Chapter 6
W here is Ben?
The room is eerily empty. I listen for Ben's approaching footsteps as I contemplate the amount of time I would've been passed out unconscious. He wouldn’t leave me here. Not without telling me he had to go. He left to search for a cool rag or glass of water, right?
I couldn’t have been out for long, yet it felt like hours had blown past.
So where was he?
The silence stretches as I listen for his footsteps outside Little Narnia’s walls. Dread curls in my stomach as each minute passes without a squeak of the stair or footstep in the hallway.
Why hadn’t he tried to wake me up before leaving?
I glance around the room one more time and notice a small retro alarm clock that reads 6:15 a.m. Something is off. The phone is nowhere in sight and the photos on the desk are gone. Did I knock them over when I passed out or did Ben take them with him?
I walk closer to the desk to see that the newspaper stack has vanished and only a photo of Pops and Grandma Marcie from the early eighties stands next to a vintage lemon glass lamp on the desk. I flip around and notice the bulky box computer is gone too. Why would Ben move the computer and leave me here unconscious?
Lifting the curtain of plaid shirts, I twist the doorknob making my way out of Little Narnia, noticing the shirts dancing behind me aren’t the colors I pulled through earlier and the carpet they’re nibbling on is shaggy and teal.
I was out for six hours. How could an entire hallway renovation happen in the time I’d lost consciousness? Were carpet installers larks of the renovation industry? My grandparents weren’t early risers. And why would they choose such hideous carpet?
The muppet-like fur sprouting from the floor continues down the long hallway, where I also notice a giant embroidered sunflower wall hanging that wasn’t there before, more muddy brown than gold, clashing against the off-white wall in between Grandma Marcie’s craft room and the storage room on the opposite side. It was dark last night, but not dark enough for me to totally miss out on all these changes.
Who’s idea was the burnt orange and brown? Pops or Grandma Marcie?
I hear music start upstairs. The lyrics old, but familiar, ring down the stairwell. A deeper-toned “Turn around” follows and I know Bonnie Tyler’s A Total Eclipse of the Heart is playing from the bathroom upstairs. Someone’s home.
I rush up the stairs skipping steps, then pause midway, as familiar voices carry a conversation in my grandparents’ bedroom.
“I won my case yesterday, by the way. I forgot to mention that when I came home. Your taco salad was so good but I couldn’t find chips in the cupboard to crunch on top of the Thousand Island and after that all I could think about was chips,” says a man that can only be Pops. His voice sounds more vibrant today.
“It’s almost 6:30. We’ve got to get you to the airport. If you miss this flight today, Mt. Kilimanjaro will miss you,” Grandma Marcie’s familiar voice cuts in.
Pops is going to hike Mt. Kilimanjaro again, just like he did thirty years ago? He is in shape for his age but this worries me. How did he get Grandma Marcie to sign off on this? She’s been worrying about his knee since his last surgery, always telling him to be careful when he plays tennis, so why would she let him hike again?
A lean-built man appears at the top of the staircase with an oversized orange hiking pack strapped to his back. I make out a pair of legs and chunky green hiking boots before he bounces down the stairs.
“Be good for your mother, Atta.” Pops bounces past me and turns the corner so that his back now faces me on the switchback staircase. Instead of a head sprouting mostly grays, I see a full head of shiny dark hair. I catch his face for only a second, but my heart races in shock.
That can’t be him. This man is too young. Is Grandma Marcie sending my uncle off to hike? He wouldn’t even attempt a 14er with me last time I offered and why did he mention my mother? I could’ve sworn that was Pops’ voice.
I walk into my grandmother’s room to find a beautiful lady with shoulder-length hair as dark as mud on a rainy day staring back at me.
“Your sister’s been looking for you all morning. Where’ve you been?” she says, pulling a heavy pink sweater over her cream- colored turtleneck and stuffing it into the waistband of some overly acid-washed, high-waisted jeans.
I don’t have a sister or any siblings. What is this woman, who looks like my mother, or more accurately, a younger version of my grandmother, talking about?
“I’ve got to take your dad to the airport. Make sure the boys behave themselves while we’re out. Davy’s been walking around the house naked lately. Make sure he puts some shorts on at least,” she says, closing in on me. The lady who looks eerily like my grandmother, without peppered hair or wrinkles, wraps her arms around me and plants a loud kiss on my cheek with puckered lips. I squeal from embarrassment. Who is this person? She walks toward the stairs, resting her arm on her leather skinny-strapped purse and smiles back at me. I must be deep in some dream. Those are definitely my grandma’s lips; they dip when she smiles.
I run toward the bathroom door, directly across from the stairs, and start pinching and flicking my cheeks aggressively. Time to wake up! I need to get back to Ben and look at the Sheriden company’s Wikipedia page. I could’ve bought a proxy server and cracked the search results on the Windows 95 by now if I hadn’t taken a full nap in Pops’ hidden room.
