Page 32 of Life Out of Order

“I thought you’d understand each other,” Alba says, smiling. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic.

Once we’re all back out on the sidewalk, we linger in front of the restaurant, talking about the strange weather. I can tell that Clare is reluctant to leave, which seems odd, since Alba lives with Clare and they see each other constantly. Finally Alba says, “Mama, it’s almost three o’clock,” and Clare says, “Is it? Oh, my gosh, Isadora! Lucinda’s probably sitting on our doorstep. It was lovely meeting you, Zach, I’d better go,” and before I can say much in return she’s speed-walking across the plaza like the White Rabbit.

“Was it something I said?”

Alba laughs. “Of course not, she adored you.” She takes my hand and we walk slowly along Lincoln Avenue. “You shouldn’t worry about my family, Zach. Everybody loves you.” The way Alba says this makes me stop and look at her carefully.

“Alba, are you time traveling? Right now?”

“Yes. Sorry, did you not realize?” She says this too casually, a little defensively.

“Where’s the you that’s supposed to be here? And when are you coming from?” She looks so similar to my present Alba. Maybe this Alba is thinner? Shorter hair?

“She’s back in the 1980s, with my dad. I’m coming from July 2025. We sometimes manage to fill in for each other like this. I didn’t want to stand you up today, and my mother was excited to meet you. I didn’t want to disappoint anybody.”

“Did your mother notice?”

Alba considers. “I think so. Yes. Mama is cautious; she wouldn’t come out and say so. She did loosen up with you, though. I was surprised that she told you about her childhood.”

“I like her. She had an extraordinary life, didn’t she?”

“She still does.”

“I meant, with your father. Her childhood.”

“Mmm. Yeah, I guess so.” Alba’s expression is pensive. To change the subject, I ask, “Who are Lucinda and Isadora?”

Now I’ve got her full attention. “Family,” she says. I know that to Alba “family” includes her close friends and their families. “Lucinda is my mom’s friend Celia Attley’s daughter. Foster daughter. You saw her once, at the party, the night we met. She was asleep on the bed, in that room upstairs. She showed up even though we didn’t invite her, thinking it was just a normal party.”

“You said she was like a younger sister to you.”

“She’s the baby of the whole group of us. She’s our darling.”

“And Isadora?”

Alba shakes her head. “Isadora is the anti-darling. We’re all terrified of her.”

“Why? Who is she?”

“You might say she’s my stepsister. She’s Beck’s daughter. I’m going to do my best to make sure you never meet her, because she gets wildly jealous of me and wants everything I have and anyone I date. She had a serious fixation on Caralora. It was scary and stalkerish.”

“Huh. That’s alarming. So these two girls, the darling and the anti-darling, are over at your house right now hanging out? With your mom?”

Alba says, “They love each other. They were made for each other, they’re inseparable. Don’t try to figure it out, it’s too weird. They spend every Saturday afternoon together, at our place. It used to be a playdate so Celia could do her shopping, but now it’s their own thing. Girl time.”

“How come you’ve never mentioned having a stepsister before?”

“I prefer not to talk about Isadora or deal with her. Eventually you’ll have to meet her, so enjoy not knowing while you can.”

“Now I’m curious.” This is an understatement.

Alba sighs. “Couldn’t you just—not be? You’re in a state of grace, an Isadora-free zone. Look, it’s a pretty day, why ruin it?” We’ve arrived back at my car. It’s a very ordinary, not-attention-attracting 2012 silver Jetta, and every time I see it I think of my lost Nash and feel bereft. Alba kisses me, her hands at my hips pulling me to her, then she walks around to the passenger’s side, waits. I unlock the Jetta and fold myself into the driver’s seat. Alba hops in, shuts her door. “Hey,” she says. “Let’s go to the beach. Since it’s faux summer, we might as well make the most of it, before some other random season comes along.”

“Yeah? Okay.” I turn the ignition and head east. On Lake Shore Drive we roll the windows down and crank up the stereo. In my peripheral vision, Alba’s black hair streams chaotically, her long fingers tap her thigh as David Bowie sings “Heroes,” her expression enigmatic behind enormous sunglasses. The future suddenly seems potentially glorious despite the abnormal weather. Alba begins to sing, and all I want is to keep driving, to be suspended in this in-between and never arrive, just for one day, just for one day.

Ghost Bikes

Saturday, July 1, 2023 (Alba is 21, Zach is 22)