Yesterday (35 page)

Not that I believe in fate. How could I, knowing that you can change the past? But old Freya must have reached the conclusion that she shouldn’t make waves. When she saw me in the lobby she knew which path we’d ultimately choose today and knew those hours in the dark with Garren lay ahead of me too. As right as those hours felt, like something that was meant to happen, that doesn’t mean they were fate either—only that some moments have a special shine to them, the quality of being the best and truest they can be.

We’re out of town, on a highway to who knows where, before Garren or I say anything.

“Where are you going?” I ask. I’ve cried all the moisture from my voice. It sounds like sandpaper.

“North.” Garren takes his eyes off the road to glance at me. “I don’t know where we catch up with the Trans-Canada Highway but it’s north somewhere. When we get far enough away we can ask for directions.”

I nod dazedly. I don’t know how long this will all take to sink in.

“It’ll be days before we get to Vancouver,” he continues. “At this time of year we’re bound to run into some really shitty weather on the way. I see a lot of motels in our immediate future.” Garren lowers his voice, his right hand landing on my thigh. “I won’t ask you what you see.” His individual
fingers tap my jeans in quick succession, over and over until I reach across the gearshift and touch him back.

I still don’t know what to say—how to put my feelings into words—and Garren just keeps talking through it. About anything. That he didn’t realize how strong the sun was until we got in the car. That he’s glad for the false memories because they make driving a snap. That he’s not sure whether the car has snow tires but he hopes so because we have a long, long way to go. Miles to go before we sleep, he jokes.

Garren’s eyes fill with something I can’t describe. “But you can sleep for a while if you want,” he adds.

I don’t want to. I want to stay awake with him. “I can drive later,” I mumble. “We can switch when you’re tired.”

Garren nods and touches me again. It’s like we can’t stop. We need to keep doing it to prove we’re both still here. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, good.” He scratches his cheek and then retrieves the envelope from his coat pocket, handing it to me. “Have a look and see what’s in there.”

I tear it open. There are two sets of identification inside—driver’s licenses, birth certificates and the Canadian version of Social Security cards (Social Insurance cards). I stare at the faces in the photographs, our faces. My identification is made out in the name of Holly Allen and the photo of me on the driver’s license looks almost exactly like I do now. Maybe my hair’s ever so slightly longer. Garren’s photograph is the one I’ve spied on his fake student card. I guess it was the only one of him I had.

“You’re Robert Clark,” I tell him, clearing my throat. “You turn twenty on July twelfth.”

“And who are you?”

I quote my name and new date of birth. I was eighteen as of December third.

“Holly,” Garren repeats. “That’s nice. Not as nice as Freya but I guess we have to get used to the new names.” His eyes seek mine out and now I think I recognize most of the various emotions I see in them. Some of them were in the final look old Freya gave me. Some of them are mirror-image reflections of feelings I can’t ever imagine having for anyone but Garren. The bit left over is pure admiration and I listen to Garren say, “I can’t believe everything she must have done to reach us. I can’t—” He cuts himself off, his eyes shining as he starts over. “
You did all this
. You saved my life.”

He’s going to make me start crying again. I shoot him a look that translates simultaneously as
you’re welcome
and
shut up
. I only stopped unraveling a few minutes ago; I’m not ready to get that raw again.

We fall mute, both of us gazing determinedly at the road ahead until I believe I can trust my voice. “I think … you’re more of a Robbie than a Robert.”

Garren’s green eyes glint wetly in the sun. “Okay.” He takes a swipe at one of his eyes. “So I already have myself a nickname.”

I lay my hand on his leg for what must be the fourteenth time since we started driving and try to think of something else to say that won’t make either of us cry. “
Robbie
, you
know, ever since I got back here those Winston Churchill quotes from the Dailies keep popping into my head.”

“They were good quotes.” Garren raises his chin. His voice is bold and defiant as he says, “Never, never, never give up.”

Never, never, never
. Winston was on to something there.

I smile for the first time since we got into the car. It feels faint but I think it will soon be stronger. “Can we drive straight through to Winnipeg?” I ask.
Miles to go before we sleep
.

It seems right to be on the road. Like as long as we’re moving we’ll never be caught. Never, never, never. I can’t see anything but the present. No visions tugging at my mind. I hope it’s a good sign, and maybe when we reach Vancouver and see the whales I’ll finally believe we’re safe. We’re not invincible but we’re definitely each other’s best defense system. I’ve proven that.

“Of course we can,” Garren says, and there’s his hand on me again, again, again. “We can take turns sleeping in the backseat.”

