We spend the rest of our meal reminiscing over our memories together, both trying to avoid the unknown of what is to come. We mindlessly plan our trip to the Cape next summer as if tomorrow isn’t happening. As if we’ll return the same people we left as. As if we’ll return at all.
Ben cleans up the kitchen while I go into my bedroom to pack a small bag of keepsakes I want to bring with me. I fill a small envelope with photos of myself growing up, friends at the Cape, and Ben and I at Christmas, moments I’ll want to turn to for comfort when I miss this place.
I get changed for bed and I begin to feel more and more restless. I walk out into the living room where Ben is sitting in his pajamas on the sofa watching the Bruins game.
“Hey, can you come stay with me? I really don’t want to be alone tonight. I’ll put the game on in the bedroom.”
Without a word, Ben turns off the television and gets up. He smiles as he walks over to me. He puts his arm around my shoulder and walks up the stairs to my bedroom.
“Only time I’ll ever sleep with a girl!” he jokes as I elbow him in the side.
He slips into my bed and we just talk for a while, with the hockey game on for white noise and normalcy. We lay on our sides toward each other, both grasping at companionship. Platonic as it may be, it’s nice to have warmth in my bed and not be alone. I close my eyes and dream of the sea, wondering what it holds for me.
Chapter Eight
Landslide by Fleetwood Mac
My alarm goes off at 6 a.m. and I roll over to find Ben already awake. He’s on his side and resting his head on his arm.
“Morning,” he says with a playful wink.
I stretch out in bed, extending my fingers and toes out like a cat. I slept surprisingly well, though I probably couldn’t say the same if I had been alone with my thoughts all night. Ben and I take turns in the shower and wordlessly get ready. Neither of us really knows what to say, and I think the nerves are finally hitting him too. There’s not much left to say. We’ve been discussing the mission as eventually happening, but now here it is right in front of us.
I stand in my closet, looking at the racks surrounding me, pondering my choices. What does one wear before time travel? What is the appropriate outfit for the possible end of the world?It’s just another day, Ali.I pull on a pair of high-waisted straight-cut jeans that are cropped at the ankle. I pick a white square neck cap sleeve top from the drawer and sit down to pull on a pair of low white sneakers.
“Al, it’s time to go. The car James sent us is here,” Ben interrupts my thoughts as he points out the window.
I look outside and see a black town car waiting in front of my house. I nod and grab a black suede moto jacket, putting it on and fluffing my hair back into place. Ben brings our belongings to the foyer while I make us coffee to-go in the kitchen. I brace my hand on the door frame as I reach for two travel mugs. My fingers grasp the growth marks Dad made when I was a child.Dad. I wonder what you would think of all this. Would you be proud or think I’m crazy?
I meet Ben in the foyer, turning off all the lights as I go, and hand him his coffee. With my small bag of personal items for the trunk in hand, I step out the front door. My gaze moves back toward my house. Will I ever see this place again? I freeze, lost in my thoughts, as I lock the front door. I can hear Ben calling to me, but something keeps me rooted to the ground. Suddenly, I feel Ben’s hand on my back. He’s both comforting me and guiding me toward the sidewalk. While grabbing our bags, he walks ahead to open the car door for me. He’s really practicing 1900s chivalry.
It’s a forty-minute drive to Dr. Conrad’s private lab in Concord. Ben and I sit quietly in the car, careful to not discuss anything in front of the driver. I don’t know if the driver is privately contracted or whether he’s in on the entire scheme too. I assume everyone even breathing near this project is on the payroll. I don’t think Dr. Conrad or Dr. McCoy would take such a gamble, and I’m sure they covered their bases as extensively as possible. The drive is beautiful; the trees are turning color and the sun is shining through them. We turn off the main road and begin a winding trail deep into the woods. Dr. Conrad’s lab sits at the end of the trail, nestled between rows of trees on each side.
As I step out of the car, I breathe in the scent of evergreen and pine. The woods are still and calm. They have no idea we’re about to do the impossible in their shelter.
The lab is an unassuming brick building. Anyone who ventures this far into the woods might assume it’s a luxury cabin of some kind. It’s not even that large, so I imagine a good portion of it is perhaps underground. Dr. Conrad welcomes us inside and leads us down a hallway to an arched door. He presses his palm to the touchpad on the door and it opens for him. I can see Dr. McCoy waiting with a small staff inside.
The room is circular, with rails around looking down to a lower level. There are doors around the walls leading to smaller rooms. Down below, I can see a platform in the middle of the room. Next to it is a large system resembling a computer with buttons and levers all over it. I gulp nervously as I look around the lab. Everything suddenly feels real.
Dr. Conrad leads us to one of the smaller off-shoot rooms. Sarah and Eric are already there and half-dressed in their Edwardian clothes.
“Welcome to hair and makeup,” Dr. Conrad jokes as if this is some Hollywood set.
Sheila and Jane are in the room, Sheila styling Sarah’s hair while Jane packs the rest of her clothes into the luggage. When I enter, I’m escorted over to a styling chair in front of a brightly lit mirror. Jane walks over and begins brushing my hair. She stops to pull out a tray of pins and hair pieces for me to choose from. With most of my hair pulled into a knot, she leaves a few curls to hang around my face. She uses the rest of my hair to form a braid, which she encircles around the knot.
She secures her creation with pins and shifts her focus to my face. She pulls out a container holding little pots of rouge for my lips, eyes, and face.
Jane smiles as she blots and powders my face. “You hardly need anything. Natural is the style,” she says, not knowing that low-maintenance makeup is already my everyday routine. She gently swoops the brush across my face. When our eyes meet, she smiles warmly and looks at me like she’s scared for me.
After makeup, I head over to the rack where Jane has laid out a dress and all the undergarments and accessories for me. I stand behind a curtain, remove my clothes, and slip into a chemise. Jane then comes behind the curtain and begins lacing up my corset. She tries to pull it gently at first, but she seems hesitant to restrict me.
“Jane, it’s okay. We have to be accurate. Tighten me up,” I reassure her. She looks at me apologetically and tightens the laces, squeezing my waist in. I let out a small gasp. “Perfect.”
Jane helps me step into my boarding dress, a dark burgundy suit dress with a matching tailored coat. I place the matching hat on my head, checking the mirror to make sure it's on properly before attempting to secure it with a hatpin. I shove the pin through the hat twice, each time never getting the hat to stay put. I mumble in frustration after each failed attempt.Stupid hat. Stupid pin. Stupid hair. Why is this so fucking hard?
“Here, let me,” Sarah interjects and takes the pin out of my hand. She holds my hat in one hand and the pin in another and quickly swipes it through. She makes it look easy.
“Thanks.” I smile helplessly. The hats are gigantic and they make me feel self conscious, as if they practically double my radius. It feels like I’m balancing a small country on top of my head. Sarah stands across from me in a black dress with long sleeves and a white apron, a typical maid’s uniform. I look over at her rack of clothes and see more of the same. I think of my rack, filled with enough clothes for multiple costume changes a day. Everything from fine silks to jeweled and crystal beaded fabrics. I have boxes upon boxes of hats and jewelry. For a moment, I don’t know whether to envy her or feel sorry. “I hope you know I don’t expect you to wait on me,” I say regretfully.
