| Subject: The Present Moment - Repost (2/16) |
Author:
mary48184
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Date Posted: 06:34:31 04/15/08 Tue
My apologies for the delay, but I was out of town for a few days... =)
Chapter 2
“What you change?” The old Asian woman’s face floats in front of my eyes like a beacon, an apparition wavering in the blue sea of my dreams. In the distance, a faint intermittent buzzing noise is drowned out by the sound of her voice, which scratches my ears, grates across my spine as it lowers to whisper: “Your unspoken desire is the road not taken. Take it!”
Shifting slightly, the watery gray of her eyes melts away to reveal someone I haven’t thought about in years, John Farrow. He emerges from the misty darkness carrying an oddly shaped metallic basket brimming with cellophane. As he nears, I see that’s he’s munching on what appears to be a fortune cookie. To my astonishment, a trail of crumbs is falling down the front of his otherwise impeccable sport jacket.
“How about it, Sarah?” he asks around a mouthful of cookie. “Shall you try the road not taken?”
Suddenly the buzzing noise has grown too close, approaching from the edges of my mind until it’s hard upon my heels and boring into my skull. With a groan, I burrow deeper into the softness of the pillow, hoping desperately to escape its persistent beacon. However, it’s no use: the damn thing won’t go away until I do something.
As soon as my hand hits the snooze button, reality begins to intrude into my sleep-addled brain. The last thing I recall was climbing into Harm’s car in the restaurant parking lot last night after dinner. As hard as I try to remember, there’s nothing beyond that – one minute I was leaning my head against the cool glass of his passenger window, the next I’m waging a one-woman battle against an annoying piece of electronics from Radio Shack. How on earth did I get to bed? I wonder. And why the hell did I set the alarm? Usually my internal clock has me awake and out of bed by seven o’clock on Saturday mornings, but surprisingly enough I have absolutely no clue what time it is. Interesting.
Lifting my head slightly, I prop open one eye just enough to see the vivid red lights of the clock sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. I’ve actually owned the thing for years, but this is the first time I can ever remember not waking up before the alarm sounded. The numbers swimming into focus, I realize that it’s nearly eight-thirty, well after I’m normally out of bed and on my second (or sometimes third) cup of coffee. For a moment a small groan escapes, and I bury my face in the covers as I think about how much Harm’s going to tease me for being late for the Saturday morning work sessions that have lately become such a regular part of our lives. But then yesterday’s events come rushing back: Harm and I finally finished our report, and after giving it his once-over blessing, General Cresswell granted us a surprise weekend leave. I’m technically on vacation. But what the hell am I going to do with myself today? Moaning again, this time I toss back the bedspread and catapult myself out of bed, making sure to turn off the alarm as I go. My feet feel like lead as I pad across to the closet for my robe.
Still trying to remember how I got home last night, my slippers hardly make a sound as I cross through the living room to the kitchen, all the while rubbing sleep from my eyes. A few moments later, the coffee maker is humming softly on the counter, and I’m leaning back peering into the fridge. Nothing looks good. The images from my fleeting dream continue to pass through my mind, the old woman’s toothy grin and John’s handsome face. What made me dream about John? I speculate absently, reaching for the milk. I haven’t honestly thought about him in years. Pondering it for a few moments as I pour myself a humongous bowl of cereal, it finally occurs to me that I really don’t care about John Farrow anymore. What happened between us so many years ago was an obvious mistake, end of story.
“If I’m going to ‘take the road not taken,’ it certainly wouldn’t be with you, John,” I mutter aloud. Slamming the refrigerator door with finality, I push Farrow out of my mind and return to the living room, a bowl of cereal in one hand and a gigantic mug of coffee in the other.
For a moment I stand there contemplatively, eyes skimming around as I debate on how to occupy my morning. It’s so rare that I have an entire day to myself that the novelty of it now is a little overwhelming. Finally, my gaze lands on the entertainment armoire. Thinking of the DVD that Harm’s former ward, Mattie Grace, gave me for my last birthday, I set my coffee down on the coffee table and open up the cabinet. Although she and I don’t know each other all that well, she’d obviously known about (and disapproved of) my ill-fated romance with Clayton Webb, CIA Extraordinaire, because she’d thoughtfully chosen the movie “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” as a gift. The bowl of cereal in my hand starts to grow heavy as I scan through the titles without finding the one I want.
