Tamara Stone: TIme After Time

Mr. Greene stands up, extending his hand, and even though it feels overly formal for him—for us—I reach out and shake it politely. Anna’s mom gives me a halfhearted wave from her spot on the couch. “It’s nice to have you back,” she says, but her voice sounds hollow and insincere. Then she adds the word “Finally.” It’s not an afterthought; it’s more like it was the one word she was trying not to say, but couldn’t quite keep from slipping out.

“It’s good to see you both too,” I say. Then I stand there, nodding and waiting for one of them to say more and feeling my stomach sink. I should probably be happy they aren’t outwardly furious with me. After all, not only did I disappear on their daughter in the middle of a date, I disappeared from all of their lives in the middle of, well, everything . I know it would be too much to expect a motherly hug or a fatherly back-pat, and I was hardly expecting tears of joy at the sight of my face in their living room. But I was sort of hoping we wouldn’t be starting from scratch. Or, as it appears to be, less than scratch.

Anna gives my arm a squeeze and I look over at her. Unlike her mom’s blank stare, her expression speaks volumes. She’s beaming at me, her eyes full of joy and wonder, like she can’t believe I’m actually standing here. Without even thinking about it, I let out a relieved sigh and kiss her on the forehead; and she tightens her grip on my arm again and lifts herself up on her toes. She bounces in place a few times.

When I look over at her parents again, their eyes are locked on Anna. But then Mrs. Greene’s gaze slowly travels over to me and the corners of her mouth turn up in a half smile, almost as if she can’t help herself. I give her a grateful nod.

“How’s your sister doing?” Mr. Greene’s voice takes me by surprise and my head snaps in his direction.

“Um… She’s good.” I quickly come up with a way to phrase the rest of my response to give him as little information as possible. “It was touch and go for a while there, but she’s back home now.” I leave it at that and hope that he doesn’t press me for more information, because if he does, I’ll have to lie to him and I’d really like to stop doing that.

“All great to hear.” He waits for a moment, and then it looks like he’s about to say something else. “Ah, never mind, you probably don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not really,” I say.

The cagey thing probably isn’t winning me any points, but now that I think about it, that could be a good thing. If I’m starting at the bottom, I won’t have as far to fall once they learn the truth.

“We’re going to go upstairs,” Anna says, jumping in with a rescue. Before her parents can say anything else, she leads me out of the room. We’ve only climbed the first two stairs when we hear her mom yell, “Leave your door open.” Anna stops, gripping the banister with one hand and hiding her face behind the other.

She shakes it off. “Follow me. I’m dying to show you something.”

Not much has changed since the last time I was in this room. Anna’s impressive CD collection takes up every bit of shelf space, broken up only by the dozens of racing trophies that hold the alphabetized jewel cases in place. The walls are plastered with paper race numbers that were once pinned to her jersey and photos of her breaking through finish-line tape.

The bulletin board over her desk still holds the same lonely Pearl Jam concert stub from March 1994, but next to it I spot something new: a framed photo of Anna, Emma, and Justin. Emma’s mouth is open wide, like she’s squealing. She’s standing behind Justin with her arms wrapped loosely around his neck, and Anna’s on his right, her head resting on his shoulder. The picture must have been taken last June, after I left town but before Anna took off for La Paz. They look happy.

“How’s Emma?”

“Eh, not so good. I went over to her house right after I got home and she told me that she and Justin broke up over the summer.”

“Really? Why?”

Anna turns her back to me, runs her finger along the jewel cases, and selects one. “I don’t know why exactly, because I haven’t heard Justin’s side of the story yet—I stopped by the record store the other day and he was too busy to talk—but according to Emma, he doesn’t think they have enough in common…that they’re better as friends.”

She drops the disc in her CD player, and when the music begins, it sounds familiar, but I can’t place the song. But then the lyrics begin and I instantly recognize Alanis Morissette’s voice. I’m trying to recall which album this is when Anna says, “Have you heard this before?” She waves the case for Jagged Little Pill in the air, and I nod. “I love her. I’ve been running to this CD all summer.” I wish I could tell Anna that she has a lot more Alanis to look forward to, but I keep it to myself. Instead I tell her that I’ll look up the tour schedule and take her to a concert.

I spot the map that takes up the largest wall in her room. I walk over to it and stand there, counting the number of little red pins Anna uses to mark her travels. Nine, including the new one at the bottom of the Baja peninsula. Five more than the first time I stood here, admiring Anna’s intense desire to see the world and enjoying the idea that I could give her a small piece of it.

I turn around and find her standing next to me. “Here.” She hands me a small bag and I peek inside. My Westlake student ID. A blank postcard from Ko Tao. The postcard Anna wrote to me in Vernazza Square. A stubby yellow pencil. A carabiner. One of her pins. “You left them in your desk at Maggie’s. She thought I should hold on to them for you.”

“Thanks.” I remove the postcard from Vernazza, shooting her a glance as I run my finger across the edge. Anna’s watching me as I read it, and I feel myself suck in a breath when I get to the last line, wherever you are in this world, that’s where I want to be , and a wave of guilt washes over me. My chest feels heavy as I drop the card back in the bag and then toss the whole thing on the floor next to the door along with my backpack. “Is that what you wanted to show me?”

Anna’s eyes light up. “Nope.” She turns on her heel and crosses the room. She crouches down low, wrestling with something underneath her bed.

“Close your eyes,” she calls over her shoulder.

Less than a minute later, I feel her behind me, her hands on my waist, pushing me forward. “Keep ’em closed. A few more steps. Okay, stop.” I feel her next to me. “You can open them now.”

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I’m not exactly sure where I’m supposed to be looking. But then I see something lying flat on top of her bedspread, and I take a few steps closer.

It’s a photograph, printed on a huge sheet of thick-looking paper. I recognize the tall rocks and jagged cliffs immediately. “Is that our beach?” I ask, but I already know it is. That’s the spot where I found her in La Paz. The same place I’ve arrived off and on all summer to surprise her during her morning runs. I lean in close to get a better look. “This is incredible. How did you find a print of the exact spot?”

“It’s not a print,” she says as she rests her hands on her hips. “I took it.”

I know nothing about photography, but it looks pretty impressive to me. I can see every tiny crack in the rock face, and the tall cliff is perfectly mirrored in the water below. “You took this?”

“Señora Moreno helped me.” I remember her telling me that her host mom in La Paz was also a local photographer. “I thought you could hang it on your bedroom wall.” She doesn’t clarify which bedroom and I decide not to ask.