Share a story about someone who had a positive impact on your life.
Tiny Baby and Mommy
Once upon a time, in a land about thirty miles away from where your author sits at this very moment, a tiny baby was born. She was born five weeks early because her mother chased around a cat with a baby chicken in its mouth and as a result, broke her waters. The baby’s father was away at sea, working hard as a ship’s captain and unable to return in time for the imminent premature birth of the tiny baby.
The tiny baby’s mother had to go to the hospital because the tiny baby insisted on being born, regardless of where her daddy was. The tiny baby didn’t care about that, she was ready to enter the world of the oxygen breathers. The tiny baby’s big sister took their mother to the hospital and waited in the father’s waiting room with a room full of expectant dads (this is how it was back in the day – dads waited in a room). After some time, the tiny baby was born. The tiny baby’s mother and big sister rejoiced.
The tiny baby grew as babies do, and eventually became a grown-up. Many people helped the tiny baby along the way, but there were only two at the start of the tiny baby’s life as an oxygen breather: her mommy and her big sister.
Perhaps – no – most assuredly, it is I who placed myself in this position. I do not speak of ruling the queendom. No. That is my birthright. That you don’t see a throne next to mine is my doing.
When I was born a girl I was expected to marry. And marry well. From the age of four, suitors were brought to me. Old men! Can you imagine? Vows were to be exchanged for titles given. Oddly, every single one of these suitors was deemed not fit by my father, or fate took them another direction. Some in not so pleasant directions.
When I was twenty years old and started refusing suitors, my father would not speak to me for three months. It was quite possibly the downfall of his health. You can blame that on me too, if you wish.
When I was twenty years old, there was a new stable lad employed to work with our finest horses – mine included. The lad was my age, and while he showed proper deference to me, he also showed me friendship, which no other servant had the courage to do. He would prepare my horse and sometimes we would have long discussions about life. Ha! What do two twenty-year-old children know about life? He treated me as a person, not as a queen-in-waiting. He did not let me get away with much. My attitude is often times haughty. I make no apologies for it. I am Queen and at that time I was queen-in-training. I must be strong at all times. I must not and will not entertain fools.
But when I was around him, I did not feel like a queen-in-training, and it was rather difficult to act haughty. I felt like who I imagined I always should feel like as a child, when I dreamt of having another life. A simple life, a life raising chickens and cattle and having a husband, friend and lover in one person, someone who could understand me, and would want to try. And children. We would have three children. They would laugh and play in the grass, their cheeks rosy from exertion, their tiny legs traveling as fast as they could to catch the chickens, and we would delight in the sight. My husband and I.
I began having the same fantastical daydreams when I was around this lad, not just when I was alone. I watched when he would interact with others, and I had people observe him when I could not. He never raised his voice in anger to anyone. He was as calm as the river on a late summer evening. The aura around him was yellow, just like the sunset on that late summer eve. His hair was flaxen and soft, I just knew it. I wished to touch it, but I dared not. It would be most improper, and dangerous for him. His eyes were dark blue and smiling. Always smiling. They twinkled with mischief more than not. When we were near the horses and I could freely be myself, I never felt more alive.
Shortly after I turned twenty-one, for several days I did not see the stable lad. My concern was that he had become ill. I was mistaken and quite pleased to see him when he returned. My ladies-in-waiting helped me into my favorite dress: the light blue silk. It was far simpler than anything I would wear for official business, but it was perfect for talking with the stable lad. I made my way to the barn and saw him brushing the horses. I could feel my face light up as if the sun itself were grazing my skin. I greeted the lad and asked him if he was well. He said he was quite well. He had very recently exchanged wedding vows. That was why he was not at the stables.
This was the first time I had to use the Ice Queen façade. And I was yet to be Queen. I congratulated him and quickly made an excuse to part company. The façade wouldn’t hold much longer, and I could not bear to be seen as the soft creature underneath. As soon as I turned away, I could feel my countenance change into one of grief and broken-heartedness. My eyes shed tears even as I told them not to. He called out to me, but I wouldn’t turn around. I could not bear it.
I spent the rest of the day and night alone in my chambers. No one was permitted. Of course by now you must’ve guessed: I was in love with the lad. He had never once mentioned he was betrothed, and if he had, what could I have done with that information? I was meant to marry above him. Millions of my tears would not have changed anything. But knowing he was married made the realization that he could never be married to me more pronounced. I wished I were his wife. I wondered what she looked like. I never asked anything about her, even though I saw the lad often at the stables. We talked and joked after my initial heartbreak had healed a bit, but there was this thing in between us now, a barrier. I didn’t want it there, but a wife is hard to remove. A queen-in-waiting impossible to get out of. The situation was ill-fated.
I became Queen at twenty-five, just as the stable lad became a father for the first time. My father‘s efforts to find me a suitable match were unsuccessful. I decided no one was good enough and I held to that belief. I disappointed my father and I did it intentionally.
