave with me. I’m not sure I want to take that chance, however. I guess I’ll just see what the night brings.
A group of young men ahead of me are dressed in… rags? Their costumes resemble peasant dress. The girl at the ticket counter giggles as they leave, then leans to one side to wave and giggle some more at the girls behind me. I’m barely given a glance as she hands me my ticket.
The theater is surprisingly cool—shouldn’t it be warm to compensate for the winter weather? I scan the half-full room, hoping I’ll recognize John and that he’ll be alone. I wouldn’t want our daughter to see this. John spots me first; I’d walked right past him. He sits in the middle of the back row in a big black parka and a full beard. Despite the cool air, he must be sweating in that huge jacket and bushy facial hair.
I clench my teeth to prevent them chattering from nervousness bordering on terror. I’ve never done this before, only imagined it, walking myself through the steps in my mind. I stand before him, arms crossed over my chest, and mentally strip away the beard and the parka. It’s been a very long time since I thought of him as my husband, my partner in crime so to speak, my confidant, my best friend. His eyes sparkle as they study my face, his features softening.
Here is where we lived, where we were married, where we had our child, where we first used the pen lights, where we ruined our lives together. Here was our home and livelihood, now a forgotten wasteland, now a drinking hole, now a movie theater, now a high-rise condo building, now a pile of rubble.
It’s enough to break my heart.
I take the seat beside him. The theater quickly fills around us. I don’t even know the name of the film, but the audience is skewing young and male. I guess it’s not a romance.
“I’ve missed you,” he says in a low voice.
“You could have stopped. You could have stayed in one time and stopped this… this homage to your ego.”
John smirks, revealing crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. “Tired of chasing me?”
No guilt, no shame, no hint of regret. At once I no longer have to worry about my heart breaking. “Give me my daughter, John. Now.”
He settles back in his seat. It reclines a few inches. “After the movie.” He pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “The name of her nanny and their location.”
It takes all of my will to not reach for the paper in his hand, gouge his eyes out with my nails, scream all of the obscenities now swirling in my head. But he would win that fight, and I can’t afford to lose him again. I have to finish this stupid game—a twisted battle for custody played over centuries. I bite my lip, try to read his face.
“Dinner,” he says, “then maybe drinks. My hotel is just down the block.”
I close my eyes as the theater lights dim. We sit in silence beside each other. I’ve asked myself hundreds, thousands of times how things came to this, how our marriage fell apart, when John became such an ass. Before the appearance of that stupid box, before he began leaving home without me, careening around the past as an ostensibly single, child-free man, he’d been at worst a bit selfish. This cruelty is a new low, even for him. I pull a tissue out of my pocket, pretend to dab at my eyes. I keep it in my hand until we’re well into the film. The audience is boisterous: good. Two boys in front of us chatter throughout the movie, attracting dirty looks from those around them. Even John seems distracted and annoyed.
Inside the tissue I fit the hypodermic needle into the plastic syringe. It will easily puncture through his parka. I have a feeling I’ve travelled a bit farther than he has and picked up more tricks along the way. While he dallied in the past, I shot ahead to the future, anxious to see what happens to my daughter, to Earth. It surprises me that John would let his guard down so easily, assume his mere presence would be intimidation enough. As if I’ve done nothing but chase after his shadow all this time.
I’ve never been so relieved to be underestimated in my life.
I exhale slowly, stare straight ahead. He can never let me down again, never hijack my life again, not after tonight. Clenching my teeth again, I pull the syringe out of the tissue and plunge it into his bicep with one quick motion. I use more force than necessary; I expected to feel more resistance, but it slides in easily. He gives a loud bark that sounds more like an exuberant cough. No one even glances our way. The toxin has incapacitated him before I’ve even withdrawn the needle. He slumps back in his chair, eyes glazed, mouth slack. I press two fingers to his neck and keep them there until I feel his heart gradually come to a stop.
I fumble the paper out of his pocket with shaking hands, try not to drop it in the darkness. I unfold it and nearly cry out with relief. He hadn’t been bluffing. He even wrote the date he left Sofia with this nanny, a woman I’ve never met. Someone I will be meeting very soon.
I hurry out of the theater and into the cold night. I’m no longer shivering, but I am full of nervous energy. Part of me wants to weep with joy, but part of me wonders what this means for the life to which I’ve always wanted to return, my life with John when our daughter was just a baby in our old home on this very spot when all around were fields and grazing livestock and our closest neighbors were a carriage ride away. Can we really go back to the way we were, before our discovery in the barn? One day only a shovel in the corner by the door, the next a black box with a foreign language written all over it, symbols and strange letters overlapping each other. If I go back now, will John be there too? Will he have a memory of his death?
Will he forgive me?
The sidewalks are full even though it’s Christmas, colorful lights are twinkling up and down the street, and I think it would be a fitting end to this ordeal to find an open bar and toast myself with a bottle of champagne all to myself. But not tonight. I fish out my pen light through the neck of my sweater.
First, my daughter.
| Elle Boyd lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, with her feline overlord. Her work has appeared in the Garfield Lake Review, Common House Magazine, Vocivia, and Recesses, among others. Elle can be found on Bluesky @TheElleBoyd. |  |
This story was mesmerizing, , I couldn’t stop reading it. I had to know the end. What a surprise!!