The Love of Her Lives: A BRAND NEW unforgettable and utterly emotional summer romance (Must-read Rom

June, this year

With nobody occupying the Lake Bluff house in this reality, I’m able to jump the front gate pretty easily, and walk across the gravel drive with no fear of being caught. Down the side lawn, in front of the basement door, I remove my Contact lens and place it in the capsule in my pocket. I take a deep, cleansing breath.

Here I go again.

I pull hard, and the now-familiar rush of air and released suction washes over me. A moment ago, it had looked all dark behind this door.

But as I step into the vestibule, all the lights are on. People are actually down here, in the basement recreation room, chatting, laughing. Teenagers, watching a movie.

I can’t escape back the way I came. God knows what would happen if I did that. Back to Evan’s world, maybe? Into a new world where everything is backwards? I really don’t want to find out.

No — as the saying goes, the only way out is through. And in this case, up the stairs. And out the front door.

I’m gonna have to make a break for it.

I suck in some air through my nose, brace my shoulders as if for impact, and march into the recreation room.

Five or six late-teens, some of them distinctly bigger than me, stare up at me in shock, their movie forgotten. A bowl of popcorn spills.

To start with, nobody says anything, and I avoid all eye contact as I stride my way quickly across the room, stepping with a half-leap over a pair of gangly legs belonging to a bewildered guy on the floor. Then one of the girls screams, and I break into a run up the stairs.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“What the hell?”

“Moooommm!!! Daaaddd!!”

At the top, I don’t wait to look around the kitchen, as footsteps are starting to follow me. I glimpse a pair of adults in my peripheral vision, somewhere near the kitchen counter, but I’m already running into the foyer. I push out through the front door, sprint across the gravel, and bash the gate release button as hard as I can. They’re already at the front door, shouting at me.

The gate starts to swing open and I squeeze through, sprinting down the street. I have no idea where my car might be, assuming I even have a car stashed nearby, but I just need to get away. I run for several minutes towards the wooded ravine, around several bends, until I’m sure I’m safe.

My heart is beating so hard that it feels like it’ll come out of my mouth, and I lean over, head at my knees, gagging and panting.

Fuck.

That was a bad one. Even worse than that first family I came across.

I straighten up and pat down my clothes for keys and a phone.

That’s really weird.

I’m wearing a rough wool coat, even though it’s a hot summer evening. Below that are stained gray sweatpants with ragged edges, and a Cubs sweatshirt with a peeling logo. My sneakers are ill-fitting and caked with dirt.

No keys.

No phone.

No wallet, or ID.

Nothing in my coat pockets but two scrunched-up dollar bills, a single quarter, a couple of folded-up documents, and a UP-N train ticket.

My scalp is itching, and I run my nails — short and bitten though they are — through my hair.

It’s long. Like, really long, four inches past my shoulders. And slightly tangled, in places.

What the fuck?

What kind of condition am I in, in this world? Stained clothes, unkempt hair? Almost no money, and no house or car keys?

Jesus . . . Am I homeless?

I stand on the grass verge, bewildered. Across the street, a woman inside a fancy house is twitching her net curtains, watching me. Probably worried that I’m a criminal about to break into her home.

Given that I just broke into a house up the street and terrified a bunch of kids, she has every right to be nervous.

I move on, further along the tree-lined street, towards the ravine. What to do? I can’t go back to the house right away and reset my reality — I won’t even make it to the basement door if I go back right now. The family has probably called the cops. I need to wait this one out a while before I can reset. Maybe find a café where I can get something for two bucks.

Does anything only cost two bucks, these days? Maybe a soda.

Plus, there’s the small matter of how I told myself I would try to help the versions of me who are in trouble. I can’t run out on this one without at least seeing if I can do something. Can I? After all, I did tell myself that I’d try to leave each Millie’s life better than I found it, if there was anything I could do. Like with the Millie who is married to Rufus — I have to hope that she returned to her body, and got out of her awful marriage.

I have to see if I can help. This Millie is still me, and I’d want help, if it could be given.

It’s a few miles to the commercial center of Lake Forest, and these sneakers are crappy, but at least they’re comfortable to walk in. I can check to see if Bonnie’s store exists in this reality. Probably not, given that I helped push the store into existence, and it’s hard to imagine this is a reality where Bonnie and I are friends.

She never would have let this happen to me.

How had I let this happen to me?