When I was thirty, his second child was born. I saw him still, at the stables, and we spoke as we always had. We never spoke of his wife or of his children. It is not that I didn’t care, it is because I cared too much. To know about his life would reopen wounds that were almost – but not quite – scars.
I have recently learned that his wife has run off with a wealthy man. The children are grown, the lad now a man of my own age. You may be asking yourself, Dear Reader, “What now will the Ice Queen do? She never married. She rules the queendom fairly, but suffers no fools. She surrounds herself with birds and other creatures, including her beloved horses, and she is old enough to make her own decisions regarding her own queendom and her own person.”
Let me tell you then. I am sure you want to know. And even if you don’t, I am going to tell you, because I am Queen.
One crisp morning, I walked alone to the stables. I found my lad filing the horses’ hooves. His expression was forlorn, as one would expect. He looked up at me with teary eyes that made the blue stand out even more. He was much older, we both were now. I could not stop myself from crying with him. He hunched over, embarrassed by his tears and apologized. He did not curtsy, and I was glad for it. I took his hand and held it between my own two hands. We had never touched in this way before. Yes, Reader, it was still not appropriate. But I am Queen, and I rule the queendom.
What do you think happened next, Dear Reader?
I will tell you. Not because I am Queen, but because I am a woman. And I know you want to know. But let’s keep it between us.
In the next moment, I saw yellow, like the sunset on a summer eve, I felt soft hair under my hands, and a gentle touch on my cheek. Right before I closed my eyes, I saw dark blue, like the blue of gently rolling river waves with a strong current underneath that cannot be seen, only felt.
I’ve been up and down these streets, The fine leather of my boots ruined.
For what? For whom?
Who is this brash American with her strange clothing and even stranger claims that she knows me?
I left her with Mrs. Grant right after we dined. It was no more than half past six. She was going on about frogs in her shoes, but I saw neither frogs nor shoes. What That Woman calls shoes, I have never seen in my life. She’s strange, almost barbaric. The aggravating American accent, the bombastic strength of mind and loose of lip! And her frustrating beguiling face. Pleasant and full of freedom. With a little fear. She frustrates me so!
Enough of that. The storm began at 6:45, as I had just left the drive of Mrs. Grant’s establishment. There was a loud clap of thunder. And then I heard Mrs. Grant screaming, “She is gone, Nicky, she is gone!”
Alarmed, I ran back to the establishment and met Mrs. Grant as she was running toward me. The raindrops began and quickly became torrential. We made our way inside, where Mrs. Grant could hardly get out her words. “She is gone Nicky, she simply…disappeared!” It pained me to see Mrs. Grant in such a state. I rested a hand on her shoulder and asked her to explain. But I already knew who she meant. She said Miss Reynolds went up to lie down, and that was the last she had seen of her.
Lightning struck. Maybe once, maybe twice. Mrs. Grant heard a scream from Miss Reynolds’ room. She ran up as quickly as she could, only to find the room vacated. Miss Reynolds was nowhere to be found. Milton checked the entire property, as did I, several times. I assured Mrs. Grant that I would find Miss Reynolds, that perhaps she had gone down to the place where she had fallen in the road. Perhaps she thought she left something behind there. And as the doctor assessed, Miss Reynolds had suffered a concussion, and may be confused. Perhaps she was not thinking coherently, and would try to go back to that place in the middle of the night. In a severe thunderstorm. This American unnerves me so! Alas, I must find her.
I walked the streets again and again. Searching. She is not here. My whole self is drenched and the storm continues. My stomach in knots. My countenance forlorn. As I continue walking, I start to wonder, Was she just a wish? The storm lights up the night, and there is a figure up ahead. Is it her? Is it my gypsy?
💫
This piece is a blend of three things: Nicholas from my Traveler series; Gypsy, the song by Fleetwood Mac; and a smidge of American Woman, the Lenny Kravitz version. (Yes, I know American Woman is an anti-war song, but I like to use it in this context sometimes. Ok, all of the time.)
