Yesterday Is History Page 4

  “And second of all?” Claire asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “If there’s a first of all, Andre, there has to be a second of all. You’re smart, trust me, I know. You’re not just smart—you’re smart with a capital S. So what else would you like to say?”

  I stand quietly, listening to the heavy beating of my heart fill my ears. It’s a hard feeling to wrap your head around, knowing that you’re in over your head. Claire is right. I am Smart. Smart enough to know how to navigate around conversations. It’s a skill my parents taught me: always have an out. Always leave a good impression.

  But right here? I’m out of my depth. Claire is calm and collected. Greg is disarming and supportive. They play off each other in a synergistic way. They fit together, slotting into each other, like a true power couple, forming an impenetrable wall.

  The only way out is through. And the best way through something is the truth.

  “Why am I here?”

  “There it is,” Claire says. Greg smiles, that proud fatherly smile men give that makes me feel uncomfortable but also like I should be proud of myself.

  “Long story. Should you tell him, or should I?” he asks.

  “You’ve had a rough week, dear. I think you should. A little joy to add to an otherwise gloomy day.”

  “And that’s why I love you so much. But this was all your idea. I think you should see it through to the end.”

  “And that’s why I love you,” she responds, kissing Greg’s cheek quickly.

  Claire sighs in an exasperated way that shows she’s conceding, even though she has more fight in her.

  “Right, then. Ripping off the Band-Aid fast is usually best,” she says. “A little less than twenty-four hours ago, you did something extraordinary. Something that you might not understand, that you might want to think was a dream, or frankly, that you can’t explain. I’m here to tell you that what happened to you actually did happen. You did jump through time, and you are, for all intents and purposes, a time traveler. And I know that because—”

  “Because we’re time travelers too!” Greg interrupts.

  “Christ! Greg! You couldn’t let me finish!”

  Greg holds his hands up. “Sorry, sorry…”

  I really did time travel. This is really happening.

  Six

  I come from a family of scientists. My grandmother on my father’s side was the first African American woman to graduate from Emory’s medical school, and my great-grandfather on my mother’s side helped the Americans on their failed attempt at cracking the Enigma code, though he was very far down the ladder and barely had any responsibility, because, you know, he was Black.

  We are a family of doers. Solvers. Creators. And every solution or creation always begins the same way: eliminating any answer that doesn’t make sense. It’s the basis of science. I think.

  “Time travel doesn’t exist.”

  Did I want it to be real? No. In what world would time travel being a thing make anything easier?

  My mind’s racing with millions of thoughts.

  “Reasonable reaction, all things considered,” Greg muses. “At least he didn’t run out of the room screaming.”

  The only reason I haven’t is because what they are suggesting may be ridiculous, but there’s a part of me that wants to believe it. That’s staying here because maybe, just maybe, they can give me some piece of proof that will make the impossible possible.

  “Why do you say that, Andre?” asks Claire.

  “That time travel doesn’t exist?”

  She nods. “Because society tells you so? Because that’s what you’ve been taught? What about ‘i before e except after c’? We learn when we’re older that’s not true all the time.”

  “You’re comparing jumping through time and space to a bad grammatical rule?”

  “Got you there, honey,” Greg chimes in. “Smart and quick-witted.”

  “And a talented jumper,” she says, still looking at me. “You’ve had, what, six months since the liver transplant, and you’ve already made your first jump?”

  My body freezes. It’s like in those horror movies when the character realizes that the call is coming from inside the house. This family knows more about me than I know about them, and that disadvantage isn’t comforting.

  “Why don’t we start from the beginning?” I suggest. “And only honest answers.”

  Claire chuckles. “By the time we’re done, you’re going to be thinking very differently about that word.”

  “Start?”

  “Beginning.”

  I push past the sense of wonder and hold my ground. It won’t be long before Isobel comes bursting in, anyway.

  “How do you know so much about me?”

  “Money,” she says bluntly, gesturing to the house. “We’re rich, Andre. You’re smart enough to know that the world works differently for certain people. If you’re rich, you can get away with more.”

  “Like finding out who received a donated organ.”

  She smiles. “Precisely. But that was more self-preservation. No. Protection. That’s a better word. We couldn’t have someone jumping through time, someone who got that ability through us, walking around the world unchecked. It was as much for your protection as it was for ours.”

  Without another word or a request to follow her, she turns and walks back down the hall and into the study, and I obediently trail behind her.

  Humming under her breath, she scans half a dozen bookshelves with her fingers before grabbing an older-looking book. She then sits on the couch and gestures for me to sit next to her. I hesitate but obey.

  “For me to be honest with you, and for you to understand, you’re going to have to suspend your disbelief for a few minutes,” she says, dusting off the leather binding. “You’re going to have to go into this believing that there is a chance that I’m telling you the truth, that time travel exists. Can you do that, Andre?”

  “As long as you’re honest with me, then sure.”

  She grins, sitting back next to me.

  I move half a foot away. But she doesn’t seem to mind.

