51. Chapter 51
Chapter 51
“ N o, no, she’s not pregnant! Ugh, can you believe that man? He’s as dumb as a box of rocks.”
“Nicky, it’s just a soap opera,” Debbie drawled.
“Who wants to bet she’ll fake it with a pillow?” Emily added, sitting on the other side of her aunt. They were all gathered together on the couch, Nicky in the middle.
“I bet she’ll steal Maria’s baby,” Debbie said, unimpressed.
“Yes, that’s a good one! A switch at the hospital…” Nicky’s eyes gleamed. “See, I told you girls you’d like it.”
“It’s not as much likable,” Debbie said, “as it’s fascinating.”
Smiling, Emily deposited her half-drunk sweet tea on the coffee table. “I’m going to my room. I’ve some work to finish. Yell if something, uh, fascinating happens.” She paused at the doorway and smiled at her aunt and sister, both glued to the television. Yup, fascinating.
In her room, the parts of her watch were spread across her desk like pieces of a puzzle. Her watch—the broken one. Two weeks ago, she used Fabienne’s watch to return to her time, but not to the present. She traveled to the day of Mama’s accident, arriving just after she’d chipped Debbie’s cereal bowl. This time, she didn’t try to prevent Mama from leaving. She waited until she came downstairs, purse flung over the shoulder.
“Mama,” Emily squeaked.
Mama stopped at the doorway to the kitchen and smiled. “I know, honey. Two chili chocolates for you.”
As if in a dream, Emily walked toward her and wrapped her in a hug. “I love you, Mama.” And she slipped Fabienne’s perfectly working watch into the purse.
“I love you too, Sweet Pea.” Mama kissed her on the forehead. Her camel-brown coat swished as she turned, and the door clicked close for the last time. If any version of their goodbye had to stick, Emily was glad it was this one.
She willed herself to the present.
Fabienne’s watch became her watch, and now her watch turned into… nothing. Emily had opened the back case and found the almonite mainspring barrel black, like it’s been burned to a crisp. She didn’t know how to fix it, but she wouldn’t give up yet. It was all a part of her plan, on the list of things to accomplish in the coming months.
One: fix the watch.
Two: humbly work your way back into the good graces of your classmates and try to convince them you’re not a complete jerk.
Three: try to learn some history—properly, this time.
Four: have fun with Dad and Debbie at the Summer Games.
Five: fix the watch. Her being insistent didn’t mean she suddenly got a healthy boost of optimism. This could take a long time.
Emily opened her laptop and clicked on the notification of a new email. Harold Merryweather. Emily had asked him if he could dig up anything on the residents of the Marshall House around the Civil War and later. There was still so much unknown, and it didn’t look like Will was going to show up to clarify things.
Had he abandoned her, now that she’d done her part? That didn’t seem like him.
Harold’s message, all in caps, expressed hope that she was well, and would find this interesting. She scrolled through the attached scans. Newspapers; rare pictures that may have captured a part of the city where the house was; portraits.
Her heart squeezed. Sometimes, she’d wake up in the middle of the night and check the clock in panic, calming down only when she saw time was still moving forward and not resetting. She didn’t particularly miss her time in DC—but she did miss having the option. And she missed her adventures. And Will.
She paused at the photograph of a group of soldiers. It might’ve been because she was thinking of him, but— Will . His face. She squinted, trying to make out the shapes from the blurry scan. What was he up to, playing a soldier in the past?
But his hair was too light. And—though it might be the fault of nineteenth-century cameras—his face not quite the same.
She glanced at the hand-written inscription below the image. Members of Connecticut Fifth Regiment, Hartford, July 1861.
A moment from the past flashed through her mind. She’d avoided looking at Brayden when she bumped into him—she told Fabienne too much already, and Will would want her to preserve the timeline, or some nerdy thing like that. But she looked into Brayden’s eyes once. She didn’t process it at the time, but they were familiar.
The golden specks—Will’s eyes.