Gypsy
Song by Fleetwood Mac
So I’m back to the velvet underground Back to the floor that I love To a room with some lace and paper flowers Back to the gypsy that I was To the gypsy that I was
And it all comes down to you Well, you know that it does and Lightning strikes maybe once, maybe twice Oh and it lights up the night And you see your gypsy You see your gypsy
To the gypsy That remains Her face says freedom With a little fear I have no fear Have only love And if I was a child And the child was enough Enough for me to love Enough to love
She is dancing away from you now She was just a wish She was just a wish And her memory is all that is left for you now You see your gypsy, oh You see your gypsy
Ooh ooh, ohh, ohh-oh
Lightning strikes Maybe once, maybe twice And it all comes down to you Ooh oh, and it all comes down to you Lightning strikes Maybe once, maybe twice And (oh) it all comes down to you I still see your (your) bright eyes, bright eyes (And it all comes down to you)
American woman Stay away from me American woman Mama, let me be
Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door I don’t wanna see your face no more I got more important things to do Than spend my time growin’ old with you
Now woman, stay away American woman, listen what I say
American woman Get away from me American woman Mama, let me be
Don’t come knockin’ ’round my door I don’t wanna see your shadow no more Colored lights can hypnotize Sparkle someone else’s eyes
Now woman, get away American woman, listen what I say
American woman I said, get away American woman Listen what I say
Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door Don’t want to see your face no more I don’t need your war machines I don’t need your ghetto scenes Colored lights can hypnotize Sparkle someone else’s eyes
Now woman, get away American woman, listen what I say
American woman Stay away from me American woman Mama, let me be
I gotta go, I gotta get away Babe, I gotta go, I wanna fly away I’m gonna leave you, woman I’m gonna leave you, woman I’m gonna leave you, woman I’m gonna leave you, woman
Bye-bye, bye-bye Bye-bye, bye-bye (American woman) You’re no good for me and I’m no good for you (American woman) I look you right straight in the eye I tell you what I’m gonna do (American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, you know I gotta go (American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, I gotta go (American woman) I gotta go I gotta go, American woman Yeah
“You’re squinting. Shouldn’t you have worn sunglasses on a sunny day like today?” I raised my arm to shield my eyes to view this joker more clearly.
“Thanks for that, Captain Obvious. I left them at home, mistakenly believing the sun doesn’t shine here.” He was tall, that much I gathered, though I still couldn’t make out his features, and he was decked out in jeans and a t-shirt with thousands of tiny spots of paint on them. I hoped this meant he was a worker in the museum, not that this shirt was actually his idea of fashion.
“That’s a rather stereotypical belief, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” I shrugged.
“Anyway, it doesn’t much matter unless I can’t purchase any sunglasses here,” I snipped. I took a deep breath and let it out loudly and slowly. It had to be 9:50 already. No time for banter with a doofus.
He moved smoothly down three steps, ending up at ground level and looking me square in my eyes, even though I stood on the first step and was 5’10” with those heels on. Well. Nosy he may be, bordering on rude even, but I almost forgot about all of it when I looked at him.
Mr. Rude Painter Guy was tall, I was right about that. Mid-twenties, I would guess, and he had the uncanny ability to cause the next snide remark I had lined up to halt on my tongue, just by being. His wavy, dark brown hair nearly glowed red in the bright morning sun and his eyes were like rich chocolate with a touch of cayenne. He had a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his straight, olive-colored nose, the sight of which erased the slight frown that had formed on my face. His cheekbones were disgustingly high and angular (yeah, I was jealous) and his lips were wide and voluptuous (again, jealous). I stood there perfectly still, staring blankly at him. My name had eluded me at present.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and did this thing with his eyes that made my left knee buckle slightly.
“Can I help you?” I asked stiffly, as if I had developed amnesia and had made myself a proprietor of the establishment.
“Pardon me?” He seemed confused and that vaguely bugged me.
“What?” I scrunched my nose at him.
“What?” Now he was confused and sounded so.
“What? What?” I couldn’t help ribbing him solely for amusement.
He was standing close enough that I heard him growl. “You were the one committing trespassing moments ago. My question to you was, ‘May I help you?’ as you proceeded up these steps here.” He pointed down as if I had no clue I was perched on steps.
“So?” I turned to continue up the stairs and shrugged him off. “I’m going up here now. Buh-bye.”
“I can’t allow you to do that.” He grabbed my arm to stop me.
“Excuse me!” I yanked my arm away and glared at him. “And why can’t you allow me to do that?”
“I don’t know who you are, for one, and for another, I doubt the Langdons would have any business with you.”
Mr. Rude Painter Guy has not only a biting tongue, but a superiority complex. Impressive. “I have an appointment that started, like—“ I glanced to my watch. “It started five minutes ago!
I’d love to chat with you, but I have to run.” He grabbed me again before I could out-maneuver him.
“Who are you?” his eyes narrowed at me and became nasty, ugly, most definitely bitter chocolate.
“What’s it to you?”
He growled. I found the sound perversely erotic, and wrinkled my nose at this self-awareness.
“Fine. I see I am not going to make my meeting anytime soon if I don’t tell you. My name is Maisie Reynolds, and if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr. Langdon that I am already late for—thanks to you.” I yanked my arm away for the last time and marched up the stairs, relieved to feel the breeze cool me.
“Maisie Reynolds? You’re Maisie Reynolds?”
“Yessss, for thirty years now. And you are…?” I stopped at the door and leaned my head against it for balance when his probable identity first flashed in my mind. I spoke into the door and pleaded with it to hold me up, just as he opened his mouth.
“I’m Nick Langdon, Maisie Reynolds. Now allow me to escort you to your meeting with Mr. Langdon. Oh…that’s right, I will be taking my father’s place this morning, as he had an emergency to attend to. I was venturing out to meet you when I came upon you breaking and entering.” He had the nerve to smirk and cough to cover his laugh.
