Moments in Time

Chapter 5-1

I manage to get through the rest of the week without looking like an i***t among my classmates and Robbie’s friends, who apparently are mine as well. It’s rather maddening playing these games to ferret out names and other information about them that I would be expected to know. The secret, I’ve learned, is to keep my mouth shut and listen for dropped names and clues. With Monica it’s a bit easier because I can go digging around the house for evidence when she’s not home, and of course there’s Tommy, who provides loads of information, unaware I should know these things already. I’ve been playing this game with him where I ask him things like, “Do you remember our first vacation? Where did we go?” I say it in a chipper voice, encouraging him, and he tells me, and then goes on to give me more information than I need to know.

I’ve also been keeping a notebook that I’ve been putting things down in until they become second nature, like birthdays, anniversaries, the names of Monica’s relatives, and anything else I deem important. What worries me the most is meeting my in-laws in the near future and being asked a question regarding some past event I should know the answer to. How do I fake that? And then there’s my mother. My mother knows almost everything about me, I imagine, and I’m pretty sure she’d know right away something’s up if I didn’t know certain things, like where my father lives. What an odd thought; my mother sensing I’m not “me” when in fact it is “me.” These paradoxes keep popping up every time I turn around. I’m beginning to feel like Schrödinger’s cat.

I turn off the computer—thank God passwords haven’t come around yet—and sit back in surprise. We have a hefty balance on our spreadsheet register. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. So why do we live so modestly? Is it by choice? I mean, why else would we live in a raised ranch, and drive sedans, not to mention busting our asses at work and school? I guess I know where the priorities are. Money is not the end-all here.

thank God passwords haven’t come around yetNot too shabby, if I do say so myself. In my other life, I’m the exact opposite of the man I appear to be here. I evaluated myself by the position I had at the firm, the house I lived in, the big fat diamond on my wife’s finger, the car I drove, and the friends I kept—who, by the way, dropped off the planet the minute I lost my job. So much for pals!

Monica and Tommy come down the stairs. She hands me an overnight bag for our son because he’s staying at my mother’s while I support Robbie at The West. I take the bag, give her a kiss good-bye, and my son and I are out the door. My mother lives south of the city in an area called, the Valley. From my memories as a young boy, the Valley was an aging cluster of tightly woven neighborhoods right out of the ’50s. Cookie-cutter two-story clapboard houses lined up like toy soldiers sitting on stamped lots, 60-by-150-feet deep.

I wonder what it’ll be like seeing the old neighborhood again, and more to the point, my mother. The black and white pictures in our album show a woman with a movie-star quality. She was, or is, I should say, a tall stately Englishwoman with satiny dark hair and eyes that shine like sapphires. It’s funny how I see her in pictures now, noticing details I never paid attention to growing up, like her expressive arched brows, her sculpted Roman nose, and her perfectly aligned teeth. Everything about her, from the way she poses in pictures, to the simple strand of pearls she wears and the style of her pleated dresses speaks to class even though our family fell out of money long before I was born.

I pull off the highway and ten minutes later, Tommy and I are driving down the street I grew up on. I slow down, looking for a two-story white colonial with flowering spiraea out front.

Tommy, who’s sitting in the passenger seat, points to a couple women down the street, then rolls down his window and calls out, “Nana!”

One of the women turns and waves back as I pull into the driveway. I watch her break away from the other woman and walk toward us with her shoulders straightened and head held high. She’s wearing a deep blue dress that sweeps past her knees and her signature pearl necklace. My son unbuckles his seat belt and he’s out the door, running into her arms. I watch the two of them embrace, then she heads for me as I get out of the car.

“Hi Mom.” The words sound surreal in my ears, knowing I buried her years ago in another life.

“Hi honey,” she answers and pulls me into a breezy hug.

For a second, I hesitate to put my arms around her, fearing she might vanish from under my embrace, but her grip is solid and real, and her vanilla essence is unmistakable. It’s really her, not some trick of my mind. At last, I enfold her in my arms; feel her body pressed to me. I’m really holding my mother again and I don’t want to let go.

It’s really her, not some trick of my mind.When she pulls away, she looks me over like a newborn. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Yes, plenty,” I say.

She gives me a doubting look, and I know she doesn’t believe me, because it’s the same look she used to give me in another life when I fibbed about such things. “Well, come in. Have you eaten?”

Another thing she always worried about: my not eating, that and I’m not dressing warm enough. “I grabbed a bite before I left the house.”

I ignore another doubting look. “Thanks for watching Tommy.”

