Maybe Some Other Time, page 21
In a way, it wasn’t too different from how Debbie handled nursery school back in the ‘50s. Thelma still remembered the first time she dropped her daughter off with the teacher before rushing off to run errands. She screamed and cried… screamed and cried… Mrs. Fraser had said Debbie only calmed down when told Thelma would be back in ten minutes at the end of the day. She didn’t fare much better in Sunday school later. The doctor said that it wasn’t uncommon for kids Debbie’s age to have over-attachment to their mothers, and the best thing to do was simply “toss them into the water.” Turns out, they have other ways of handling this now.
So, Thelma came every other week—every week if she could swing it. She put on this dress, did up her makeup, and arrived with candies and soft drinks that Debbie had always loved. They often ate lunch together in the main room, Debbie given a tray by the nurses and Thelma eating a Wonder Bread sandwich from her bags. Bologna and mayonnaise, of course. She often let Debbie eat some of it for nostalgia’s sake.
Everything was about curating the past for Debbie, who was trapped in it for hours at a time. According to the nurses, she had been promising everyone for “months” that “my mama is coming to visit.” Megan explained that she and Robbie had to come up with plausible deniability stories about Thelma’s continued absence. The most common lie was, “Mom’s visiting her cousin in Phoenix.” That placated Debbie every time. Now, they don’t have to lie to her. Thelma was here, mostly on Mondays.
It was becoming harder to pencil in these sojourns to the memory care facility, though. As the months had gone by, Thelma was granted more freedom, both by the FBI and, quite frankly, herself. She wasn’t about to get a job anytime soon, but she was no longer filling her days with housework and fretting over what had happened to her. She was taking more classes—after her initial, mandatory history lessons concluded, she signed up for the next round that delved into grittier details and touched more on world events instead of concentrating on America. More than one chrononaut in her unit had gone on to get college degrees in History, and Thelma considered herself not too far behind. I’m not going back to proper school anytime soon, but… It gave her something to aspire to. She didn’t even mind starting all over again since there was no way for her old credits in 1949 to transfer!
She had begun volunteering at the library, too, hitching rides with Robbie—who still did not care to talk to her much. At the library, she learned more about using technology from a patient woman named Kim, who had the decency not to treat “young” Thelma like an idiot because she struggled with using the internet and doing anything else on the computer besides typing. The library made it easier, though. There were specific, repetitive tasks now that the world was in the post-card catalogue era.
She even had a phone now. A “dumb” phone, as Megan called it, that only allowed calls and texts, but that was more than enough for Thelma. It also meant the leash was fully extended now that she had retaken her driver’s test and could contact help when necessary.
Stay busy. Just stay busy. It was what she knew in her heart, and it was what Crystal the therapist and the rest of group agreed. Staying busy meant her brain didn’t fret over every little thing. It meant she gained confidence through everyday interactions with her new environment. And it, more importantly, meant she felt like she contributed something to her life.
Every night before bed, she prayed, counting her blessings. Just like when I was a girl. She knelt by her bed, hands clasped, nightgown (or shirt, since they were quite comfortable, weren’t they?) clinging to her as she thanked God for her life and for watching her loved ones.
But she was careful not to bite off more than she could chew. Having most of her days taken up with housework and volunteering was vital. Especially since the Lutheran church, headed by Pastor Liz, had welcomed her with open arms. Thelma was still slowly integrating herself into modern church life, especially since Megan thought she was nuts for doing so, but it was nice to know it was there. Crystal and the others couldn’t help with Thelma’s spiritual conundrums, after all.
One of them flared up when she looked into her daughter’s wrinkled, confused face halfway through their lunch. “Huh?” She blinked so hard that Thelma worried her daughter had something in her eye. “Who are you?”
Thelma steeled herself. This wasn’t the first time Debbie suddenly didn’t recognize her halfway through a visit, and she assumed it would only get worse as time went by.
“I’m just here for a visit,” Thelma said through a practiced smile. “How’s your lunch?”
Debbie blinked again, this time refocusing on the half-eaten food in front of her. “Good!” She leaned in toward her mother, but in a way that implied she was conspiring with a school chum instead of a family member. “The cook here is very…” Her mouth twisted up and down as her fingers rubbed together, and her hair fell in her face. “Cute.”
Her girlish giggles garnered the attention of Linda, who watched them through judgmental eyes. As soon as Debbie ate more of her lunch, the nurse came over.
“What’s she up to now?”
Thelma would take her daughter’s secret to the grave. “We’re just talking about something that happened a long time ago,” she explained to the cautious nurse. “She’s feeling very nostalgic today.”
Linda raised one eyebrow before walking away again.
“Mama…” Debbie put her hand on her mother’s arm. “She doesn’t… she doesn’t like…”
It was more difficult to hear Debbie as her voice deepened and slightly echoed as she spoke with an open mouth. “What, dear?”
“She doesn’t like you.”
Thelma adopted a confident stance as she sat up in her chair and touched up her curls with her fingertips. “Not everyone likes everyone, honey. It’s something you get used to as you grow up.”