“Just entering, not breaking. The stupid thing is already broken, Nick Langdon. And I heard you cover your laugh just now, and I know you knew who I was the whole time, so just stuff any further comments up your lovely arse, please.”
He was polite enough to allow me to enter the building first, and in utter silence, save my loudly clicking heels, led me down the hollow hall. I had the strangest sensation he was leering at my butt.
I wrote this story a long time ago and have not developed it further. It was another book idea just like last week’s story. I’ve tweaked it so that it can appear along with this picture that instantly reminded me of my story. Thanks for giving my story a home, Kevin!
Edit: all of the installments of the story have been published. Before you read The Traveler, read Prequels I-IV. Then read The Traveler, then the Sequel. I will put the links below. It will make more sense if you do it that way, as these were Chapters 1-6 of a book I haven’t finished.
Now read The Traveler, the story you in right now. It starts below.
After reading the story below, you are ready to read The Traveler sequel here
And that is where the story ends – for now. Thanks everyone for reading and supporting my almost-book. 🫶
✨
As I stepped off the curb, I wondered why I had agreed to repair the gowns, and then, why I didn’t just travel the four blocks to my hotel. While I was trying to avoid tripping over my feet, I looked to the left for vehicles coming toward me. Problem is, I was in England.
Stepping out into traffic and looking the wrong way, well, I didn’t see the black blur that was suddenly next to me—on me — is a more apt description.
I lay in the road with people milling around me for several minutes before I came to. A sharp, rich, English-accented, male voice bellowed, “Doctor! We need a doctor at once!” My eyes shot open in alarm when I realized he was most likely calling the doctor for me. I saw blurry figures peering down at me, with one leaning over, precariously close to toppling. Confused, I closed my eyes again and wondered with a goofy smile if every man in Heaven spoke with a British accent. Heaven would be just fine in my book, if so. Suddenly sleepy, my eyes stayed lazily shut as I gave into the drowsy, light feeling.
“Madam! No! Do not shut your eyes! You must keep them open or you might never open them again!” A crisp, rich voice ordered stiffly. Who is this guy? His piercing voice is disrupting my nighty-night time, I thought as I tried snuggling into my blankets. I reached for them, but when I did, I felt no blankets, no cozy warmth. No covers? Why don’t I have any sheets on my bed?! I cracked one eye open to survey.
“Eeks! I’m lying in the middle of the freaking road!” I screeched as I bolted and sat upright, immediately regretting that sudden move, as the searing pain in my right arm caused the nausea to rise in my stomach in a flash and I froze to avoid vomiting.
“Madam, do not move!” It was The Voice again.
“Oww, my arm really hurts,” I croaked out after the nausea had passed. I squinted my blurry eyes in the direction of the guy with the cool voice, but I didn’t see anyone there.
“Clear the way, the physician is coming through,” Mr. Voice ordered the onlookers. His authority seemed to do the trick. As I surveyed my bum arm, I heard the bustle of the crowd as they parted. Wow, this guy must have pull in some major quantities.
“Oww,” I hissed at the pain and decided to leave my arm alone. My head hurt, too, but with my left hand I couldn’t find any gashes on my face or head —that was a good thing. Maybe I have a concussion. “I so don’t need a concussion while in England. My insurance will not cover this,” I mumbled to myself. Feeling less nauseous, I tried to crawl-unnoticed-to the my bag that I had with me when I was hit. My sight was still a bit fuzzy, but Mr. Voice could see me, apparently.
“And where are you going?” he asked with mild interest. I stopped mid-crawl and smiled up at the blurry face sheepishly.
“Over here to check on my bag?” I offered helpfully.
“No, you most certainly are not. The doctor is here to examine you for bodily harm following your accident,” he answered simply. He placed his hand on my shoulder gently but firmly, to let me know I was not moving another inch.
“Okay, whatever.” I shrugged and glanced up at the face with the somehow familiar voice. He was so close now that I could make out his features with ease.
“It’s you!” And it was him-Nicholas Langdon, Royal Pain in the Ass, from the museum. Same chocolate brown eyes, same dark brown hair, same hot bod, same voice… It all made sense now.
“Nick Langdon.” I narrowed my left eye and gave him the once over. Okay, the thrice over.
He blinked three times. “Pardon me, madam?” He asked quietly with large, disbelieving chocolate candy coin eyes. “I am quite certain we have never met before.” He studied me for a few seconds. “How do you know my name?” he asked with thinly veiled interest. He had the nerve to sound ruffled!
“Ha! That’s a good one, Nick. Not twenty minutes ago you gave me orders not to destroy the gowns!” I rolled my eyes and studied him closely, my vision finally focusing enough to scan my immediate surroundings, which, at present consisted of one handsome but irritating Langdon and one older man with a sadistic streak who carried a black physician’s bag.