Oh come on. Where is it? It’s got to be here somewhere.
I take an absent bite of my corn flakes before leaning in for a closer look. After ten minutes, I finally come to the maddening conclusion that it’s not there. What could I possibly have done with the damned thing? Could I have loaned it to someone and just don’t remember? I think, knowing that the disc couldn’t possibly have wandered off by itself.
The words are hanging in my mind when I’m suddenly startled out of my skin by a heavy knock on the front door, a few feet away to my right. Who in their right mind would be calling on me at this hour of the morning? Don’t they know better than to sneak up on a groggy Marine? Prepared to take a chunk of hide out of whoever is on the other side, I peer warily into the peephole and find myself coming up short. It’s Harm.
My first, and admittedly irrational, thought is that he’s taken the initiative of having someone head out to Falls Church and tow my car all the way back to Georgetown. But then reality intrudes. Harm and I haven’t exactly been on the best of terms in the last two years or so. Sure, we’ve been working closely together this past month and things have been much smoother between us, but it’s not like we’re back to the close personal relationship we’d enjoyed a few years back. And besides, it’s too early in the morning for my insurance company to be answering their phones since they’re based in San Antonio, an entire time zone behind D.C.
My second thought is that I’m standing here in my bathrobe with total bedhead, holding a bowl of soggy cereal and probably suffering from a severe case of morning mouth. For a minute I debate if I have enough time to run and brush my teeth, but then Harm is knocking again, more insistently this time. Giving an inward shrug, I use my free hand to flip the deadbolt and toss the door open.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I ask grumpily, turning back into the living room before he can even say hello. His showing up unannounced on my doorstep makes me oddly nervous. It doesn’t help that I look like I just woke up. Literally.
“Eight forty-two,” he answers, closing the door behind him while I plop down onto the couch, focusing my attention on the contents of my cereal bowl. “What are you still doing in your pajamas? You’d better hurry up or we’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” I ask automatically, glancing up. As soon as I do, my chest tightens, making my ribcage feel about ten sizes too small: Harm looks weird… but in a really sexy way. Something has changed since we saw each other yesterday. What is it? Trying not to let him catch me staring, I can’t pinpoint exactly what’s the matter. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s standing just inside my doorway in his bomber jacket and a pair of form-fitting, well-worn jeans that I could have sworn ended up in his greasy garage rag-pile a few years back. Or perhaps it’s because he’s now shifting from one foot to the other, trying to mask a sense of discomfort that would only be obvious to someone who knows him well. Like me.
“You forgot, didn’t you.” His tone is slightly accusatory, and I can’t help but feel guilty even though I have no clue what he’s talking about.
“Forgot what?” I counter, firmly pushing aside the itch of discomfort that’s edging along the back of my mind. Something about the tone of his voice makes me feel like I’m missing half the conversation. But implicit intimacy has always flowed between us, a form of unspoken communication. This is me and Harm, after all. “I thought you were going out to Blacksburg today.”
His brows furrow in an immediate expression of bewilderment. “Blacksburg? Why would I go to Blacksburg? We’re supposed to be at Bud and Harriet’s at nine, remember?”
“Bud and Harriet’s?” Okay, I’m seriously lost here. My confusion must be evident, because he immediately steps over and lays the back of his hand on my forehead.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asks, a quirky smile of concern playing along his lips as he pretends to check for a fever before taking a step back. I can’t help but notice how good he looks: his face seems leaner to me, but then again I’m apparently having trouble waking up this morning. Maybe he got a haircut. Since dinner last night? questions a little inner voice. I ignore it.
“I’m fine. What’s at Bud and Harriet’s”
“Mac, if you don’t want to go... I’ve already apologized for what I said on Friday, but if you want me to say it again: I’m sorry.” Oh God, he’s pulling out the lost puppy look. I’m a goner.
“No, no, it’s fine. I just forgot,” I tell him quickly. I don’t know what exactly it is he’s apologizing for, and I certainly don’t remember agreeing to go to Bud and Harriet’s, but just because I can’t seem to follow the conversation this morning doesn’t mean I’m not game for a little unexpected socialization. Pushing off from the sofa, I hold out the bowl. “Can you go put this in the kitchen for me? I’ll just be a minute.”
