"You had an accident at the hospital where you were working. Luckily, a nurse noticed right away and was able to help you and Kyle. The explosion wasn’t too serious, but you still ended up unconscious for a few days."
I frowned, trying to make sense of his words. Nothing he'd said made any sense. I worked as an accountant at a technology company, not a hospital. "Dad, what are you talking about? Waldo is a tech company." A sharp pain shot through my head, and I pressed my hand to my forehead.
"What is Waldo, honey?" he asked, confused. "I'll talk to the nurse in charge. It seems you haven't recovered all your consciousness yet."
I tried to sit up in bed to get a better look at him. He definitely looked different. "Dad? What did you do to yourself?"
He looked at me, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"You look younger."
A small smile crossed his face. "Well, thanks. Give me a minute. Let me call someone to check on you."
But that wasn't a compliment. He really looked younger. And not in a "you look good way." It was as if everything that made him mature had been reversed. Maybe the explosion had affected my vision or my way of processing people.
Before I could analyze him better, my dad moved to the door and opened it. And that’s when everything stopped making sense.
My mother entered the room.
My mother, who had died five years ago. My mother,whose grave I had visited just days ago, placing white lilies beside her headstone. My mother, walking and breathing and looking at me with concern and exasperation.
"Sweetheart, you woke up. Thank God," she said, moving toward me.
I didn't answer right away. I just looked at her in shock. I must be hallucinating, unless...
The accident in Waldos' basement, an explosion that knocked Kyle and me to the floor, and then nothing.
"Did I die in the explosion?" I said out loud. That's why I saw my father differently, and that's why I was seeing my mother right in front of me at this moment. There was no other explanation. Either that, or I was losing my mind.
My mom looked at me, offended. "How could you have died if you're talking with me right now? How many times have I told you to stop being so dramatic?"
A lot of times. When I fell off my bike for the first time, I thought I was going to lose my leg because of a simple scraped knee. Or when no one asked me to the dance in the spring at school at thirteen, and I said my social life was over. Or when she was dying and I told her I wouldn't be able to keep living without her.
Memories of my mother calling me dramatic over the years flashed through my mind, making my skin crawl.
My dad responded for me, "She's not all right yet. Let me call a nurse to check on her. She's been talking nonsense since she woke up."
My mom got closer to get a good look at me, but I got defensive and yelled at her, "Don't take another step."
She looked at me, confused, making me feel a little guilty for being too harsh. But I was scared. None of this made sense. My dad looked younger. My mom, who passed away 5 years ago, was there in front of me. And I was... where was I?
I pushed myself up from the bed, my legs shaky andunsteady, and made my way to the small mirror hanging on the wall beside the bathroom.
What I saw there made my heart stop.
No, no, no. This can't be possible.
The girl staring back at me had blonde hair that barely reached past her ears. Her face was rounder, softer, with a few unpicked pimples on her chin. Her ears weren't even pierced, but I'd gotten them done in college.
She looked exactly like I had at eighteen years old.
Because she WAS eighteen years old.
Which meant I was eighteen years old.
No. Not "looked like." I WAS an eighteen-year-old girl. But that was impossible, because that meant that I somehow traveled back in time.
The impossibility of it crashed over me so hard that I started screaming.
