Authors: Kamy Wicoff
She had also requested that Dr. Sexton remove the 3-D wand (a little too much flair), as well as the reminders before a journey and the notification of arrival after it (a little too much action from an app she didn’t want anyone to know existed).
Jennifer had then raised one final concern. Even though Dr. Sexton had installed an ultraprecise version of Google Maps on her phone, capable of pinpointing her location with a margin of error no bigger than a roll of masking tape (apparently she had high-up Google friends who’d given her access to a prototype), didn’t it still rely on a wireless signal, and didn’t that mean she would be at the mercy of her wireless network? It was maddening enough when her phone suddenly displayed zero bars or, even worse, said it couldn’t find the server when she was standing on a corner in TriBeCa right outside the AT&T building. Relying on wireless access when bad reception might translate into never putting your particles back together again seemed crazier than the idea of a traversable wormhole.
“I couldn’t agree more!” Dr. Sexton had said, pleased as ever to demonstrate that she really had thought of everything. “Which is why, through some back channels, I procured an access code to GETS.”
“Gets?” Jennifer asked.
“The Government Emergency Telecommunications Service,” Dr. Sexton answered matter-of-factly. “A network created by the Department of Homeland Security to ensure that key personnel, from the president to disaster responders, would never encounter the so-called Mother’s Day effect. Another very silly name, if you ask me, very likely coined by somebody on a morning television show, as though on Mother’s Day the nation’s cellular network would be crippled by millions of dutiful children calling their mothers at the same time. The phenomenon, however, is real. New York’s
cellular network did become overwhelmed on September eleventh, for example, as you might recall. GETS users are given priority access to every wireless network in the country and have an almost-flawless completion rate.”
Almost?
Jennifer had thought. Then she’d thought, if it was good enough for Dr. Sexton, it was good enough for her too.
Upon rereading the guide alone on Saturday night, Jennifer was grateful to have things spelled out so clearly and printed on paper. Because while the tone of the guide sometimes reminded her of a school principal’s instructions to parents about proper behavior on field trips, having it all laid out for her like that was not just comforting; it was critical. And this was because, as she discovered the moment she sat down to book her first Wishful Thinking appointment, keeping a clear head when it came to time travel was about as easy as uncracking an egg.
First, Tuesday. Tuesday she planned to pick up both boys—Jack first, at the New Day Preschool, then Julien. Jennifer opened up the Wishful Thinking calendar. A few days ago, at Dr. Sexton’s suggestion, she had mapped the coordinates of the inside of the cleaning-supplies closet at the Pecan Café, right across from the preschool. It was where all the parents and babysitters convened before pickup. She’d then saved the coordinates as a Wishful Thinking “favorite.” Jack’s preschool got out at 3:00 p.m., and so did Julien’s elementary school. They were only a few blocks apart, but still, how did Melissa handle that? Maybe she could get Jack a little bit early? She began to type:
Pick up Jack, Pecan Café, 138 West 10th Street, Tuesday, October 6, 2:45 p.m. to
… ? How long should the appointment be? And how was she going to create a seamless transition from work to school to home and back to work, and then back home again? Her brain began to hurt. First she would “travel” from her office to the café. Then she would
spend the afternoon with the boys. What time should she leave home to go back to 2:45 p.m. at work? Eight p.m.? Yes. Less than six hours, which was the limit, and late enough that Bill and Alicia were likely to leave before she did, earning her major hard-worker brownie points. Once she had put in her hours at work, she would then
physically
travel, on foot or by train, back home, arriving by eight in order to relieve … herself.
The question was, without violating the five-hundred-yard radius, how would she get in her own front door?
Jennifer decided she would think about that on Tuesday.
Jennifer then booked a second appointment on Thursday, October 8, this time to arrive at Julien’s school at 2:00 p.m. Julien wouldn’t get out till three, but that Friday—while reading, perhaps for the first time, the school newsletter’s “Get Involved!” section—she had read that the school’s annual benefit committee’s first meeting was to be held on Thursday from 2:00 to 3:00 p.m.
Annual benefit committee!