“Ouch! That hurts…doctor.” I said suspiciously as I narrowed my eyes at the dude carrying the bag.
“Sorry, dear. Please do stop moving,” he pleaded with an exasperated sigh.
“Right. Say, Nick…what’s with the get-ups you two are wearing?” I nodded first to him and then in the direction of the doctor. He didn’t answer me immediately, rather, he looked at me blankly for several seconds. I looked him over closely. Somehow he and the doc had gotten their hands on some darn good Victorian costumes. If he swiped those from the museum and he’s yelling at me for repairing two gowns, l’ll deck him. I fumed to myself. Still, it was a gorgeous outfit. I tried not to gawk.
All topped off with a top hat, naturally. Nice, very nice, indeed.
The jerk looked dashing. The doctor was similarly outfitted but not nearly as scrumptious.
“Excuse me, Madam, but I don’t know of what you are speaking. Perhaps you are out of sorts now you have been struck by the carriage-“
“Carriage? Carriage?”
“Yes. Carriage.”
“Is that what you people call them?” I snorted.
We looked at each other as if neither one of us spoke the other’s language.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he said slowly so I could follow. “As I was saying, perhaps you are out of sorts since your…er…accident.”
“Don’t get condescending with me, Langdon,” I pointed at him and frowned at the doctor who forced me to look up and down, side to side, following his gloved finger.
“What is your name, madam?” The doctor asked warmly.
“Maisie Reynolds.”
“Miss Reynolds, can you tell me today’s date, with the year included, if you please?” The doctor winked conspiratorially at Langdon, as if he were on the precipice of curing me. Knowing the date was not going to help fix my arm. And even if I had a concussion, I wasn’t suffering from amnesia. I wished someone would call an ambulance for goodness sake.
“It’s August 12th, ’05.” I answered drolly. Duh.
“Ah, ha! There is the problem, my dear!” The doctor exclaimed.
“It’s August 12th, yes, but the year isn’t ’05, it’s 1904.”
Langdon said smugly, apparently overjoyed that he could break this news to me.
I did a double-take right there on the ground. And then I laughed and laughed. I wiped my eyes as the tears streamed down.
“Nick you really got me with this, I’ll hand it to you. 1904.
Carriages. Top hats and Morning suits. What a hoot! And look, you even got Doc here to participate in your theatrics. And that woman over there…look at her gown! Isn’t it fabulous—” My voice trailed off.
I glanced around me as quickly as I could with a pounding headache and noticed then that the entire street was authentically 1904-ish.
There were old cars, cobbled streets, finely dressed ladies and gentlemen mingling with the poorest, grimiest-looking of the poor. There were cozy storefronts, an open market, and a very real stench of coal.
“Amazing, just amazing. Nick, this is one hell of a recreation.
Is this all for the grand opening?” I looked up at him with wide eyes, completely convinced he was a genius – a sexist pig genius.
Nick shared a look of concern with the doctor who was rummaging through his black bag for something to wrap my elbow with.
“Er-” Nick waffled.
“What?” I felt a sense of foreboding all of the sudden, like I had entered the Twilight Zone.
Nick crouched down and took my left hand gently. His eyes were mesmerizing and so kind. Okay, I thought, now I know I have a concussion.
“Mrs. Reynolds-“
I shook my head. “No. Not ‘Mrs., “Miss. Doc was right the first time when he addressed me as ‘Miss. Mrs. Reynolds is my mother.”
Nick gasped slightly. “And you travel alone, without a chaperone?”
I scrunched my face up in confusion. “Huh? Why would ! need a chaperone? I’m thirty, for God’s sake!”
“I see…” A look of amusement passed over his face, but just as quickly, Nick put his business face back on. “Miss Reynolds, I am Nicholas Langdon—”
“YEAH, I knoooow… What is going on Langdon?” I frowned at his latest Captain Obvious act; he could do so much better.
“Ahh, I do not know how you know my name, as it is quite apparent by your manner of speech and dress that you are not from London nor from England, and you must have only arrived here very recently judging from this unusual bag which you carry.” He pointed to my bag as it lay in the muddy puddles of the cobblestone street. How’d they get the streets from tar to cobblestone that quicky?
“Great. So we’ve gone from Captain Obvious to Sherlock Holmes,” I said dryly. “And you’re the one with memory loss if you don’t remember me at all, Nick.”
He jerked his hand away. “I am called Cole by my friends.”
He buffed an already pristine-looking button on his coat. “As I was saying, you have suffered a head injury of some kind-” They nodded in agreement, over eagerly, I might add. “—As a result of the carriage impacting you as you attempted to navigate the street here.” He gestured with his big hat head toward the street I was currently residing on. The doctor finished his examination and declared me “confused.” I rolled my eyes as I sat there contemplating the obvious decline in the state of health care.
