June, this year #2
And voices. There are voices there, too, in the kitchen. Not even the sound of kids, more like adult voices. Dammit, the family is home. Just because their cars weren’t in the driveway . . . of course that doesn’t necessarily mean nobody is home. What was I thinking?
I’m rooted to my position at the bottom of the steps, every hair on my body on end, skin prickling. What to do now? Go out the way I came in, and make a break for it, out of the gate? At least I can release the gate from this side. I could be gone before they even realized I was ever here.
A woman’s voice, louder now. “Hey, quit that! I’m cutting you a slice.” A warm voice. Almost familiar.
And in English, with a local accent.
Now a man’s voice, low and gruff. “You want me to bring out the heavy cream?”
“Sure,” the woman says.
This is not the same family. Or maybe that family is also here, but they have some English-speaking guests? Maybe that’s good. Maybe I can still risk trying to get out the front door, and then try to explain myself if I get caught. At least I’ll be understood.
Trembling, I make my way silently up the stairs and open the door to the kitchen, just a crack.
That’s . . . weird. The walls are no longer the darker taupe of the kitchen as I last saw it, and instead are a rich cream again — just like Bonnie painted them when she renovated the kitchen after buying Ben out of the house.
The cabinets are also white again, although a different style than Bonnie’s Shaker cabinets.
And . . . it’s too tidy to be Bonnie’s kitchen.
The old-fashioned FM radio on the counter is playing some kind of Spanish guitar music.
Plus, if I was back in my reality, the house would be empty, as Bonnie was delayed at the store.
No, I’m not back home in my own world. I know it, right in my core.
I’m in a new world — one that’s different again.
Which means, I guess, that I’m about to intrude on yet another unwitting family, who happen to have similar décor tastes to Bonnie. Maybe I can just sneak out past them, now that they’ve left the kitchen — they seem to have gone out on the deck.
I open the door wider, and take a tentative step into the kitchen.
I’m gonna have to be quick if I don’t want to get caught slipping out of the front door.
Although, maybe recreating that action is pointless, anyways, since I’m evidently already in a third universe.
Which means, it’s not looking like what I’m doing will take me home to mine.
A loud male laugh booms above me. Yes, they’re definitely all out on the deck, and there are a couple more voices coming from there, too. That gives me plenty of space to creep past the dining area and beeline it out of the front.
I take a few more steps, trying not to breathe, my runners squeaking ever so slightly on the hardwood floor. As I pass the dining area and its window view to the deck, I can’t resist taking a look at the new family who have moved into Bonnie’s home. They sound like they’re having such a great time.
Two adults with graying hair, a man and a woman, have their backs to the window, facing the lake view.
And at the end of the table, standing to reach a pitcher from its center, is Bonnie.
As real as anything, looking fabulous in a red playsuit and wide-brimmed hat.
I let out an involuntary yelp.
I’ve made it home, after all!
This really is Bonnie’s house, she’s merely changed her kitchen cabinets, and she’s tidied up because she had some older guests visiting.
But who are those people? And how did Bonnie get home so quickly?
At my strangled noise, Bonnie looks up, into the house. Can she see me, through the reflection of the lake on the window? She moves her head to each side, as if to try to make me out.
Suddenly, she sees me. She squeals in excitement and puts the pitcher down with a clatter on the glass table.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” she shrieks, raising both hands.
She beckons me to come outside, and my feet follow her instructions.
I slowly make my way out to the deck, terrified that all this is a mirage, and I’m about to fall through a hole in the universe yet again.
The sun on the deck is blinding, and the heat intense after the cool interior of the house.
Bonnie is hugging me, and I’m hugging her back.
“I had no idea you were going to make it, after all! Why didn’t you text to say you were coming?
” She swats me lightly on the arm. “Never mind, you’re here now. Have a seat, let’s get you a plate.”
What? None of that makes any sense.
Bewildered, I turn to see who her older guests are.
Angela Mason, Bonnie’s late mother, risen from the grave, gets up out of her chair to greet me.
“We didn’t think we’d see you today, honey. What a nice surprise.” She gives me a hug.
Frank Mason is beaming at me from his seat beside her.
Bonnie and Ben’s dead parents.
Here, on Bonnie’s deck.
I try to respond, but no words come out. Instead, I turn to look out at the lake to somehow reorient myself, before looking back to see whether I was imagining them. But the lake is at a weird, tilty angle, like all the water should fall off the edge of the world.
