This Time Tomorrow(66)

50



New Zealand. Warm room, with the ocean out the window. Not her house—just temporary. Alice’s hair was still short, and bleached almost white. Her skin was tan, her arms strong. She carried a camera.



* * *



? ? ?

Debbie on her voicemail—Come home. There isn’t much time. Alice almost wanted to laugh. There is always more time, just look at all the time I have, she thought, but still, she got on a plane and flew through an entire day—backward through a day—arriving before she’d left.





51



Alice and Leonard ate her birthday dinner at every restaurant she loved: they had dumplings and dim sum at Jing Fong, all the way in Chinatown; they had high tea at the Plaza hotel; they went to Serendipity 3 for giant ice cream sundaes; they had doughy suburban pizza at Uno Pizzeria, which had always secretly been Alice’s favorite; they had Gray’s Papaya again and again; they had dripping, gooey pizza from V&T; they had lox at Barney Greengrass; they got every kind of cookie from the Hungarian Pastry Shop; they went to City Diner and Leonard made his favorite joke, that he would order the boiled scrod, and then they ate burgers and fries and milkshakes; Leonard let Alice have sips of his margarita at Lucy’s, an enormous plate of cheese enchiladas between them. Bowls of penne alla vodka at Isola. Sometimes it felt like cheating, for it to always be Alice’s birthday, and for there always to be a reason for cake and off-key singing, and it was cheating, of course, it was cheating the rest of the year, and tomorrow, but Alice didn’t care; she let her dad sing the whole song every time. After one or two birthdays, Alice realized that she was going back mostly for dinner, just to have those hours where she and her dad or she and her dad and Sam sat around a table, talking about nothing in particular but laughing, and happy. Just being together.



* * *



? ? ?

Leonard was always so happy when she told him. Aside from dinner, it became Alice’s favorite part. He was surprised every time, and sometimes clapped his hands with delight, pitching his upper body forward. Alice had imagined, over the course of her life, telling Leonard lots of things that made him cackle with joy—true joy, big joy—but there was no going forward, only back. And so she told him this one thing, over and over again, knowing how he would react, a present to them both.





52



It felt good, for a little while, to treat going back and forth like she was just going forward, as if each day were a new day, no matter the year, and it followed the one before it, and like she didn’t have to think too far ahead. Alice had never had a problem going from one day to the next. She knew it wasn’t true, but sometimes, when she was sitting in the guardhouse, waiting for the past or the future, she felt like she could do it forever, and like no one would ever die, and whatever choices she made, they didn’t matter, because she was just going to undo them in the morning.





53



Leonard’s pale skin, Leonard’s closed eyes, Leonard’s shallow breaths. She could make him better, and so she did, over and over again, a magic trick. Leonard young, Leonard funny, Leonard drinking Coca-Cola and smoking. Leonard immortal, if only for the day.





Part Five





54



It was two weeks after Alice’s birthday now, each visit pushing forward one day. Now she was used to being forty—truly, what did it matter—but her body did feel creakier than she remembered it, and when she stood up, there were some crinkling noises in her knees, like a freshly milked bowl of Rice Krispies. If Alice had just gone home that night, that first night, her fortieth birthday, if she’d called the fancy car and just given the driver her own address instead of her father’s, she would have vomited and passed out and woken up forty plus one day, plus one hangover. She still hadn’t fixed one thing in her life. She was no Dawn—she wasn’t even a Time Brother. If her life had a tag line, it would be Go back in time, fix nothing! Those books had happy endings, or, at the very least, satisfying ones, where there was some definitive resolution. A period at the end of the sentence. Alice’s problem was that there was always another sentence.

The Cheever Place apartment was smaller than she remembered, which was always how it felt after a day away. Most garden apartments were floor-throughs, with a door that led to an outdoor space, whether it was grassy or just, like in her building, a large concrete square, but the way Alice’s landlady had divided her house, the rental apartment was just one large singular room with a built-in kitchen along one wall and exactly two internal doors: one that opened into a closet, and one that opened into the bathroom. Her desk, which was really just one side of her small kitchen table, was covered with a mountain of paper that was threatening to avalanche at any second. Her shoes, which were supposed to live on their little shoe rack by the door, dribbled out into the middle of the floor as if elves had taken them for joyrides.

Alice flopped over on her bed. The tiny dog who lived next door, with the elderly woman who liked to sit on her front stoop and talk to everyone who walked by, was barking, which meant that the mailman was nearby. The dog was an ancient dachshund and couldn’t go up or down the steps by himself, and so plaintively barked every time he wanted to be in a place he wasn’t. Alice’s bed was a mattress she’d ordered from an internet company that advertised on the subway, on a creaky IKEA bedframe. She wasn’t unhappy in her life—she hadn’t been unhappy in her life. Everything was fine. She was healthy, she had a job, she had friends, she had a decent sex life. She got Sephora points and didn’t shop at Amazon. She carried her own bags to the grocery store. Alice didn’t know how to drive, but if she did, she would drive an electric car. She voted, all the time, even for city council and state senator. She had a 401(k) and paid down her credit cards every few months. But Alice couldn’t look around her apartment and see anything that actually made her happy. There was supposed to be an upside to adulthood, wasn’t there? The period of your life that was your own, and not chosen for you by other people?