In Times Like These (22 page)

“We don’t want to get you home but have your hearts stop,” Quickly notes casually.

I look at my hand. Our singes and burns have mostly healed up from our original journey. Blake has a light-colored scar on the bottom of his right foot. Otherwise we feel okay, but I’m not anxious to repeat the process.

The balconies meet the staircase along the right side of the lab, but the left side holds a turn in the wall that runs away from the main room. It goes about twelve feet, seemingly to nowhere, but both sides and t
he back of the little hallway is lined with cubbyholes. The double rows of cubbies give me the feeling of being in library stacks or a long, narrow, walk-in closet. It’s a little dimmer as I move away from the light of the main room.

Quickly has the cubbies labeled by months and years. Some I find are still empty, while others are packed full of unique objects and packets. I pull a pair
of photos from a hole labeled, June 1989. One is a snapshot of a bowl of metallic fruit sitting on a table. The bananas, oranges and apples are copper-colored and piled together loosely in a stone bowl. One apple has fallen out of the bowl and it is lying on its side with its metal stem curving skyward. I look inside and find the apple, slightly tarnished and sitting straight up. I pick it up, surprised by the weight of it and then put it back gently. Quickly’s scrawling handwriting on the back of the photo describes the scene succinctly as “Fiona’s dining room. 6/11/89 shot 2002Z. Room cleared at 2004Z.” Below, in a different pen, is an added note that says, “Mind the overhead lamp.”

I look at the other photo. It’s a well-lit scene that seems to have a more carefully artistic feel to it than Quickly’s usual shots. It’s a display of ladies
’ shoes in a department store. The center of the photo concentrates on a pair of purple shoes, with medium-sized heels on them. The back of the photo has a different handwriting that says, “Harrods of London 6/18/89. Clear from 2210Z to 2215Z, be ready to move right. Wall exit. Security guard’s name is Paul.”

Curious, I look i
nto the back of the cubbyhole, and sure enough, at the back I see a pair of shoes. I reach in and pull them out. They have collected a little bit of dust, but I can still see their original sheen, and they seem to be in good condition. I turn to hold them up to the light and am startled to hear a woman’s voice behind me.

“It’s not polite to go prying through a lady’s things.”

I turn and find a petite young woman leaning against the wall at the opening of the hallway. The light from the chandelier is backlighting her short, curly blonde hair and making her head seem to glow. She is staring at me with a pair of bright blue eyes. She’s smiling.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to rapidly stash the shoes back in the hole they came from. “I didn’t realize anyone other than Dr. Quickly had things in here.”

“We tend to share.”

I try to make up for the awkward beginning to our conversation by start
ing over. “I’m Benjamin.” I walk the few feet toward her and extend my hand. She raises hers to mine and grabs it firmly.

“Mym.”

“That’s an unusual name,” I say, now finally getting a good look at her. Her blue eyes are friendlier than her greeting had been and I get a sense of playfulness in them.

“I’m an unusual person.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Egualemente,” she says.

“Feeling Spanish?”

“Maybe.”

Her smile is contagious. I find myself grinning just looking at her.

“
Where did you come from?”

She cocks her head slightly and considers me
more seriously. “You know, I’ve wondered about this moment for a long time. It’s different than I expected.”

“You wondered about this? Catching me looking at your shoes?”

“I don’t think you’re doing a very good job so far.”

What is she talking about?

“Not doing a very good job at what?”

“Meeting me.” She leans her elbows back against a shelf behind her as she continues to appraise me.

“I didn’t know there was a standard for that sort of thing,” I say.

“Hmm.
I was just thinking it was going to be more . . . obvious I guess.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not following you. Are you suggesting we start over? I could go get your shoes again.” I smile.

“No. It’s just curious. You know that feeling you get sometimes when you first meet someone and it feels . . . significant?”

“Yeah. I know that feeling.”

“I was thinking I would feel that.”

“Are you suggesting I’m someone significant?”

“Don’t you know if you are?” she asks.

“
I’m significant to myself I suppose.”

“Hmm. That might be the problem.” She turns and walks to the railing of the balcony. I follow behind, wondering where she’s come from and what on earth just happened. Looking down past her to the study floor, I see Dr. Quickly at the round center desk. After a few moments of shuffling maps
, he looks up and catches sight of the young woman who has suddenly appeared in his sanctuary.

I had not thought of Dr. Quickly as ever being unhappy. His demeanor is always pleasant and cheerful enough with all of us. His expression now
, at seeing the young woman leaning against the railing above him, makes me realize that I’m just now seeing him authentically happy. His face looks unapologetically elated. He doesn’t say anything but his broad smile says it all. Moving to the side of Mym, I can see that Quickly’s smile is matched on her face. She has the same unabashed grin.

Dr. Quickly moves swiftly up the staircase. Mym moves toward him as well. I stay put and watch as they meet at the top of the stairs. I can’t make out what they say to one another. They embrace and the smiles continue. The others have
noticed the new arrival also and are convening from other parts of the lab. Quickly smiles at me and waves me toward them. I follow them down the stairs toward Blake and Carson who are now at the center table. Francesca comes down from the third balcony to join us.

“I want you all to meet my daughter,” Quickly says.

“Hi.” Mym gives a low wave.

“Where have you been?” Quickly’s voice has
a tone of childlike curiosity.

“I made some new friends in
’93. We did some exploring of the catacombs under Rome. Do you remember last time you took me to Rome and we met that bike shop owner named Gavino? I met his family this trip.”

“Oh, Gavino is a good man. He’s young in
’93, no?”

“Somewhere around my age I think.”

“Did you give him my regards?”

“He hasn’t met you yet
, Daddy.”

“Oh, of course.”

