Happiness class is coming in handy, at last.
She looks over at me sharply. “How old are you, again?”
“Eighteen. Sort of. How old are you?” I ask with a grin, because I already know the answer. I’ve done the math. When Dad asked her to marry him, she was ninety-nine.
She reddens. “Older than that.” She sighs. “I don’t want to become someone else simply because it’s what’s expected of me.”
“So don’t. Be more,” I say.
“What did you say?” she asks.
“Be more than what’s expected of you. Look beyond that. Choose your own purpose.”
At the word purpose, her eyes narrow on my face. “Who are you?”
“Clara,” I answer. “I told you.”
“No.” She gets up, walks to the edge of the rock. “Who are you, really?”
I stand and stare at her, meeting her eyes. Time to show my hand, I think. I swallow.
“I’m your daughter,” I say. “Yeah, it’s kind of weird to see you, too,” I continue, as her face goes sheet white. “What’s today’s date, anyway? I’ve been dying to know ever since I saw your outfit.”
“It’s July tenth,” she says dazedly. “1989. What are you playing at? Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I guess I was missing you, and then I crossed through time by accident. Dad said I would see you again, when I needed it most. I guess this is what he meant.” I take a step forward. “I really am your daughter.”
She shakes her head. “Stop saying that. It’s not possible.”
I hold up my arms, shrug. “And yet here I am.”
“No,” she says, but I can see her scrutinizing my face in an entirely different way, seeing my nose as her nose, the shape of my face, my eyebrows, my ears. Uncertainty flickers in her eyes. Then panic. I start to get worried that she might jump off this rock and fly to get away from me.
“This is a trick,” she says.
“Oh yeah? And what I am trying to trick you into?”
“You want me to …”
“Marry Dad?” I fill in. “You think he—Michael, my father, an angel of the Lord and all that—wants to trap you into a marriage that you don’t want to be in?” I sigh. “Look, I know this is surreal. It feels strange to me too, like any minute I might disappear like I was never born, which would be a total bummer, if you know what I mean. But I don’t care, really. I’m so glad to see you. I’ve missed you. So much. Can’t we just … talk about it? I’m going to be born on June 20, 1994.” I take a slow step toward her.
“Don’t,” she says sharply.
“I don’t know how to convince you.” I stop and think about it. Then I hold up my hands. “We have the same hands,” I say. “Look. The exact same. See how your ring finger is slightly longer than your index finger? Mine too. You always joked that it was a sign of great intelligence. And I have this big vein that goes horizontally across the right one, which I think looks kind of weird, but you have that too. So I guess we’re weird together.”
She stares at her hands.
“I think I should sit down,” she says, and drops heavily to sit on the rock.
I crouch next to her.
“Clara,” she whispers. “What’s your last name?”
“Gardner. I think it’s what Dad chooses as his mortal surname, but I’m not sure, actually. Clara, by the way, was like the most popular girl’s name in something like 1910, but not so much since then. Thanks for that.”
She stifles a smile. “I like the name Clara.”
“Do you want me to tell you my middle name, or can you come up with it on your own?”
She puts her fingers to her lips and shakes her head incredulously.
“So,” I say, because the sun is definitely on its way toward the horizon now, and she’s going to have to go soon, “I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but I think you should marry him.”
She laughs weakly.
“He loves you. Not because of me. Or because God told him to. Because of you.”
“But I don’t know how to be a mother,” she murmurs. “I was raised in an orphanage, you know. I never had a mother. Am I any good at it?”
“You’re the best. Seriously, and I’m not just trying to make my case here, but you are the best mother. All my friends are superjealous of how amazing you are. You put all the other moms to shame.”
Her expression’s still cloudy. “But I’ll die before you grow up.”
“Yes. And that sucks. But I wouldn’t trade you for somebody who’d live to be a thousand.”
“I won’t be there for you.”
I put my hand over hers. “You’re here now.”
She nods her head slightly, swallows. She turns my hand over in hers and examines it.
“Amazing,” she breathes.
“I know, right?”
We sit for a little while. Then she says, “So tell me about your life. Tell me about this journey you’re going on.”
I bite my lip. I worry that if I tell her too much about the future, it will disrupt the space-time continuum or something and destroy the universe. When I tell her this, she laughs.
“I’ve seen the future all my life,” she says. “It tends to work as a paradox, in my experience. You find out something is going to happen, and then you do it because you know that’s what happens. It’s a chicken-or-the-egg scenario.”
Good enough for me. I tell her everything I think I have time for. I tell her about my visions, about Christian and the fire, the cemetery, and the kiss. I tell her about Jeffrey, which shocks her, because she never considered that she might have more than one child.
“A son,” she breathes. “What’s he like?”
“A lot like Dad. Tall and strong and obsessed with sports. And a lot like you. Stubborn. And stubborn.”
She smiles, and I feel a glimmer of happiness in her at the idea of Jeffrey, a son who looks like Dad. I blab on about how Jeffrey’s vision got him all messed up and how he ran away and has been living at our old house, how he’s dating a bad Triplare, how I can’t find him now, and she sobers right up.
And finally, I tell her about Angela and Phen and Web, and what happened in the Garter, and how I’m starting to believe that Angela’s what my purpose is really about.
“So what do you have to do,” she asks, “to save her?”
