Kenji immediately pulled her in for a hug. “I didn’t know that your dad was sick.” Alice rested her head against his shoulder. It was bony in the way that so many teenage boys’ bodies were—bodies that didn’t yet know how big they were supposed to be, where they started and stopped. On her sixteenth birthday, her father wasn’t sick at all. Things were getting messy inside her head. It felt like everything was happening at once.
“Were you there? When it happened?” Alice took a step back, and another, until she found herself sitting on a fire hydrant. “I’m sorry if that’s too personal.”
“No, it’s okay,” Kenji said. “It’s actually nice to talk about it. When no one talks about it, it’s kind of like it never happened, even though I know it did. Sometimes I’m like, ‘They do know, right?’ ” He ran his hand through his hair. “I was at school. The nurse came and—I’ll never forget it, I was in Mr. Bowman’s English class—and said my mom was there to pick me up. I knew what it was, so I got all my stuff so slowly, you know, like in the period of time before she actually said the words, he was still alive. Like, magical realism. Even though I knew it must have happened already.”
“Man,” Alice said. “I totally understand.” It wasn’t fair, for that to happen to a kid. It happened all the time, of course, but it shouldn’t. There was a girl named Melissa who had gone to Belvedere just for first and second grade, and in second grade, her mom died, and Alice could remember her mom so clearly, and the braids that she gaveMelissa every day, these two long, dark brown braids that whipped around when she ran or was on the playground swing. Her father had taken over the braiding, and when she left the school, it was easy to picture her mother still there, wherever they went. It was too much otherwise, too big to even imagine, like learning that the earth could actually explode at any moment. Kenji nudged her toward the door.
“Let’s get your stuff before those kids destroy your house.”
Alice laughed. They hadn’t yet, not once in all her sixteenth birthdays, but there was a first time for everything. By now, Tommy and Lizzie were probably having sex in her bed. Her body was feeling buzzy—whatever Phoebe had given her was kicking in.
“Okay,” Alice said. “But I might need just a teensy bit of help standing up.”
61
It was nearly two when people started to go home. A lot of kids had 1:30 a.m. curfews, which sounded late at first but then seemed early, until Alice was in her late twenties and it seemed late again. Everything was relative, even time. Maybe especially time. Sam was half-asleep, helping to empty bottles in the sink and then clink them into the recycling. Tommy had gone home—he and Lizzie had stumbled out together, as if they were going to go somewhere, when in reality they’d share a cab and each creep into their parents’ apartments, praying no one smelled the beer or smoke or sex on them. So much of being a teenager was pretending that your body hadn’t started to do the things that adult bodies did. It was when children had to learn how to be separate humans, a painful process across the board. By 2:30 the house was empty except for Sam, asleep in Alice’s bed, and Alice, awake at the front window. She picked up the landline and called the phone number on the fridge.
“Hello?” It wasn’t her dad—it was Simon Rush. The room sounded packed and noisy, an aviary full of science fiction writers. Alice couldpicture him, one thick finger poking into his opposite ear to block out the noise.
“Simon? Hi, it’s Alice. Is my dad there?” She would have apologized for calling so late, but there was clearly no need.
“Hey, Alice, sure, hang on.” She heard the muffled sound of a hand on the receiver, and then the clink of the hard plastic phone onto the glossy wooden bedside table, she assumed. It took a couple of minutes for Leonard to make his way across the room—Alice could see the whole scene, all his friends strewn about, laughing and talking, drunk and smoking, having a great night. Maybe there were endless opportunities for parties, and for love, if you built a life that made room for them. When Leonard finally got to the phone, he was panting a little bit.
“Al? What’s going on? You okay? It’s the middle of the night!”
“I’m fine, Dad.” She’d wanted him to go to the hotel because it made what she had to do easier. She had to choose to be an adult, to be that first and his daughter second, instead of the other way around. Alice had always been good at self-parenting as a kid—making curfew, getting good grades—but she’d forgotten to do it as a grown-up, too. “I just wanted to say good night.”
Leonard exhaled. “Whew, god, you scared me. You have fun tonight?”
