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“His name is Romeo”
Now
Romeo always said therewas a forcefield spanning the length and breadth of our town. A join in the tar, a slight step down that tracks across the motorway just near theWelcome to Alabaster Fallssign on the outskirts of town. He said that was where the forcefield started. He said that when car tires bumped over the seam in the road, time was altered. It changed. It moved slower and faster. Nothing happened for hours and days, but years passed in the blink of an eye. He said that in Alabaster, life was a dream that happened while we slept.
He was always saying things like that.
For all I know, he still does.
Blue sky and dappled foliage form a long, cloudy trail on either side of me as I careen down the highway. Now and again, the cloud is flecked with long, thin streaks of crimson. Sour cherries. Red, but not ripe. Not yet. My belly clenches as I round the bend and the sign comes into view.
Welcome to Alabaster Falls
Welcome.
Ha!
How long has it been since I’ve felt welcome here?
The sign is faded, but it’s hard to tell if it’s more faded than the last time I was home or if it’s the same. It’s possible it was already as faded as a sign can get long before I left Alabaster. It isn’t just faded now though. It’s crooked, too, and that’s new. A subtle tilt down on the left. A screw that’s come loose and hasn’t been replaced.
I spot the tear in time, as Romeo used to call the seam in the road, about a hundred feet away. I wouldn’t notice it if I didn’t know it was there, but it was a big deal to us when we were kids, so I do. Romeo said we had to lift both feet, they couldn’t touch anything but air when we crossed it, or the tear would rip. At some point, that little ritual evolved to include waving our hands around our heads wildly and yelling, “La-la-la-la-laaaa!” at the top of our lungs as the carthunkedover the line.
We always did it. We were religious about it when we were little. As we got older, we stopped doing it when others were in the car with us. We didn’t talk about it or make a conscious decision to do it. It just happened. When we were alone, we did it well into our twenties.At the time, it felt like one of those things that would never change. Something we’d do forever.
I slow the car, watching as the speedometer drops steadily from eighty to sixty, keeping one foot firmly on the floorboard of my Mazda while tapping the brakes with the other.
It’s strange how a place can be the same yet feel completely different. The main street is just as it was when I left. Sure, there’s a new fancy confection store, complete with larger-than-life twirled lollypops at the door, and Mo’s Diner has become a coffee shop with a seven-page menu, but cars still park diagonally on either side of the street and kids congregate on the corner outside the hardware store while Mr. Matherson, the owner, shoos them away at regular intervals with an exasperated, “Go on. Git!”
The bell over the grocery store door sounds its tinny greeting as I enter. The lighting is better, and the place hasbeen retiled with shiny white-and-gray checkered tiles, but the shelves and layout are unchanged.
I’m tired, worn out from the drive, and suddenly weighed down by the reality of being back, so I take a basket, not a cart, from near the flowers and potted plants and toss coffee, cream, and sugar into my basket before heading to the bakery for a loaf of fresh bread. The warm, yeasty aroma has me reaching for two loaves instead of one. I planned on ordering in tonight, but now I think some ham, cheese, and butter might be all I need.
And wine.
God knows I need wine.
To my surprise, I find a couple of bottles of 2019 Lang and Reed Cabernet Franc pushed all the way to the back of the top shelf. The bottles are dusty, but I’m so pleased with my find that I put them both in my basket.
Maybe things have changed in Alabaster after all.
Maybe coming home won’t be as bad as I’ve made it out to be in my head.
On a whim, I decide to see if there are any cherries in the fruit aisle. It’s early in the season, but only by a week or two. There’s a chance an overeager crop has made its way into stock. I have sugar, I could stew them tonight and have them with yogurt in the morning. It’s a sweet-and-sour concoction I’ve always loved. To me, it tastes like long days and short nights. Afternoons at the pool and lazy mornings spent sleeping in. Summer days that drag out and roll into one.
My basket hangs by my side, there, but not heavy or cumbersome. I pass the grain and canned goods aisle and hang a left. I see bananas and tangerines. Rock melonsstacked high. A shopping cart and a pair of legs. Long, graceful fingers cradling a melon.
There’s a sharp, harsh intake of breath. It isn’t mine.
Long fingers go lax.
The melon slips.
It’s one of those moments when time slows. When you see something happening, but you can’t move quickly enough to stop it. I see it all clearly. Pale eyes widen in shock. A mouth does too. The melon falls in distinct stages, as if in slow motion. If time were normal, I’d step forward and reach out. My hands would move. So would my legs. I’d catch it with ease.
Time is far from normal, so I stand, paralyzed, as the melon continues its descent. Slowly. Slowly. I watch as it lands. Perfectly spherical one second, oval and bulging the next. A small crack appears on the surface. A jagged line that cuts deep. It grows deeper and deeper, splitting on impact and sending a spray of sweet, sticky juice and seeds into the air and all over the floor.