He knelt down to my level again, bringing those eyes back in full view. Be still my racing heart! “You need rest. You will feel better tomorrow, the doctor has assured me. He could find nothing wrong with you—”
“Yeah, I guess he couldn’t out here in the middle of the street instead of in a hospital with diagnostic tests and modern equipment…”
Nick sighed. “Where are you staying? Please allow me to escort you there,” he said with genuine chivalry. Hmm… I think I like this 1904 Nick much better. Can we keep him after the grand opening has ended?
But it was all an illusion-some kind of cruel game. It slowly, fully registered that Nick Langdon was beyond mean and nasty. He was leading me to believe I was going crazy. An elaborate hoax was underway to trip me into insanity, and all because he didn’t trust in my abilities. His sisters told me the whole story of how furious he was when his father chose to go with my employer rather than a British company. So this was his attempt at forcing me off of the assignment; he assumed he could convince his father to accept the bid from the other company once he had proven me unstable, and my employer incompetent. Well, I had news for Langdon-I wasn’t going anywhere but back to my hotel room to rest up for tomorrow’s work.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t need your assistance, Cole. I can find my way back to my hotel unaided, thank you. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow, and I fully expect to be at work.”
“Work?” His luxurious eyes were as wide as half-dollars.
“Oh, come on now. Enough with the act-you know exactly what I’m talking about!” I stood slowly, picked up my bags with my good arm and took a deep breath. I looked Nick/Cole over one last time to fully appreciate his fine masculinity dressed up in an early 20th century day suit once more; that is, before this hoax was revealed. Such a shame it would all be over when the ruse was lifted. I sighed and turned to go, but I didn’t get far.
Cole grabbed my arm gently and turned me to face him.
“You know, madam, it is not safe to… work…the streets…do you need money? I can help you to find a respectable home to lodge in, I’m sure…” he whispered. His eyes and lips so close to my face mesmerized me for a time, so that I didn’t register what he said-at first.
“What?! You think I’m a prostitute?” This had to be the worst insult he had slung at me yet. And I made quite a scene about it, too. For all his attempts at discretion, I was yelling at the top of my lungs. “That’s right, when I’m not working ninety hours a week as a Costume Historian and Photographer, I’m a street walker! Is that what you truly believe about me?” People were stopping and staring by this point and Cole shared conspiratorial looks with Doc before gently nudging me toward what I assumed was his car. I plopped down hard on the seat and he gracefully sat across from me. “I’m sorry, Miss Reynolds, I misunderstood your words a moment ago. Forgive me. Please allow me to escort you to your dwellings.”
He looked so damned sincere and I was tired of arguing with him. Plus, my arm and head hurt. “OK, fine. It’s only four blocks from here.” He told the driver where to go and we were off. I was certain the scenery would change back to modern day once we reached my hotel and that cool Cole would morph back into nasty Nick. We jiggled and bumbled along in the car, with an awkward silence between us. I felt my expression of awe turn into a frown as we reached the end of the third block and there was no change in scenery. To be honest, I was more than a little concerned for my mental state.
“Umm, Cole? This…this is my hotel here,” I lied. I took a quick, desperate survey of the street and saw a quaint establishment with vacancies. The rising panic in my gut made me want to bolt out of the car and run as far as I could, to anywhere that would lead me back to 2005.
Cole peered up at the two-story building just ahead on the right and called for his man to stop the carriage. “Are you certain this is the correct place?” He sounded concerned, but it looked fine to me. Besides, I had to remind myself, this is all an illusion, anyway.
“Miss Reynolds, this establishment doesn’t seem proper somehow. Why don’t you let me arrange a lodging for you-” Cole grimaced up at the shutters, that, upon closer inspection, were in obvious need of repair. The one on the left looked as if it would fall at any second and crush both of us flat like pancakes. The front door was a tattered, peeling shade of faded cobalt blue and the ground floor window was so grimy I couldn’t see through it. “Uhhh-” I hesitated. Even in make-believe land I did NOT want to lodge there.
Cole nodded and seemed to understand my reticence immediately. He called to his driver at once and we drove off. “I cannot allow you to stay here. We will call on someone whom I think will have plenty of space for you to stay until you decide otherwise.” Chivalrous Cole was a welcome relief and soothed me a bit, although the fact that the scenery did not change from 1905 to 2005 at all in the course of driving to his friend’s house was worrisome. About ten minutes into the uncomfortably silent journey, and after much thoughtful deliberation with myself, I decided that I would go with the flow and accept it all as a reality.
If I did have a concussion, there wasn’t anything I could do about it, anyway. Maybe I’d have to wait until the swelling in my brain went down and I suddenly snapped out of it. Or maybe it was all a dream and I’d wake up at any minute. Regardless, I couldn’t think about it anymore. I was in 1904 and I would savor the experience as if it were real, until it was not real.
And, if I were truly dancing gaily around in the fields of madness, then, hey, being crazy was looking as promising as the huge stone mansion we were approaching after twenty-five minutes of bumping along in the car, both of us ignoring the amazing zing in the air when our knees bumped as we rolled to a halt.