“Sure,” Alice said. Her body felt normal again. For the past few hours, she and Sam had mostly been sitting in front of her closet mirror putting on every shade of lipstick she owned and talking about Ethan Hawke and Jordan Catalano and whether the movies they loved were actually good or if the movie stars were so beautiful that it didn’t matter. They’d blotted their lips on the inside of Alice’s closet door, first in a straight line and then nearly halfway up the whole door, a cloud of kisses, until it looked like wallpaper. “How about you? Are you having fun?”
Leonard laughed. “Well, someone brought a frozen margaritamachine from home and is making margaritas, so, yes, we are all having a pretty good time. I’m going to have a headache in the morning, but talking to Barry always gives me a headache anyway.”
“Okay,” Alice said. “I love you, Dad.”
“Sure you’re okay, Al-pal? Do you need me to come home?” His voice sounded louder, like he was cupping the phone with his hand. Alice could picture him turning his back to his friends and facing the wall, maybe shushing them with a finger.
“I’m really okay, I swear.”
“Okay. I love you, too, I really do.” She could hear him smile. He had been young, and she had been young—they had been young together. Why was it so hard to see that, how close generations were? That children and their parents were companions through life. Maybe that’s why she was here now. Maybe this was the moment when they were both at their best, and together. Alice thought about Kenji and his beautiful mother. He’d gone home early—his curfew was only midnight. Alice could understand how hard it probably was for his mom to let him out of her sight at all. Once you had proof of the sudden cruelty of life, how could you ever relax? How could you just let things happen?
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad,” Alice said. She wanted to remind him of all the things he was supposed to do—to writeDawn, to find Debbie, to be happy—but she knew that she didn’t have to. She would have to trust it this time. Because she wasn’t going to come back. Wherever she ended up, that’s where she was going to stay. “Will you do one thing for me?” She was going to tell him not to do it anymore, not to travel, that all that love would kill him eventually. But then Alice thought about how good it felt, right now, to hear his healthy, strong voice, to hear him having fun with his friends, and to be so full of it all, and she found that she couldn’t.
“Of course, honey, what is it?” Leonard asked. The blender went on in the background. It was so loud, he could probably barely hear her.
“Just take care of yourself,” Alice said. “Okay?”
“Until the future,” Leonard said, the line fromTime Brothers. Alice laughed. Leonard must have been drunk, drunk enough to find his own work amusing. He hung up first, and then Alice sat there until the phone started to blare out its complaint. She settled the receiver back in its cradle and looked at the time. The plan was to leave him a note, telling him what she knew, more or less. Telling him not to travel, not to jump, not to visit. Alice started to write it over and over again, but it was never right. Instead she just wrote,Until the future/my future/your future, what does the future mean, anyway? love, Alice, threw the rest in the garbage, and went to bed.
62
It was before dawn when Alice opened her eyes. She was still on Pomander—in the living room, on the couch, with Ursula purring next to her face. Alice tried to sit up without disturbing the cat. The kitchen light was on, which made it look like a stage set, with Alice the only audience member. Ursula hopped up into the window and flattened one side against the glass. Debbie entered from stage left, dressed in sweatpants and an ancientDawn of Timecrew sweatshirt, which made Alice realize that for the first time, she had woken up in the same place she’d fallen asleep, albeit in a different room. She watched Debbie toddle into the kitchen, open a cabinet, and then pour herself a glass of water from the tap. It was still dark outside, and the air was windy, knocking small branches against the window. October was a good month to confront death—this was why Halloween worked. The trees were mostly bare and the air was warm enough that you hadn’t yet pulled out a heavy coat. It was a month on the cusp, nature shifting from one mode to another. In transition. Alice sat up.
“Honey!” Debbie said, blinking into the dark. “What on earth areyou doing here now? I don’t have my contacts in yet.” Alice looked around Pomander, as if she would see something that made sense—full daylight, a yellow brick road, anything.
“I guess I was asleep,” Alice said. She swallowed, not wanting to ask the question. She had on sweatpants, too—ancient regulation Belvedere gym class attire. They were the Belvedere Knights, as if teenagers on the Upper West Side needed any help thinking of themselves as exceptional and brave.
“Of course. Glad you’re here.” Debbie pinched the air in front of her until Alice moved into the space and Debbie could wrap her arms around her in a tight hug. Ursula rubbed her body against Alice’s ankles. Debbie finally let go, and Alice bent down to pick up the cat.
