Chapter 10
By the time Mary returned from Darbi’s, the red Jeep was gone from her driveway. As she passed the neighbor’s window on the way to the stairs to her apartment, the dog barked, probably because he wasn’t used to her coming and going. The thought caused her to freeze on the staircase. What had happened to the person who lived here in her other life? Where did they live now? The whole world was out of kilter. She felt dizzy and tightened her grip on the handrail so she wouldn’t fall. Once inside, she called Darbi.
“Now what?” her cousin asked.
“What happened to the person who really lives in this apartment?”
“What do you mean, ‘really lives’ there?”
“The person who lives here in my other life?”
“The only life you need to care about is this one.” Pots and pans clanked in the background. “If you start thinking about it, you’ll go mad. Just live. That’s what I did. It’s why I didn’t open Uncle Cillian’s letters.”
Mary put the phone down and massaged the back of her neck, trying to figure out this alternate universe. It made her head hurt to think about it, so she decided to take Darbi’s advice. Who lived here wasn’t important. If she really wanted to know, she could always look up the information when she returned to her other life. For now, she needed to focus on getting that promotion so she could be a famous newscaster when she got back.
In the kitchen, she searched for something to make for dinner. There were three boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese on a shelf in a cabinet. She used to love that stuff, but she hadn’t had it in years because Dean thought it tasted disgusting.
As she sat on the sofa eating a bowl of it, she gagged. He was right. The homemade version she made with his mother’s recipe was gourmet compared to this crap.
At nine o’clock, Mary went to her room, hoping to get a good night’s sleep before going to work the next day. She had the entire bed to herself but confined her body to the right side, where she usually slept. The empty space next to her crowded her thoughts. Who was Dean sleeping with? What had become of him in a world without her? He’d probably married Michelle, his high school girlfriend who still pined for him. Thinking of them together made Mary’s right eyelid twitch.
She switched her train of thought to working at the news station instead. Now both eyes twitched. Would she still be good? She flipped from her stomach to her side. Would she know how to use the equipment? Surely it had changed over the years. She flipped to her back and glanced toward the empty space next to her. Usually when she tossed and turned, Dean reached for her hand, and the feel of her palm against his was a calming balm, slowing her racing thoughts and allowing her to fall asleep.
She lay awake for most of the night, staring up at the glowing star decals on the ceiling that she hadn’t noticed before.
The rectangular brick building that was home to the news station looked like all the others in the industrial park nestled alongside the highway. The only hints that it housed a television station were the satellite dishes and the white vans with the Channel 77 ICNN logo parked behind them. Mary’s entire body vibrated with excitement as she turned into the lot and pulled in next to one of the vans. The gateway to the career she had missed out on stood a mere hundred feet in front of her. So many people fantasized about getting second chances, but she, Mary Mulligan, was actually getting one.
She took a deep breath before stepping out of the car and heading toward the entrance. At the glass door, she swiped her badge and bounced on her toes as the door clicked, unlocking. The interior of the building had been redecorated since she had been there last. The dingy off-white walls she remembered now sparkled a vibrant blue. The stained threadbare gray carpet had been replaced by a glossy premium-grade charcoal version.
The station’s most famous alumni smiled at her from inside picture frames as she made her way down the hallway. Brent Campbell, the sports director when she’d been there the first time, now addressed national audiences from his prime-time show on ESPN. Dylan Whetly, the morning meteorologist who’d joined the station shortly before Mary left, had spent the last nine years forecasting the weather on Good Morning America . Mary paused in front of a photograph of a stern-looking man, Cory Atkinson. She recognized him from Dateline but hadn’t realized he had started his career at Channel 77. When she reached the end of the gallery of past employees, she turned back to study the wall. Just like when she’d looked at the picture of herself in Darbi’s sunroom, a chill ran down her spine. Something was off. She racked her brain, but nothing came to her. She continued down the hall with a feeling of unease until she reached the pictures of the present-day anchors, Alex Mason and William Casey. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. Someday soon she’d be sitting behind the anchor desk with one of them.
