The Here and Now (26 page)

“No, no. I don’t mean in this time. Later. Much later. In the sixties. You are much older, but I am sure I know you.”

Ethan raises his eyebrows. “Well, then I wouldn’t remember, would I?”

“Tell me your name. Maybe that will help.”

“Ethan Jarves. Born in January 1996.”

“Oh, shit. Really?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. The scientist.”

“I don’t know. Am I?”

“Sure. You worked with Mona, but you weren’t like her. You were a hero of mine. I always wanted to find you here.” His eyes are bright. Almost too bright. I think that in his opinion Ethan has gone from Monopoly money to the real thing.

My eyes are bright too. I relish this version of the future with beloved Ethan in it. I am more and more compelled by the possibility that the critical person lost at the fork on May 17 was not Mona, but Ethan.

“You’re the expert on this stuff. In fact,” Baltos goes on, “I was thinking you could help me find my way back.” He laughs a strange laugh. “I’ve got a girl back home, my first love, and I miss her like crazy.” He looks like he’s kidding, but only partly.

“I don’t know,” Ethan says. “I’m not a scientist yet. I’m only eighteen.”

He’s nodding slowly. I realize there are tears in his eyes. “I’m not going to get back, am I?” He looks from Ethan to me and back to Ethan.

It’s a serious question, and I realize somewhat bitterly that the future he comes from has got to be a whole hell of a lot better than mine was if he’s wishing he could go back to it.

“I don’t think so,” Ethan says.

“Yeah, no.” He sighs a long sigh. “Well, you’re the man, you know that? You’re the expert on this stuff. You are a brilliant kid. It’s a good thing I didn’t kill you yesterday.”

I squeeze Ethan’s hand hard. I press my lips together so I don’t make a sound.

Ethan is remarkably calm. “Yeah, I was glad about that too.”

I take a breath and steady myself. “Mr. Baltos, I need to ask you about something else.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Who is Theresa Hunt?”

“Old girlfriend of mine.”

“And Jason Hunt?”

He looks less comfortable. “Her kid. My kid too, according to her.”

“Allan Cotes?”

“That’s the guy she married a couple of years ago. He’s bringing up Jason.”

“Do you know where Theresa is now?”

“No. I haven’t spoken with her in at least a year.”

“What about Josie Lopez?”

“Wow, what is this?” Baltos narrows his eyes at me. “She’s another former girlfriend. Why are you asking?”

“These are all people who’ve been hospitalized with a mysterious virus. I think it must have something to do with you.”

“God. Is that true?” His surprise looks genuine. “Are you sure about that?”

“Pretty sure.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sick. I haven’t been sick—not seriously—since I got here. I don’t have any mysterious virus, I’m sure of that.”

I try to think of the right question to ask. “What year did you leave to come here?”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “It was April of 2068. I haven’t told anybody here where I come from. Besides the two of you, nobody knows.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” I say. “So when you left, were there any major disease outbreaks or plagues?” I ask. “Have you heard of the blood plague? They also called it Dama Virus X?”

He considers. “I never heard of that. There were some avian flus and that kind of thing. AIDS was done with by that point. Nothing really big stands out.”

“Okay,” I say. “That’s all. Thanks.” I look to Ethan. “We should go.” I hand Baltos the envelope we brought. “When
you get a chance, look through it. I want you to see how different things got after you came here.”

Andrew Baltos leans back to rest his head. He looks puzzled, a bit apprehensive, but not completely resistant. “You brought things back with you?”

“My dad did.”

“All right. I’ll take a look.”

We’re at the door when Baltos clears his throat. We both turn. “I said I was glad I didn’t shoot you yesterday, Ethan, but now that I think of it, maybe I wish I had.”

I am hoping he isn’t getting any ideas. “Why?”

“If it weren’t for Ethan, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be back home with my first girl. Yesterday never would have happened. None of this would ever have happened.”

Ethan looks a little wary. “And why is that?”

“Because you are the reason I’m here. You told me about the day you went fishing when you were a kid. You even showed me a picture. That’s how I knew where to come.”

When I finally get to my house, it is late and dark. Ethan wants to come in with me, but I talk him out of it. I don’t want to push my mother too far.

I put my key in the lock and half expect a replay of the last time I went home. I step into the hall, but my mom’s worried face is not bearing down on me this time. I glance at the dining room but see no sign of the detested duo. I check all the other rooms in the house just to be sure. I am ready for an ambush, but nothing comes. My mother’s not even home.

