As the light turns green, he looks away from me, shaking his head as if it’s a ridiculous thought.
The deadbolt clicks open with a loud thunk. I tiptoe inside and shut the door behind me, grateful to find the house is silent and dark, save for the glow of the light that Maggie always keeps on over the desk.
My feet drag across the hardwood floor and it takes far too much effort to lug myself up the stairs. My brain is working overtime, but my body can’t wait to fall into bed.
I head straight for the bathroom, where I splash cold water on my face and check out my reflection. My skin is pale and my eyes are bloodshot, lids half closed despite the cold jolt I just gave them. I flick off the light and head back to my room.
I should have insisted on staying with Anna at the hospital, even though the look on her mom’s face made it pretty clear that she didn’t want me there. For the hundredth time tonight, I picture Anna’s expression when she told me I couldn’t go back, and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not even trying. Especially when I remember how Mr. Greene blinked at me.
But of all the things that happened tonight—of all the things that were said—Justin’s words are the ones haunting me and keeping me awake.
He said he wished he could see into the future, with absolutely no idea that I can.
I can’t fight it anymore, so against my better judgment, I dig my heavy boots out from the back of the closet and step into them, and then I zip myself into my black parka and pull my wool cap low to my brow. I fill my backpack with bottled water and a wad of cash.
I’m not changing anything. I’m not manipulating the clock, and I’m not doing anything over. I’m observing, just like I’ve always done. This time, I’m not breaking the rules, and when it’s over, no one ever has to know what I did.
The doctor said it would take time and patience; that even if he made a full recovery, it would probably take a year or two. With her words in mind, I stand in the center of my room and close my eyes.
I visualize the yellow paint that’s chipping and peeling on the side of the Greenes’ house, and clear my head of everything but today’s date: November 15.
I pick a time I know he’ll be home: six thirty A.M.
And I choose a year in my past, but in Anna’s future: 1997.
30
I arrive on the side of Anna’s house, exactly where I planned to, and slowly peer around the corner. It must have snowed last night, but not hard. I can still see tiny tips of grass poking up through the thin layer of ice covering the lawn. I feel overdressed in my heavy winter gear.
Peering in the window, I find that the kitchen looks exactly the same—same appliances, same bar stools. I can see the coffeepot perfectly, in the same spot it’s always been. I look around, waiting for someone to appear and preparing to duck down fast when they do.
By now, Anna must be away at college, but this is a good time to catch Mr. Greene making the morning coffee.
I hear the front door open and peek around the corner just as footsteps land on the porch. The feet look like they belong to a man, but the door is blocking my view and I can’t be sure. The newspaper disappears and the door closes again. I race back to my spot at the window.
Mr. Greene steps into the kitchen and walks straight for the counter. He unfolds the newspaper, removes a section, and tosses the bulk of it onto the kitchen table.
As he steps away from the counter, I notice the slight limp on his right side. Over at the coffeepot, he treats his right hand like it’s cumbersome and in his way, and when he tries to use it to open the bag of coffee he quickly gives up and uses his left hand and his teeth instead.
As the coffee brews, he reaches up into the high cabinet above him and pulls down two mugs. He shuffles over to the refrigerator and returns with a carton of milk.
He’s about to bring it back where it belongs when Anna comes around the corner. She rests one hand on his shoulder, takes the carton from him, and puts it away. Then she gives him a quick peck on the cheek, and heads over to the counter for her mug.
Her hair is shorter, hanging loose and just brushing her shoulders. She’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. It takes me a minute to realize that it reads NORTHWESTERN CROSS COUNTRY and to put the pieces together. Anna still lives here.
Mr. Greene starts off for the pile of newspaper again, and Anna speeds past him and grabs it first. She hands him a section and he folds it in half and uses it to smack her on the arm. She laughs, but I can hear him through the glass as he tells her to stop helping him.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rings, and I look around the corner and find Justin standing on the porch. He’s wearing a baseball cap and his backpack is slung over one shoulder. The door opens and Anna yells, “Bye, Dad,” before stepping out and shutting it behind her. The two of them head down the walkway toward campus.
I’ve seen all I needed to see. I close my eyes and bring myself back to my room at Maggie’s.
My temples are throbbing. I sit down on the floor next to my bed and reach into my backpack for the water. I down both bottles without stopping, and reach for a room-temperature Frappuccino. When the bottle is empty, I let my head fall back onto the bed and I wait to recover.
I’m in pain, but the symptoms feel more like what I’m used to—a fierce headache and a dry mouth—but no nosebleeds, no piercing sounds, and most important, no losing control of my place on the timeline. I’ve managed to stay in 1995, successfully go to 1997, and return to 1995 unscathed.
I lie there, picturing Mr. Greene moving around the kitchen, the way Anna helped him, and the way he scolded her for doing so. He’s okay. He’s not back to normal, but he’s alive, capable, and obviously in good hands. And while I know that part of him is relieved that Anna’s still living at home, I’m sure that a larger part feels guilty, knowing that Northwestern was never her first choice.
My eyelids are heavy and I can’t wait to let them close and drift off to sleep. But just as I start to doze off, something the doctor said tonight jolts me awake again. She said it would be a slow recovery. That it might take years. Her comment makes me wonder what I might have seen if I’d gone forward even farther. Maybe I’d have more solid news for Anna tomorrow.
I stand up and return to the center of the room. I stomp hard until the last of the snow has fallen from my boots. I close my eyes and picture a date in the future when I know Anna will no longer live at home, but will certainly be visiting: Christmas Eve, 2005.
31
I’m at the wrong house.
The driveway is in the right spot. The kitchen window is where it’s supposed to be. I walk around to the front of the house and look up toward Anna’s window. I’m in the right place, but the house is no longer covered in yellow, peeling paint. It’s now painted deep gray with white trim. It looks nice.
It must have been snowing just hours ago because my feet are buried deep in this light, white powder that doesn’t look or feel at all like the snow I remember. It covers my jeans, up to my shins, and I can feel my toes turn cold inside my winter boots.
I look through the window. The kitchen looks different too, with fresh paint and new cabinets, new granite countertops and a bunch of new appliances. It could be the work of new owners. But then I notice that the bar stools are exactly the same, and I smile when I think back to the first time I came to Anna’s house and perched myself there, carefully studying her for signs of fear as I disappeared before her eyes.
Anna’s mom walks in and I duck back down under the windowsill and count to five. Then I peek inside again, studying her as she reaches into the oven and removes a roasting pan. She scurries around the kitchen, stirring pots on the stove and putting rolls in the oven.