I went to pick up my completed taxes this morning. I’ve been going to this place for a long time, and when this receptionist first started, I recognized her. I went to grade school with her for many years, through several different schools. Today was the day I decided to mention that I think I knew her.
No one from grade school or high school would recognize me now. I can pretty much fly under the radar. That’s how I got away with so many years of this woman not knowing who I was. Well, that, and we were not in the same friend group. She was very popular. While I had friends, I was not in the popular group.
She also happened to be the girlfriend of my eighth grade crush. Without exaggeration, this boy was the biggest crush I’ve ever had in my life. It extended into ninth grade, the strength of this crush. I was quite shy, and I never really had the nerve to speak to him. I freaked out anytime he was nearby. Paralyzed like Samantha in Sixteen Candles, every time she saw Jake (and, can you really blame her when he shows up in that red Porsche, girlllllll…).
I sat at the same lunch table as my crush and his girlfriend. We sat a few feet away from each other, yet I had to pretend like I was totally fine on the inside. I specifically remember one day, eating a dessert, and he was staring at me. I looked at him, then looked back at my dessert and continued eating. I am not sure what my face revealed or how many shades of red it was.
My crush was athletic. He was tall and muscular for eighth grade. He wore a San Francisco 49ers starter jacket. And when he and his girlfriend started dating, she began to wear the jacket. Can you feel my teenage angst?
After eighth grade, we went to separate schools. My crush went to a different school and his girlfriend and I went to another. I wasn’t friends with her there either, but I knew of her. In the fall of ninth grade, his JV football team was playing our JV football team and I had to go to the game. I saw him in his uniform and he was oblivious – per usual – as we walked by – me and my friend group.
Something of the allure of eighth grade had gone. The shine of the gold starter jacket had worn off. Separated by schools, and having new experiences in ninth grade, my crush faded. Don’t worry, I got a new one. There was a boy in my English class who was a skater boy, and he was adorable. Unfortunately, he moved away to Georgia in the middle of the year. I really liked him. And he was cool. (Hey, Matt, still wonder from time to time what happened to you, bro.)
Back to 2024 and taxes. I mentioned to the receptionist that I think I knew her in school. She asked me where I went to high school. Same school. I asked her where she went to middle school. Same school. I asked her where she went to grade school. Same school. I asked her where she went to third grade. Same school. I went all the way back to second grade. Same school. She said she was going to look me up in the yearbooks. She has saved them. I have, too. A guy friend of mine wrote in my eighth grade yearbook, “You should’ve asked K. to Homecoming. He probably would’ve said yes.” He didn’t know that did ask him via a friend, because I was too shy to ask directly. And he said no. He said he wasn’t going to the dance. I don’t know if he went or not, because I never did go.
I wonder when she checks her yearbooks if she will realize that I was the girl who had the biggest crush on her boyfriend in eighth grade. I guess I’ll find out next tax season.
I heard my crush didn’t turn out so well. I have not seen him since ninth grade at that football game. Or if I have, I haven’t recognized him. It’s just as well, I like to keep my memories untarnished. Just like that shiny, satin San Francisco 49ers starter jacket.
I lead everyone upstairs to the room that used to be my mom’s. It’s a sitting room now, done in shades of champagne pink, with a green and pink floral patterned throw rug, photos hanging on all of the walls, plants, and a few stuffed animals. The door opens, and Big Sis runs in, smiles widely with eyes even wider, “I love this! And this! And this…” she exclaims as she touches the pink office chairs, the pink chaise, and engulfs my large stuffed, Hello Kitty. She struggles to contain it in the cradle of her left arm. She then picks up my smaller stuffed alpaca and shoves it under her other arm.
She remains transfixed by the room’s contents.
A discussion erupts about Aunt Amy’s “slight obsession” with Hello Kitty (it didn’t help I wore a Hello Kitty shirt that day) and Big Sis – now deftly carrying a stuffed animal under each arm – eagerly searches to find each Hello Kitty object in the room, as if playing “Where’s Waldo?”
“There are more downstairs,” I grin.
Later, after we pry Big Sis from the room, we return to the living room, where we continue to chat. Lil Sis notices my battery-powered window candles, and that they are uniquely adorned.
She is petite, she’s barely grown in the three years since I’ve seen her, so she looks up at me, sideways, judgmental even, speaking out of the side of her mouth like some kind of child gangster, with a heavy Valley Girl accent, “There are googly eyes on your candles,” she says with emphasis, as if each word were a complete sentence.
I saw a slight eye roll.
I beamed and said, “Yes!” She slowly shook her head. I continued: “Well, they were wearing sweaters, but I took those off after Christmas.” I looked to her for a response. She stared up at me, dumbfounded. “Sweaters? Oh my gosh.” Full eye roll commenced.
I hid a smirk.