As she turned the corner and entered the newsroom, the room started to spin. She felt as if she were on that ride at an amusement park that rotates and then the floor drops out. She grabbed onto a nearby chair to steady herself.
“Are you okay?” a broad-shouldered man with a pointy chin asked.
“I felt a little lightheaded, but I’m okay now.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast, did you? Probably saving your appetite for today’s assignment.” He laughed. “That’s what I would do.”
Today’s assignment? Mary fidgeted with her necklace, sliding the small microphone charm up the chain and then back. She’d found the silver chain in a jewelry box on her dresser that morning. The sight of it had brought tears to her eyes. Her parents had given her a similar necklace the first time she’d started working for Channel 77. She’d lost it while skiing at Sunday River a few days after she’d turned down the Iowa job, and she’d always felt losing it at that time had been a sign that she’d destroyed her career.
“Make sure you interview the vendors and not just the attendees,” the man said.
She nodded, though she had no idea what she was agreeing to. She had to get her eyes on the list of today’s assignments.
“Talk to a kid or two.”
She listened to the man, wondering who he was. Someone important, that was obvious. She could tell by the authority in his voice, or maybe the clipboard he carried made him look as if he was in charge.
He had stopped speaking and now studied Mary with one eyebrow raised. Had he figured out that she had no idea who he was or what her current assignment was? Why weren’t memories filling in? She’d never be able to fake her way through conversations without them.
“Any thoughts?” he asked.
She had none. Her face heated up. It had probably turned fire-engine red the way it always did when she was embarrassed, the curse of Irish skin tone.
“Don’t forget to have some ice cream yourself,” the man said.
A metallic taste filled Mary’s mouth, and her temples throbbed. Images of the man she was talking to flashed through her mind. They were much more vivid than the ones of her neighbor’s dog. The man grilled her from across a large oak desk, interviewing her for the job. He led a brainstorming discussion on story ideas. He sat at the head of a table, addressing a group of reporters. He critiqued one of her news stories. The pictures kept coming, as if someone had plugged a flash drive into her head and was uploading videos. They had to be memories from the version of herself that had been here before yesterday.
“Mitch Wise, news director.” She blurted it out, excited she knew who he was. “I’m covering the Scooper Bowl today.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Mary beamed. The jitters she’d been experiencing ever since walking into the newsroom were gone. Darbi was right. Her memories would fill in.
The corners of his mouth bent downward. “Because no one calls me Mitch. It’s Mitchell.”
Waiting by the rear exit, the cameraman had his back to Mary as she walked down the hall toward him, her legs like Jell-O. After almost twenty-five years, she was going out on assignment. Would she remember what to do? Of course she would. It would be like riding a bike.
The cameraman’s head swiveled toward her so she could see his face. Something about him seemed familiar. She squinted, trying to figure out who he was. As she got closer, she noticed a faded oblong scar under his nose, a scar that had been much angrier the last time she’d seen it, days after he’d had a mole removed. “Carl! You still work here?” In the other version of her life, they’d started their careers together, twenty-two-year-old kids, green in the field, figuring it out together one assignment at a time.
“Still work here,” he repeated with an irritated tone. “Not even a little bit funny. I’m not in the mood for old guy jokes today.” His voice sounded just as gravelly as she’d remembered, as if his vocal cords had been run through a shredder.
He was a skinny kid when she’d last seen him, still growing into his body. If they’d had time after an assignment, he would steer the news van through the drive-through window of Wendy’s, always ordering double burger patties with extra cheese, large fries doused with salt, and a chocolate Frosty. The fast-food meals had taken a toll on his body. His large belly hung over the belt on his jeans. His mop of blond hair had thinned and turned yellowish white. Fine lines wove across his forehead. His shoulders had started to round.
If she’d seen him from time to time over the past few decades, the changes in him might not have seemed so pronounced, but after having no contact for twenty-five years, she almost couldn’t believe he was the same person. Growing old was a privilege but also a curse with the damage it did to a person’s body. She touched the side of her mouth, grateful her wisdom teeth had reversed her damage, at least for a little while.
