Аннали Ньюиц - The Future of Another Timeline

Lizzy put her arm around me and I thought about how this room had been our laboratory when we were ten. We spent that whole summer pretending to be geoscientists, keeping notebooks full of observations about the rocks we found in the neighborhood.

“Do you still have those boxes of rocks we collected when we were kids?” My voice sounded shaky and strange.

“Maybe? I’m pretty sure my mom kept them for a little while.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“I think I might be pregnant.”

“Oh shit. Shit, Beth. What the fuck. Didn’t you use a condom?”

“I mean, mostly. But then there was one time… but he pulled out before…” I put my face in my hands.

Lizzy didn’t say anything for a long time and I stared into the darkness of my eyelids as Glorious Garcia yelled about melting every gun in the world.

“You know that’s bullshit, right? Pulling out is not… it doesn’t… I mean, you are my best friend in the universe, but this is not an unlucky edit. That was really stupid, Beth.”

“I know.” I mashed fingers into my eyes until I saw red spots. “I know, I know!”

“Does Hamid know?”

“No! I don’t want to tell him. I don’t even know if I want to see him again.” As I spoke, I finally looked at Lizzy and realized it was true. My so-called relationship with Hamid could hardly sustain a month of one-sentence postcards, let alone something like this.

“Well, it’s partly his fault.”

“I guess so. But I barely know him. I don’t know what he would do, anyway. It’s not like he’s some kind of magical abortionist.” I started crying again. “He’s just some… idiotic guy.”

“He’s definitely an idiot.” Lizzy shook her head. Then she said the very last thing I would have expected. “We should talk to my mom.”

I’d grown up with Lizzy, but I’d never thought of her mom as somebody we could talk to about anything more serious than what we wanted for dessert. She was one of those vaguely liberal parents who’d told me to call her Jenny instead of Mrs. Berman, her job involved a lot of travel, and that was roughly all I knew about her. When we found her downstairs, still reading, I noticed that she seemed older than when I’d last seen her a couple of weeks ago. Maybe she was tired.

“Mom, we need to talk to you about something private.”

She looked up, her faint smile fading into concern. “What’s going on?”

We sat down on the other side of the table and I looked helplessly at Lizzy. I had no idea what to say.

“Beth thinks she might be pregnant.”

My cheeks burned and I stared at my hands. I couldn’t believe Lizzy was saying it out loud like it was no big deal. But her mom—Jenny—seemed totally unfazed. She put a hand on my arm comfortingly.

“Okay, let’s think. Beth, are you sure? Have you done a pregnancy test?”

I shook my head and felt more tears blobbing up in my eyes.

One trip to the pharmacy and two hours later, it was official. The blue stripe meant I was definitely pregnant. My mother would have been spiraling into total meltdown, hurling accusations, but Jenny gave my arm another pat and looked sympathetic.

“I told Lizzy that she should come to me if something like this happened because I know a doctor who can help. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

I stared at her, shredded by panic and hope. “Do you mean… abortion? What kind of doctor does that?”

“I met him through a friend, when I needed help.” Jenny and Lizzy glanced at each other, and for a second I could see the same lines in their faces. “He’s a regular family doctor who has a little business on the side. It’s all done in his office after hours.”

Lizzy put her hand on my other arm. “Do you want us to help you?”

I thought of all the times my father had told me I was doing the wrong thing. I thought about how he flipped rules around arbitrarily and invented new ways for me to disobey him. And then I thought, dizzily, that I was not in my father’s house.

“Yes. I want an abortion.”

“Okay. Let me make some calls. The sooner you do it, the easier it will be.” Jenny headed for the phone. For the first time, it occurred to me that Lizzy hadn’t been born a decider. She’d learned it from her mother.

Chicago, Illinois (1893 C.E.)

The morning after I came out to Aseel and Soph as a traveler, I navigated between a headache, yet another carriage full of ostriches, and monumental chunks of Ferris wheel to reach the Algerian Theater. Sol was addressing the whole troupe when I arrived, while Aseel translated into Arabic. With opening day right around the corner, he’d arranged for a special preview show at the local press club for that afternoon. Several of the dancers would perform, with Aseel’s Lady Asenath routine as the main attraction.

“What? This afternoon?” Aseel whirled on Sol, glowering. A few of the dancers cracked smiles. They were always amused when Aseel fought with Sol.

To his credit, he looked sheepish. “That’s the only time they would give us. But a lot of press are coming! We should get lots of notices.”

There was nothing to be done but to make the best of it. Aseel swung into action. “Salina, Amina, and Bertha, come with me. We’ll figure out something. And you too, Tess. We need our costumes to look perfect.”

I followed them to the dressing room. As I sewed furiously, Aseel went over their set. Each dancer would do her number while the others watched, and of course Lady Asenath would be the climactic act. She also dispensed some advice. “Remember to bring a veil to rip off your face at some point. Those white gentlemen love it.”

Salina looked dubious. “A veil? How does that fit into my dance?”

“I trust you can make it work.”

Salina shrugged and looked at me. “You got a veil?”

“I can make one for you right now.” I looked over at Aseel. “You want something to cover her nose and mouth? Or her whole head?”

“Nose and mouth is fine.”

“Nothing on my head with it? Who wears a veil over her nose and mouth without a head covering?” Salina threw up her arms.

Aseel rolled her eyes. “Look, I know. But trust me. They will eat it up.”

Sol brought us in a carriage to the press club, where we found Soph pacing back and forth outside. She was fuming. “They won’t let me in, despite my press credentials!”

“Come with us, and I’ll get you in.” Aseel crooked her finger for Soph to follow.

When we reached the entrance, the doorman scowled. “This is a men’s club. She can’t come in.”

“I’m press, sir! It is a press club.” Soph’s pale cheeks had gone red and her hair was coming undone.

Aseel stepped forward. “She’s with us. We’re the reason why everyone is here.” And with that, she swung the dark wool coat off her shoulders to reveal her danse du ventre costume, with its nearly transparent chemise and ropes of beads shimmering over the generous curve of her belly.

“What… what… are you… Lady Asenath?”

“I am. And we’re going inside for our press conference.”

The man gaped.

I wondered what made him gaze at her like that. She was beautiful, but not in this era’s conventional sense—she fit no Gilded Age ideal with her brown skin and thick waist. Was he rocked by moral indignation? Titillated by the idea of a live-action French postcard? Whatever it was, she forced him to look beyond the phantasm his desire conjured. She radiated authority. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Aseel took it for granted that men would do what she said. And it worked. In the face of her supreme certainty, the doorman stood aside.