Page 12 of Across Time

"If you had to live with a sibling who could do no wrong, you'd understand," Marie-Therese says, interpreting my silence as disapproval.

"I did," I reply. Unlike her, though, I don’t have any fun stories to share. In my home, after my sister died, I expected nothing from my family other than what was required to survive, and even that didn't seem like a certainty. “My parents didn’t approve of our gift, so I never stood a chance."

"Didn’t approve?” asks Marie-Therese as if she might have misunderstood. "But why?”

I shrug. Though I tell myself it doesn't bother me anymore, at times like this I find it requires a certain amount of effort to act ambivalent. "My mother never liked it, but after—" I stumble over my words, trying to sum up the past without giving any of it away. "After my father left, she seemed to decide it was a little…evil."

The mere act of referencing my mother is sometimes enough to open a hole inside me. I can feel it even now, black and shapeless, filling my head with all her accusations over the years. It’s always been as if she knew slightly more about me than I knew about myself, and what she knew was deeply, irredeemably terrible. Even as I struggled to deny what she said, I always found evidence she was right. Every single time.

I look up to find Henri’s eyes on me, and for once they aren’t narrowed in suspicion or disdain. He’s looking at me like I’m something passing by too quickly, something he wants to see and understand before it’s too late. And then the expression is gone, leaving me to wonder if I imagined it.

Marie takes a sip of her tea. “Your family must be worried about you, coming here all alone the way you did.”

My smile falters a little, and stays in place only by force. I shrug. “No one knows I’m here, actually. Like I said, they wouldn’t have approved.” I’m sure my mother was relieved by my absence. But once I get home and announce my engagement, maybe she’ll start to see me in a different way. Maybe then she’ll start to care.

Henri sucks in his cheeks. “So where does everyone think you are?”

“I told them I got an internship in France studying art. My boyfriend was leaving for the summer anyway, so…”

"Boyfriend? I didn't realize you had a young man," says Marie-Therese. There is a tiny wrinkle between her brows. "I suppose you’re not allowed to tell him what you really are unless you have children together.”

My eyes go wide. "Mark will never, ever know."

"Ever?" she asks, flabbergasted. "You must not be serious about him then."

I sit up a little straighter, feeling oddly defensive. "Of course I am. We're getting engaged after I return home. But no, I'm not going to tell him. He wouldn't understand."

She and Henri both look dumbfounded. It's as if I just announced I was marrying a family member or someone in prison. "Wouldn't understand?" Marie-Therese repeats. "I'm sure he'd understand quite quickly once you demonstrated."

I flush. "Not that. I mean he...wouldn't appreciate it. It's complicated."

Henri remains still. His hand rests on his fork, unmoving. "That's what a woman says when she makes excuses for a man," he says.

I narrow one eye, flicking him with my most disdainful glance. "I'm sure the women you date make plenty of excuses, Henri."

Marie-Therese snickers beneath her hand but Henri glances at me coolly, without emotion. "So tell us, then, how it's so hard to explain."

It feels like even his most innocuous questions are tinged with suspicion, and a thousand responses he’d deem unladylike come to mind. Most of them some version of go fuck yourself, Henri. I lift my chin. "Fine. He's from a very wealthy family. They just don't...they aren't strange. They would not appreciate a strange ability. He wants a normal wife, and that's fine because I plan to be one. Once I get back home, I'm done with jumping. This is my last trip ever, and then it's behind me."

"Pah," Marie-Therese says with a shocked laugh. "You can't be serious. What if you need something? What if you need to escape? What if you need money?"

I rise and begin to gather dishes. "I won't. Mark's family is wealthy and well-connected. There's nothing I'd need to time travel for that they can't make happen."

Henri rolls his eyes, tipping back in his chair as if the conversation is over. "So you've chosen to marry for money," Henri says. "And he’s marrying you for your looks. Apparently some things haven't changed, from my time to yours."

My face heats. “I love Mark,” I hiss. “It's a happy coincidence that his background means I no longer have to be something I'm not interested in being.” I thank Marie for the tea and retreat. From the moment my mother’s name came up I’ve felt this dark shadow overhead, and Henri’s words only compound it. He seems to live to find weak spots in my armor, and God knows I’ve got enough to make his work easy for him.

I go out to the coop and swing handfuls of feed around. My mother’s voice is in my head, asking what Mark would think if he could see me now—chickens scurrying around my feet, which are clad in Marie-Therese's old shoes, scuffed and two sizes too big. He’d see that you’re a liar, she whispers. There is no art history internship, no glamorous, can’t-miss journey throughout the country.

That’s the problem with the things my mother said about me: there was a grain of truth in every single one of them. I am a liar. I’m lying to Mark, to my mother. I’m lying to Henri and Marie about not understanding French and by implying that my sister is still alive.

There are so many bad things in the world and I know, deep in my heart, that I am all of them to some extent. And I don't see any way to stop being them aside from starting fresh with Mark when I get home. If I never jump again, once I get back, will it be enough? Or will I always be telling him a lie of one kind or another?

The sound of an opening door draws me out of my thoughts. Henri is walking out of the house but his eyes are on me. I'm never in the mood for his bullshit, but at this precise moment, I feel too fragile to hear a word of it.

His mouth opens and I cut him off. “I spent my entire life raised by a woman who thinks I’m the devil,” I snap. “So whether you’re about to imply that I’m a thief, or a monster, or a gold-digger, just save it. I assure you I’ll hear all that and worse once I return home, and from someone whose opinion I actually care about.”

I snatch the milk pail I set outside the coop and turn toward the barn. In spite of what I just said, I feel a sob swell in my throat. I know I’m just tired, but there are days when it feels like I’m not up to another decade or year or hour of being hated for what I am and all the mistakes I’ve made because of it.