As I walk through the suburbs, there aren’t many people around and I can stay pretty inconspicuous. But when I get to Lake Forest’s small shopping district beside the train tracks, where it’s humming with activity, that’s when I notice it.

People avoiding me. Giving me a wide berth. Throwing side-eyes my way. Treating me like I have a contagious disease. The more I search strangers’ faces for some kindness, even a little sympathy, the more they blank me.

When I reach what would have been Bonnie’s store, I’m shaking, choking back tears.

And Bonnie’s store, as I feared, is not her store — it’s the bagel place.

At a loss for what else to do or where else to go, I step inside. At least there’s hardly anybody in here. I walk up to the counter, trying to take measured breaths to control my panic.

A mirror behind the counter reveals what everybody else has been seeing. My hair is long and frizzy, and my oversized, stained clothes look like they were grabbed out of a lost and found. My skin has a sickly gray pallor, and my make-up-free eyes are wide and fearful.

I probably would have side-stepped me, too, if I’d seen me on the street like this. But... I’m just a person, and not a bad one. I’m not contagious.

A sweet-looking woman comes out from the kitchen. Her eyebrows lift as she sees me, but she recovers quickly, and gives me a warm smile. The first I’ve gotten since I got to this world.

“What can I get you, ma’am?”

I hold up my two dollar bills. “What can I get for two bucks?” I ask, my voice small and wobbly. “It’s all I have.” Moisture is brimming on my lower eyelids.

She smiles again, even more kindly, and I just can’t take it. I break down into a torrent of tears on her counter. My whole body is wracked with sobs, and I can barely remain standing.

“Oh, hush, you poor thing,” she says, hurriedly coming round the counter to support me, laying a hand across my back. “You just go ahead and sit here, honey, and I’ll get you something. You put that money away.” She guides me to a table. “You want some tea? I’ll bet you could use some tea. And something to eat?”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer, although I am hungry — I haven’t eaten since my Executive Club Lounge brunch before my flight at San Francisco airport, which was nine hours and one universe ago. “I’ll bring you a pastrami bagel. Sound good?”

I nod, wiping my wet face with a paper napkin. It comes away with a gray smear. “Thank you,” I manage, a fresh tear dripping down my nose. I blow it loudly on the napkin as she moves deftly into the open kitchen.

So. Much. Mucus.

The sweet lady gives me regular reassuring smiles as she bustles about the kitchen, and I begin to calm down. At least there are kind people in the world who will help someone down on their luck.

It’s warm in the café, with the evening sun streaming through the plate glass frontage. As I sip my tea and wait for my food to arrive, I tug off the wool coat, remembering the letters and documents I’d found in the pockets earlier. They should provide some clues as to my current situation.

I pull them out, unfolding the larger items, and lay them side by side on the table.

A typed document, seemingly an official letter of some kind, with a Chicago Women’s Shelter logo, the text circling a crude graphic of female forms holding hands. Addressed to me, confirming that my application was successful and I have a confirmed place at the shelter assigned to me, in Dorm 5, from June 12until June 30, after which my status will be reassessed.

Not completely homeless, then. A spot in a shelter isn’t nothing. It’s somewhere to go, at least.

What else? A return train ticket, dated today at 4:43 p.m., from the Ogilvie Transportation Center in downtown Chicago, to Lake Bluff Station.

I can get back to the city. I can get myself to the women’s shelter, if I decide to do so, without any money. If I need to stay in this world overnight, or longer, at least there’s a bed for me.

What else? A hand-scrawled, torn-open envelope, addressed to me, at what looks like it could be some kind of rehab clinic, outside the city — Reseda Refuge Center in Pontiac.

In handwriting I haven’t seen in many years.

My mother’s.

My stomach lurches as I take in her looped scrawl on the envelope. In my world, I’m in very little contact with Mom these days. The occasional text, and annual birthday phone call, in which we make small talk about my job and why I’m not dating anyone, and about her (failing) online jewelry business.

Every couple of years around the holidays, usually when all the Masons were away visiting other relatives — pre-accident — I would go visit Mom for a few days. Less so since Bonnie moved into the big house after her folks died, I think only twice since then. The last time I visited Mom was probably three years ago now, back home in Indianapolis. But the return address on the back of this envelope is Baltimore, a city I’ve never been to.

Maybe it’s not only my life that’s different in this universe.

I pull out the letter, which is on several pages of thin, ruled paper. My bagel arrives, with another generous smile from the café owner, and I eat while reading.