“That sounds good,” I tell him, and I stare across the highway at the sea of 1985 people in their clunky old polluting vehicles. The way the light hits the bobbing jumbles of metal makes the cars look nearly pretty. They shimmer as they hurtle forward and skate across lanes. There’s a pony-tailed girl with a rambunctious dog in the backseat of the Buick ahead of us, and a bearded man in a leather jacket singing along to his radio in the station wagon on our left. These
are our people now. This is our time. I flick on the radio and flip through the stations, looking for the first familiar song I can find. I stop on a Depeche Mode tune and Garren smiles.

We drive on, deeper into the present, disappearing seamlessly into 1985. Just a regular teenage couple with the radio up loud, wondering what, aside from love, the world has in store for them.

A
s always, thanks to my husband, Paddy, for being my trusty first reader and sounding board and for making me laugh when that’s what I need the most.

I’ve been on many journeys with my editor, Shana Corey, but this is our first trip through time together. Thanks, Shana, for your patience and insight. You’ve made my books a greater thing on every occasion and that’s some special kind of magic.

Many thanks also to our partner in crime (and fellow Billy Bragg fan), editor Amy Black, and my trusty, unflappable agent, Stephanie Thwaites.

My boundless gratitude to Nicole de las Heras for creating a cover that looks like a zillion dollars and awes me every time I look at it. Nicole, I can’t thank you enough.

Finally, I’d be remiss to write a book set in 1985 and not mention music in my acknowledgments. So
enormous
thanks to the bands and artists who shaped my experience of the
first half of the 1980s. It wouldn’t have been a fraction as cool a time without your music in my life: ABBA, Adam Ant/Adam and the Ants, A-ha, The Alarm, Alison Moyet, Alphaville, Altered Images, Art of Noise, Asia, Bananarama, The Bangles, The Beat, Berlin, Big Country, Billy Bragg, Billy Idol, Billy Joel, Blancmange, Blondie, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, The Boomtown Rats, Bow Wow Wow, Bronski Beat, Bruce Springsteen, Bryan Adams, Bryan Ferry, The Cars, China Crisis, Chris de Burgh, Clannad, The Clash, Corey Hart, Culture Club, The Cure, Cyndi Lauper, David Bowie, Def Leppard, Depeche Mode, Dire Straits, Double, The Dream Academy, Duran Duran, Echo & the Bunnymen, Elton John, Elvis Costello, Eurythmics, The Fixx, Fleetwood Mac, A Flock of Seagulls, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, General Public, Genesis, Go West, The Go-Go’s, Gowan, Grace Jones, Haircut 100, Heaven 17, Honeymoon Suite, Howard Jones, The Human League, The Icicle Works, Images in Vogue, INXS, Irene Cara, J. Geils Band, Jackson Browne, The Jam, Jane Siberry, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Joan Jett, Joe Jackson, John Cougar, John Waite, Journey, Kajagoogoo, Kate Bush, Kim Wilde, The Kinks, Kirsty MacColl, Laura Branigan, Level 42, Lionel Richie, Lloyd Cole and the Commotions, Loverboy, Luba, Madness, Madonna, Marillion, Martha and the Muffins, Men at Work, Men Without Hats, Midnight Oil, Modern English, The Motels, Naked Eyes, Nena, New Order, Nick Heyward, Nik Kershaw, Nina Hagen, Olivia Newton-John, Orchestral Manoeuvers in the Dark (OMD), The Parachute Club, Pat Benatar, Paul Hyde
and the Payola$, Paul McCartney, Paul Young, Pet Shop Boys, Peter Gabriel, Phil Collins, Pink Floyd, Platinum Blonde, The Police, The Pretenders, Prince, The Psychedelic Furs, Public Image Ltd., Queen, Quiet Riot, R.E.M., The Ramones, Rational Youth, Real Life, Red Rider, Rick Springfield, Romeo Void, Rough Trade, Roxy Music, Rush, Sade, Saga, Scorpions, Scritti Politti, Sheena Easton, Sheriff, Simple Minds, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Slade, The Smiths, Soft Cell, Spandau Ballet, The Specials, Split Enz, The Spoons, Stephen Duffy, The Stranglers, The Style Council, Talk Talk, Tears for Fears, Thompson Twins, ’Til Tuesday, Tina Turner, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Toto, Triumph, Twisted Sister, U2, UB40, Ultravox, Van Halen, Violent Femmes, Visage, Wah!, Wang Chung, The Waterboys, Wham!, Whitney Houston, The Who, Yazoo, and Yes.

C. K. Kelly Martin is the critically acclaimed author of
I Know It’s Over, One Lonely Degree, The Lighter Side of Life and Death
, and
My Beating Teenage Heart
. She began writing her first novel in Dublin and currently lives in the greater Toronto area with her husband. She was sixteen years old in 1985 and continues to look back on the eighties with extreme fondness. You can visit her website and blog at
ckkellymartin.com
.