“Of course. I’m always available to watch my little pumpkin,” she says, opening the door. (She used to call me pumpkin, too.) “So, how’s Monie?”

“She’s good,” I answer, setting Tommy’s bag on the couch. “Busy as hell with work.” I look around. The old gold and green plaid couch, recliner, and wingback chairs are like new and the old mahogany dining set in the other room shines. The only difference in this world is the dark olive wall-to-wall carpeting and TV console at one end of the room. I catch a whiff of chocolate.

My mother seems to notice my sniffing. “I made brownies. Sure you’re not interested?”

Tommy lets out a whoop and runs to the kitchen. I roll my eyes. “Okay, maybe one. Make sure he doesn’t load up on sugar.”

“Don’t you worry about my grandson. We’ll be just fine.” She gives me a sideways look, and there’s a tiny smile on her lips. “I have ice cream, too.” As she starts for the kitchen, it occurs to me she never met Ted or Crystal because she passed before they were born. Holding a grandchild was the one thing she always dreamed of.

As much as I want my old life back, seeing this version of my mother with her grandson, I can’t begrudge it. I smile. “Fine, you win.”

* * *

An hour later, I walk into The West. The bar is just like I remember it: wood-paneled walls, a black lay-in ceiling, and linoleum floors that stretch through the long, narrow establishment. The back of The West is portioned off and furnished with Foosball tables, pinball games, and Pac-Man machines. The front area is dedicated to the bars, there are two—one on each side, a few scattered tables with no chairs, and a D.J. booth. Dancing, of which there will be a lot of later on, is anywhere people decide it’s gonna be. More than likely it’ll happen in front of the band that’s setting up near the front window.

.The WestWalking in here is like walking into a minefield. In my old life, when I was in my twenties, The West was the hottest spot in town. Everyone knew everyone, and I’m quite sure I’m going to be hit on by people I have no memory of, or people I knew who know a different version of myself, or people I knew in my other life whom I haven’t met yet in this new life, like Laura Nachman, who’s standing over by the DJ booth chatting up some guy. She’s a knockout until she opens her mouth and starts talking. What we used to call a space cadet. I’ll avoid her at all costs. It hits me then: can I predict the future? Hmm…. I tuck that thought away for later consideration.

Right now, I’m just counting down the hours until I can escape from here, away from people. Keep your head low, I tell myself. Say as little as possible, and by all means avoid eye contact. Better yet, head for the back of the bar as soon as you can manage it. There I can hide behind people playing games until The Brigade comes on. Once they start up, their blaring guitars will drown out all conversation.

Keep your head low,Say as little as possible, and by all means avoid eye contact. Better yet, head for the back of the bar as soon as you can manage it.The Brigade was the band back in the day. Their raging success on the charts started right here in this hole in the wall. They’d come back to town every year to pay tribute to their roots. I look around for Robbie and find him at the bar with a few of our classmates. When I walk up, he turns around with a cigarette tucked between his lips. I can tell he’s already had a few and I get the feeling he’s going to be trashed before the end of the night. I find myself thinking of him like a wayward young man clawing his way to some version of what he believes a man is. Then I remember—I’m in my late twenties now, with the memories of a man of sixty. It’s a weird sensation: this new life going forward in constant contradiction with my old life.

theRobbie blows out a stream of smoke and looks past me. “Where’s Monie?”

“She had to work.” I nod at Lois and Bill, Amy and Zack, who are standing nearby. They’re not close friends of mine as far as I can tell, and I’m good with that. They look at me, then at Robbie with raised brows. I turn back to Robbie. “How long ya been here?”

He looks at his watch. “About an hour or so. You want a beer? I’m buying.”

“Sure.” I turn back to the band, watching them run cords to their amps. A moment later, Robbie taps my arm and hands me a bottle. We clink them together and it’s clear I’m going to be the designated babysitter tonight, but I don’t mind because it’ll get me away from people who might ask questions I have no answers for. I gesture toward the game room to get Robbie away from the bar and we head back.

On our way, he nods to the men’s room on the right. “Gotta drain the vein. Be right back.”

I go over to a table opposite the men’s room and wait for him, otherwise he might drift back to the bar. As I sip my beer, I hear a female voice call my name. I pretend not to hear. When she calls out again, closer this time, I know she’s calling to me. What’s more, her voice sounds familiar, like a distant echo ringing down through the years. Finally I look up, and standing before me is Cindy Mathews. We went to high school together in my old life and became an item until she got pregnant. Of course I was to blame. I was older and should’ve known better, and she never forgave me for not standing up to her parents, who pressured her to put it up for adoption.