  “My family, and other families like us, are time travelers. It’s a genetic thing, and I’m not sure when it started or how. But for as long as I can remember, people in my family have been able to do it. Jump through time and space.”

  She opens the book, which I realize is actually a photo album. The page she turns to is filled with four or five photos. One of them stands out. It’s of the Crispus Attucks Monument designed by Robert Kraus. But in this picture, it’s only half finished. I used to love that monument when I was little. Mom took me to it hundreds of times. I did over a dozen projects on Crispus Attucks, the first American, a Black man, killed at the start of the American Revolution. I know his story like the back of my hand.

  I also know that the monument was erected in 1888. There is a woman in the picture, standing off to the side, a woman who looks exactly like Claire McIntyre.

  I bring the photo close to my face, as if examining the grainy and slightly blurry photograph with crinkly, yellowed edges will help me make sense of what I’m seeing. The album is filled with photographs—some labeled Statue of Liberty, 1895 and others, The Battle of South Mountain, 1862 and Live Aid Concert, 1985.

  And Claire is clearly there in all of them.

  I close the heavy book with a loud thump, pushing it back toward her like it’s some sort of cursed tome. She takes it carefully, holding the book preciously close to her chest before putting it by her side.

  “Questions?”

  “Many.” A beat passes. “These could be photoshopped.”

  Claire shrugs. “They could be. Do you think they are?”

  I can’t say that I do, and I think that’s what scares me.

  “That’s typical, you know. All the ques
tions you have—logical solutions trying their best to make themselves known, to make sense of what’s happening. At least, I assume that’s typical. Most time travelers come from families who can perform the act. They just inherently know that this is real because it’s part of their reality. It’s rare for someone to just”—she snaps—“start doing it without some warning signs beforehand. It’s a genetic gift, you know, and you’ve been lucky enough to have received it.”

  “I’d argue it’s a curse.”

  For the first time since I arrived, it’s her turn to look off-balance.

  “And why would you say that?”

  “Secrets make you lonely. They isolate you. And a secret like this, if it’s actually true? That’s something you can’t ever afford to let loose. That’s a sad way to live. Especially when you have the power to play God but, I’m assuming, can’t.”

  “Assuming that time travel is real, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re smart, Andre.”

  “I know.”

  “But in this case, you’re wrong. To not be anchored to a specific time? To see the world in a way that no one else can? That’s a gift that few people can experience. And you, Andre, are lucky enough now to be able to experience it.”

  I play along. Not because I’m worried about my safety. Because I’m curious.

  “Nothing in this life is just given. It’s not just the luck of the draw. Everything comes at a price and a consequence,” I say.

  “Spoken like someone who has never just enjoyed life for what it has to offer.”

  I point to my dark-skinned arm. “This doesn’t allow me that.”

  She pauses. She swallows, her sharp collarbone becoming more pronounced as her body tenses.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, backtracking.

  “I know. No one ever does.”

  I breathe in and count to five. It shouldn’t be my job to make her more comfortable with discussing race. I’m not a teachable moment. But that’s always how this goes. Most race conversations end like this. Uncomfortable, awkward sessions of me trying to make someone else feel better. I should be used to it. I should be…

  The front door opens suddenly, with enough force to make the photos on the wall vibrate. At first, I think it’s Isobel. I’m sure it’s been more than ten minutes, or close to it. But the voice that follows is deep, and the footsteps that thump against the floor are heavy.

  “Hey, Mom. There’s some girl sitting in the driveway glar—”

  We turn to the doorway, but I’m the only one who stands. Fast enough, I might add, that the ground comes rushing up to me in a wave of dizziness. Standing there, in the flesh, is the same boy, now at least a decade older than he is in the photos. I assume he’s the McIntyres’ youngest son. His brown hair is matted to his forehead, and there’s a sheen of sweat on him. He holds a lacrosse stick in one hand and an equipment bag in the other, and his shirt reads THE HUTCHERSON SCHOOL. My rival school.

  “Blake,” she says sternly. “You know I told you no cleats in the house. And you’re late. I told you to be here—”

  “You brought him here?” he interrupts.

  Blake never stops looking at me. No, looking isn’t the right word; he’s staring—like his eyes are trying to bore a hole in my forehead and kill me.

  “Hi, I’m—” I start to say.

  “I don’t care what your name is. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Blake, Andre is our guest, and he’s—”

  “Don’t,” Blake snaps. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say.”

  Claire sighs. “Blake. Simply because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t make it any less true. Andre has your brother’s liver. Andre can time travel—you felt it, I felt it, your father felt it. Which means that there is someone in this world who could reveal our secret, unless they have the proper training. That’s where we come in.” She takes a beat. “More accurately, that’s where you come in. Which is why I wanted you here on time.”

  “What?” Blake and I both say at the exact same time.

  “Why?” Blake asks.