For three years, these three words had been as removed from Jennifer’s reality as
Navy SEAL commando
. Volunteering for such a committee was sure to shut Norman up. And Jennifer actually liked that kind of thing. In college, in fact, she had been on so many committees that Vinita, who avoided all committees like the plague (“Committees make me want to vomit in my mouth” was a common refrain), had called her Committee Kathy. It was going to be hard to explain to Vinita her presence on this one, if she chose to join it. Was there a way to prevent her from finding out?
Jennifer decided she would think about that on Thursday. Since she’d already be at the school, she should be able to grab Julien right at three and hustle over to New Day to get Jack only a few minutes late.
Having successfully booked her two Wishful Thinking
appointments for the week, Jennifer sat back, surveyed her revamped schedule … and frowned. Two “extra” afternoons, which at first had seemed like a life-changing gift, really weren’t much at all. What about Wednesdays? Could she convince Melissa to do three afternoons instead of two? Or take her up on her offer to find someone else to help out?
There was another option, of course. She could give the third afternoon to Norman. It irritated her to think he’d see this as a concession, however small, of his point. On the other hand, if she offered the afternoon preemptively, she’d look like the good guy, taking the high road and all that. A small concession might forestall his pushing her for larger ones.
Jennifer opened up her e-mail. She took a deep breath and began to type.
Dear Norman,
I have arranged my schedule to be with the boys two afternoons a week. Would you like to pick them up on Wednesdays? Melissa will only be with them on Mondays and Fridays from now on.
Best, Jennifer
She waited a minute, her finger hovering over the
ENTER
key. And then she hit
SEND
. Some part of her knew it wasn’t just the savvy thing to do; it was the right thing to do. She’d never admit it to him, but Norman’s speech hadn’t entirely missed its mark.
Her arrangements for the week complete, Jennifer put on her pajamas and climbed into bed. As soon as she did, a huge smile came over her face. Imagine the looks on the boys’ faces when she was there to pick them up on Tuesday! (She planned to make it a surprise.) And on every Tuesday and Thursday after that, when she took them to the park to play, helped
them with their homework, arranged playdates with the moms who didn’t make playdates with babysitters but only with other moms, sang songs, gave treats. She knew it wouldn’t all be Mary Poppins–ish bliss. She’d struggled with her sanity on enough long school “holidays” (
For whom?
she always wanted to ask), particularly in the dark winter months, to know that. But she had also been becoming increasingly aware of the fleetingness of these years in particular, when her children were still young enough to curl up in her lap and kiss her when she wasn’t expecting it, but old enough to play chess; still young enough to build couch forts and be wowed by glitter glue, but old enough to clean up and put the caps back on things. She believed in the magic years, treasuring them even more than the boys’ baby days, and she’d been frustrated and sad at missing so much of it. It had occurred to her, of course, that by doubling down on her hours two times every week, she would be exhausted. But wasn’t sleep the thing that all working parents sacrificed? She’d just have to get as many hours as she could on the other five plain old twenty-four-hour days and live on coffee, which had gotten her through many a workday after a sleepless night when the boys were very young.
Was it cheating, using the app? Yes. Did she feel bad about it? No. Because if she was honest, she knew that the illicit, cheating part was one of the reasons that she—Jennifer Sharpe, type-A worker, straight-A student, and A-plus single mom— was so goddamn excited about it.
T
UESDAY
, O
CTOBER
6, the day Jennifer was scheduled to make her first intentional Wishful Thinking journey, also happened to be Alicia Richardson’s second day as the new cohead of the One Stop community-center project. Alicia,
apparently, had also been swayed by the bonus Bill had offered—Jennifer could not imagine why else she would have consented to be Jennifer’s cohead when she’d been lured by the promise of being Jennifer’s boss. And it was with Alicia and Bill, naturally, that Jennifer was sitting when, at 2:41 p.m., she felt her stomach begin to churn. Her appointment was at two forty-five. They were smack in the middle of a meeting with the executive director of a nonprofit who had evidently been as good as promised the contract to run all of One Stop’s job-placement programs. (The ED, naturally, was the wife of a friend of Bill’s.) The backslapping expediency of it all was enough to make Jennifer queasy, but the prospect of rushing off to the secret bathroom in two minutes, in order to give herself a little cushion before closing her eyes, gritting her teeth, and getting sucked into her smartphone again, made her feel dangerously close to hurling more time travel–related vomit.