Baltimore, June 1

My darling girl,

Wow, I don’t know how many years it’s been since I wrote a physical letter on paper! But I hear there are no phones or computers in your rehab place. So here I am, writing with a real pen like I’m Emily Dickinson. Although I guess she didn’t have a Bic. Ha!

First, I’m writing to say that I’m so proud of you for committing to this process, sweetheart, and letting your Dad pay for your treatment. Finally, he’s good for something!

I know things have been hard for you ever since your time with me here in Baltimore, after losing the Masons like that. I understand they were like second parents for you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be a better mom after you lost them. And even before you lost them, for that matter.

I feel terrible that it turned out so badly when you were here, and I wasn’t able to protect you better from what happened. I really miss you, but I truly admire the strength it took for you to move back to Chicago and try to start again. I know it hasn’t been easy there either, especially because of that horrible landlord. But now you’re taking the steps you need to move forward with your life, and I’m so happy for you. It might be hard, but I believe in you.

I think for you to heal fully, you need to stop blaming yourself for what happened with the Masons. Even if Bonnie still does, you know it was her grief that made her say what she did, and it doesn’t mean that the fault lies with you. Most importantly, you have to forgive yourself for that night. When you do that, you’ll be able to feel brighter about your future.

You still have so much promise and talent, and despite how rough things are for you, you know that I’m still so proud of you.

The clinic said you’ll be at a shelter in the city after you’re discharged, but I know that’s only a temporary solution, and you don’t have any funds to rent a new place in Chicago. I hope you know you can always come stay with me until you’re on your feet. I get that you wouldn’t want to come back to Baltimore, but I’m moving away in two weeks anyways.

My friend Crystal has invited me to set up a jewelry concession at her fashion boutique in Cleveland, OH, and she has a two-bedroom, what she calls a “garden-level suite” in her big house that she’s willing to rent to me real cheap. I hope you’ll consider coming to stay with me there after your treatment. It would be a safe place for you, you could get back into some creative writing, if you wanted to.

Think about it, anyways. After I’m settled and you’re out of rehab, I could come see you in Chicago and we can talk about it more. Give me a call when you can — I assume the shelter you’re going to has a landline you can use, since I’m guessing you haven’t been able to get a new phone yet. My cell number is still 555-387-4847. Call any time.

Love and hugs,

Mom

Wow.

I sit back in my chair, brushing the crumbs from my mouth with a grimy thumb.

So much to take in.

Bonnie blamed me in some way for what happened with her folks? We fell out, and I went to stay with Mom in Baltimore — a city I’ve never been to — and something happened there that led into... what? Alcohol addiction? Cocaine? Meth? Crack?

At least I’m not a crack addict on the street.

That’s how I had comforted myself, a few universes ago.

And now — maybe — that’s exactly what I am.

I don’t feel like an addict. Aside from my horrible clothing and hair, and my wrists being too thin again — even thinner than in Rufus World — I feel relatively fit and healthy. Well, I guess I have just done a stint in a rehab center, so whatever toxins must be out of my system.

I read somewhere once that, once a physical addiction is gone, the rest is psychological. Learned behaviors, mapped neural pathways. A trap the brain can’t get out of.

But although those neural pathways may still be there, I’ve brought my mind, my memories, my healthier psychology, into this body — at least for now. So, for the time I occupy it, maybe this body is no longer that of an addict. Maybe that will help.

One thing I can’t grasp, though, is how my life could’ve fallen apart so quickly, and so badly, after the Masons’ deaths. What can Bonnie possibly have blamed me for? It hadn’t been my fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just a terrible accident. Bonnie knew that — in my world, at least.

I suppose it’s possible that just one tiny thing was different that night, in this world, that put the idea in her head that I was to blame. One minuscule deviation that meant we fell out irreparably, and ultimately snowballed into me becoming a homeless addict.

It’s terrifying, when you think about it. How close we all are, at any time, to life being so incredibly different than it otherwise might. One wrong move, one misspoken word, could be all it takes.

Still, though, there’s surely hope for this version of me. I’ve just completed a recovery treatment. I have a shelter spot to stay in for now. And Mom has offered a more permanent — or at least semi-permanent — solution, and really sounds like she means it.

Maybe Mom’s a little less flaky than she used to be? Can the me in this life trust her, after whatever shitshow happened in Baltimore?