Something about Carl’s presence at the news station comforted her. Having him there was like having a lifeline back to her old life, where she was fifty-something. “I’m so happy to see you.” She opened her arms, intending to hug him.
“What are you doing?” He took a step backward, and Mary froze. “Were you about to hug me?”
His rejection wounded her. Then again, Carl had no idea that she hadn’t seen him for decades. As far as he knew, they’d seen each other earlier in the week. They also were no longer peers. He was a thirty-year grizzled veteran, and she was a twenty-something kid trying to make a name for herself.
“Let’s go.” He pushed open the heavy metal door to the loading dock, hurrying outside. On the way down the steps, he stumbled.
Mary gasped, remembering Darbi’s warning. No seeking out people from your past. Bad things will happen. He was from her past, but she hadn’t sought him out. He had just been there.
His hand flailed through the air. Somehow, he managed to grab hold of the railing, keeping himself upright.
Mary exhaled, wondering if Carl’s stumble was a reminder not to look for people she had known in her other life. She stared into the parking lot, wondering what Dean was doing now and how Kendra was back in the other universe, or whatever it was.
Mary stood on the walkway at City Hall Plaza, smiling as she took in the scene. Long lines of men and women, some dressed in shorts and T-shirts and others in business attire, waited in front of white tents. A few waved paper fans or their hands in front of their faces, trying to get relief from the scorching June sun. Inside the tents, sweaty workers frantically scooped ice cream into small cups, trying to keep up with demand. Crowds of people, most lifting white plastic spoons to their mouths, stood in small groups off to the side.
The Jimmy Fund Scooper Bowl, an annual all-you-can-eat ice cream charity event for the Dana–Farber Cancer Institute, was the perfect first assignment for Mary version 2, as she had come to think of her new young self. She felt at home at the festival. Back in the nineties, she had covered it twice. After that, she, Dean, and Kendra had attended it every year until Kendra graduated high school. Dean and Kendra would compete to see who could eat the most, and the rest of the night they would both complain about having stomachaches. Mary glanced around to look for Dean but then stopped herself, remembering Darbi’s stern warning and Carl’s stumble on the loading dock. Anyway, she would see him soon enough in her much-improved other life.
“Where to?” Carl asked.
Mary pointed to a red-and-white sign that read Friendly’s . “There.” It was the same place where they’d filmed her first story on the Scooper Bowl all those years ago.
He hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and wove his way through the throngs of people, with Mary practically skipping behind him she was so excited. Only days ago, the most important thing she’d had to do was pick up Dean’s shirts from the dry cleaner. Today, she was working as a reporter interviewing Bostonians at a beloved charity event. People all over the commonwealth would see her on television tonight. This alternate life was too good to be true.
When she and Carl reached their location, she studied faces, trying to choose a person to talk to first. To her right, a small boy collided with a man holding five single-scoop cups stacked on top of each other. The top cup tumbled off the man’s tower. He left it where it had fallen on the brick-covered ground. The ice cream instantly melted into a brown puddle that a woman in pink open-toed sandals stepped in. As Mary watched it happen, her own toes felt sticky.
“Mary.” Carl beckoned her to where he stood, talking to a group of twenty-somethings standing in a circle under a tree. They were all employees from State Street, a local financial services company, on their lunch break. A stocky White man in Ray-Ban sunglasses holding a stack of cups agreed to be interviewed.
Carl gave Mary the microphone. For a beat, she stood motionless, looking down at it as if she had no idea what it was.
“Ready?” Carl asked.
Beads of perspiration collected above her lip. Her hands trembled. Her throat felt dry. She needed to excel at this, not only to get a promotion but to prove to herself that she hadn’t misremembered anything. She had been a darn good journalist. She sucked in a big breath. She was going to crush this.
“How much ice cream do ...”