“Jennifer?” Bill was addressing Jennifer directly. The head of the nonprofit, Work for Today, was looking at her inquiringly. Obviously she had missed something.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Bill was asking you when you thought you could have a budget drawn up for the job-placement program,” Alicia said impatiently.
“Right,” Jennifer said. “And the idea is that Work for Today would have a staff person on-site?”
“Yes, yes,” Bill said. “So when can you complete a budget proposal?”
“I’m sorry,” Jennifer said, irritated enough to take her eyes off the clock for a minute. “But have we considered taking proposals from some of the nonprofit partners I suggested, who have been working with the city for years? Aren’t we
obligated
to do that, in fact?”
Bill smiled. A big, broad smile. Then he shook his head, as
though Jennifer had said something funny. “You know, for someone with a business background, you sure know how to talk like a bureaucrat!” he said. Jennifer did her best not to roll her eyes at him. “Aren’t we trying to change the way things are done around here?” Bill went on. “Aren’t we trying to streamline and make things
happen
, rather than putting the same old players in the same old process?”
Jennifer was about to answer that if by “the same old players” Bill was referring to some of the most respected nonprofits in the city, then her answer was yes, when she looked at the time: 2:43. It was now or never. “I have to go the bathroom,” she blurted, mortified.
“Now?” Bill asked incredulously.
“Yes, now!” Jennifer replied, smiling as cheerily as she could at the assembled scowls. Standing up briskly, she headed for the door before anyone could stop her. “I’ll be back before you know it!” she added over her shoulder. “I promise.”
Jennifer made her way into the hallway.
How is this little stunt going to play out when I get back?
she wondered. It hardly mattered now. It was 2:44, and by the time she’d grabbed the bag she’d stashed in her office, bulging with the bulk of a soccer ball for the boys and a pair of sneakers for her, she had to hit the stairs running. It was time to time travel, and she’d be damned if she was going to be late.
M
OMENTS LATER
, J
ENNIFER WAS
in a broom closet. That had been the idea, but something this time around didn’t feel right. The journey had been the same: the yawning, spiraling blue tunnel, the feeling of being compressed to the size of a paper clip and suddenly inflating like a bounce house, the pounding heart rate upon landing. But then a different feeling. A feeling of not quite having resumed her normal shape again;
a feeling of being folded up, as though she were squashed inside a box. As she came to and was restored to a sense of her body again, Jennifer realized, in fact, that she was in a crouch. The backs of her heels were digging into her butt, and something hard and flat was pressing against her back. It was pitch-black in the closet, and it took Jennifer a minute to maneuver around enough to produce her phone and switch it into flashlight mode. With her arm extended into the darkness, she swiveled her wrist, looked down, and stifled a scream. The floor was not beneath her feet. Instead it lay at least six feet below.
She was on top of something. When she tried to move, she realized she was squished between whatever that something was and the ceiling.
Hot with adrenaline, she turned her wrist toward herself to illuminate the object she was perched upon. It was a metal supply cabinet.
Goddamn cabinet!
she thought. That hadn’t been there when she’d snuck into the Pecan Café broom closet to map the coordinates a week before.
“Frack!” she yelled to nobody in particular.
Thank God she hadn’t ended up locked
inside
the supply cabinet, she thought. She made a mental note to add another item to the WT travel bag she’d packed that morning, which included an emergency battery-operated phone charger, a change of clothes, a first-aid kit, her passport (what if she ended up in Soho, London, instead of Soho, New York?), and a roll of quarters for APTs: lock-pick.
It took some doing, in tights, a business suit, and heels, but somehow she managed to hug the slick metal sides of the cabinet, unfold her legs, and, enduring a sharp jab to the stomach as she slid across the cabinet’s corner, drop herself to the floor.