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I notice other things, also, as I dump the bag of recycling by the back door.
No swing set in the backyard. But the towering dead elm that used to loom over the house is gone so at least I got that far.
My wife’s satchel is not hanging from her hook in the mudroom. Nor her car keys, with her C.S.I keychain: Can’t Stand Idiots.
Agreed. I used to joke that I didn’t know why she stayed with me, then.
The old laughter, so easy in the past, boils a hole through me now.
I walk through the family room—the picture of my girls on the beach at Eve’s parents’ home still hangs on the wall, a film of dust obscuring the pane. Ashley, age three, digging in the sand, wearing a bright pink swimsuit. Eve is sitting beside her, her face in shadow under a brimmed hat, grinning for me. The picture became my screen saver on my computer and Eve had it framed for me that next Christmas.
I’m going to retch.
I take the stairs two at a time, slide into the bathroom on my knees, but nothing rises. But a sweat has broken out across my forehead and I’m pitiful as I stand and look in the mirror.
Go to work.
Burke’s voice in my head, thundering.
You’re a detective, Daddy.
I clasp my hands over my face.
I took a shower earlier, right before my life imploded, but as I look in the mirror, I feel dirty, ancient, wearing a layer of dark whiskers, my eyes reddened, as if yes, I spent the night face down, clutching that bottle of single malt.
I’ve never had a drinking problem, although maybe I should have, given the disasters of my childhood. It’s possible, however, the loss of Ashley in this timeline drove me to dark, previously off-limits places.
I shave, brush my teeth, wash my face. A couple eyedrops and I’m a close replica of the man I knew.
My closet is devoid of my wife’s clothing. And clearly in this new life, I’ve forgotten how to do laundry.
This version of me isn’t one I want to know.
I find a clean pair of jeans and a button down and realize I don’t have my wallet. It’s still in my jeans, hanging in the bathroom downstairs where I grabbed my morning shower.
The wallet I had when I, yes, went back to 1997.
That still sounds crazy, but given the proof…
I race downstairs and grab the jeans.
A fist forms in my gut as I empty the pockets, find my worn leather wallet and flip it open.
Everything inside me empties as I rifle through it.
It’s gone. The picture I took with Ashley last year at the Mall of America. The shot had been of us on the log chute, a water ride. She’s screaming, her eyes wide, blonde hair flying as she holds onto the bars, spray lifting around us. I’m grinning, my eyes on Ash, so much love in my expression I don’t recognize myself.
Gone, now just a ghost in my memory.
No. This can’t be right. Ashley is still out there.
I just need to find her.
I grab the recycling and head out into the garage and nearly weep at the sight of my 1988 Porsche, black and shiny, sitting the garage. I’ve had it since I bought it out of impound, and worked for hours under the hood to bring her back to life. I get in, the leather warm and familiar, and turn her over. She purrs under my hands.
Finally, someone I know. Someone familiar. A friend.
The station is set on a familiar KQ92, and as I pull out, I turn up the radio, just to drown out the thunder of my heartbeat.
