Page 10 of Across Time

"And I'm not in the habit of smiling at vipers who land naked on my property and refuse to leave."

"Refuse to leave?" I demand. "You’re holding me hostage, remember?"

His eyes meet mine across the table. "Fine. You are free to go," he replies. He glances away then. "The sooner the better,” he adds, almost to himself.

I should be relieved but feel oddly hurt instead. It’s an old kind of hurt, as if he’s pressed upon a large bruise I’ve had so long I can’t remember where I got it. The experience of not being wanted is something you never entirely get used to.

Marie-Therese rises, snatching things from the table. “Henri, you’re being rude,” she says. “Amelie will not be well enough to travel for days or even weeks, and more importantly, I don't want her to go. It's been years since I've had another female around the house."

He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. "Yes, I'm aware. And it's making you a little too comfortable. Taking her to town, Marie? You really think people won't talk about our American ‘cousin’ once they've seen her?"

"You worry too much,” Marie-Therese says with a dismissive wave of a hand. "Humans can rationalize almost anything, and it’s not as if it's a secret by now. You know what a gossip Madame Beauvoir is."

He exhales heavily. "And you don't worry enough. I've asked you multiple times to jump back and change the way that visit went. There’s no reason anyone needs to know she’s here."

She glances at him, and then me. "No," she says, finally. "There's no point. I think Amelie might stay with us a while, so I’m not going to exhaust myself trying to hide her."

I open my mouth to assure her I do not plan to stay for a while, but Henri, lovely man that he is, is way ahead of me. "Stay a while?" he demands. "Are you insane? She remains here until she's recovered and not an hour longer, do you understand?"

Listening to the two of them fight has made me tired, and depressed. I close my eyes for a moment and lapse into a fantasy that’s carried me for years now, even before I met Mark, though it's his face I see when I picture it of late: the two of us married, living in some luxurious apartment with enough of everything that I no longer need to jump—enough money, enough support, enough care. I will be normal at last. I won’t need to feel conflicted about the things I haven’t told him because they’ll no longer matter. If you go long enough without time traveling, you generally lose the ability to time travel. I picture my mother visiting us, proud of me at last.

I just need to stop jumping, and in order to do that I need to get home. As Henri himself said, the sooner, the better.

6

On my third conscious day in 1938—my sixth total—I finally rise feeling slightly closer to normal. My level of fatigue is more akin now to a serious hangover, or the day after an illness, as opposed to the worst flu of my life. My limbs are still heavy, though, and I feel an emptiness inside that warns me I probably couldn't jump up a flight of stairs, much less jump to the next decade or beyond.

Which means I definitely won’t get back in time to see Mark before he leaves for Nepal. I hate that he’s leaving with this strain between us, hate that we had our first argument in two years just before I left, and over something that seems stupid in retrospect. He’d asked me to move to New York City with him, which would mean dropping out of college with one year left. My goals matter too, I said to him. “Just transfer to a school in the city,” he said—as if it was all so easy, as if leaving an Ivy League university and losing a year while I applied for the transfer was meaningless—and I reacted poorly.

My days here have reminded me, though, what a novelty it is to be wanted at all. He pushed me hard because he loves me, because he enjoys my presence. I still don’t want to transfer, but I wish I’d handled it better. I wish I’d been grateful rather than indignant.

I wish, most of all, that I hadn’t come here in the first place.

* * *

I spend the morning with Marie-Therese, "helping" her make scones and pie, though my help is nothing a six-year old couldn't provide. I cut and peel apples while she does pretty much everything else.

“What’s with all the baking?” I ask. It’s just pure laziness on my end, but if I were her I wouldn’t be filling up every available moment with unnecessary work. And to me baking seems like unnecessary work.

She shrugs. “I thought we’d have tea today.”

“Tea?” I ask. “Isn’t that a British thing?”

She laughs. “We do tea here as well, though to be honest I thought it was also an American thing. I was trying to keep you from being homesick.”

She probably doesn’t realize I’ve never once in my entire life been homesick. Even now, what appeals to me most about my own time is not the people, but the idea of showers and air conditioning. “That’s really thoughtful of you. It sounds like fun.”

Marie-Therese smiles. “I enjoy baking anyway. My mother and I cooked together every day of my life, from the moment I was old enough to climb on a chair and stand at the stove beside her." Sadness flickers over her face. "She'd have liked you, my mother. Though she'd have convinced you to cut your hair. Is that really the style, in your time? To wear it so long?"

I shrug. "There are lots of styles. I keep mine this length so it covers things up in case I land somewhere naked. Unlike you, I don’t seem to have much choice about where and when I land.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she says. “I wonder if you struggle so much because you have some other ability. Perhaps the energy I devote to landing in the right time and place is for you…diverted elsewhere. To some other gift.”

I laugh aloud. “Trust me, I have no other gifts. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I will never jump again, after this.” My eyes catch on Henri outside, walking past the window on his way to the pump. He's down to a t-shirt today, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that he has the most amazing biceps I've ever seen in my life. Mark spends hours at the gym each week lifting weights, but apparently working on a farm provides a little added oomph no gym can provide.

"Of course you will jump again," she counters, combing through the pantry. "You haven't visited my mother yet."

Henri pulls the t-shirt over his head and I stare, fascinated, at smooth olive skin and muscles I didn’t even realize were possible until now.