June, this year
I’m crawling through Sunday traffic on the edge of the city, my nerves on edge, grateful at least for the air-conditioning in the Golf.
It’s even warmer today than it was yesterday, and I had gotten a little sunburned on my waterfront walk with Ben.
I’d normally turn on some music on a road journey like this — it’s nearly a two-hour drive from New Buffalo to Lake Bluff — but my mind is racing, and I need to focus on my thoughts.
I’m not even sure exactly what I’m doing.
But I’m convinced of one thing.
That the answers lie at the Masons’ old house in Lake Bluff. That it has something to do with the basement, or the door, being a parallel-universe portal.
Of course, I’m aware that the house is currently occupied by a non-English-speaking family who definitely don’t want me showing up again, after I intruded on their dinner on Friday evening.
But I have to go back and see if I can figure any of this insanity out.
Maybe I can get through to the family who live there, and ask some questions. If I can get them to understand me.
Fortunately, Chris is out for the day, golfing with his work buddies. He was all apologies this morning for not spending more of the long weekend with me, promising me that we’d do a hike and a picnic tomorrow, the Juneteenth holiday Monday.
Bless his heart. He’s so well-intentioned.
Unfortunately, the thought of a hike and picnic with Chris is deeply unsettling.
I have literally no idea what to say to this man.
I have no shared memories of our relationship, or — more importantly — our love for each other.
And I presume the me of this life does love him, otherwise I wouldn’t have married him, right?
I have to hope that, with all the changed life circumstances I encountered, my relationship with Chris grew and blossomed in a way it never got the chance to, in my world.
After all, wasn’t it Ben himself who had persuaded me to end things with Chris, back at Northwestern? And without Ben’s influence in my life, given the falling-out with Bonnie, Chris and I had obviously gone on seeing each other.
Maybe the me in this life really is happy.
I wish I could give her life back to her, and go home.
That’s the other reason I’m going back to Lake Bluff today.
To see if that house really is the key to going home, and getting my own life back.
Sure, my life wasn’t perfect, given that I’m chronically single and infatuated with a married colleague.
But it has Bonnie and Ben in it, and that makes it way better than this version, as far as I’m concerned.
As Chris slept peacefully beside me last night, I was staring at my phone, doing more research.
If the house in Lake Bluff is any part of this puzzle, I need to figure out what happened.
In this world, Bonnie doesn’t live there — presumably because she has a job at Chicago City Hall, instead of her Lake Forest interiors business.
With Ben already living in the city, they must’ve decided to sell the house after they inherited it from their parents.
Sure enough, a website offering Illinois property sales history revealed that the Lake Bluff house was sold just under a year later — and hasn’t been sold since, meaning Bonnie and Ben sold it to that family I walked in on.
Which raises another significant question.
I know what I was doing there on Friday night — I was there to see Bonnie, and spend the long weekend with her.
But the other version of myself, the one who is really married to Chris, must’ve driven there, too.
Because when I came out of the house and found myself in another universe, her green Golf was parked nearby, and I had the keys in my pocket.
So here’s the question. What was Married-to-Chris Me doing in Lake Bluff, if she hadn’t been friends with Bonnie in years, and Bonnie didn’t even live there anyways?
It makes no sense. She should’ve driven home after work to Chris in New Buffalo, from the Magnolia offices in downtown Chicago.
Lake Bluff is in the opposite direction.
What was it that compelled me — her — to drive instead to the Lake Bluff house, that warm Friday night?
Was it some kind of call across universes? An undeniable, intrinsic knowledge that our life paths were about to intersect?
And, if that’s the case, maybe I can make them intersect again, at the same place. Because right now, all I can think about is finding a way home.
The traffic is starting to clear now, and I’m soon heading northward with speed towards Lake Bluff.
I take a right exit to drive via Lake Forest, the community where Bonnie — usually — has her store.
In the town center, I slow down to double-check whether it’s there in the row of commercial storefronts. Nothing — still just the bagel place.
Okay, then. Time to visit a family who don’t speak English and will probably call the cops on me.