I reflect now on the details of our visit. All three kids have different interactions with me, and much of that is based on how much they remember me. Lil Bro likely remembers little of me and no personal recollection of my mother, the latter of which saddens me a bit. Lil Sis has a memory of me, but it is likely limited, as is her memory of my mother. Big Sis remembers all, and runs to greet me with a huge smile. I think she remembers my mom, and that makes my heart swell. That there is a photo hanging in their home of my mom and me, each of us holding one girl (Lil Sis on Mom’s lap, Big Sis on mine), surprises and touches me. Oh, how my mother would be delighted.
Nearing the end of their visit, I feel my mother’s joy as I relay to the group that no one wants my mom’s piano, and I am having a hard time finding a new home for it. Big Sis’s mom and dad both say they will take it, as Big Sis wants to learn. I could almost hear my piano-teaching mother’s excitement, and I felt gratitude for an old tradition now wrapped in a new chapter.
“Why do you keep looking at the time?” my colleague asked with squinted, suspicious eyes.
I thought about it for a minute before I answered, knowing how bizarre my answer might seem. I continued typing as I pondered my response. “I’m supposed to meet a guy at the park today,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.
“Oh, really,” she replied, suddenly interested and rolled her chair up to mine. “Do tell.”
“There’s not much to tell. I received a text about ten years ago and it’s stuck with me. The guy thought he was texting someone else. Once he realized I wasn’t the intended recipient, we continued texting with playful banter. It was fun. He was fun, and smart. Also really quick-witted. You know how that hooks me every time. He said we should meet at the park on September 27, 2033. As a joke, of course. But then I started to think about it – and I’ve had ten years to think about it. What if it’s like, some kind of serendipitous experience or cinematic romcom situation?”
She sat there, staring at me blankly. “You’re saying you received a text ten years ago from a guy you don’t know, and you are going to meet him at a park today? Because he said to show up at the park on September 27, 2033? I have questions. What if he’s a stalker? Or a creep? Or 78 years old? Or 17 years old? What if it’s a catfish? And let’s say it’s not: it’s been ten years. Don’t you think he’ll have forgotten your text exchange by now? And since it was said in jest, he’s not going to show up, even if he recalls. Finally, how will you know who this guy is when you see him at the park?”
I shrugged off the first thousand questions. “I won’t,” was my response to the final one.
Her face scrunched. “This is clearly a joke. If you didn’t exchange photos, and haven’t texted since that one mistaken identity thing in 2023, then no, this is not happening. Like, at all.”
I turned back to my screen and continued typing. “I’m going to the park at lunch, sitting on the bench, and I will see if there are any guys loitering around looking at me.”
She ran her hand down her face in a sweeping motion of clearing out the annoyance that was me. I was not dissuaded. “What you are describing is a normal occurrence at the park. Do you know how many random guys loiter around and look at us every day as we walk through?”
I kept typing, keeping my eyes on the screen. ‘Yes, I know, but those are weird guys.”
“What separates this guy from those guys?”
“This guy told me to meet him at the park today.”
She sighed heavily. “I sure hope you have your Suspicious Persons binder up to date before you head out on this bad chick flick adventure of yours, because there are so many ways this can go south. You don’t know who you’re looking for, you don’t know what his intentions are, AND it’s been ten years since this occurred. He may not even show up, and I hope for your sake he doesn’t.”
The sky started taking on a strange darkness as we sat there, our cubicles next to the large window. She kept talking, mostly telling me not to do it, with me mostly thinking about what I could grab for lunch to take to the park. When I defiantly told her I was going, regardless of her lecturing, she waved me off dramatically. “Do what you want, but I’m going to send the police in an hour, and you know I mean it.”
I headed out at around 11:45. I stopped by the sandwich shop at the corner, ordered a croissant – because Paris is always a good idea. I could pretend that this was a Parisian park, and the guy would show up in a raspberry beret, the kind you buy from a secondhand store.
I took off my shoes and walked my way through the soft grass to the bench where I could see everyone in the park. There were kids playing nearby, giggling. There was an older woman sitting on the nearby bench. She smiled and nodded, and I returned her kind acknowledgment. So far, no weird guys had appeared, and no normal guys, either. The sky continued to darken, and I recalled the text exchange from ten years prior. “That’s right, there is a solar eclipse today,” I whispered to myself as a squirrel stared at my croissant, tiny arms pulled up to its chest.
I’d been at the park about fifteen minutes when my phone rang. It was my coworker. “What is happening? Are you insane? Are you safe?” She was bordering on hysteria.
“I’m fine. I’m sitting here talking to a squirrel actually. I’m eating my lunch, and if he doesn’t show up, I’ll just—”
It was at that moment I felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Gotta go,” I said slowly, and ended the call. With a deep breath, I turned slowly toward the direction of the tap. I looked up and I felt a wry smile form. My smile was returned to me tenfold. The sun was blocked out, but not by the eclipse.
“It's Amy,” I said. 