She looks over at me sharply. “How old are you, again?”
“Eighteen. Sort of. How old are you?” I ask with a grin, because I already know the answer. I’ve done the math. When Dad asked her to marry him, she was ninety-nine.
She reddens. “Older than that.” She sighs. “I don’t want to become someone else simply because it’s what’s expected of me.”
“So don’t. Be more,” I say.
“What did you say?” she asks.
“Be more than what’s expected of you. Look beyond that. Choose your own purpose.”
At the word purpose, her eyes narrow on my face. “Who are you?”
“Clara,” I answer. “I told you.”
“No.” She gets up, walks to the edge of the rock. “Who are you, really?”
I stand and stare at her, meeting her eyes. Time to show my hand, I think. I swallow.
“I’m your daughter,” I say. “Yeah, it’s kind of weird to see you, too,” I continue, as her face goes sheet white. “What’s today’s date, anyway? I’ve been dying to know ever since I saw your outfit.”
“It’s July tenth,” she says dazedly. “1989. What are you playing at? Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I guess I was missing you, and then I crossed through time by accident. Dad said I would see you again, when I needed it most. I guess this is what he meant.” I take a step forward. “I really am your daughter.”
She shakes her head. “Stop saying that. It’s not possible.”
I hold up my arms, shrug. “And yet here I am.”
“No,” she says, but I can see her scrutinizing my face in an entirely different way, seeing my nose as her nose, the shape of my face, my eyebrows, my ears. Uncertainty flickers in her eyes. Then panic. I start to get worried that she might jump off this rock and fly to get away from me.
“This is a trick,” she says.
“Oh yeah? And what I am trying to trick you into?”
“You want me to …”
“Marry Dad?” I fill in. “You think he—Michael, my father, an angel of the Lord and all that—wants to trap you into a marriage that you don’t want to be in?” I sigh. “Look, I know this is surreal. It feels strange to me too, like any minute I might disappear like I was never born, which would be a total bummer, if you know what I mean. But I don’t care, really. I’m so glad to see you. I’ve missed you. So much. Can’t we just … talk about it? I’m going to be born on June 20, 1994.” I take a slow step toward her.
“Don’t,” she says sharply.
“I don’t know how to convince you.” I stop and think about it. Then I hold up my hands. “We have the same hands,” I say. “Look. The exact same. See how your ring finger is slightly longer than your index finger? Mine too. You always joked that it was a sign of great intelligence. And I have this big vein that goes horizontally across the right one, which I think looks kind of weird, but you have that too. So I guess we’re weird together.”
She stares at her hands.
“I think I should sit down,” she says, and drops heavily to sit on the rock.
I crouch next to her.
“Clara,” she whispers. “What’s your last name?”
“Gardner. I think it’s what Dad chooses as his mortal surname, but I’m not sure, actually. Clara, by the way, was like the most popular girl’s name in something like 1910, but not so much since then. Thanks for that.”
She stifles a smile. “I like the name Clara.”
“Do you want me to tell you my middle name, or can you come up with it on your own?”
She puts her fingers to her lips and shakes her head incredulously.
“So,” I say, because the sun is definitely on its way toward the horizon now, and she’s going to have to go soon, “I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but I think you should marry him.”
She laughs weakly.
“He loves you. Not because of me. Or because God told him to. Because of you.”
“But I don’t know how to be a mother,” she murmurs. “I was raised in an orphanage, you know. I never had a mother. Am I any good at it?”
“You’re the best. Seriously, and I’m not just trying to make my case here, but you are the best mother. All my friends are superjealous of how amazing you are. You put all the other moms to shame.”
Her expression’s still cloudy. “But I’ll die before you grow up.”
“Yes. And that sucks. But I wouldn’t trade you for somebody who’d live to be a thousand.”
“I won’t be there for you.”
I put my hand over hers. “You’re here now.”
She nods her head slightly, swallows. She turns my hand over in hers and examines it.
“Amazing,” she breathes.
“I know, right?”
We sit for a little while. Then she says, “So tell me about your life. Tell me about this journey you’re going on.”
I bite my lip. I worry that if I tell her too much about the future, it will disrupt the space-time continuum or something and destroy the universe. When I tell her this, she laughs.
“I’ve seen the future all my life,” she says. “It tends to work as a paradox, in my experience. You find out something is going to happen, and then you do it because you know that’s what happens. It’s a chicken-or-the-egg scenario.”
Good enough for me. I tell her everything I think I have time for. I tell her about my visions, about Christian and the fire, the cemetery, and the kiss. I tell her about Jeffrey, which shocks her, because she never considered that she might have more than one child.
“A son,” she breathes. “What’s he like?”
“A lot like Dad. Tall and strong and obsessed with sports. And a lot like you. Stubborn. And stubborn.”
She smiles, and I feel a glimmer of happiness in her at the idea of Jeffrey, a son who looks like Dad. I blab on about how Jeffrey’s vision got him all messed up and how he ran away and has been living at our old house, how he’s dating a bad Triplare, how I can’t find him now, and she sobers right up.
And finally, I tell her about Angela and Phen and Web, and what happened in the Garter, and how I’m starting to believe that Angela’s what my purpose is really about.
“So what do you have to do,” she asks, “to save her?”
