If I Could Turn Back Time (18 page)

I needed to think, though. And she needed to calm down. This was something I’d learned in the years since high school. If I stood here and argued with her, she was going to continue to say no, if only so that she wasn’t teaching me that I could bulldoze her.

“Fine, I’ll go upstairs. But will you
think
about it? Please?”

I could see her hesitate, so I jumped on it.

“I mean, seriously,
look
at my hair. Smell it!” Because confidence went a long way toward covering a lie, I moved toward her, but she shot me a look and I stopped. “Anyway, you saw me yesterday morning and I was obviously not drunk. I mean, I’d totally have been drunk if I drank all the stuff I poured over my hair, wouldn’t I?”

“Well…” She looked wobbly within her determination. And it wasn’t because she was weak or ineffectual; it was because she trusted me. I knew that. I always knew that.

But I couldn’t
count
on it now until
she
realized it.

“Think about that, Mom. Please.” I didn’t give her a chance to refuse. Instead I just turned and headed for the stairs. “I’m doing what you asked because I know you hate when I argue, but please let logic prevail here. You know me. I’m not a drinker and you
know
it!”

Yes, it was a semi-lie—I’d had the vodka in the morning, but at the time in question, the age at which I was being accused of this indiscretion, I definitely
didn’t
drink much, and since then I’d never had cause to worry that there was a problem. So I didn’t feel an iota of guilt for fibbing.

On top of that, I had seen my mom have screwdrivers with brunch many times while I was delicately sipping a mimosa so I could be the designated driver. That was vodka for breakfast! And for another thing—it can’t be said too much—I was thirty-eight years old. My teenage self and future were not in jeopardy because I’d calmed my time-traveling nerves a little bit the other morning before school.

I went upstairs, Zuzu following me, her nails clicking solemly on the wood, and hoped like hell my mother would reconsider. But given the state she was in—and the state she thought
I
was in—that didn’t seem all that likely.

*   *   *

“I’M GROUNDED,” I
had to announce to Tanya two hours later. It was time to be getting ready for the party and I’d done my hair and picked out a perfect walking-the-dog outfit, but my mother had been unmoved by my argument. I’d already called Brendan and left a message that I was in trouble and things were iffy for tonight.

I didn’t know what to do.

“What do you mean, you’re grounded?”

“I mean I can’t go tonight.”

“
What?
That is not possible. You
have
to go!” She sounded like I was the mother and
she
was the one being grounded.

“I know! I’m
trying
!” I knew the truth was I was going to have to go no matter what. I just really hoped I didn’t have to sneak out, because I had no idea what the ramifications for that would end up being.

“Well, try
harder
!”

“I will! It’s just that I don’t know if I can go when you’re ready to.”

“It’s graduation night. We have, like, no parties, no high school fun left. This is the end of everything, and—”

Call waiting beeped in.

“—you will be there.”

It didn’t take a lot of imagination to realize she was talking yet again about her one perceived last chance at marital bliss with a guy who, as of yet—and as of our adult lives—had still not noticed her.

“Okay, Tanya.”

“So,
seriously
, you have
got
to work on your parents because—”

Call waiting beeped again. I wanted to answer it, even though we didn’t have caller ID yet.

I knew it was Brendan.

“Tanya, I have to go,” I said, knowing there was little time after the second beep. The call would be dismissed—we didn’t have voice mail yet—and he would be gone for now. I couldn’t afford to lose any time. “I’ll do my best and call you back to let you know.”

“But—”

I didn’t wait for her reply. I knew what it would be. She wanted me to do whatever I had to do to go; it was no different from any other time I’d been in trouble and unable to go out with her on a planned evening. I was always the letdown, the buzz kill who ruined everything because of my
stupid strict parents
(whom I appreciated now more than ever).

But this time, I really did want to get out of my punishment.

I clicked the receiver over.

“Hello?”

“Are you the girl in the iron mask?” Brendan asked, a smile in his voice.