Pinching my cheeks isn’t working. I look in the bathroom mirror and appreciate my soft camel trench coat and its massive pockets. It’s draped around my shoulders like a sturdy yet wearable blanket giving me that relaxed yet professional look. In fact, I look so relaxed the crow’s feet around my eyes seem to have disappeared. I scan the mirror and the rest of my face. How do my under eyes look so smooth? It’s as if someone’s photoshopped my face to look younger. I lean in closer to the mirror to make sure I’m seeing things clearly.
I’ve got it! Every time I empty my bladder in my dreams I always wake up. It never fails. It’s like a disconnect in my REM sleep that has to be dealt with in real life.
I finish the bodily task with ease. No waking occurs.
My stomach flips. This can’t be real, can it? I was only making a dumb comment into the phone before I passed out. It’s not like I’d actually be able to land myself in an alternate universe or something.
“Atta! You up there? Come out here and help me find my cassette tape.” The sound of my mother’s voice comes from the floor below.
I run down the stairs following her voice.
“Cassette tape?” I say, landing at the bottom of the stairs just a few feet from the closet door that hides Pops’ secret room. The wall where my mother and uncles’ photos hang in age-descending order looks the same, but with one exception, a photo I’ve never seen before hangs between them. A photo of me with bangs, so high that they drop like Niagara Falls.
“Where’s my Depeche Mode tape? You had it last.”
“I did?” I turn around and see Erica, my mother, all dolled up with thick blue eyeliner tracing her lower eyelids. Her lips are shiny, rose-berry pink, and her skin is flawless. She looks like a—no, she is—a teenager who’s just let the curlers out of her hair.
“Is it in your room?” she asks, then walks into the old storage room. I follow her and take a deep breath at the site of the room. My younger-looking mom is throwing things onto the bed of what is clearly a 1980s teenage room. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve actually transported myself to a different dimension because this feels all too real.
“Greg will be here any minute, and he never has any good music in his truck. ”
“Who’s Greg?”
“Haha funny.” She laughs and starts rummaging through the white shelves behind the bed.
“It’s not in your room. Did you move it to my car?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to be dreaming,” I say, with a defeated breath.
“Aw, he’s here! Gotta go! I’m taking your 38 Special cassette tape instead. Don’t be mad.” She runs out of the room with enough pep to rally a student section, and I follow her to the door.
I need answers now. I need to get back to Ben and we really need to figure out a way to exploit Marigold before the weekend runs out. I pinch my cheeks again, standing by the front window.
Nothing. I can’t wake from this dream. I watch Mom—young Erica—hop into a truck parked against the curb and kiss the young man in the driver’s seat. Must be Greg? They drive away as I head outside for some fresh air.
Grandma Marcie’s house behind me isn’t blue anymore. It’s a muted seventies tan with brandy-colored window trim and all the cars in the neighboring driveways are ‘85 and older. I’ve never seen so many wood-paneled Volkswagens on one block.
I need to verify today’s date. This doesn’t feel like a dream. The world is too clear and there’s no haziness behind my thoughts. No. I just need to go to my apartment. Once I’m there I can take care of this schizophrenic episode. A nap on my couch should do the trick.
An engine purrs across the street where the neighbor cop adjusts a strap over his ears, creating a ripple down his curly shoulder-length mullet. He runs his hand over his sandy mustache and adjusts his glasses while straddling his bike.
With no cars left at the house, this is my opportunity.
“Officer, Officer!” I yell, waving my FBI badge in the air to get his attention.
“How may I help you?” He grins, sliding off his shades to take a closer look at the thick leather symbol of authority.
“My partner had to leave with our vehicle. I have an emergency case that will require you to give me a lift,” I say, as he studies my face and FBI badge about as quickly as most people do when they’re pressured by law enforcement.
“Don’t really have a choice do I?” he says with a deep chuckle as if teasing a female agent is a form of flattery. “I won’t mind a pretty thing like you on the back of my bike.”
“Please take me downtown to Walnut Street in Denver. River North Apartments,” I say unfazed. I fling my leg over his bike seat and place my feet next to his shiny black boots.
The engine purr turns into a roar as we peel out of the neighborhood onto the main road. The officer turns on his siren lights and rushes past the 55 mph sign as if it’s a base requirement rather than a speed limit. I don’t mind. The sooner I get there the better.
He begins weaving through a myriad of angled and boxy cars causing me to grab onto him with a tighter hold. I watch his mullet flap against the side of his helmet. He’s rather young for an officer, and dare I say, maybe a bit too careless and free for someone holding such a position. I feel more like I’m on a date with a man trying to impress me using daredevil riding tactics than a respected man of the law. But it’s exactly what I’d expect from an officer wearing a sitcom-worthy, khaki-colored uniform that seems to highlight his holster and laced-up boots.
We pass 36 th Street and arrive at Walnut where my apartment should be standing, but there’s no sign of the building. I check the street signs again. This is the right spot. I can see the long brick building with the painted lightning bolt logo that sits around the corner from my apartment complex. But we’re in the middle of a houseboat sales lot. My apartment is nonexistent. There’s nowhere for me to nap off this dream and I’m starting to feel like I’ve actually gone nuts.