I go to the front of the house and flick on some lights. I
wave to Ethan from the dining room window as I promised to let him know the coast is clear. He pauses for another few seconds before he drives off. I think it’s hard for him to leave. I know it’s hard to be left.

I turn on the light in the kitchen, and I see a note and a box of Mallomars on the counter. My heart lifts. I love Mallomars. I know my mom must be telling me something with those.

Love,
Molly/Mom

I do enjoy the cookies. I enjoy five of them while sitting on the kitchen counter. Then I drink a glass of milk. I lose myself in those pleasures. I can’t think of anything else today.

I crawl into my bed. I have never been so tired in my life. I hope I don’t wake up to find myself in the back of Mr. Douglas’s car or tied up in the basement of that farm. I’m so tired I might not notice.

I see a text from Ethan.

Is it Friday yet?

TWENTY-FOUR

I don’t wake up in the basement of the farm. I wake up in my warm bed at nine-forty-five with the sun blasting through my window. I wake up to the smell of bacon and … something. Pancakes. Could it be?

I feel like I’ve woken in my own bed, but in a different family. I don’t think my mother has ever made breakfast since we’ve lived here.

In wonder, I watch the woman bustling around the kitchen. Not only are there pancakes, but they have blueberries in them. She’s set two places at the table with place mats and cloth napkins and the works. Like a real family.

“This is amazing,” I say to her when we’ve sat down. “Thank you.”

She looks at me over her coffee cup. I watch her remove her glasses and close them in the drawer of the sideboard. “I feel like the world is waking up again.”

It may be the most hopeful thing I’ve ever heard her say.
Her plain eyes are beautiful, though I don’t think she can see much out of them yet.

There is indeed a lot to talk about, and I feel that between us. The first subject is the hardest one. I hate to unleash a cloud over pancakes, but it can’t be helped.

“I know it was Poppy.”

Her coffee cup goes down. Her guard starts to go up.

“I know it’s easier not to think so, but it was.”

She takes a while with this. I see her hands are shaky with her fork and knife. “Why do you think he stayed away?”

“I think he was trying to protect us for as long as he could. He needed to follow his mission without feeling like he was bringing danger on anybody but himself.”

She stops trying to eat or even focus her eyes. She looks lost.

“He’s the one we have to thank for everything. He knew about the fork on May seventeenth. He compiled the material to figure it out and he staked everything to make sure it didn’t pass without us doing something.”

She nods tentatively.

“He brought back some unbelievable stuff with him. He left it in a storage unit in the Bronx, and when you are ready I will take you. There is our family memorabilia, our memory banks and many thousands of dollars in cash, a lot of it dated in the future.”

My mother looks stricken, officially overwhelmed. It’s going to take a while for this to sink in.

“And a bunch of future newspapers.” I picture the pile. “All now inaccurate, I hope. Maybe you can help me figure out what to do with it.” I take a sip of orange juice.

She’s staring down at her plate. “I wish I’d known,” she
says quietly. “I wish he’d said one word to me.” I hear the tears distorting her voice and how hard she’s trying to keep them down. We have an unspoken rule between us, which started right after we came here. We don’t cry around each other.

I try to picture Poppy contacting her. What could he have said? What would she have done then? It would have destroyed what little fragment of peace she ever found here. “Do you?” I ask.

I watch her face. I wonder if she is picturing the same thing. “Maybe not. Maybe it was the kindest thing to do.”

As we sit in silence I realize there was another thing too, and it makes me feel sad and old as I begin to understand it. My father was a handsome and powerful person. When we left him, he was a visionary and a leader. By the time he got here, he was old and wasted, sick and exiled. He wanted his wife and his daughter to remember him the way he was.

As I think back to his face the day I saw him in the library, I can see how little he wanted me to know he was my Poppy, to have his new identity supplant his old one. He was ashamed.

Just before eleven that morning I get a call at home from a woman at the Holy Cross Medical Center in Teaneck.

“Is this Prenna James?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“I have a package for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Do you want to pick it up? Or do you want to give me your home address and I will send it to you?”

“Do you know who it’s from?”

“Andrew Baltos left it for you.”

“He did? Did he go somewhere? Did he get discharged already?”

“Oh.” She’s silent for a couple of seconds. “You don’t know. I thought you knew.”

“What?” My pulse is pounding.

“I’m sorry to inform you Mr. Baltos is no longer with us. He hanged himself in his hospital room at six o’clock this morning.”