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Isadora sings: “Don’t be sad, Alba. People are funny, and tall, and old and older; they want to be pretty, they walk through doors, and people are not always sure about things, so don’t be sad, Alba. People exist, they insist on existing, sometimes they tell me about things. I could tell you things, but that would be telling. Everything exists, don’t be sad. It’s all an ouroboros, anyway . . .” Isadora’s voice wanders across several octaves; there is no rhythm; the tune goes and goes, like riding a bicycle and never getting anywhere, never arriving back at the home key, which might have been D#. “Would you like to hear it again with an orchestra?”

“No, thank you. That’s very nice, Isadora. I do feel better,” I lie. “What’s an ‘ouroboros’?”

She shows me a red circle. When I look more carefully, I see that it’s a snake biting the end of its tail. “It means people and animals die, but life is eternal,” Isadora says.

“Okay,” I say politely. “Thank you very much. What’s in all those boxes?”

“Presumably, objects that are going to become Joseph Cornell’s sculptures. Beck wants me to put all the objects in the boxes so that it’s ready in case she ever manages to scan Joseph Cornell.”

“I think Joseph Cornell is dead, Isadora.”

“I’ll tell Beck,” Isadora says. “Do you think he will be scannable if he is dead?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I asked her that once, and she said dead people would be too uncanny.”

Isadora stops working. “In that case, perhaps this can wait.”

“I love his work,” I say. “If Beck scans him, maybe he’ll make something new.”

“That’s the idea,” Isadora says. “I made a new Nina Simone song. Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure,” I say, but before she can begin, I am on my hands and knees on my bedroom floor, on the day I came from, retching. “Oh, Alba,” Mama says. “Let me get you a towel.”

“I want lunch!” I shout, so glad to be back in my own time. After we eat, I’ll ask Isadora to sing her Nina Simone song, so she doesn’t think I didn’t want to hear it. She’s been very cranky lately.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014 (Alba is 39, Beck is 38)

Alba: I’m standing in front of the open refrigerator in the kitchen of my childhood home, eating cheese directly out of the package. I have no idea what night or year it is but I am starving so here I stand, naked and peeling Swiss cheese out of the baggie slice by slice and devouring it. It’s dark outside and the light of the fridge blinds me to the rest of the room. I don’t hear anything but my own munching and Beck scares me out of my skin when she says, “Alba?” and the package of cheese goes flying and lands on the floor.

“Jay-sus!” I hiss, but then say, “Sorry, Beck,” in a more reasonable tone. I shut the fridge and she turns on the overhead light. “I hope you weren’t saving that cheese for anything?” Beck looks like she was in bed: she’s in her blue robe, pajamas, her hair is wrapped, she’s wearing her reading glasses. She retrieves the Swiss cheese and hands it to me. “Go ahead, you need it more than we do.” She leaves the kitchen and comes back with my mom’s bathrobe. I put it on. It smells like Mama, sweet and lotiony.

“Is Mama here?”

“No, she’s with her dad up in Michigan. He’s not doing very well.”

In my present my Grandpa Abshire is long since dead. I try to remember when he died but I can’t. “What year is this?”

“2014.”

“Ugh.”

Beck adds water to the kettle. “Do you want some tea? Don’t let me interrupt if you want to eat some more.”

“Sure, tea sounds good.”

She presses the switch on the electric kettle and sets out two mugs. I eat the last two slices of cheese and then rummage in the pantry and find a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. I shake out a bowl’s worth and add milk. Beck puts the tea in front of me. I stand next to the sink and eat. Beck sits at the table and watches me, steam rising from her untouched mug.

“Beck? Can I ask you to do me a favor?”

“Sure, what do you need?” Beck looks apprehensive.

“Do you remember when I first met Isadora, and she asked if you could give her my Yellow House?”

“Yes? I remember you weren’t too excited about that idea.”

“I’ve reconsidered. Here’s the thing, I don’t care much about the house; you can skip the house entirely if you want to. But I’d be very grateful if you would scan my music, and put it in your Museum.”

“I can do that. But isn’t it all locked up?”