Not giving him a chance to argue, I thrust my half-eaten breakfast into his hands and scurry through the door into my bedroom. Obviously I didn’t make things clear yesterday. It’s just like Harm to barge in and turn my plans inside out, even after I’ve already told him that all I want to do is spend a quiet day relaxing by myself at home, I grumble to myself as I hurriedly change into some black pants and a blouse, slipping on a comfortable pair of heels.
Despite knowing that Harm is sitting out in the living room waiting for me, probably growing more impatient by the minute, I shoot a piercing glance towards the closed bedroom door before stepping into the bathroom. The toothbrush is halfway to my mouth before I take a good look in the mirror.
My hair is pulled up onto the top of my head and is sticking out in all different directions, spiking up in ways that it wouldn’t have just yesterday, when it easily reached down to my shoulders. Standing there with my toothbrush hanging halfway out of my mouth, I swiftly lift my hand and yank out the elastic band. Free of its stubby ponytail, my hair falls awkwardly around my ears… the ends only coming down as far as my chin, about four inches shorter than it was a mere twenty-four hours ago. I spit my toothbrush into the sink with a dull clatter.
“WHAT THE HELL?!!!” my eyes widen as I gasp out loud. Staring back out from the mirror, I’m standing agape with a short, neat haircut, instead of the longer shoulder-length style I’ve worn for the past year. Completely and utterly shocked at my reflection, I blink hard a few times and trail my fingers through the ends of my hair, testing the length and pulling at it, as though the tactile act of touching the strands will miraculously make my hair grow again. Turning from side to side in an attempt to see the back of my head, I cannot believe that this is real. Logic dictates that what I’m seeing is impossible, but I can’t ignore what all my senses are telling me – my hair seems to have inexplicably shortened overnight.
“Mac? You okay?” Harm’s voice echoes from the other room.
Opening my mouth to reply, it takes a minute before any sound comes out. “I’m fine,” I finally squeak, although quite frankly that’s far from the truth. I clear my throat. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
For a moment I stand staring at myself in the mirror, waiting for something to happen. Am I dreaming? I’ve got to be dreaming. Pushing up my sleeve, I give my arm a hard pinch, but nothing changes: I’m still standing here in my bathroom with the faucet running comfortingly, the face in the mirror a ghost from my own past.
At long last I force myself to start moving again, but my mind has gone completely numb from shock. My body operates on autopilot, re-brushing my teeth, scrubbing clean and applying a few key traces of makeup, running a comb through my unexpectedly short hair as my subconscious mind tries desperately to find some rationale for what’s happening. No matter what, though, I can’t see any logical explanation, and I finally return to the living room in a fog of frustration.
Harm seems to have made himself at home on my couch. When I emerge from the bedroom, he flashes me a smile and stands.
“Ready?” he asks as I grab my jacket.
“As I’ll ever be. ” My voice comes across confidently, despite the fact that the entire world seems to have shifted onto one ear in the last ten minutes. “Let’s go.”
A moment later we’re descending the staircase to the front door of my building. Outside, another surprise awaits me: instead of being covered with April’s newly budding leaves, the trees lining the street have already changed color. Again, I hide my alarm at the astonishingly sudden change in season behind an air of normalcy. Shivering at the chilly nip in the air, I instinctively pull the edges of my windbreaker more tightly together. Ahead of me, Harm looks both ways before stepping between some parked cars and out into the street towards his SUV, which waits patiently on the other side.
“I thought you—” I begin to say, but then think better of it. Fortunately, Harm’s too far away by now to hear my aborted question. Looking at the gold Lexus as cross the street, which I could have sworn he had sold after his classic Corvette was fully restored, I wonder again if I’m dreaming. If it is a dream, it’s probably the best one I’ve ever had because it certainly all feels real. Sucking in a deep breath, I quickly cross the street and hop into the passenger seat.
Turning the key in the ignition, Harm flips on the heat full blast as he pulls smoothly away from the curb. “Let me know if you get too warm,” he offers as I fasten my safety belt. “It’s colder out today than it was yesterday. Guess November’s finally here.”
“Sure seems like it,” I agree, although I have no idea what the weather was like yesterday, whenever ‘yesterday’ was!
“You’re awfully quiet this morning. Something on your mind, Mac?”