“You doing operations in a houseboat or something?” he asks.
“Something like that,” I respond.
Are details even necessary at this point? I am stuck and can’t explain that the building I’m looking for doesn’t seem to exist. I’ll have to find another way back to Golden.
“Thanks for the ride. Officer Berrett, is it?” I find his name badge clipped to his chest.
“Anything to help out law enforcement,” he says, giving me a silly salute wave and the golden quality of his cheeks tint with his blush. It makes me reassess his appeal. His mullet and stash are quite attractive.
“I enjoyed the ride. Have a nice day.” My smile is wide and cocky and I’m trying really hard to act as if everything is going according to plan. Officer Berrett takes off on his bike, likely heading back to his post in Golden.
I decide to tear a page from Tyler’s notebook on life and hitchhike back to my grandparents’ home. Hitchhiking was a common method of transportation in the eighties, right? So it shouldn’t be that hard.
I walk a few blocks to the edge of the road where cars are loading onto the highway. My gun and holster were left back at my apartment—which doesn’t seem to exist now—so I feel a bit uneasy. I’ll have to rely on my close-quarters combat skills if anything sketchy comes up trying to get a ride back to the mountains. A little gutter fighting should do the trick.
The wind whips my hair across my face as cars fly by without a glance in my direction, but I stay committed to holding the thumbs-up sign.
Thirty minutes pass and a white-haired couple pull over to my side with a friendly wave. I chuckle when they come to a full stop; the man and woman, who are likely in their seventies, are accompanied by three dogs with the same white hair color. The fluffy marshmallow pups pant with wide open slobbery mouths in the backseat of the couple’s old, blue Mercedes. They welcome me with a warm, wet hello as I slide in and one of the pups lunges for me, making me feel as if I’m being pelted by a pompom.
“Don’t mind them. They like to play when they’re excited,” the cute old lady, who introduces herself as Gladys, says. She asks where I’m from and what I’m doing on the side of the road. I opt for a simple ‘I don’t have a ride today’ explanation and avoid telling them the truth about losing my apartment to a thirty-year time gap.
“That’s a unique hairstyle you have. All the young ladies are wearing their hair curly nowadays. Are you the tomboy type?” the old man says, referring to my flat, side-parted hairstyle.
“It’s nice and sleek,” his wife adds to make it sound more like a compliment.
“Thank you,” I say, peeking at the newspaper underneath the largest marshmallow’s nubby paws.
I reach over and slide it out from underneath the pup. My eyes find the date at the top underneath the headline, Denver Post, February 2, 1987 .
“Is this today’s newspaper?” I ask, casually holding it up for Gladys to see through the rearview mirror. If her answer is yes, I’m positive my hand gripping the newspaper will start to shake.
“Just picked it up this morning, hun,” she says. The day and the month seem correct but the year…1987? I nod confirming the fact that I seem to be the only one who doesn’t acknowledge 2023 as the current year. Logically I can’t acknowledge it, but deep down my intuition tells me this is reality—alternate reality —but reality nonetheless, and whether or not I understand how I got here I’m not dreaming. Everything around me is too clear, too vivid and all my senses are telling me it’s real.
The thought that I might not wake up from what I thought was a dream brings an uneasy feeling to my stomach. I feel like I might hurl again but I do everything I can to push the uneasiness somewhere else and remain collected in my seat.
I skim through the pages for some noteworthy news. I’d be scanning old newspapers if I were back with Ben anyway. It somehow feels like I should still continue so I skim through the sports and comics sections, moving on to the business section as we pass Coors Brewery. The front page article is dominated by a wavy “W” logo—the kind of squiggly wave you would expect on a paper cup at the food court mall. It’s stamped next to one of the top headlines that reads:
Sheriden Foundation Adds New Company to Their Roster.
A new division has been added to the relatively new Sheriden Foundation company.
“We’re at Holiday Rd. Which house number is it?” Gladys’ voice interrupts the words I’m reading.
“2929. Have you read this paper yet?” I ask.
The newspaper mentioned the Sheriden Foundation, which I learned not even twenty-four hours before, via Google’s search results, is the foundation that started the Marigold Company. If I can take this article with me it might actually tell me more about Marigold than my Pops Windows 95 computer could.
“Not yet but plan to when we get home. Any interesting articles?” the old man says.
“If you like comics, For Better Or For Worse is pretty good,” I say.
These people are too sweet. I’d feel awkward stealing the newspaper from them after they so kindly plucked me off the street. I’ll have to get the Denver Post elsewhere. I set it on the seat next to me between the dogs before crawling out of the back door.
They ride off like two snails on warm cement, extending the sendoff wave by an embarrassing amount of time and I make a mental note to find today’s newspaper mentioning Sheriden as soon as possible.
“You happy, Universe!? I’m in 1987.” I yell into the cool noon air, hoping it will give up on its sick joke and send me back to my own time if only I say it out loud.