Maybe I should. This could be the other me’s chance for a fresh start. Maybe I need to help her take the offered olive branch, in case this world’s Millie is reluctant to do so herself.

Thiscould be how I help her, before I move on to the next world.

Okay, then. Time to formulate a plan.

Get the train back to the city, and find the shelter. I know the street it’s on, from the address on the printed letter, and I know it’s walkable from OTC station, so I can get there on this train ticket alone. Call Mom, get her to come meet me in the city, as she offered — preferably tomorrow. Talk it through, and agree to go stay with her in Cleveland. That way, when I’m gone, the me in this life will have it all set up for her. It might help her make a good decision.

I pack up my documents into my coat pocket, and thank the kind woman behind the counter for the food. She gives me another sweet smile. “You take care of yourself, now, you hear?” she replies, as I walk toward the glass front door. I nod back at her.

That’s exactly what I intend to do over the next day or so. Take care of myself.

And then get the hell outta here.

* * *

It’s nine a.m. on Saturday, and I’m meeting Mom off her overnight train at Chicago’s Union Station.

I’d called her last night, when I’d arrived at the women’s shelter downtown, and she’d immediately, excitedly, booked her train ticket to arrive the next morning. Which was generous of her — although, of course, it still meant me staying the night at the shelter.

The place was rough around the edges — more than just the edges — as were the women living there. But they had been kind, and the women in my four-bunk mini-dorm had called me by my name and said they were glad to have me back. They asked where I had wandered off to earlier that day.

“We were in the middle of a conversation, and you just got up, grabbed your coat, and walked out the front exit,” a woman called Trixie with peroxide hair had told me. “We were worried you’d gone off to score.”

I shook my head. “Just went to see a friend.”

The shelter manager, Susan, had welcomed me back with fewer questions, and gave me a clean set of less-stained clothes to change into after a hot shower.

I’m wearing the blue hoodie and gray leggings now, as I wait on a long wooden bench in the lofty, opulent Union Station concourse for Mom’s overnight train to arrive. She couldn’t afford a sleeper berth, but she’s a champion at dozing anywhere, so I’m sure she would’ve found a stranger’s shoulder to sleep on at her seat. A handsome older man who she’s now given her number to, most likely.

She’s here now, pushing through the Saturday tourist crowd, her dye job a vivid scarlet with graying roots. She sees me as I stand to greet her, waving her arm violently, the many metal bangles sliding around her thin, tanned wrist.

She hugs me with excessive enthusiasm, then pulls back to look at me. “My sweet girl. You poor thing. Let’s get some breakfast inside you.”

I haven’t even said anything to her when she pulls me away towards the escalator leading to the station’s mezzanine cafés. We choose a nondescript sports bar that offers a breakfast menu, and sit at a table overlooking the food court.

Mom suddenly drops the menu, her face an exaggerated picture of concern. “Oh, is this okay — eating somewhere that serves booze? I mean, I know that wasn’t your vice of choice, but I’m assuming you can’t drink either, now?”

Not alcohol, then.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I’m not drinking, but I can be around alcohol. Don’t worry.”

“Well, I won’t have a mimosa,” she says, resuming her perusal of the menu.

Like that would help.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I reply instead.

I’m not entirely sure how my mother is paying for all this — not to mention the not-cheap train ticket to Chicago and back — but on the phone she had assured me it was all on her. So, I order my favorite breakfast of eggs benedict, along with coffee and orange juice, and listen as she tells me all about her new place in Cleveland, where she moved last week.

“It’s such a sweet little apartment, Millie. It’s in the basement of Crystal’s house, but the back French doors open up to the yard so it doesn’t feel like a basement — lots of light!” She beams. “Two little bedrooms and a living-kitchen area, as well as a kind of den that I’m using as a studio for my jewelry. Crystal and Keith live in the house above, but they’re hardly ever home — he’s always taking her off on cruises and whatever. She said I can work at her store to cover her any time she’s away, which is a lot. And she’s given me this whole beautiful French oak cabinet near the checkout to sell my jewelry!” She claps her hands together. “It’s a pretty cool gig, this one, Millie.”

I nod at her through a big mouthful. It really does sound like Mom is finally getting it together. I don’t know how her life in Baltimore was, but the Mom I know, who still lives in Indianapolis, hasn’t been doing so great. A string of disappointing men, and never a truly permanent home. Also a jewelry designer, but with a crappy online store that she has no idea how to market.

