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Back Home Again
Meghan Ford steps into her parents' house for the first time in three month -- or three hours, depending on how she measures. It's still here, she thinks. And I'm not in some padded room somewhere.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, has changed. The letter she wrote to a friend in Victoria that afternoon -- this afternoon? -- is still sitting on the hall table, waiting to go out in the morning's mail. The scarf she decided not to wear at the last minute is still draped over the banister at the bottom of the steps.
For a long moment, she just stands there, still and silent, waiting for . . . she's not sure what she's waiting for. And then her father calls, "Meg? That you?"
John Ford appears in the doorway, half-silhouetted in the light from the kitchen behind him. "You're late."
"Sorry," says Meghan, still not moving from her own doorway. "I --we, um, sort of lost track of . . . time."
He frowns slightly, and steps into the hall to look at her more closely.
"Did you have a good time?" he asks, and she can hear the edges of concern.
"Oh, yes," she says, quickly. "Yes." She can't quite, at this moment, remember a single detail of her last date with Derek Laundon. "But I'm tired. I think I'll just go on up to bed."
She hugs her father -- a little too tight for a little too long, and when he looks down at her, she can see all the questions he isn't asking her. He's deciding they can wait, she knows, till morning, or later.
She'll hope for later. Much, much, much later.
She doesn't turn the light on in her room, just changes in the dark and falls into bed.
Even before she opens her eyes the next morning, she knows -- by the sounds and the smells and the way the pillow feels against her face and the quality of the light against her eyelids -- she knows that she's in her own bed, in her own room, in her own home. But before she can even quite finish the thought, That was one strange dream, she's opened her eyes and seen the burn on the back of her right hand, from the tea she spilled when she saw The Door.
The sleeves on the shirt she picks that morning are too long -- they always have been. They hang down past her wrists, half-cover her knuckles.
If anyone had asked, Meg would have said that it was just the shirt she felt like wearing, the first thing that jumped out at her when she opened her closet, not anything she picked out for any particular reason.
She would have been lying.
She hugs her mother when she goes down to breakfast, again a little too long and a little too tight for just a casual good-morning sort of hug.
And she pretends she doesn't see the look her parents exchange when they think she isn't looking.
After breakfast, she walks up the street to Derek's house, and kisses him when he opens the door, before he can even say hello.
"Missed you," she says, before she thinks to stop herself. It's only been thirteen hours since she saw him.
It just feels longer. That's all. Really.
"Ummmmm, I, um, missed you, too?" he says.
"Sorry," she says, with a smile that it's something of an effort to produce. "That's not quite what I meant, but--"
"Hey, no objections," he says, smiling that bright, slightly crooked smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and that was the first thing she ever noticed about him. "I never mind seeing you. Do you want to come in?"
He steps back, out of the doorway, to let her pass. And she almost goes in, but then stops.
"Do you mind coming out? I feel like walking."
"Sure. I'll get my coat."
She's waiting, as they walk, for something, anything to look different. She feels like she's been gone for months, and when they stop to say hello to her friend Laurie, she has to check the impulse to hug her, too.
But if she's been gone that long then, logically, some things have to be different. And nothing that she can see has changed, nothing at all, except the angry red splotch on the back of her right hand.
"Can I ask you kind of an odd question, Derek?" she says, as they turn back onto their street.
"Um, sure," he says, a little uncertainly, though he's clearly aiming for gamely.
She takes off her glove and pulls her sleeve back, shows him her hand. "Do you have any idea how I did this?"
He stops walking, takes her hand in both of his. "Looks like a burn, to me. You don't remember?"
"I think . . . I spilled tea, when I was, um, startled," Meghan says. "I just -- it wasn't there last night, was it?"
He looks, for a moment, almost comically puzzled, and it would be funny, under other circumstances.
A lot of this would be funny under other circumstances.
"No," he says, very slowly. "No, babe, it wasn't."
"I didn't think so," she says. Which is true. Thinking and hoping are not, after all, the same thing.
"Are you okay, Meg?" Derek asks, now sounding more concerned than puzzled.
"Yeah," she says. "I'm fine. Really, don't worry about it."
Derek looks at her a moment longer, and then nods, letting go of her hand. "Okay."