“Oh…” Right away, Debbie switched focus, much like she always did when she was five and finding something new and interesting to talk about. “Robbie says hi.”
“Does he? Has he come to visit lately?”
“He’s downstairs.” Debbie nodded as she put her spoon in her mashed potatoes and peas. “He doesn’t feel good. He’s sick.”
“I know, honey. Your father’s going to make dinner tonight. Would you like some toasted cheese?” This wasn’t the first time they had a conversation from the night Thelma disappeared. The night is written in her soul. Thelma was beyond feeling strange about it. She had a script she followed, and it usually worked on Debbie until she changed topics yet again.
“He says it’s his fault.”
That was new. “What’s his fault, honey?”
“You went away because he was tr…” Debbie swallowed. Before Thelma assumed the words were gone, her daughter defiantly spat out, as if she refused to forget, “Trouble.”
“Oh, honey.” Thelma did her best not to be flustered as she thought of something to say. “I didn’t go away for any reason. Certainly nothing you two kids did. It was completely out of my control.” She lowered her hand to Debbie’s lap. She’s so frail… Thelma’s teeth grazed her bottom lip as she tried not to think about it. “When I left that night, I absolutely intended to come back as quickly as possible.”
Debbie vacantly stared at her before starting to eat again. Thelma sighed.
Is that what Robbie thinks? Was Debbie a reliable narrator? Either it was the dementia screwing up facts, or it was such a core memory that it refused to dissipate among the twisted neurons in Debbie’s brain. A brain I made… While Debbie ate, Thelma gazed wistfully at her. Fingers threaded through Debbie’s thin hair in a tender attempt to clean her up. Yet wasn’t it futile? Debbie was gaunt in the cheek, and her V-neck sweater hung so loosely on her bony frame that Thelma assumed her daughter had already lost quite a bit of weight. From what she understood on the nursing side, Debbie didn’t eat much. She preferred her Coke and candy in her room to substantial food. “She only really eats her lunch when you’re here,” the director said a month ago, when Thelma checked in. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
Even then, Debbie often left plenty of food on her plate. Something that Thelma would have chided her for back in the ‘50s. Now? Any nourishment was worthy of praise.
My daughter is too sick for me to take care of… Thelma held back a hiccup as she crossed her legs in her chair and stared at the fake floral centerpiece on the table. It was dusty. When was the last time these table linens were washed? My son would rather I stay dead.
What was a mother to do? Be grateful that she still got to see her children at all?
Before, I would have said yes… But she also knew that the time travelers who succumbed to depressive, suicidal ideation the most were those who came forward well beyond their children’s lifespans. Even Pauline had been candid that knowing all of her siblings were dead almost killed her. She had been taken in by a great-nephew who only knew her name from police reports. Now she lived separately from him and didn’t talk to anyone in her family. She had disappeared back into the LA ether.
Be grateful. Count your blessings. When Thelma went to sleep that night, she would kneel by her bed and thank God for giving her the chance to say goodbye to her children. Being steadfast meant accepting she would now outlive them. At least she had Megan… and the others in the group who would probably take her in if necessary…
Thelma caught sight of another visitor there to see her father. A tradeswoman’s build, coupled with short hair and a sweatshirt, reminded Thelma of Gretchen, who still said curt hellos whenever they bumped into one another in the driveway, but had not asked her out again. To be fair, I didn’t ask her, either.
The only one who knew about the date back in June was Crystal, who agreed with Thelma that it was probably much too soon for her to be dating, let alone someone who didn’t know she was from the ‘50s. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to feel passion…
Well, the passion had “fucked her up,” as Megan would say.
“Robbie’s sick,” Debbie reiterated. “He told me last time.”
Thelma broke free from her entangling daydreams. “Excuse me?”
“He told Ms. Otto.” She referred to the director of the home. “Because money. For me to live here.”
This was too much detail for it to be a fabrication of her misfiring brain. “Thank you for telling me,” Thelma said. “That’s a good girl.”
Debbie grinned. “I did good?”
“Yes. You did very well.”
Debbie inevitably lost interest after lunch. Thelma followed her for a walk around the hallways for a while, stopping to pet the fat tabby cat who called this place his home, and eventually went with her into her room. As Debbie lay in her bed and ate some of the candy Thelma brought, they put Bonanza on the TV. Since it premiered in the Fall 1959 season, Thelma had never heard of it until discovering her daughter was a big fan and always watched reruns during her afternoon nap. It’s not too different from Gunsmoke. Thelma sat in her daughter’s rocking chair as Debbie gradually drifted off to sleep. As the characters played out their dramatic storylines using 1960s filming technology, Thelma wondered what it would have been like to sit with her family on Saturday nights. Robbie and Bill would have loved it. Thelma also always got caught up in the storyline, too, allowing herself to watch one full episode before checking on Debbie and tidying up her room. There were always sweaters and socks strewn about. Thelma neatly folded them and put them in her daughter’s dresser, just like she would have when Debbie was five.
It wasn’t fair, was it?
Linda stopped in to check on them when Thelma stood, sweater dangling in her hand and gaze resting on her daughter’s dozing body. “Everything okay?”
