Chapter 3 of 9.

See previous chapters beginning on Friday, August 2nd. Or check link to author archive – https://www.evesun.com/authors/31

Suddenly finding myself talking over a backward span of years to a younger version of myself, I gasped and blurted out, “You’re not going to believe this.”

She (or rather … eighteen-year-old-me) laughed and said, “No one ever believes me, either.”

Then she paused and commanded, “Say something.”

I was too flabbergasted to speak, so she filled the silence by stating, “I always wondered if you’d call.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t remember ever having received any telephone calls from my older self when I was young, and I would have remembered.

Or would I?

But before I could answer my own question, the ebullient voice of my younger self sang out, “What’s it like out there in the future? Exhilarating, I bet. And challenging. Oh, for sure challenging. And… and … I know it’s just plain wonderful. Oh, my God. I can’t wait to be old!”

Could this be true? Can that bubble of youthful exuberance really have been me? So fresh. So enthusiastic. So…noisy. I couldn’t believe it. Yet I could. Instead of answering my own questions though, I asked, “How are things going in your life?”

“Oh,” she gasped. “You don’t remember?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m … I guess the best way to describe it is that I’m mobile.”

“What does that mean?”

I heard a progression of taps, like fingernails against a tabletop. I looked down at my own long, tapered nails. I had always been a friend of manicures and always tapped my nails against a tabletop when I was thinking.

Finally, eighteen-year-old me said, “All my life, I’ve been waiting to be a grown up. To be marching at the head of my own parade. Are you sure that you don’t remember?”

“Positive.”

My younger self hesitated. Then, her voice solemn, she asked, “Will I like myself when I’m you?”

“Why are you asking?”

“You know why.”

“I do. You want to know if I betrayed you?”

“Yes. I do.”

I didn’t answer. During the pause that followed, the seventeen years between us witnessed a battle of wills. The pause lasted a good sixty seconds before I heard my younger self sigh.

“Okay,” she finally conceded. “I get it. It makes perfect sense in a science fiction sort of way. You can poke into my life like a tourist on a shopping spree, but I’m not allowed to reciprocate, because I could screw up the future if ... blah … blah … blah.”

“Something like that.”

“But you want to know all about me.”

“Passionately.”

“That’s completely unfair.”

“True.”

“But somewhat reassuring.”

“How so?”

“At least I know I’m still passionate.”

Again, I heard fingernails on a tabletop.

“Okay, Miss Busybody,” she said, her voice suddenly perky. “I’ll tell you about my apartment. My very first apartment. I’m renting from Mr. and Mrs. Bloom. He’s a piano teacher, and she’s a motherly gnome. My bedroom has cabbage rose wallpaper, a slanted ceiling, a miniscule refrigerator, and a hot plate. I love living here, because I can buy a banana cream pie, and eat the whole thing myself. I can watch the same movie four times, or go to four different movies on the same day. I can stay up all night reading without anyone shouting that I’ll ruin my eyes. Last week, I opened a bank account with my first paycheck, and tomorrow I’m going to my first Broadway matinee. I’m teaching myself how to get around in Manhattan. I know where all the good bookstores are, and where not to walk in Central Park. The city excites me because it’s vibrant, it’s accessible, and it’s all laid out like pages in a book, but better than a book. Better than a movie. It’s…”

She hesitated, as if groping for words.

“What is it?” I urged.

“It’s destiny. Doing, daring, planning, hoping, and being. Every day, I see people streaming into Grand Central Station, and they’re all just like me, with eyes as big as pie plates and dreams so high voltage you can scrape them off the sky.”

Then, suddenly, my once and future self stopped talking.

If feet can shuffle over a distance of seventeen years, I swear that I could hear hers doing exactly that as she lowered her voice and added, “You still think that I want to be an actress, don’t you?”

I grunted.

“Or a writer … a movie producer ... an actress … something in the arts.”

I grunted again.

“Well…”

This was it. This was why I had picked up the phone. Why I was calling her…me. Why, in fact, I was. Unconsciously, but knowing that I was on the cusp of something important, my fingernails began their characteristic tabletop dance.

Continued Next Week

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2024. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.