Page 37 of Life Out of Order

“Okay,” I say, nervously.

“I’m a year ahead of you. July 15, 2024, is the day I came from. My self over there in the bed is sound asleep; she doesn’t know what we’re talking about. Let’s keep this between us, and when you get to me, next July, I’ll give you my answer.”

I’m relieved and disappointed. “Sure,” I say. “That’s a long time to wait, though. Any hints?”

Alba kisses me and says, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

We sit quietly together, listening to television noise from the next room and conversation in the hall. We fall asleep tangled together in the vinyl armchair. Hours later, I wake up and she’s gone. Her clothes are crumpled next to me. My present Alba is asleep. It’s still dark out. I fold her clothes and put them in my backpack along with her boots. A nurse comes in and changes the drip, but doesn’t notice me sitting motionless in the dim corner of the room. Once the nurse has gone I visit the bathroom, resettle myself in the chair and sleep.

Sunday morning

Zach: In the morning I’m awakened by conversation. Clare and Beck have returned, bringing a bag of warm scones, The New York Times, clean clothes, shampoo and other toiletries. Alba holds up a note written in red, two-inch-high letters: COFFEE!, and Clare explains that she can’t have it because she’s concussed. Alba’s sour expression is the first indication I’ve seen that she doesn’t consider this whole escapade a flawless success. I’m horrified at the thought of Clare and Beck catching me napping. I stand up and they look surprised, as though they hadn’t noticed I was in the room.

“Um, good morning,” I say. Alba gives me a thumbs-up. “How are you feeling?”

Alba makes the “okay” sign and a sound that might be “tired.”

“Have you been here all night?” Beck asks me.

“Um, yeah. I think I fell asleep around three.” Alba catches my eye, and neither of us mentions her other self’s late-night visit. I head down the hall to the men’s room instead of using Alba’s bathroom, too self-conscious to take a piss in such close proximity to Clare and Beck. I manage to clean myself up enough that I’m not scary.

On my way back to the room I encounter Lucinda Flowers and her foster mother, Celia Attley. Lucinda looks as though she wants to turn right around and disappear into the elevator. (Alba has told me that Lucinda has a crush on me, but I can’t do much about that.) Celia is diminutive and walks with a halting gait. She usually dresses creatively and rather flamboyantly, but this morning she’s wearing a white tracksuit that contrasts sharply with her dark skin. Celia has broad features and her face seems too long for her small frame. She often has a weary, amused expression, as though she is exasperated by the world.

I greet them, and Celia says, “Have you seen the news?”

“No, why?”

“You’re all over it. All of you.” She takes out her phone and shows me: The whole collision was caught on CCTV. The media are calling the killer the Wicker Park Maniac. I’m getting a backache leaning over Celia’s shoulder, so I sit on the floor and we watch it a few times. Each time, just before Alba vanishes, one camera cuts to another and we see Rosa’s rental car ramming the Camry. “That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?” Celia smirks.

“The cops must have edited that,” I say.

“Ya think?” Celia says. “Have the cops been here yet?”

“Yesterday, but Alba was unconscious. I spoke to them briefly; they’re coming back this afternoon. Gomez said he’d be here.”

“I was going to offer, but you’ll be fine, you guys are heroes. I think the City Council’s going to name a street after Alba,” Celia jokes.

“She wouldn’t like that,” says Lucinda, earnestly.

“No,” I agree. “Attention makes us all nervous.”

“It’s hard to be Clark Kent when Superman is on the front page of the Daily Planet,” Celia says, giving me a reproving look. Lucinda smiles and her braces show; she sees me noticing and covers her mouth with her hand. Alba has told me that Lucinda will be a glamour-puss any minute now, but at the moment she’s a shy sixteen-year-old who records songs secretly in her bedroom and wants to be a veterinarian. She has twisted her short hair into what looks to my inexpert eyes to be the beginnings of dreadlocks. Celia has dreads that fall to the base of her spine. Lucinda has grown even in the short time I’ve known the two of them, and seeing them together, Lucinda so tall and thin with her baby dreads and Celia so tiny with her bounteous gray dreads, I grin like an idiot. Celia says, “It’s not that funny, mister.”

“I know, it’s just—”

Celia’s phone beeps and she reads it. “Well, that was fast,” she says. “Your guy, the Maniac, he’s going to plead guilty.” I assume she’s getting this from Gomez, but I don’t ask.

“Well, great. I guess.” The three of us exchange doubtful looks—that was too easy, strings have been pulled. Anything that involves the Gomolinskis tends to be whisked out of public view. Now that I think of it, none of our names were mentioned in the news reports, and I’m grateful to Gomez, or whoever. I guess I should find out, since I now owe someone yet another favor.

The three of us proceed down the hall to Alba’s room. Gomez and Charisse have arrived, along with Rosa, who is sitting on the side of the bed next to Alba, her arm around Alba’s shoulders. Rosa is wearing small, round, wire-rimmed sunglasses that don’t hide the bruising. Lucinda gasps and Rosa and Alba extend their arms, enfold her. “It’s okay, honey,” Rosa says. “Did you see us on the news?”

“Yeah,” Lucinda says softly. “That was some badassery.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” Rosa says. “Don’t you get any ideas, though.”

Lucinda chuckles. Celia looks irritated and settles into a chair next to Beck, Clare and Charisse. Charisse is working on her laptop, her hands covered in lime-green paint spatters. Beck is crocheting and Clare has a bag on her lap full of long paper strips that she’s twisting and braiding. Celia pulls out her knitting, and the four of them sit in companionable productivity. Gomez catches my eye and mimes smoking. We head through the busy hospital corridors to the street, detouring to get coffee.