Although she knew the nurse was there, Thelma still jumped. “Oh…” She hurried to finish folding the sweater before closing the dresser drawer. “It’s been a long day.”
Linda’s courteous smile was anything but friendly, but Thelma was used to that by now. Gone were the days when she would wonder how to best ingratiate herself with another woman in her community. Those were the old rules. What was the point now? Even Megan confirmed that women were less concerned with appearances than in the ‘50s. It was no longer about who looked the best, who acted the best, or who was the best mother: although, if asked a few months ago, Thelma would have never seen her “old” life like that. It’s just how it was. She instinctively knew the rules and followed them. Wasn’t that why she married Bill? Had children in her early twenties? Became a well-known lady on Hemlock Street by thirty?
In a way, she had done that for her children. Poor Debbie. The little girl who missed the mother she only vaguely remembered so much that she kept many of Thelma’s things, organized the family photos, and would have predictably named her own daughter after her mother. If anyone earned the right to meet her mother again, it was Debbie.
But it was the fact she was in this state that made her so easy to accept Thelma as she was—impossibly young, fresh-faced, and eager to please.
For you, yes.
Linda announced someone was coming in to wipe down the bathroom, and Thelma could either stay or leave, but she wouldn’t be able to leave until the cleaning was done once it started. She announced she was departing imminently and donned her jacket, but before she followed Linda out the door, she softly said goodbye to Debbie by sitting on the edge of her bed and lightly singing “You Are My Sunshine,” their favorite bedtime song when Debbie was little.
This time, Linda escorted her toward the entrance, past the heavy security doors and the receptionist’s desk. When she saw the Impala parked beneath the tree branches, she opened the front door for Thelma. Soon, they stood alone on the front sidewalk leading to the parking lot.
“I’ve seen pictures of her, you know.” The nurse removed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She stood a few feet downwind of Thelma as she lit up. “Found out she went missing in the ’50s and looked into it. It’s uncanny.” Smoke blew from her lips. “You’re identical to her.”
Thelma didn’t ask who Linda was talking about. What was the point?
“Strong genes,” she said instead.
“The getup really is something. You know, nobody told us Debbie had a daughter until you showed up with her brother one day. Not unusual around here, but…”
Thelma let those words dissipate alongside the cigarette smoke.
“It’s impossible, right?” Linda leaned in, peering at Thelma’s face. “People don’t magically come back from the dead. I’ve seen enough death around here to know.”
Shoulders back and chest puffed out, Thelma said, “That would imply I’ve died. Which, I have not, as you can plainly see.”
“You’re even the age her mother was when she disappeared. You’re wearing the same outfit and driving the same car. You tell me, what’s going on?”
Thelma should have left well enough alone. She had all the plausible deniability in the world. Time travel isn’t possible. Ghosts aren’t real.
“A miracle,” Thelma said. “Debbie prayed for many years. Let her have this.”
She kept her purse close to her body as she headed toward the Impala. The only reason her blood flowed so loudly through her body was because her heart was anxious enough to charge her adrenaline and get her ready to fly down the boulevard at the first sign of Linda catching on. To what? This is impossible. Thelma hesitated outside her door, looking back at the nursing home entrance and seeing Linda still standing there, smoking.
What kind of ghosts had this woman seen, anyway?
Thelma kept it together on the drive home to Van Nuys. Since taking control of the Impala, she could no longer simply park it in the garage if someone else was home. Today, Robbie’s car was in the garage. Megan wasn’t home yet, so Thelma maneuvered the car into the least imposing spot in the driveway. She made sure Gretchen wasn’t in the yard next door before shutting off the engine.
Only then did she allow herself to crumple against the steering wheel, hands folded, hair shielding her from the world.
My daughter’s dying… It was an uncomfortable fact she had to face every time she visited Debbie. But she did it. Not just because it was the right thing to do, but because she needed to know that her child would die having been held by her mother at least one more time. Like she told Linda, it was the least her daughter deserved.
And my son is… Thelma sat up, grabbing her purse, and getting out of the car.
Robbie was at the kitchen table, going over bills. He looks just like his father when he sits like that. He and Bill had the same cock of the left shoulder as their right hands moved pen over paper. She had always wanted to ask how their relationship ended. Were Robbie and Bill on good terms? Did Robbie and Debbie work together to take care of Bill’s estate? Had they grieved all there was to grieve, now that they found themselves orphans?
Well, they were orphans no longer. Except that Thelma, despite her youth, was in the weaker position. She had no authority here. She was as good as a stranger—an interloper.
A ghost from the past.
She approached her son, removing her jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.
“Anything I can help with? How about dinner? It’s about time to start something. What time do you think Megan will be home?”
Robbie glanced at her through seemingly frameless reading glasses. “No need for any of that. I’m going out tonight.”
“Oh. And Megan?”
“With that girl, Emma.”
“I see. So, it’s just me.” There were a few things Thelma could whip up for herself. Nothing exciting. Unless she wanted a ton of leftovers for the next day… “That’s fine. You have fun tonight.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Who are you going with? Anybody I know?”
He slammed a particular bill down on the table. “You sound just like you did when talking to him.”
