Yesterday Is History Page 3

  Even though we’ve only spent fifteen minutes together, I know that Michael knows the effect he has on people. He revels in it.

  That is the most dangerous type of boy.

  “I’m not hiding anything.” I force the words out. They feel like lead in my mouth. I can feel my chest vibrating as my heart beats faster and faster.

  “But you’re debating if a T stop is aboveground or underground, asking me what year it is, you’re dressed funny, and, to top it off, you don’t carry yourself like anyone I’ve ever seen before. You’re definitely hiding something.”

  There could be millions of reasons why I’m seeing and experiencing what I am. Maybe I’m on the verge of death, and my neurons are firing to create one great memory.

  So many maybes. But deep down, I know what I want to say; I know what I’m feeling and thinking.

  “I’m either dreaming or hallucinating…but if this is real, I think I traveled back in time and ended up in my own house in nineteen sixty-nine.”

  There, I think. I said it. Speaking the words feels like pressure on a dam being released at the very last minute. Sure, it sounds like nonsense, and sure, Michael’s probably going to tackle me, tie me to the couch, and call 911. Hello, Operator? Yeah, I have a stranger in my house who says he’s from the future. Sure, I’ll hold. But at least I said it.

  “You asked earlier if the year was 2021. Is that when you’re from?”

  That wasn’t what I expected. That wasn’t what I expected at all.

  I open my mouth to answer him, and the world around me starts to blur, starting with the corners of my eyes. The ground under me feels like it’s suddenly gone, and I’m falling but also rising at the same time. It’s like what I imagine being in a black hole feels like: being yanked and turned into a thin piece of spaghetti.

  And then, it all happens in reverse. My body retracts, sounds become crisp, colors return, and I feel something…wet?

  The rough, sticky dampness is a familiar feeling. The stench of wet dog.

  I open my eyes to see Clyde’s brown, wide ones looking up at me, his front paws on my thighs, licking at my stomach through my shirt.

  I instantly jump back, like Clyde is some foreign intruder. It takes me a moment to see everything—to really see everything around me. My bed. The messy room. The papers. My cell phone.

  This is my room. This is my home. Well, my home in my time. Not…then.

  I gasp. “I’m back.”

  Four

  “Andre! Breakfast!”

  I’ve been lying in bed all night, just staring at my familiar ceiling. It’s my room, all right. Down to the clothes, the smell, the books. But I have to keep double-checking and confirming. Touching the books, feeling the bed, calling Clyde over, and examining every inch of him before it sets in.

  Finally, I sit up. Three things run through my mind at the same time, but I do my best to order them. I’m a scientist-in-training, like my dad always says—no matter how much it annoys me—so it’s time I think like one.

  One, I’m alive. That’s clear, and it’s a good first step.

  Two, my vitals are fine—pulse is rapid (but that’s to be expected), no wounds, my scar looks the same, completely healed. I even pinch myself to make sure it’s real. Get rid of all shadows of doubt.

  Three, I need to analyze what could have caused this. Could it have been a hallucination? Maybe, but it felt too real. A side effect of medication? Perhaps, but I did my research—so did Mom and Dad—and none of the drugs had these types of effects. Was it a dream? Why did I remember it so vividly if it was? Could I be having a mental breakdown? Possibly.

  Or, it could be the fifth option: I just freakin’ time traveled.

  “Andre!”

  I press my feet against the floor tentatively. This is definitely my reality. This is my world, and for right now, that’s all that matters.

  Mom and Dad are at the breakfast table when I finally make it down. Cinnamon rolls, freshly squeezed orange juice, and half a dozen other treats decorate the table.

  “Are you practicing for Thanksgiving already?” I ask, teasing. Mom rolls her eyes, but she has a bashful expression on her face.

  “I told her not to cook so much,” Dad says, ribbing her. “We’re not going to eat all this.”

  “Hush,” she scolds him. “Your son got a clean bill of health. He’s a cancer survivor. That’s big. The least we can do is—”

  “Give him diabetes?” Dad interrupts, poking a pancake with a fork. “How much syrup did you…”

  Mom gives him that look. We both know the look, and he shuts up. Dad does his best, bless his heart, to eat healthily and to instill those values in us. Mom and I are just too addicted to sugar.

  “Thanks…it’s…perfect?” And I mean it, which is a surprise. The pancakes are, shockingly, perfectly fluffy. The cinnamon rolls have the perfect amount of warmth and gooey sugar. And the fruit? Fresh and in season. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel…hungry.

  She’s been practicing, I think. Probably for this exact moment when I came home with a clean bill of health.

  Mom beams with pride at her meal. “You’re surprised, aren’t you?”

  I nod, my mouth full of food.

  “It is pretty perfect, right?” she says. “Your old mom has some tricks still.”

  “You’re most definitely not old.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re my son.”

  “And because it’s the truth!”

  Mom gives me a skeptical look, but Dad clears his throat, breaking the moment.

  “So,” Dad says after a moment. “How are you feeling? Heard you tossing and turning last night.”

  Thank God that’s all they heard, I think.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Are you hurting?” Mom asks.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Is your pain gone?”

