Page 21 of Life Out of Order

“Yeah. That would be helpful, thank you.” I was not prepared to see Alba evaporate. It makes me wonder about reality. What keeps it in place? What is time, anyway?

Gomez fetches a bottle of White Horse, doles one cube of ice into each of three glasses, pours generously. He says, “It takes some getting used to, this time traveling. I first saw Alba’s dad do it in 1991 and I still haven’t fully recovered.”

“It doesn’t look like much fun,” I offer as Gomez hands me my whiskey. What I mean is, it looks painful and ugly.

“It isn’t too elegant,” Charisse replies. “But most bodily functions aren’t.”

“I guess not,” I say. “It’s kind of terrifying. I thought she could control it, somewhat?”

“Alba can control it more than her dad, but that’s not saying much,” Charisse says. “Still, the older Alba gets, the more purposeful she seems to be with the time traveling. With Henry, her dad, it got more dangerous as he went along.”

“We’ve seen Alba much older than she is now,” Gomez assures me. “In her sixties, maybe seventysomething. I think it helps to know that she will return, when she’s gone and you’re waiting for her.”

“We saw her, at the party—an older Alba,” I say. “She waited with us, while—you know.”

“Caralora told us,” Gomez says. Charisse knocks back her whiskey in two gulps, so I follow suit. Gomez gets up again and starts to load the dishwasher. I offer to help, and he waves me back into my seat. It feels so comfortable to be here, watching someone do mundane tasks. The world of hiding and hunting seems far away.

“I never hear about time travel anymore,” I say. “There was that big announcement, and then it just—died. I mean, it was in that scientific journal, and then nothing. People don’t talk about it. What happened?”

Charisse says, “There’s been a lot going on, quietly. David has a whole lab working out the genetics, doing something with cloning. When Alba’s dad, Henry, died, research slowed for a while because Clare wouldn’t let him use Alba as a test subject, but once Alba turned eighteen she jumped back into the study. She says there are a few other time travelers, scattered across the world, who are participating. David says most of them are involved because they want to find a way to stop time traveling.”

“That makes sense,” I say.

Gomez throws a soap pod into the dishwasher, closes it, turns it on. It begins to grumble and sloosh. “It’s a very destabilizing thing,” he begins, reseating himself at the table with us. “The world as we know it depends on the future being a black box. As soon as it became known that it is possible for someone to dance back and forth across time, the powers that be moved to shut that knowledge down. For example, I’ve seen a video of Alba on YouTube—it was during the pandemic. She was running naked down Van Buren, near the Washington Library, and then she vanished. It had more than a million views when I saw it, until poof, gone. People wonder if it was a hoax, but I’m sure there’s more CCTV of her out there, there must be. David says that the other time travelers are secretive, their families protective, the way we are with Alba.”

“But people must notice her,” I say, “and everyone has a phone now.”

Charisse says, “She spends most of her time in the past, when she travels, like her dad.”

“Henry used to get arrested and beat up a lot,” Gomez adds. “I think Alba must be better at subterfuge.”

“I hope so,” I reply. I remember Alba’s face when she told me her dad was shot to death.

Charisse changes the subject. “According to Alba, you need a place to stay. Max and Joe just got their own place again; they were living with us for a while because of the pandemic. You could have one of their rooms, if you’d like?” Charisse tilts her head, leans forward slightly. I can see that she’s trying to keep it casual: Her demeanor says that I’d be doing them a huge favor, not the other way around. I like Charisse a lot. I find Gomez kind of intimidating, though, and I wonder if he’s cool with me moving in.

He gives me the nod. “She’s the boss. We’d be glad to have you.” I remember how far from home I am, how long it’s been. I turn back to Charisse and find her expression soft with pity. I almost refuse because I don’t want anyone looking at me like that, ever . . . but it’s supposed to get down to fifteen tonight, and I can’t face sitting awake in my car till morning, trying to keep the blood moving in my extremities.

“So, have you got a suitcase or anything you need to bring in?” Charisse asks.

“Um, yeah. Thanks. I’ll be right back.” I put on my coat and dash to my car to collect my stuff. I try to condense it all into my backpack so they don’t think I’m going to be staying more than a few nights, then hoist the pack and march back to the Gomolinskis’ house.

I can hear their hushed voices somewhere near the front door, but I can’t make out what they are saying, and I feel so guilty for imposing on them that I almost turn around and get back in my car. Then Charisse flings the door open and says, “Quick, it’s freezing!” Gomez is in the hall, taking off his hot dog apron. “Come this way, you can have your pick of the boys’ bedrooms. If I were you, I’d take Joe’s room because it has a bigger window. They were sharing a bathroom, you can have that to yourself . . .”

He keeps talking, so I don’t have to say anything. I drop my backpack on the floor of Joe’s room, which feels empty despite the double bed with its plain maroon bedspread, the battered-but-matching bureau and desk, the office chair, the closet full of wire hangers and a canister vacuum cleaner, the too-small lamp by the bed. There are three tiny wooden elephants on the windowsill. It’s nothing like my old bedrooms (I used to have four aquariums full of fish, and another for my iguana, Maisie, and I collected typewriters, and books were everywhere); but I recognize it as a faint, temporary echo of Home. “Thank you,” I say to Gomez and Charisse, “I mean, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“You aren’t,” Gomez says firmly. “No trouble at all.”

“I’ll get you some sheets and towels,” Charisse says, and disappears from the doorway.

Gomez and I fall awkwardly silent. We’re about the same height, and we just stand staring at each other, trying to get over our mutual surprise at my presence in this room, this house, their home.

“It’s okay, Zach,” he says quietly. “It’s all going to work out.”

“Did Alba—”

“No. I just have a hunch.”

“Okay. Well. Thanks again.”