Time After Time

1
LIBBY
My foot holds down the brake of my hand-­me-­down Camry as I idle at the curb, staring out the car window at the run-­down Victorian. It sits heavy on its brambly, unkempt lot. The Mulberry house is mine. And I can’t quite believe it.

“Oh, Gammy,” I whisper, “don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad.”

Gammy didn’t have much while she was alive, but after my grandpa died, she sold their small house and moved in with us (the very best years of my life). She put the money from the sale into two accounts. One for me and one for my brother, Peter. Half and half. My family is middle­middle-­class; we’re not rolling in dough. Even though it’s not a fortune, Gammy’s gift was meant to give Peter and me enough money to go to college and graduate without a ton of debt. A gift that only the most privileged kids have. A gift I just spent on something that is definitely not college.

But I’m sure, I’m absolutely certain, that the Mulberry house is my future. I think about my Saturdays with Gammy. About our movie days and our walks and our talks and the Mulberry house and my wanting it so badly that it carved a hollow ache in my belly. A dull ache that’s been there ever since. I think about the little girl who was me, staking my young, foolish claim on that house, as if mere wishing could make dreams come true.

Now, every night, ever since I saw the For Sale sign in the yard, I’ve been having different dreams. As soon as I fall asleep, the images start: the house, big and bold and pristine. Pom-pom shrubs lining a pebble stone walkway. Rose bushes full of radiant, sweet-­smelling blooms. And music. Fun, old-­timey music from the 1920s. There’s a backyard party in full swing. Little hors d’oeuvres being passed around on silver trays. Guests dressed like extras in a Great Gatsby movie. It’s the same party. It’s the best party. Every single night.

There’s no music now. No party. The lights are out. The shine is gone. But it’s mine.

I turn off the car and rest my head against the wheel, listening to the engine tick quietly. Then, before I even register the movement, my hand is reaching for the door handle. It’s like my mind and body have been on autopilot for the last two weeks. I’ve been like a different person, making very un-­Libby-­like decisions. I am not impulsive. I never step out of line. I’m the girl who sets my alarm thirty minutes early so I can lie in bed and mentally plan my day, step by step, every little detail accounted for so there are no surprises.

Steady as she goes, my dad likes to say.

“Buckle up, Dad,” I mutter as I imagine just how unsteady everything’s going to be when they find out. Dad will be furious. Mom will do that yelling-­sob thing that makes my ears ache. I’ve seen her do it to Peter a thousand times. And Peter? He’ll laugh because it’ll finally be me in the doghouse and not him. Then Dad will take one of his long, bracing breaths before he stoically tells me all the reasons I’m wrong and he’s right and if I’ll just do as he says my life will be amazing. My teeth clench at the thought.

I step out of the car and walk back to the house. Its enormity is breathtaking, all ornate gables, eaves, cone-­shaped towers, and a huge, spindled wraparound porch. Several pieces of loose siding droop crookedly above the dingy, discolored downstairs windows. Upstairs, the two front­facing windows are covered by wood planks. The roof still has the original shingles, although a few patches are missing, like bald spots. I see past all that, past the age, past the decay. I picture the house in all its glory, with Model Ts and jazz bands; shimmery dresses, hats, and gloves; all the wonderful things the big Victorian must have seen before its eyes were shut by those awful boards.

Gammy and I used to stand in front of this old picket fence, my small hand gliding reverently along the aging wood, spotted and worn, like Gammy’s skin, bearing the marks of time. Little me would daydream about the house, about the lives that happened there.

Now it belongs to me. All of it. Even . . .

I look down.

. . . the green glass stone. It’s oblong, like a small glass cylinder. At least the part that’s visible. The rest of it is buried in the sidewalk. I’ve memorized this stone as thoroughly as I’ve memorized the house, brushed my fingers across the emerald glass a hundred times, across the numbers that are etched just beneath: 2 3 6. It looks like they were written with a fat stick, or a slim finger. Decades of trampling feet and harsh weather have taken their toll on the inscription, fading the numbers to shallow grooves. I have no idea what the numbers mean, but every time I see them, my stomach does a slow flip. The house calls to me, but the stone makes me sad.

Something catches my eye. Movement. A chill runs down the back of my neck.

Someone is standing inside the house. A woman, staring out the window, her hand resting along the bottom of the windowsill. I lean forward to get a better look. She’s youngish, I think. Her features are too hazy to make out, blurred by the sun glinting off the glass, but I can see her eyes. Deep and bright and locked directly on mine. She’s staring right at me, or right through me. Right into me.

My cell phone rings, jolting me. I scramble for my phone and check the caller ID. It’s Eleanor, my real estate agent. Good. She’ll know what the hell is going on. I swipe the screen, and without preamble say, “Is there someone in my house?”

There’s a long pause. Then Eleanor says, “There hasn’t been anyone in that house for decades.”

It was one of the conditions of the sale, Eleanor had told me. The seller, some distant relative of the previous owner, was offloading it, selling it as is, with everything still inside. Everything, Eleanor had said, furniture and all. Which, of course, had made me even more determined to have it. And when I saw the price, weirdly, freakishly, unbelievably low for an actual whole house (and nearly exactly what I had in my college fund), it felt too much like fate to pass up. I signed the papers without another thought. But now . . .

“Someone’s standing in the front window, staring me down,” I say into the phone, staring back at the woman. An electric tingle raises the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck.

“That’s impossible, Libby,” Eleanor says.

“I’m looking right at her, Eleanor. I’m not hallucinat—­” I stop abruptly as a cloud moves overhead to block the sun. It casts a shade over the glass, and the young woman in the window is revealed. It’s me, my long hair piled in a messy bun, holding the cell phone to my ear, nervously shifting my weight from one leg to the other.

I start laughing, relieved that I haven’t totally lost it.

“What’s going on?” Eleanor wants to know, her voice cutting through my chuckles.

“Nothing. I just bought a house, and I’m seeing myself in it, that’s all.”

There’s another long pause, as if Eleanor is trying to figure out what I mean. I can almost see her shrug as she decides she doesn’t care and says, “Um, okay, yeah, good. So listen. Couple of things. I just spoke with the listing agent again. I was able to talk them into leaving the utilities connected for a week or so, to give you time to get them switched over into your name. But they can’t give you the key today, for liability reasons. I’m sorry. I know you’re dying to get in there. As soon as the documents are recorded, it’s all yours. I’ll see if I can call in a favor, get the deed recorded earlier . . .”

Eleanor’s still talking, but I’m not listening. I smile like an idiot as I impulsively wave at my reflection in the window. She waves back. Because she is me. I thank Eleanor profusely and hang up. Then, shoving all my worries of my empty college fund and my sudden lurch toward impulsivity to the back of my mind, I take one last look at the house—­my house!—­and grin. The little holes in the ground where the For Sale sign had been seem to wink up at me, one hole smaller than the other. I wink back and hurry to my car. I know I made the right decision, no matter how bumpy the road turns out to be.