  “You mean the pain I told you wasn’t a problem yesterday?”

  Dad doesn’t reply. He knows that I know what he’s talking about.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “What pain?” Mom asks.

  “It was nothing.”

  “It was something,” Dad interjects.

  “Maybe we should call Dr. Moore?” Mom suggests.

  “Might be a good idea,” Dad agrees and pulls out his phone. “I’m sure she can fit us in.”

  “I said I’m fine, guys, really.”

  A phone vibrates softly.

  “What’s your schedule like today?” Mom asks Dad.

  “I have a class to teach, but I can get the TA to do it. You?”

  “A thesis defense, but that’s in the morning. Can you do the afternoon?”

  “Morning is better for me. I need to attend a funding meeting across town for the new lab.”

  The vibration hums again. It takes me one more vibration to realize that it’s coming from my phone.

  The area code is 617. That’s Boston. But it’s not a Boston number I know. Curious, I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Andre?” asks a female voice on the other end of the phone. “Andre Cobb?”

  “Speaking.” I stand up and walk into the adjoining living room. Mom and Dad continue arguing over schedules.

  “Claire, Claire McIntyre,” she says, as if I’m supposed to know that name. The silent pause I give tells her I don’t.

  “Of course,” she says to herself and sighs. “I’m the mother of the boy who gave you your liver. Think you have time to chat?”

  The words feel like a punch in the gut—a sucker punch. I remember what Dr. Moore said when we got the donor liver. It’s a perfect match, she had said hurriedly on the speakerphone. Poor boy died in a car accident, but his liver is intact. Get here now.

  It was a whirlwind experience.
We got to the hospital at 5:30 p.m., and I had a new liver by the next morning. Dr. Moore kept saying how lucky I was, how generous the family was. How they wanted to remain anonymous.

  And here the mother, or a woman claiming to be the mother of the donor, is calling me.

  “Something tells me, Mrs. McIntyre, I’m going to want to hear what you have to say.”

  She chuckles. “You’re as smart as I thought you’d be. Can you make it downtown tonight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Five

  It’s rare to see Isobel Powell-Ito pouting.

  It’s a specific look too. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed almost serpentlike, and her hands clenched into fists. I’ve only seen it twice in the eight years I’ve known her. Once when her parents promised her a new dress and backed out at the last minute. And the other time when she was bidding for an elective at St. Clements and they said she’d won the lottery, but she actually hadn’t.

  But when I tell her we’re not going to Back Bay for our favorite pastime, pretending to be rich and going to different art galleries, she pouts. Hard.

  “You’re going to get us killed, Dre.”

  “No one is going to be murdering anyone.”

  “You’re going to a person’s house just because they called you? That’s peak killer vibes.”

  “It’s the donor’s family,” I remind her. “They aren’t going to kill me. They gave me the organ.”

  “So they are going to kill you to take it back,” she hisses. “Did you ever think about why they suddenly want to meet now? Maybe it’s not even them! This could all be a lie!”

  I can’t tell her what I think it means or why I really want to go visit the McIntyres. She’ll definitely think I’m losing my grip. And she might not be wrong.

  Plus, if this is all a mistake, like Isobel thinks it is, I want to be able to do the normal thing: thank them for offering their son’s liver to me. That’s the least I can do, right? And if it’s some deranged stalker lying to me about being the donor’s family? Well, then I’m probably screwed anyway.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  I look out the window, watching as the streets shift from residential to city landscape to the upper echelon of Boston society. The sun set not that long ago, so the city has a haunting summertime glow about it that I love. There’s nothing like Boston at dusk. The way the last light lingers over the Charles River. The only thing better is when it rains, and the cobblestone sidewalks have a silvery light to them.

  “I just want to talk to them.”

  “Let the record show that I think this is a bad idea,” she mutters, leaning over the steering wheel. We’re close.

  “There. At the end of the street.”

  Just ahead is a pristine-looking brownstone, with a gate and manicured lawn. It’s three floors, and the lights are all on. There’s a garage to the left of it, separated by an automatic gate. The house is wider than others on the street and takes up the space of two lots, making it almost as big as some houses I’ve seen in the suburbs.

  “How much do you think this costs?” Isobel asks after she parks, the car rumbling before falling still.

  “Ten? Twelve million?”

  “Fifteen,” she corrects me, holding up her phone to show me the house on Zillow. “Fifteen freakin’ million, Dre. These aren’t just creeps. They’re rich creeps, and that’s the worst type of person.”

  “Then you can stay in the car.”

  I get out of the Scion before Isobel can say anything, knowing that she’ll follow me. Before I reach the gate, she’s next to me, adjusting her sundress and glaring.

  “I’m going to kill you if they don’t do it first,” she whispers, matching my pace as we approach the door. “This is why people of color die first in horror movies.”

  “No, that’s because they make stupid choices.”

  “What do you call this?”

  I turn to answer, but before I can, the oak door suddenly opens. Standing there in front of us is a woman, tall with angled, sharp cheeks. Her very ginger hair is cut in a fashionable, if not severe bob, and she’s casually dressed in a Harvard T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Her wide smile is a comfort to see, given the circumstance.