“No. I’m just operating without my usual overdose of caffeine.” Well, it’s the truth, I think.
“It’s too bad Sturgis beat us across the finish line yesterday,” Harm continues, either oblivious to my preoccupation or ignoring it in favor of making idle small talk. “We could have had some fun being the highest-ranked officers in Ops.”
Something Harm is saying rings a bell. Highest-ranked officer for the day…
“But that was over three years ago.” The words fly out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to stop and think.
He glances over at me in concern, a distinct note of disbelief in his voice as he asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
My mind begins to whirl at the speed of light. He’s referring to the JAG-A-Thon. He has to be. But how can what he’s saying be possible? The JAG-A-Thon charity 10K run was something that Harriet had organized in late 2001 in response to the September 11th terrorist attacks. The prize for first place had been highest-ranked officer privileges at JAG Headquarters for a full day, and both Harm and I had been determined to win. Even with a full six-minute handicap, Harm had caught up with me in the last three hundred meters to tie… for second place. Finishing a mere hair’s breadth ahead of us was Sturgis Turner, who had moonlighted during his Annapolis days as the U.S. Naval Academy’s middle-distance running champion. That first JAG-A-Thon turned out to be the only JAG-A-Thon. And yet Harm has just in effect told me that that same race only happened yesterday. Has he lost his mind?
Or maybe the more appropriate question is: have I lost mine?
The rest of the car ride is spent in silence. Although part of me is now expecting it when Harm turns off towards Rosslyn, Virginia, I’m still disconcerted when he steers the Lexus into a parking spot just down the street from Bud and Harriet’s old building. My whole body feels like wood as we make our way up to their apartment, my feet once again forging their own path along the sidewalk and up the stairs without me telling them to.
Before Harm can even lift his hand to knock, Harriet Sims has thrown the door open and is ushering us inside.
“Commander! Colonel!” she greets warmly. Her vivacious demeanor, the same as it has always been, helps to give my mind a little peace as I step into their living room. The handful of people already here seem to give weight to my growing suspicion that I’ve inexplicably been thrown back into the past: Jason Tiner and Victor Galindez, both of whom in my normal world had left JAG well over a year before, are standing off to one side arguing about who suffered the most grievous injury during the 6.2 mile race; on the couch talking with Sturgis is Carolyn Imes, who was dishonorably discharged from the Navy in 2003 for falsifying her credentials as an attorney; and over in the kitchen is Admiral Chegwidden himself, laughing heartily with Bud Roberts and Alan Mattoni. Seeing the admiral smile reminds me acutely of the difficulties he’d suffered during the year leading up to his retirement, and how differently he’d acted towards the JAG staff as a result. But right now, in this moment, he seems to be genuinely enjoying himself, something I haven’t witnessed in a very long time. Not for the first time, I find myself questioning whether this entire experience is real.
And then I hear a young voice calling my name. “Aun’ Mac! Aun’ Mac!”
Rushing at me from down the hallway is A.J. Roberts, Bud and Harriet’s eldest son. Before I can consciously react, I’m kneeling down and A.J. is in my arms, but he’s not exactly the A.J. I remember: the child enveloped in my embrace can’t be much more than two years old, while the A.J. of my memories should be turning six in two months’ time. However, all of my senses are screaming that it’s the autumn of 2001, not the spring of 2005, and I’m obviously not in Kansas anymore. Little A.J. is just one more piece of the puzzle.
“You squishin’ me.” Belatedly hearing the tiny protest muffled against my shoulder, I release him from what I’d inadvertently let turn into a crushing grip.
“Sorry,” I smile weakly, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on his forehead. “I just missed you is all.”
“I miss’d you too,” he smiles freely. Then, hearing his mother calling from the kitchen, he scampers off.
Watching him go, stubby little toddler legs pumping madly as he navigates the sharp corner into the kitchen, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by all the hints I’ve been given this morning that add up to nearly four missing years. The DVD from Mattie that mysteriously disappeared from its space in my entertainment center, my hair shortening itself overnight with no scissors involved, Harm’s baffling references to events that in my mind happened far too long ago to be remembered clearly, seeing faces of colleagues who have since moved on and away from the fold of JAG Headquarters… There’s only one explanation for all of these otherwise seemingly unrelated clues:
The past three and a half years of my life haven’t happened yet.
tbc
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