Page 61 of Life Out of Order

“Sure, thanks,” I say. “We could use the vitamin C.”

Oliver says, “Demons live in the bottles?”

I say “No” and Adam says “Yes” simultaneously and we laugh. “It’s just an expression, Oliver. People like it too much, it’s a temptation, like a little demon on your shoulder whispering.” Oliver is quite confused now. “I’ll explain later.”

Adam says, “You’ve been living a sheltered life over there in London. Don’t tell me you’ve never been in a pub?”

“Pub?” says Oliver. Pubs are a thing of the past in his London. There’s not enough grain to make beer or spirits on a large scale. People brew their alcohol in home stills from food scraps.

I say, “His parents are very religious. He’s been brought up God-fearing and teetotal.”

Adam looks alarmed. “Yikes.” He pops the gin and tonic and the lime into my shopping bag. “Well, if God didn’t want us to drink, he wouldn’t have invented the cocktail hour. See you.”

“Thanks, Adam.”

Back on the sidewalk Oliver says, “A spy?”

“Huh? No. He didn’t really want to know any secrets. He just didn’t understand why you look so much younger than usual. He has seen you with gray hair and wrinkles.”

“He will report us?”

“No. There’s no one to report us to. Time travel isn’t a thing yet. You could tell him very seriously that you’re a time traveler and he would laugh.”

Oliver says, “I wish I can stay here.”

“Come as often as you want to.”

“Yes, I will come here.” Oliver tilts his face to the sun. “It is beautiful here.”

“It is,” I reply, feeling new appreciation for Belle Plaine Avenue, bright with new leaves and daffodils. We walk the rest of the way home in silence, as birds sing to their mates, trains rush in both directions, dogs bark as we pass. Oliver holds the back door open for me as I maneuver with shopping bags, then follows me into the kitchen.

“Alba?” he says, hesitantly. “What do I do, here? Do I work?”

I begin to unpack the groceries. “You play the piano. You study and you practice. But we also like to watch birds, and old movies, and read, and play cards. Once you get used to the trains, it’s a good place to sleep.”

“But how do I pay for things?”

“Please do not worry about money.” I say it more firmly than I usually would, because he is so young, and because I need him to understand that this place is ours, not only mine. “Let me show you . . .” I lead him upstairs, to my bedroom. Oliver doesn’t come in; he stops at the threshold as though he’s encountered an invisible fence. I peel back the carpet, remove a section of the wooden floor, and set it aside. In the hollow area between the joists are two tin boxes. I beckon Oliver over, and he sidles into the room.

“This green box has money. The blue box has notebooks. The notebooks are a way for us to talk between times.” I flip through the latest book, looking for something he can see. “Here.”

The entry is from last week. “‘May 7, 1999. Dear Alba, Some red-winged black birds built a nest over the door to the garden shed, so we cannot mow the lawn ever again. I ate all the Easter chocolate, but I bought you some Dove Bars. I’ve been here for two days, playing Debussy. Much love, Oliver.’” Oliver begins to flip through the notebook, but I take it from him, gently.

“Spoiler alert,” I say. He doesn’t understand. “It’s not a great idea for you to read ahead. It’s better to find out about your life by living it.”

“I wish I knew about this—” he gestures at the house “—so I could be more ready. Do you like surprises?”

“If they are nice surprises, yes. Do you?”

Oliver’s face darkens. “In my life, surprises are not so nice. But you are nice. I wish I had told myself about you.”

I put the tin boxes back in the hole, and Oliver helps me replace the flooring and the carpet. We go downstairs and resume putting the groceries away. I ask him, “What would you have done differently, if you had known?”

Oliver stands still, with an orange in each hand, his eyes lowered. Then he looks directly at me. “I would have hoped,” he says.

Because I know more about certain parts of his life than he does, I don’t say anything. We smile at each other. Oliver begins to speak, very sincerely, “Alba? What is a Dove Bar?”

So I give him one, and watch him eat it, and Oliver’s face reminds me of the first time I kissed him, so serious and so happy. For the rest of his life, Oliver will remember today, the day he met me and ate ice cream for the first time. A little happiness, and a big one.