  She looks down at the watch on her right wrist. “Perfect timing.”

  “For?” Isobel asks.

  Mrs. McIntyre looks at her for a moment, scanning her the way I imagine a robot would—wide green eyes moving methodically.

  “I’m sorry, Miss…”

  “Powell-Ito. But most people call me Isobel.”

  “Isobel, then. I wanted to speak to Andre alone, if possible.”

  “Sorry.” Isobel shakes her head. “We’re a package deal.”

  Mrs. McIntyre shakes her head. “I don’t mean to be rude. But this is a personal matter, and it really only concerns Andre and me. You could sit in the study while he and I talk?”

  “What concerns Andre concerns me.”

  “Apologies, Mrs. McIntyre, she’s just trying to support me.”

  Mrs. McIntyre turns, the sharpness of her features softening to a warm grin. “Call me Claire. But I’m afraid this is…how do I put it…” Claire pauses and looks up, as if the answer might be on the roof.

  There’s no way I’m going to get what I need out of Claire with Isobel here. This isn’t her story. This isn’t her liver.

  “Give us five minutes,” I tell her. I don’t look directly at her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Give me five minutes. Any longer, and you can come inside. Is that fair?”

  “Make it ten, and we have a deal,” Claire says, bargaining.

  “Deal,” I say before Isobel can argue. This time, I turn to her. “Look, I can’t explain it to you, but you have to trust me, okay? I’ve got this, and like we both said: ten minutes, and then you can come in.”

  She doesn’t trust me. No, it’s not that she doesn’t trust me—she doesn’t trust Claire. Isobel has always been overprotective, and ever since the diagnosis…she’s been even more so. A real ride-or-die friend.

  “Fine. Ten minutes.” She caves, turning to me. “If you need me before then, for anything, I’ll be in the car.”

  “I said I’ll be okay, Izzy.” I smile to reassure her.

  Isobel stares at me, and then at Claire, before turning swiftly on her heels, heading down the steps. Claire leads me inside, closing the door behind me.

  The McIntyre home is the type of home you’d expect from a rich family. Everything is made of polished cherry wood, with the most advanced technology. As we walk past the living room, I see a seventy-inch TV, hundreds of books, Alexa devices in almost every room, paintings that I know are worth thousands, and family portraits of a happy all-American family, with a mother, a father, a redheaded older son, and a brown-haired younger one.

  It’s too perfect, honestly.

  But Claire doesn’t stop walking, and I appreciate that, because if we keep walking, keep moving, nothing about how weird this all is can set in, seep into my bones, and paralyze me.

  “She’s a fiery one, isn’t she?” Claire asks.

  “Isobel’s protective of me.”

  “I’m glad you have someone like that.” She leaves it at that. At the end of the hallway, there’s a pair of double sliding doors, in the same wooden pattern as the floor. Behind it, muffled, I can hear a voice. It sounds like a man.

  My heart races. Was Isobel right? Not only do I think about how she would never let me live it down but I also flash to my parents. I lied to them about where Isobel and I were going tonight. It came out before I could process it, and there was no going back. They think we’re seeing a movie and getting dinner, and they were eager to let me have some fun—especially with someone they trusted.

  But now, I’m thinking that might have been a mistake.

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nbsp; Claire opens the sliding doors, and they glide smoothly without a sound. Inside is their dining room, which is as big as my kitchen, living room, and foyer combined. Three large windows take over the right wall, with a table that seats at least ten people in the middle. But only one man sits at it.

  “Greg, Andre. Andre, Greg. My husband.”

  Greg smiles broadly, a warmer grin than Claire’s. It reminds me of my father: welcoming, calming, and friendly.

  “Nice to meet you, Andre. Take a seat, we have plenty.”

  Of course: a dad joke.

  “Nice to meet you both,” I say. And I mean it. My parents taught me manners, after all. But they also told me to be confident. So I don’t sit. Because Isobel is right. If these people really are crazy? Sitting is not where I want to be.

  “First of all, I want to thank you and your son for saving my life. Truly. I wouldn’t be where I am without you both. Without…your son.”

  How do you talk about someone in the past tense when it’s so clear that he’s still a part of their lives? Neither of them falter, except for Greg’s eyes flicking to the photos on the walls and mantel and Claire’s cheek twitching just slightly.

  “I know there are a lot of people you could have given the liver to.” I also know I wasn’t on the top of the list, but that’s a different question for another day. “I’m not sure how you found out that I was the one who got your son’s organ but—”

  “But do you really care?”

  There’s no proper way to answer that question. I settle on saying, “I care because I’m curious.”

  The twitch on Claire’s face turns into a soft grin. There’s sadness behind her eyes, but she’s trained herself to smile to hide it. It’s probably some sort of defense mechanism; women in power can’t show weakness, but a smile? That’s disarming.

  “Right answer.” A beat passes. “David, our son, would be happy to help, Andre.”

  Greg nods. “That’s the type of person he was. Always helping others. Using your life to help another? This is the ultimate way of helping someone, I feel. Kinda like a coup de grâce.” He laughs. If Claire’s smile is her defense, then Greg’s laugh is his.