The door flew open. “It is his baby!” In the doorway, Debbie jumped up and down. “Ha, I won! I can even nail soap operas. Do you—Em, where are you going?”
Emily brushed past her and skipped down the stairs. In the hallway, she rummaged through the cabinet, throwing the clutter out, until she found a small hammer and a long-forgotten stair tool.
“Emily?” Nicky peeked out of the living room. “What’s going on?”
“I remembered I have to go over to Sarah’s. Don’t wait for me for supper!” Stuffing everything in her bag, Emily gave a quick peck on her aunt’s cheek and rushed through the door.
To be fair, Will had never told her his true parentage. He only didn’t deny what she had said.
That still didn’t mean Emily wasn’t fuming by the time she got off the bus downtown and headed, with long, fast strides, toward the Factors’ Walk. Hopefully Will had put a spare set of tools in the hidden spot behind the wall. She’d fix her watch, whatever it took, and then she was going back to find him and demand answers.
The small backstreet courtyard was empty as Emily set to work. She pushed the stair tool between the cracks and grumbled and mumbled as she worked the stone, switching hands as one got too tired. The sun started to set, the iron walkways above her casting mangled shadows on the ground.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a shape lurking in the passage leading to the basement of the nearby building. She gripped the stair tool harder and whipped to the right. Something moved, but not in the shadow; the shadow itself shifted, then flattened against the wall and dissolved into the stones.
Emily shook her head. The eerie feeling left, and the light of the nearby street lamp blinked innocently into the evening. From the road above her, voices filtered through.
“Will?” she tried. Nothing.
With some unease, she got back to work, and finally, the brick wobbled. She pulled it out and used the light on her phone to expose the shadowy hole behind it.
Her heart sank when there was no box, conveniently labeled Parts for Watch Repair . It was only a small, thin package, wrapped in brown paper. A thick layer of dust made her sneeze as she unwrapped it. A notebook—no, a diary. One that looked just like Fabienne’s.
Emily opened it with trembling fingers. The pages were filled to about half-point. Glancing over the familiar handwriting, hope trickled into her aching soul. Was this the continuation—and the ending?
Something bright caught her eye—a letter, slipping from the pages to the ground. Picking it up, she looked at the solitary inscription on it: Emily.
Her legs led her down the passage to River Street, and crossing it, she headed for a bench by the riverfront. She ignored the hubbub of noise from the bars; the smell of spicy food teasing her nostrils, and even a small dog that came by and curiously sniffed at her feet before the owner pulled it away. Setting the diary in her lap, Emily cracked the letter open first.
Emily—
I hope this time capsule of yours works, for I have no other means of contacting you. This is a one-way conversation only, and as such, I will attempt to divulge all the information I still owe you. I fully intended to do this personally, but given the current state of affairs, I’m hoping a letter will do.
As you may assume, my watch has broken. It might be for good. I’m looking for a way to fix it, and will not stop looking, but it may take a while; and during this time, I find myself weighed down by my conscience, knowing I left without a proper goodbye and giving you all the answers you sought.
Much of what you need is written in the second part of my mother’s diary. I admit; I withheld it from you deliberately. I was afraid you would find out my mother never used the bubble method to save her family, as they needed no saving in the first place, and as a result, would shy away from the mission. But even the accounts of this diary, as detailed as they are, lack an epilogue. For that purpose, I’m attaching another letter, fully explaining my mother’s story—and my own.
A short explanation of why I haven’t done this before may also be in order. Yes, my mother made mistakes; we all have. With the power given to people like you and me, it’s an easy temptation to go back and try to correct them. But those mistakes made us who we are—Fabienne, you, me. We would not have been the same without them. And not all of them always turn out for the worse.
And Emily: as much as you claim you like to take the easy road, I know there is a fighting spirit inside you—one very much akin to another woman I know. I think she would be very proud of her great-great-great-great-granddaughter.
Without further ado, here is the rest of her story.