I’d always liked that about him, how he got nearly every reference I could throw at him and how he threw some unexpected ones back. The girl in the iron mask. Trapped in my prison, unable to go out, much as I wanted to. My face … not my own.

That was good. Even today, that was pretty good. Better than he could have known.

“So far,” I said, thinking about how alien I felt when I looked in the mirror now. “It’s not looking good.” Except it was. I never would have said I was the prettiest thing on earth, or even in the top 20 percent, but compared to the older, somewhat stressed face I’d left behind, I was definitely looking pretty good.

“This stupid party doesn’t matter.” Brendan’s reaction was a stark contrast to Tanya’s. “I can meet you out back later if you want. Or climb the magnolia tree and come in your window.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

The stupid scrapy tree against my window was bad enough without a teenage guy climbing up it and making it scream against the siding like a demon. Sometimes at night it was really scary, even if the scraping was because of a regular old summer thunderstorm meandering through the lazy, soft suburbs of Washington, D.C.

“So, no. I mean, I could sneak out back if it came to that, but let me talk to my parents first. Try and do this right.” The truth was, everything had to go as close to “normal” as it could. If Brendan skipped the party and came to my house instead—even if I told him not to—it would inevitably shift the sequence of events, and I didn’t want that.

“Okay, so you do that.” His voice was so nice. Even by my thirty-eight-year-old standards, it was a good voice, low and masculine, with a really subtle hint of rasp. Not enough that an impressionist could make him hilarious, or even mildly funny, but enough to make me tingly. “All right, Raim?”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, mentally reciting the phone number I’d never forgotten. “Either way, I’ll let you know.” I paused and then asked, “Brendan?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to go, even if I can’t.”

“Mm.” I could visualize him shrugging. “We’ll see.”

“You can always come here tomorrow.”

“Whatever you want.”

I had no idea what I wanted.

Apart from him, that is. At this moment, I wanted him. And who knew how long I’d be here to
have
him? But back then? I was not in touch with what I’d wanted at all. A beer? To party and dance? To forget? To
remember
? Was this a last hurrah for me or a first blowout? I couldn’t say, because it held the potential for so much.

And yet, I knew now, with the advantage of age, it also held the potential for so little.

So little.

Meanwhile, I had to let his life play out the way it was supposed to. It wasn’t all about me.

“I’ll call you back,” I said. “As soon as I know what we’re doing. But, Brendan…”

“Ramie.”

“Be happy, okay? Do what you need to.”

He laughed. “I’ll give that a try.”

We hung up, but while I knew that once I would have felt confident, even with his answer, this time I wondered exactly what he meant.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I decided to ask my father.

When I was growing up, I’d actually felt closer to my mother, but now that I was in this weird vortex of return, and I knew he was actually gone from my time, I think my concentration on his aliveness made him feel more approachable to me.

Which may seem crazy, now that I think about it. I mean, the very fact that he was actually gone presumably could and should have made him
less
approachable to me. Nevertheless, I thought I’d have better luck getting out of my grounding with him.

When I heard him come in the front door at 5:23 (like clockwork, it was always between 5:20 and 5:25, though usually—I had noticed—5:23), I hurried down to meet him and ask if he could come talk to me in my room when he was settled.

Settled
usually meant he’d had a bourbon on the rocks. A small one; if I were measuring, I’d say no more than two fingers
with
ice, but he had it every evening. I’d like to say it added to his longevity, since we all want to say alcohol consumption leads to longevity, but his early demise would suggest otherwise, though I’m sure it didn’t contribute in any way to his death.

“Have a seat and let’s talk now,” he said, easy, completely unself-conscious of my mother’s overhearing ears.

“I’m
grounded
,” I stage-whispered, half hoping my mom could actually hear, wherever she was. “And it’s
totally unfair
.”

“Ah.” He laughed.
Laughed!
“Then you’d better get back to Elba, huh?”

Another good reference. Napoleon. I had to appreciate it. “Very funny, Dad. Can you just hurry? It’s important.”

