Page 73 of Life Out of Order

“That’s a drag.”

“Yeah. We were making incredible progress together. The MacArthur Award was to both of us, together, and we need to figure out if we can still collaborate at all. Even when the personal stuff got ultra strange we still managed to help each other, inspire each other in the coding; sometimes Jasper can be so intuitive, so tender in his understanding, he has always been able to supply that certain something—I hate to give that up but I think I might have to. He’s been incredibly erratic lately. It’s unsettling when you realize you can’t trust the person you used to trust most in the world.”

“That’s horrible. I’m sorry that’s happening to you.”

Beck’s attention shifts, she’s looking at something through the window, out on the street; whatever it is, it’s behind me. As I turn to see, Beck says, “Oh!” and I swivel the other way: there’s a naked person in the revolving door of the restaurant.

People inside are holding the door, stopping it from turning. I am paralyzed by panic. Then the naked person turns, spills out of the door and into the little crowd of people waiting for a table; I hear her say, “Sorry! Sorry!” as they recoil. She pushes through them and lurches toward our table. Of course it’s Alba. Oh, god, she looks awful. She’s wet and filthy and her long hair is tangled and shot with gray; she might be in her late thirties. Beck looks quite startled. I am on my feet moving toward Alba, I drape my coat around her and hand her my long scarf. Alba puts her arms through the coat sleeves and wraps the scarf around her neck. She kisses me on the cheek. I embrace her. All around us is a murmur of shocked conversation, diners are standing at their tables, staring at us.

I say softly, “Are you okay?”

Alba says, “I was having a hard time, but then I saw you guys and I figured maybe—well, I’ll tell you about it later. Sorry, Beck, I didn’t mean to ruin your night out.” Alba gestures hesitantly toward our soup. “I’m starving. Would you mind if I join you?”

“Honey, it’s 2010 and we don’t really know—”

Alba looks alarmed. “2010? Oh, shit. Jeez, of course, I’m sorry, I should have realized! I’d better go. Listen, I’m going to take a cab home. I’ll send your coat back here in the cab, okay?”

“Okay. Here, take some bread. Sorry, sweetie, any other night I’d invite you to sit with us.” I can see the manager of the restaurant making his way to us through the crowd of diners gawping at us.

Alba stuffs the bread into the pockets of my coat. “No, no, I understand! I’m such an idiot! Um, can I borrow your shoes?”

I slip them off and hope to see them again. I tell her, “Don’t lose that coat if you can help it, I just bought it last week.” I delve around in my purse, find a few twenties and hand them to Alba. She thanks me repeatedly, fervently. I give her another hug. She says, “Thank you, Mama! Bye, Beck!” Alba pauses, smiles a little sheepishly, walks through the fascinated crowd, gives us a little wave and strides through the revolving door and out into the rainy evening. We watch her cross the street against the light. She gets lucky and manages to hail a cab. Then she’s gone. We sit down again. Our half-eaten borscht has cooled. Beck and I pretend we aren’t being stared at by every human in the restaurant. The manager arrives at our table; instead of berating me, he asks if we want hot borscht, which we gratefully accept. He takes our bowls away to be refilled. The restaurant erupts with conversation.

Beck leans toward me and murmurs, “Charisse told me.”

“That was good of her,” I say shakily, quietly. “So . . . that was my daughter, Alba.”

“She looks like you.”

“Does she? To me she looks just like Henry, especially just now when she was close to the age he was . . .” I take a deep breath. “That was a good sign, I think.”

“Of what?” Beck asks.

“Of you and me becoming friends. If my grown-up Alba is unsurprised to see you, it bodes well.”

“Why did you send her home? I wouldn’t have minded if she stayed. I’ve never met anyone who’s—what’s the name for it?”

“Chrono-displaced.”

“That. I mean, wow.”

“Well, that’s just it. Alba is way more fascinating than I am, even when she’s not arriving so dramatically. I guess I’m being selfish, but I thought I’d try to have a normal evening, you know, just sort of see . . .” I’m still not sure if this was a date, though Alba’s reaction to Beck has made me almost giddy with hope.

“Does this happen to you a lot?”

“I’m used to it,” I say, but then worry that it sounds as though I’m beset with time travelers all day, every day.

“That’s so crazy.” Beck looks over her shoulder. “This isn’t some weird internet stunt, is it?”

I laugh. “No. I wish my life was that simple.”

Replacement borscht arrives, then our main courses. We relax and talk about other things: growing up in Michigan (me, in a wealthy family in tiny lakeside South Haven, Beck as the daughter of academics in Detroit); art school (me, SAIC, her, Cranbrook and then MIT); politics (both of us are liberal verging on radical); religion (I was raised Catholic, Beck was raised Quaker) . . .

“Quaker?” I say.

“Sure,” she says, a little wearily. “You didn’t think there were any Black Quakers?”

“Um, I’m not sure I’ve met any Quakers at all. But you know, the image is—”