Music blasted from a nearby tent, where a band started to play, startling Mary midquestion. She flinched, sure the pounding of the drum was coming from inside her head it was so loud. The screech of the electric guitar pierced her eardrums.
Carl led them to a spot away from the noise. They could still hear the song, but the racket wasn’t as distracting in the new location.
“Whenever you’re ready, Mary.” Carl breathed heavily, as if hauling the camera equipment through the thick, humid air was too much for him. His face glowed red, and a ring of sweat circled the collar of his navy Red Sox T-shirt. When Mary had last worked with him, his energy was endless, and she’d had trouble keeping up with him.
“The sooner we finish, the sooner we can get back into the air-conditioned van,” he said.
The microphone felt slippery in her clammy hand, so she tightened her grip, holding on to it for dear life. “Can you tell me your name, and spell it for me?” she shouted.
The man in the Ray-Bans stepped backward as if the volume of her voice had pushed him away. “Patrick Boyle,” he said. “ p-a-t-r-i-c-k b-o-y-l-e .”
“Why are you here?” Her tone was all wrong. She was trying to disguise her nerves and in the process had implied he had no business being there.
He stood straighter. His biceps tightened. “Because I like ice cream, and it’s a good cause.” He said the words slowly, as if he was talking to someone he thought was an idiot.
His attitude unnerved Mary. She swayed left and right, fidgeting with the microphone. She’d annoyed the man, and now she had to fix it. She flashed a shy smile. “Sorry, it’s my first day. I’m nervous.”
Carl mumbled, “Your first day? Please.”
Patrick Boyle relaxed. “It’s okay. We’ve all been there.”
“So how much do you think you’ll eat today?” Mary’s voice sounded conversational, much friendlier than when she’d started.
The man pointed to the tower in his hand. “I’m working on cup fifteen right now. But you better believe, I still have a lot in me.”
Mary pumped her fist. The quote was great. She knew she’d use it in her story.
A tall thin Hispanic woman with long dark hair who was nibbling on vanilla ice cream dotted with chips and nuts passed by them. Mary thanked Patrick Boyle and bolted across the walkway toward the woman. “Excuse me. I’m covering the Scooper Bowl for Channel 77,” she shouted.
The woman stopped. She flattened the collar of her blouse and straightened her skirt before agreeing to be on camera.
“Why did you come to the Scooper Bowl today?” Mary asked.
The woman laughed. “I’m on a mission to try every flavor here.”
“What’s your favorite so far?”
“Mint chocolate chip.”
Carl gave her a thumbs-up. Mary moved on to a bald Black man who looked to be somewhere in his thirties. “Why did you come here today?”
The man gave her a wistful look. He glanced up toward the sky. When he met Mary’s eyes again, his were watering. “I had lymphoma. Doc gave me nine months to live. That was six years ago.” He swallowed hard. “Dana–Farber saved my life.” The man took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. “So if they want me to choke down some ice cream to support them, who am I to say no?”
Mary smiled, glad the man was okay. Her nerves had finally settled, allowing her to enjoy being a reporter again.
After she’d interviewed a half dozen more people, including two children and a few workers scooping ice cream, Carl said they had enough footage.
“Let’s talk to one other person.” She was having so much fun that she didn’t want to be done. How foolish she’d been to quit this job. Being here interviewing people made her feel important, like what she did mattered.
“Let’s do the wrap-up.” Carl positioned her in a spot where he could film the heart of the festival behind her. “On three,” he said. “One, two, three.”
Holding up a cup of fudge swirl ice cream, Mary smiled. “I’m Mary Amato, reporting live from City Hall at the Dana–Farber Scooper Bowl.” She slid an overflowing spoon into her mouth.
Carl peeked out at her from behind the camera. “Who the hell is Mary Amato? Did you get married and not tell anyone?”
Mary’s face heated up. “I, I ...” After twenty-six years of being Mary Amato, she was having trouble thinking of herself as Mary Mulligan again.
Carl waved a dismissive hand and pointed the camera at her again. “Get your name right this time.”