Page 29 of Life Out of Order

“You might have noticed that Alba’s future bleeds into her present. If you had a choice, you’ve already made it.”

“Yes,” I admit. “But you were with her, and now you aren’t.”

Caralora regards me with a somber, appraising gaze. Just as I’m about to nervously suggest that she pay attention to driving, she returns her eyes to the street ahead. “I was agonizing over the inevitable; I knew what I needed to do, who I really am, but I felt stuck. Alba and Nick, especially Nick—I was afraid they wouldn’t accept me. But then I had a conversation with a future Alba, a much older Alba. I didn’t need permission, but she gave me a glimpse into my future. It was like receiving a blessing—she told me I would start again. She knew my real name, the name I had never told anyone, and I felt loved, as though she’d reached through my chest and kissed my heart. She told me—other things. She told me about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Alba told us you were working on nabbing Junior and we should join forces. How do you think Nick and I knew to get in touch with you?” Caralora looks smug. “Didn’t you wonder? Bartleby?”

I did, but there’s no point in saying so. “So the party was all Alba’s doing?”

“No, hardly any of it was Alba. She just gave us a few hints. It’s a mistake to put too much weight on stuff Alba tells you, because you can’t always know how to interpret it.”

“But, you just said—”

“She doesn’t always know what she knows. She experiences things out of order, or she sees a tiny slice of something, but she doesn’t know what or when. I remember, our freshman year of high school, she came to algebra class late, very upset; I wrote her a note asking if she was okay; she wrote back that she’d been watching a riot. Needless to say, this freaked me out, and after class I tried to ask her, what riot, where? She didn’t know. She’d been somewhere in a city, for a few minutes, and the streets were up for grabs. Flash forward to May of 2020, Alba texts me a link to a YouTube video. She’d been watching people burn down the police station in Minneapolis on the first night of the protests after George Floyd was murdered.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know, right? She was in an office building, watching from a window, not on the street, or I don’t know what would have happened to her.”

“How do I not die of anxiety every time she disappears?” I feel my insides clench anticipatorily.

“You get used to it. You can get used to almost anything, these days.”

“I guess.” It’s true: It no longer seems all that unusual to wear a mask, or get into fights with random fascists, or to have my car torched. “By the way, what happened to Junior and the others?” I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’ve been wondering.

“I don’t know,” Caralora replies, “and if I did, I wouldn’t say.”

Can’t blame her for that. I look out the window as we near the Gomolinskis’ house. Caralora double parks. “Listen,” she says, “I understand. Things are chaotic, and you want to know if it’s going to turn out okay, and where you stand in the moral universe. I feel the same, so I will tell you this much: Junior and his friends killed seven people that I know about, and they had allies in the police, so that was the only way we could get them. Nadia is a fucking hero, and I don’t know if we’ll ever see her again, or Nick. I know it looked dubious, but that’s how things are. ‘Eat or be eaten,’ as Charisse says.”

“I think that was Erasmus Darwin.”

“Was it? Ugh, never mind. Anyway, you’re with us now, the Gomolinskis will make sure you’re protected. If you’re not too fastidious, you can make yourself useful.”

I smile at Caralora’s notion of me as a shrinking violet. “I’m not having second thoughts. I’m just curious.”

“Be careful, then,” Caralora says cheerfully. I thank her for her help and wish her a happy New Year, to which she responds, “Sure, I guess. You, too.” I walk from the car to the Gomolinskis’ front door, and as I turn to wave I glimpse Caralora’s face: She’s staring at the windshield, her expression despairing. Then she sees me, adjusts her face, waves and drives away.

I let myself in, call out. Nobody’s home. I go to my room, take off my coat and boots, get into bed, text Alba, who doesn’t reply. I fall asleep, When I wake up it’s dark and still no Alba. Happy New Year, I guess.

Saturday, July 28, 2029 (Alba is 27, Zach is 28)

Alba: I return to my present loudly, landing half off the bed and crashing to the floor with a thump and some swearing. The bed is empty but the shower is running, so I probably haven’t been gone too long. I hear the water shut off and Zach climbing out, and by the time he’s in the bedroom I’ve managed to stand up. Zach’s hair is still soapy. He’s clutching a towel and seems relieved to find it’s only me.

“Hey,” he says. “You all right?” He looks me up and down, checking for damage.

“Yeah, I’m fine, maybe a little bruised. Guess where I was?” There are too many possible answers; Zach just peers at me over the top of his glasses and elevates his eyebrows. “Remember that day you rescued me from the driveway and I dragged you over to the Gomolinskis’ for the first time?”

“Really? Wow. That seems like a thousand years ago.” He kisses my forehead. “Belated thanks, darling. Good work.” He holds up a finger, be right back. I hear the water burst on again. I get into bed. I feel as though I’ve been gone for weeks, but it’s only been an hour. I wonder if Zach’s had breakfast yet. He returns, shampoo-free and somewhat less wet, and joins me in bed. We reach for each other’s hands. “Alba, do you ever come home from one of your excursions wondering how many unintended consequences resulted?”

I keep my voice steady. “I’m always sure I’ve just fucked things up completely. Why?” I turn toward him. “What have I done?”

Zach squeezes my hand. “Nothing terrible. Don’t worry.” He shifts to put his arm around me and I nestle into him, though I feel stale and unwashed against his clean, cool skin. “‘It’s all for the best in the best of all possible worlds.’”

“If you say so,” I reply. I wait for Zach to tell me what’s on his mind, but his hands are roaming, our attention turns to other matters, and by the time I remember to ask him, the day is underway and the mood has passed.

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