“He’s still just as much fun as when he was older. He said he wants to build me a bicycle too.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well I wasn’t going to refuse. His bikes are amazing. Can we gravitize a bike?”

“I suppose we could. I don’t know where you would put it though. You may just want him to hang on to it for you to use there.”

“Yeah. I guess. There are a lot of places I would like to have a bike for though. That road along those cliffs in Ireland would be fun again on a bike. It would be less scary than your driving.”

“The wrong side of the road was harder than it looked. Also that car was rather obstinate if I recall.” Quickly smiles.
He turns his attention back to us. “I’m sorry. Mym, I would like you to meet Carson, Francesca, Benjamin and Blake.”

“I’ll do my best to remember all of those.” She smiles at the others and turns her eyes back to me. “I already met Ben here trying to steal my shoes.”

“Oh?” Quickly looks at me.

“Sadly they weren’t my size,” I reply.

Quickly gestures toward the armchairs near the windows. “Why don’t we sit down and chat. It will be good for them to hear from another time traveler other than myself. I’m sure they’re tired of my lectures by now. We’ve been learning a bit of navigation today.”

“Oh, researching,”
Mym says. “My least favorite part of blinking.”

“Blinking?” Carson asks.

“Oh, yeah. That’s just what I call it. It always feels like blinking to me. I know Dad calls it jumping, or traveling or whatever. It has lots of names. I know a guy who calls it ‘badooshing.’ I think he just likes hearing himself say the word ‘badoosh.’”

“I like blinking,” Francesca says.

“I’m definitely going to make up my own word,” Carson says.

“So you got to go to Ireland and Rome?” Francesca asks.

“Yes, Rome is great. We went before when I was younger, but it’s nice to be back now that I actually look older than eighteen, so I can drink the wine. Not that the Italian guys really care.”

“There was a lot m
ore to do in Rome than drinking,” Dr. Quickly chides.

“I know, Dad.
It’s just part of the experience. You don’t want me to grow up without fully appreciating foreign culture do you?”

“As long as culture can keep their hands off my daughter, I’m fine with it.”

“I love you, Dad. Don’t worry, I have a really handy way out of awkward situations.” She pulls at a thin gold chain around her neck and draws a shiny object out of her shirt.

Her chronometer is an orb-
shaped pendant. It has a glass face that shows some of the inner workings of the device. The adjustment rings appear to be on the sides circumnavigating the face. There is a pin on top where a watch fob might be. It’s smaller than our chronometers, but I can see even from a distance that it is intricately more complex.

“Why didn’t we electrocute ourselves somewhere exotic like Rome?” Francesca says as she smacks Blake in the arm.

“Hey!” Blake rubs his arm. “I didn’t pick it.”

“I’m blaming you. I should have time traveled holding something cool instead of a stupid softball bench. I could have had dreamy Italian guys
, but no, I got you guys in eighties St. Pete.”

“Maybe we can stop by Italy on the way home,” I say.

“Yes. And if you want to swing by Spain too while we are at it, I would be good with that. Doctor, do you have any good Spanish paraphernalia?”

“See if you can work that into your navigation practice,” Quickly replies.

“I can find you a nice bull horn from Pamplona to land you on,” Carson says. “See how you do at bull riding.”

Mym lays her hand on Dr. Quickly’s arm. “Dad, do you mind if I have a word in private?”

“Of course.”

The two of them stand. Mym’s eyes linger on mine for a brief moment, but then she turns and they head for the back of the lab.

“She seems cool,” I say.

“Yeah, definitely,” C
arson says. “Cute too.” His eyes have trailed her out of the room.

“Typical,” Francesca says.

“What? I can say a girl is cute, can’t I?” Carson says.

“I thought you were all into Tasha or Tisha, or whatever her name was from the bar the other night,” Francesca says.

“It was Tanya,” Carson says.

“Was she the one who sang the Elton John song?” Blake asked.

“No, that one was Tasha,” Carson says.

“Oh good,” Blake replies. “She was terrible.”

My eyes stray to the back of the lab. “I wonder what she had to talk to him about.”

“She probably just needed to chat with him without a bunch of random new people listening in. It seems like they were apart for a while,” Francesca says.

When Quickly and Mym don’t come back for a bit, we go back to our navigation planning. I collect the photos and items that I’ve gathered so far, and set them on the table on the second floor balcony. I have a doorknob, a portion of a trash can lid, a metal vise and a blue handle from a street-side mailbox. The doorknob photo is a long shot of a door inside the St. Petersburg Coliseum in 2002. The vise appears to be in someone’s garage sometime in 1989. The trash can lid is in an alley in 1994. The mailbox handle photo shows a mailbox in my own neighborhood around 2006. I stare at that photo the longest.
So close to home
. I still need more.

Many of the cubbies that Quickly has labeled don’t have any objects in them at all. They hold photos of objects that were much too big to collect. The backs of the photos include addresses where one can find them. I see
flagpoles and old cars. There are a few statues and landmarks I recognize, but most are unassuming objects. There are fence poles, parking meters, stop signs and a myriad of other everyday items. While many are in Florida or in St. Petersburg specifically, I run across plenty of other cities and countries also. One of the cubbies that catches my eye holds a bronze spearhead, and the photo lists its location as a museum in Calcutta in 1945.

I wonder how far he’s been back?

I learn to recognize Quickly’s handwriting easily, his long lettered cursive flows across the backs of the photos in fluid strokes. As I keep searching, I also recognize more and more in the loopy feminine hand that I now know to be Mym’s. Her object selection is distinct from Quickly’s as well. Where his objects and photos are primarily simple functional items, I see that Mym has taken a more artistic approach to both the photos and the items she has selected.