Page 9 of Life Out of Order

“Let’s start at the top, then,” I say. I open the door to the third floor and lead the way up the creaky stairs. At the top is another door, then a dark hallway. Light shows under the door nearest us, and I can hear low voices coming from inside the room. I pat the wall, searching for the light switch, but I can’t find it, so I walk cautiously, touching both walls. It’s colder up here; the radiators must be turned down. I wish I had a sweater. I lead Zach down the hall, open the next door on the right. Orange street light pours through the large windows. “This is the playroom.”

All the toys are put away in boxes on shelves, the costumes are in cedar chests, the paints and crayons are in Tupperware vats. When I dated Caralora, we used to sit up here and smoke pot, play Scrabble, make out. Seeing this room again makes me miss those days; even though I know I can walk downstairs and put my arms around Caralora, I feel bereft all over again. I wonder if Nick is as okay as he says he is? The twins were inseparable, identical; now he and Caralora go to different colleges hundreds of miles apart.

Zach walks to the windows. A young man in a suit, silhouetted against the light: something in me responds, decides, as though I’ve been asked a question. Yes. He’s waiting for me to join him, so I do. We look out over the rooftops. The moon is only two days past new, and a searchlight is sweeping up and down the streets. There must be at least ten inches of snow on the ground. The helicopter I heard earlier is still hovering nearby, but I can’t see it. The world looks calm, clean, perfect from here. “I love snow,” says Zach. “It’s so serene.”

I am a little afraid of snow, of cold, but I don’t say this. I look down and see footprints. They make a path that goes around the house next door as though someone was looking for a way in, and I imagine being locked out, shivering, frostbitten . . . but I don’t want to dwell on this and I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

“Are you cold?” Zach asks. “Would you like my jacket?”

“Thank you.” His jacket is surprisingly heavy. I put it over my shoulders. It smells like tobacco, hair cream and laundry soap, smells from seventy years ago. I realize that with my heavy Docs and his suit jacket I’m not looking very glamorous. I giggle.

“What?” Zach says.

“This is what I look like when I’m time traveling, I just snatch up any clothes I can find and put them on.” Downstairs the music starts up again. I can feel the beat through my boots.

“You really can’t take anything with you? So anytime I see someone oddly dressed, they could be a time traveler?”

“There are probably a lot more fashion-challenged people than time travelers. I’ve only met one other time traveler, and that’s my dad. He always says finding clothes is his least favorite part of time travel.”

“Your dad? But I thought you said . . . wait.”

“I don’t get to see him very often. But if you time travel, death isn’t a complete impediment to hanging out with someone.”

Zach boggles. “Dead people can time travel?”

“No! I mean, I can go back, or both of us can be time traveling and find each other. But he really is dead.”

As we talk, I look down at the house next door. It’s another big Victorian; all the lights are off. I imagine the Lamonts’ neighbors must be feeling annoyed by the loud music coming from the party. They won’t call the police because no one calls the police anymore: the police are unpredictable. The helicopter is right over our heads, louder but still invisible. The house next door has a porch that wraps around its front and side, and I realize with horror that there is a person sitting in the shadows in a chair on the side porch, motionless, looking back at me. The man who left the footprints?

I don’t think Zach can see what I see; he’s much taller than me, and the person is sitting very close to the house, well in under the porch roof. The helicopter certainly can’t see this person, so why are they lingering?

Zach is speaking. I force myself to look at him. “. . . Alba?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Should we go downstairs? You’re shivering.”

I look back at the house next door, but the chair is empty. I can’t decide if I should stay to figure out who was watching us, or get away from the window. I hear a drone. That decides the matter. “Yes, let’s go down.”

We step out of the playroom and into the dark hallway. The voices are still murmuring behind the closed door. As we pass by, a man’s low voice says, “Come on, Alba, it’s not inevitable.”

And then my own voice replies, softly but clearly, “Keep it down, they can hear us.”

Zach stops. He bends and whispers in my ear, “Is that you?”

“Yes,” I whisper back.

The voices are quiet. Zach has put his arm around me as though to protect me from whatever is behind the door. Everyone is listening and waiting.

The door opens and light spills across us. Max Gomolinski sticks his head out. “Hey, Alba. Could you come in here for a sec?”

I step out of Zach’s encircling arm and take him by the hand. As I move toward the door, Zach is right behind me. Max says, “Better not.” But my other self says, “It’s fine, Max, let them in.” He opens the door and steps back.

The room was once a servant’s bedroom. It’s small, with a slanted ceiling, a dormer window with the blinds drawn, a narrow bed, a wicker chair. A night table supports a small lamp, which bathes a corner of the room in soft light and leaves the rest in shadow. Lucinda Flowers is asleep on the bed. She’s tucked under a comforter, but I can see that she’s dressed up; she is wearing bubble gum–pink lip gloss, turquoise eyeshadow and a barely discernible hint of blush across her dark cheeks. She looks childlike, much younger than sixteen.

Joe Gomolinski is sitting at the foot of the bed. Max stands next to him. My older self is sitting in the wicker chair wearing an orange-and-yellow Indian print bedspread. She looks cold; so am I. A plate, cutlery and a thermos sit on the floor next to her. She’s drinking coffee.

“We have more, do you want some?” She passes the thermos to me. I warm my hands and take a sip, then hand it back to her. The helicopter circles closer and we all look at the ceiling. I don’t think the helicopter has anything to do with us. How could it? The sound recedes and we relax a little. “Hi, Zach,” she says. “Are we blowing your mind?” She says it gently, flirtatiously.