“Ten-four.” He saluted me. “I’ll come talk to you as soon as I get cleaned up.”

“Hurry.”

“You can’t rush genius.” It was his old joke.

Which led to mine. “So I can rush you?”

As always, he tilted his head and looked at me as if I’d just said the most insulting thing imaginable. “Yes.” He didn’t smile outwardly, but it was in his voice.

I went upstairs, vaguely annoyed and thinking maybe I should have just approached my mother with a Clarence Darrow–worthy argument and skipped Dad altogether, since he clearly was going to take the whole thing lightly—that old act all but assured me of that—and undoubtedly side with Mom.

I waited for what seemed like forever. I spent about ten minutes putting makeup on—this young face was so much easier to do than I had thought at the time!—then tidied my room, went through the cedar chest at the foot of my bed (all linens! nothing interesting at all!), and even organized my cheap mall jewelry. Then I sat on the bed, scratching Zuzu’s belly for what seemed like forever, although it was strangely meditative.

Finally Dad came to the door, knocked twice, and came on in.

“I talked to your mother,” he said without preamble as he sat next to me on the bed. “She said you drank a great deal of vodka.”

“I told her I used it to rinse my hair,” I said vehemently. Because, yes, I
had
told her that. Then, with every bit as much sincerity, I added, “I read that it makes your hair shiny.”

“It also makes school seem a little easier,” he said. “If you have to face a tough day and you’re nervous.”

I felt my face grow hot. How did he know? Then I remembered: old me had forgotten I was young me and had been very frank with my mom about my need for alcoholic enhancement before going to school.

“Okay,” I told my father. “Though it’s true, I
did
read that a vodka rinse makes your hair shiny. Beer too. Remember that beer shampoo I used to have?” I probably had it in the shower right now, but he probably hadn’t ever noticed it. For some reason I just felt compelled to defend the idea that alcohol
=
beauty when utilized in a nonconsumptive way.

Which was, we all knew, not the way I’d used it.

And his raised eyebrows made clear that he knew that wasn’t the way I’d used it. So rather than fighting the foolish fight, I went on, “So it’s not like that
idea
was out of the question; it’s just that, yes, yesterday I was particularly nervous about school.” I thought about it and, before he could answer, added, “More nervous than I have ever been in my life. For that one day. So, yes, I used a crutch. But that doesn’t mean I have a
problem
or that I’m
bad
or anything negative like that. It was just a tough day. And it’s going to be a tough night, but I just hope you will agree to let me have the tough night I need, rather than the one you punish me into.”

He leaned back, though there was nothing to lean back on, sitting on the soft mattress of my bed, and let out a long sigh. “You know this is hard for me.”

“Actually, Dad”—I gave a semi-involuntary but humorless laugh—“I have no idea what this is like for you. None at all. But I know it’s hard as hell for me.”

He was unfazed by my uncharacteristically harsh language. “We’re in similar boats, you and I.”

I frowned. “How so?” Mom was no tyrant to him. He had always had the final say in everything. Even though I was nearly twenty years outside of his rule, I was all but begging for his help and he was giving me this nonsense about being in the same boat with me? Like he couldn’t help, we both just had to hope Mom would be benevolent?

I was all ready to go off on him, attacking him for that and for his retro-misogynistic comment, when he said, softly, “We don’t know how to help each other. We want to do the right thing, but even with an elevated vantage point, neither of us knows what the right thing really is to say or do.”

That gave me pause.
Elevated vantage point
seemed a bit grandiose for his parental role—good lord, he had
no idea
what I was really going through (if I didn’t myself, how could he?)—yet of course he still had to take the high road to my low.

“I’m sorry,” I said, figuring that was the easiest out in a case like this. They had me nailed, as far as they were concerned. I was smart enough, in retrospect, to work from my disadvantage, rather than cover my eyes and ears and pretend something other than the truth. “Okay, yes, I drank some vodka before school because I was so nervous that I figured if I didn’t have that, I’d probably end up puking right in the hall in front of everyone. Just imagine that!”