That’s when I manage to say something.
“I think I’m going to fall down.”
Frank springs to his feet, and manages to guide me as I slump into the patio dining chair at the foot of the table. The deck swims nauseatingly beneath me, and I grip the edge of the table to stop myself falling right off the seat.
“I think she’s dehydrated,” I hear someone say — Bonnie, or her mom.
“Pour her some of that ice tea.”
“Here, put your sunhat on her, she needs shade.”
“We need to get her inside where it’s cool.”
“Lord, she’s white as a sheet.”
“She’s always white, Mom. It’s her Irish skin. No wonder she gets terrible sunstroke.”
“Not usually that white, though, sweetie. She’s almost gray.”
“She probably needs to eat something. There’s nothing to her — all skin and bones.” Frank this time.
“Mill, are you okay?” Bonnie has her hand on my shoulder. It’s a little darker now, shadier. Oh, I have Bonnie’s brimmed hat on. “Can you drink some of this ice tea for me? I think you have sunstroke.”
She raises a glass to my lips, and I sip some of the sweet tea and swallow it down.
The deck is tilting less now, no longer like a ship in a storm.
More like the gentle swell of a paddleboard on the lake.
I take a few deep breaths, and look up. Frank and Angela are still there, in person, and definitely not dead.
I open my mouth to speak again, but all that comes out is a sob from right down in my soul, followed by a flood of tears.
“You poor thing!” Angela says, kindly. “You’re in a bit of a state, huh? Come now, slowly, let’s get you inside.”
I let Angela and Bonnie raise me out of my seat unceremoniously by the armpits and guide me into the cool living room. Frank brings my tall glass of tea and a plate with a huge slice of apple pie and a generous pouring of cream, which he places on the coffee table.
“Have you been out in the sun again without a hat?” Bonnie asks me disapprovingly, once my sniveling has subsided and I’ve sipped some more of the tea. “Seriously, Mill, how many times do I have to tell you? Sunstroke, no joke — remember?”
I do remember. We’d driven in Bonnie’s convertible car to this house the very first time I came here, the Labor Day before starting at Northwestern, and I hadn’t worn a hat the whole drive.
I had terrible nausea and a headache for the next two days.
Since then, I’ve tried to be good — but I hate wearing hats.
They always drown me, and they squish my already flat, straight hair.
This time, however, it’s not the sunstroke that has me floored. It’s the resurrected parents. Two people I loved as much as if they were my own family.
How are they alive?
Unfortunately, I can’t exactly ask them that. “Why aren’t you dead?” doesn’t seem like an appropriate question right now.
Instead, I smile weakly and eat some apple pie. Pretending to get my strength back up is a good excuse not to talk.
Angela sits down gently beside me on the couch. “Honey, sunstroke aside, it’s a treat to see you.” She pats my knee. “How did your plans change so that you could make it here? Bonnie said you had long weekend plans with that handsome husband of yours, and couldn’t make it.”
The fork freezes on its way to my lips.
Chris?
I’m back in a world where this is Bonnie’s house again, or maybe it’s her parents’ house, and yet I’m still married to Chris? How did that happen?
My mind races. Shit. Maybe that means I still have to go back home to New Buffalo after all. But at least I’m friends with Bonnie again. And the Masons are alive. So . . . that’s better than yesterday. But still not great.
“Uh . . . no. Turns out he had his weekly Sunday golf thing with work buddies, so he was busy after all. I figured I’d come up here, since it’s such a lovely day. Surprise,” I add, weakly.
Frank gives Angela a weird glance. “But, Millie, it’s Friday. Do you mean he has a Friday golf thing?”
Friday? No.
It was Sunday afternoon when I left the house today.
I look outside at the long shadows on the deck. The sun is way too low for three in the afternoon, which was the time when I got here.
It’s Friday evening, all over again.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. My brain is addled with this sunstroke. Friday. I meant Friday.”
Ten minutes into having the Masons back, and I’m already lying to them.
Frank raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t have him down as a golfer. Doesn’t he have any Friday afternoon classes? Oh, I guess not in summer, when school is out.”
What in the world is Frank talking about? What classes, what school?
I’d looked up Chris’ profession during my LinkedIn research, too, and it said he’s in pharmaceutical sales — which makes total sense. Nothing about taking any adult education classes, although maybe he chose not to put that on his profile.