Maybe now that this version of Mom has a space in a fashion boutique, her business will take off a little more. The Millie in this life could surely help make that happen. Although, given that this Millie is a drug addict who has never worked at Magnolia, maybe she’s not as hot on Instagram marketing as I am.

“What do you think, hun?” she asks. “Want to give Cleveland a try with me?”

I wipe my lips, nodding slowly. “I think it would be good for me. A fresh start, until I can get a job and figure out my future.” I laugh, a little humorlessly. “I clearly don’t have much in Chicago to stay for.”

She raises an eyebrow. “No boyfriend, or anything? Not been seeing anybody?”

Honestly, I have no idea if there’s a man in this life. No cellphone to check messages, no home to figure out if I’m living with someone. But, given the desperate state of my life in this world and my recent rehab stint, I sincerely doubt it.

My mind jumps to Ben. Does he blame me for what happened to his parents as much as Bonnie apparently does? I can’t imagine he’s in my life at all, these days.

And I sure as hell don’t want to look him up and have him see me like this.

I take a sip of my coffee. “No, Mom,” I reply. “No boyfriend here. No money, no possessions. I’m a blank slate.”

Mom screws up her nose. “I could kill that asshole landlord you had. Breaking in and selling all your stuff just because you got behind on rent, and then kicking you out anyways? Who does that? What an asshole.”

Jesus. So that’s why I’ve got nothing.

I can’t even imagine what must’ve happened to me after that, out on the street with a drug problem and no money or possessions. Thankfully, I have a father in Ireland who may be useless and unreliable but, having turned his construction business around, has deep pockets again. Not to mention, a guilty conscience about leaving me and moving back to Dublin.

Mom is still talking. “Maybe you’ll meet somebody nice in Cleveland. Somebody steady, who can help get you back on your feet. You’ve always had such trouble with relationships — even before everything went downhill.”

I bristle a little at that. It’s not like I was set a great example.

“Well, that’s not much of a surprise, is it, Mom?” I reply. “You always ran from men. Dad included. Yeah, he left for Ireland, but only after you’d pushed him away with your affair. No wonder I’m scared of commitment. I know you didn’t mean to, Mom, but it was your behavior that taught me to be afraid of relationships.” I shake my head. “I’ve always either chosen the wrong men, so that they’d never get close enough to be an issue, or men that worshiped me, and then I’d be the one to run, just like you always did.”

I’m talking about Rufus and Chris, in my own world, of course. But I’m pretty sure the same applies to this drug-addict version of Millie. I’d be willing to bet that, when I was at my most vulnerable, it was some sexy, dangerous guy in Baltimore who first got me into... whatever it was.

Mom places an overly bejeweled hand on mine. “I’m truly sorry we didn’t show you a better model, sweetheart. But I’ve been working hard on myself, and realizing I need to figure out life on my own terms before I can have a healthy relationship. Maybe that’s true for you, too. Maybe we can figure it out together, and then move on.”

She pats my hand, and pulls back. “Okay, sweetie, let’s get the check. I couldn’t afford a hotel, so I’m on an afternoon train back to Cleveland, and I wanna see the Bean before I go home. Let’s do some tourist stuff and figure out when you’ll be able to come live with me.”

We walk the mile or so to Millennial Park to admire the Bean sculpture, and spend the rest of the morning exploring the waterfront parks and Field Museum. Over an exorbitantly priced salad at an outside café at lunch, we agree that Mom will buy me a train ticket and I — or, as far as I’m concerned, the other Millie — will join her in Cleveland when my stay at the shelter runs out at the end of the month.

I walk Mom the two miles back to Union Station, and see her off on the train with a warm hug. Today has been about the best my relationship with my mother has felt in more than a decade, and I’ll take it.

Back at the shelter, I ask Susan for a pad of paper and a Bic, and — like my mother did to me — write the other me a physical letter. I tell her that she might not remember this twenty-four hours, but that she connected with her mother, and it was pretty good. I tell her about the new chance she has to start fresh, and hopefully stay clean, in Cleveland. It’s not a perfect situation, and will require a lot of patience to live with Mom again, but it’s the best option right now.

I just hope she’ll take it.

I fold the paper into the pocket of the hoodie where she’ll find it when she is back in her body, outside the Masons’ old house in Lake Bluff. Which is where I need to go now, to reset.

Hopefully to find a life better than this one.