I pull up in the same parking spot where I found the Golf less than forty-eight hours ago, leaving my purse and phone on the passenger seat, and tuck my keys in my jeans pocket.
Just like last time. With my heart pounding in my throat, I walk up the street to the heavy metal gate that protects the house I know so well.
Shit. The entry code has always been Bonnie’s mom’s birthday, but the other family have lived here for years, so they must’ve changed it.
I’ll have to buzz in . . . but they’ll never let me in.
Maybe I can pretend I have a delivery? But then they’ll know I’m a liar, right away. They have every reason not to trust me.
I don’t really know what I’m doing here — I don’t have a plan. I tried to come up with one in the two-hour drive up here, and all I came up with was that I’ll have to wing it, based on what I see at the time.
The metal gate is curved at the top — high in the middle, but low at the sides.
If I stand on this rock, maybe I can see into the drive, and figure out if the family is home.
Sweating in my white jeans — which are too heavy for the day but I’m wearing them because I’m trying to recreate Friday’s conditions — I clamber up onto one of the large, flat-topped rocks that flank the gateposts.
On my tiptoes, I can peer into the gravel driveway.
No cars. Both the black Audi and the red Tesla that were here before are gone. Maybe they’re all out on this sunny Sunday.
I throw a glance over my shoulder in each direction, up and down the street. There’s nobody around in this leafy, suburban neighborhood — everyone’s elsewhere, having fun in the sun.
Now’s my chance.
Emboldened by the lack of cars in the driveway, I step down and give the old entry code a test attempt, in case for some reason they never got around to changing it, or figured Valentine’s Day was a cute code to keep. But no . . . it doesn’t work. Dammit.
Time to go old-school, I guess. Checking again for any onlookers and finding none, I step back up onto the flat rock.
The huge middle hinge of the gate is about at knee level, and if I can get a foot-grip on it, that would probably give me enough purchase to swing my other leg over the top.
The drop on the other side . . . well, it’s not that far down.
And I can lower myself slowly. One advantage of being petite — I can hold my own body weight pretty easily.
The execution of my leg swing and drop to the drive isn’t as elegant as I’d imagined, but there’s nobody around to see it, and I manage to make it down onto the gravel without spraining anything.
Now what? The front door will be locked, presumably, and I definitely don’t want to try it. Then again, aren’t I recreating Friday night’s events to try to get home? In which case, it makes more sense to go in via the basement side door.
I step down the sloping lawn on the left of the house, hoping that the family haven’t done a better job than the Masons at fixing this door, which always had a warped frame that stopped it from locking.
If they’ve replaced the door frame and the lock, and the whole house is secure, I’ve got nothing.
I’ll have to . . . do what? Drive back to New Buffalo, and live with Chris forever?
I shudder. No. He’s adorable in many ways, but . . . no. That’s not the life for me.
Determinedly, I give the basement side door a huge yank outwards. To my surprise, it opens easily with a slight rush of air, making me nearly fall backwards.
I’m in. And no alarms are going off, so that’s a bonus. Now, though, I’m just an insane person who has broken into a very nice family’s home while they’re out.
I close the door behind me, blowing out a shaky stream of air. What the fuck am I doing? I’ve honestly lost my mind. How is any of this going to help my impossible situation?
Get a grip. Maybe the act of going upstairs and letting myself back out the front door will be what takes me home? I mean, probably not. But I’m here now, so it’s worth a try.
I step into the basement, past a couch that looks a lot like the one Ben was sitting on, playing the guitar, the very first time I came through that door. My memory is so vivid that strains of music are almost audible in the quiet of the basement.
No, not almost. They are audible. That’s definitely music.
Which means I’m definitely losing my mind. Nobody’s home — how could there be music playing?
Unless — shit — both the parents are out in their cars, but some of the kids could still be at home, perhaps? Weren’t they all too small to leave alone? Maybe there’s a babysitter.
I move towards the bottom of the stairs, where the light is leading the way up to the kitchen. I can hear the music louder now. It’s definitely not my imagination.