  Claire shrugs. “It’ll do you both some good. But more importantly? Your brother would have…”

  “Don’t.” Blake is seething. “Don’t use him to get what you want. You don’t have the right. And more importantly?” he sneered, mimicking her tone. “There’s no way in hell I’m teaching him how to jump.”

  “And who said I even believed in all this?” I add.

  Blake turns to me. “Are you calling my mom a liar?”

  “I didn’t say that, and just one minute ago, you wanted nothing to do with me.”

  Blake takes a step forward. “I still want nothing to do with you. You’re not part of this family, and you’re certainly not my brother, so I’m not even sure why you’re here.”

  “I never said I was your brother, and I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m very happy to leave, though.”

  The vibe I get from Blake? From this family? It’s…uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s like something is off, a piece is missing in a puzzle, and they’re trying to compensate for it in weird ways. It’s too much weirdness right now, when I have so many other things on my plate.

  Before I can respond, everything changes. And Blake is gone.

  And so is the view.

  And the couch.

  And the whole house.

  Instead, I’m standing in the living room of my own house. Well, not my house. Michael’s house. In 1969. Again. Except this time, there’s jazz playing.

  “Shit!”

  A loud crunch makes me jump, and I quickly spin around, only to come face-to-face with Michael and his floppy blond hair. He’s dressed only in boxers, with a bowl of cereal balanced precariously in the palm of his right hand, a spoon and a cigarette in his left, staring at me with a mix of elation and surprise.

  “I feel,” Michael says, then swallows, “like I should be concerned by how you got into my house, but we’ll deal with that second. First, though…” He puts his bowl down on a stand next to a record player. “Want some cereal?”

  For several seconds, I just stand there, looking at him, surveying the room, much like I did his lawn. My lawn. Whatever. I try my best to get my bearings. To deal with the millions of questions going through my head, deciding which one to ask, as if Michael could answer them.

  But all that comes out is an enthusiastic and uncharacteristic…

  “Yes.”

  Seven

  From what I can tell, Michael really likes alcohol. Especially with his cereal, a combination he claims is the dinner of champions.

  In the ten minutes I’ve been here, he’s already tried to make me a drink three times now. The first time, he said he didn’t add enough alcohol. The second time, not enough ice. And the third time, this time, he seems to have found the right balance.

  “Try this,” he says, quietly padding over to me in his bare feet and handing me the drink. “You look like a dark ’n’ stormy type of guy.”

  “Is that because I’m Black?”

  Michael only smiles, leaning against the couch. The jazz has died down, leaving only the pulsing life of a bustling cul-de-sac to entertain us.

  I hate jazz, something my father tries to rectify every time it comes up in conversation (or a jazz festival comes to town), but it was a nice, calming reprieve compared to the other noises. Noises that remind me that, no matter how similar it is, this isn’t my home.

  I stare at the brownish liquid and sigh. Why not?

  It has a sharp taste to it but also a sweet aftereffect. There’s ginger, definitely, and the alcohol—rum, I think—isn’t as strong as I expected. The coolness of the drink feels good against my throat.

  By the time I finally put the drink down, it’s about a third of the w
ay gone.

  “Did I disturb you?” I ask.

  Michael stares at me for a moment longer, a small hint of a grin forming on his lips. Even as he brings his cereal bowl to his lips, like I do, he doesn’t stop staring. He’s like a cat watching its prey, but in a more playful way.

  “You’re an odd one,” he finally says. “But no. I just got out of the shower, and now I’m eating cereal with booze for dinner, because I’m what? An adult.” A lopsided, boyish smile takes over his features. “Was playing some music to pass the time, you know? But I’d much rather spend the time with you. Get to know you, Andre from Boston, and most importantly, learn how it is that you just disappear and reappear like you did now and three days ago—”

  “Wait, sorry, what?” I quickly interject.

  “Which part didn’t make sense to you?”

  “The three days.”

  “Not the disappearing part? Because that’s the part I’m curious about. Is the future really that advanced that you can just—” He snaps his fingers, demonstrating. He waits for an explanation, one I can’t give him.

  Michael smiles another lopsided grin that makes my heart skip a beat before he nods his head toward the wall. We both walk over to it as he points to a calendar. It’s a Lord of the Rings calendar. For the month of June, it has an illustration of Pippin and Merry riding the back of the Ents.

  “You disappeared here,” he says, tapping the date—the fourteenth. That was the day I got home from the hospital visit. He then slides his finger across the calendar, stopping on the seventeenth. “And here’s today.”

  “Three days,” I mutter.

  “Three days,” he repeats.

  Which doesn’t fully make sense, since I know I was there…here…whatever…last night.

  I feel my mind doing what it does when I’m going down a rabbit hole. It’s like the walls of reality close in around me, and nothing else matters but the narrow truth in front of me. My tunnel vision, Mom always says, is what’s going to make me a good doctor, because it allows me to focus on one thing and get it done. I’m not sure I agree. But right now, my mind is focused on so many things: time travel, the ramifications of it, what will happen when I get back, if I get back…