Really, Meghan thinks, pulling her glove back on. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Except for the part where I'm either mad, or still dreaming, or there really is a magical bar at the end of the universe.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, has changed. The letter she wrote to a friend in Victoria that afternoon -- this afternoon? -- is still sitting on the hall table, waiting to go out in the morning's mail. The scarf she decided not to wear at the last minute is still draped over the banister at the bottom of the steps.
For a long moment, she just stands there, still and silent, waiting for . . . she's not sure what she's waiting for. And then her father calls, "Meg? That you?"
John Ford appears in the doorway, half-silhouetted in the light from the kitchen behind him. "You're late."
"Sorry," says Meghan, still not moving from her own doorway. "I --we, um, sort of lost track of . . . time."
He frowns slightly, and steps into the hall to look at her more closely.
"Did you have a good time?" he asks, and she can hear the edges of concern.
"Oh, yes," she says, quickly. "Yes." She can't quite, at this moment, remember a single detail of her last date with Derek Laundon. "But I'm tired. I think I'll just go on up to bed."
She hugs her father -- a little too tight for a little too long, and when he looks down at her, she can see all the questions he isn't asking her. He's deciding they can wait, she knows, till morning, or later.
She'll hope for later. Much, much, much later.
She doesn't turn the light on in her room, just changes in the dark and falls into bed.
Even before she opens her eyes the next morning, she knows -- by the sounds and the smells and the way the pillow feels against her face and the quality of the light against her eyelids -- she knows that she's in her own bed, in her own room, in her own home. But before she can even quite finish the thought, That was one strange dream, she's opened her eyes and seen the burn on the back of her right hand, from the tea she spilled when she saw The Door.
The sleeves on the shirt she picks that morning are too long -- they always have been. They hang down past her wrists, half-cover her knuckles.
If anyone had asked, Meg would have said that it was just the shirt she felt like wearing, the first thing that jumped out at her when she opened her closet, not anything she picked out for any particular reason.
She would have been lying.
She hugs her mother when she goes down to breakfast, again a little too long and a little too tight for just a casual good-morning sort of hug.
And she pretends she doesn't see the look her parents exchange when they think she isn't looking.
After breakfast, she walks up the street to Derek's house, and kisses him when he opens the door, before he can even say hello.
"Missed you," she says, before she thinks to stop herself. It's only been thirteen hours since she saw him.
It just feels longer. That's all. Really.
"Ummmmm, I, um, missed you, too?" he says.
"Sorry," she says, with a smile that it's something of an effort to produce. "That's not quite what I meant, but--"
"Hey, no objections," he says, smiling that bright, slightly crooked smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and that was the first thing she ever noticed about him. "I never mind seeing you. Do you want to come in?"
He steps back, out of the doorway, to let her pass. And she almost goes in, but then stops.
"Do you mind coming out? I feel like walking."
"Sure. I'll get my coat."
She's waiting, as they walk, for something, anything to look different. She feels like she's been gone for months, and when they stop to say hello to her friend Laurie, she has to check the impulse to hug her, too.
But if she's been gone that long then, logically, some things have to be different. And nothing that she can see has changed, nothing at all, except the angry red splotch on the back of her right hand.
"Can I ask you kind of an odd question, Derek?" she says, as they turn back onto their street.
"Um, sure," he says, a little uncertainly, though he's clearly aiming for gamely.
She takes off her glove and pulls her sleeve back, shows him her hand. "Do you have any idea how I did this?"
He stops walking, takes her hand in both of his. "Looks like a burn, to me. You don't remember?"
"I think . . . I spilled tea, when I was, um, startled," Meghan says. "I just -- it wasn't there last night, was it?"
He looks, for a moment, almost comically puzzled, and it would be funny, under other circumstances.
A lot of this would be funny under other circumstances.
"No," he says, very slowly. "No, babe, it wasn't."
"I didn't think so," she says. Which is true. Thinking and hoping are not, after all, the same thing.
"Are you okay, Meg?" Derek asks, now sounding more concerned than puzzled.
"Yeah," she says. "I'm fine. Really, don't worry about it."
Derek looks at her a moment longer, and then nods, letting go of her hand. "Okay."
Really, Meghan thinks, pulling her glove back on. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Except for the part where I'm either mad, or still dreaming, or there really is a magical bar at the end of the universe.