10

Today was perfect. It was an early warm summer day, the humidity had held off. Today, I turned 40. No big extravagant party, just a relaxing day of my little family of three. I woke up to Megan bringing me princess pancakes and Eric, following behind with a small jewelry case with a blue bow on it. A gold locket, with a picture of the three of us in it, heart shaped, with a little diamond on the front of it. The day continued with a matinee after lunch and a parents only date at a fancy restaurant while Megan spent the night at her Nana’s.

Night has fallen. I lay in bed, Eric is fast asleep curled up next to me. Our thin cherry blossom designed comforter covers us. My arms are hanging over the top. I stare out my open bedroom window. The light breeze makes my long silky gray curtains dance in the moonlight. I drift off to sleep, attempting to count as many stars as I can, contempt in the comforts of my current life.

“Autumn, wake up, please,” I heard a man calling out to me. I sat up, blinking my eyes and wiping my face from the drool that I hadn’t left on the desk.

Wait, what, where am I? I thought, looking around the room.

“Thank you for rejoining us Autumn,” Mr. Johnson, my fifth grade teacher, announced. Some of the other children in the class chuckled, I looked around the room, recognizing everyone in the class, back when we were all 10 years old. 

Melissa Wiggins, who sat to the right of me, mouthed the words, ‘Are you okay?’

“I’m not feeling too well,” I announced, standing up and quickly moving towards the doorway of the room. I grabbed the wooden hall pass on the shelf near the door and pushed it open. The door eerily creaked as I pushed it back shut. I walked down to the girls bathroom on the first floor and rushed over to the mirrors above the line of sinks. I found myself staring back at a 10-year-old girl. I turned a cold water faucet on and splashed my face. I rubbed my eyes and looked in the mirror again. Sure enough, there was a 10-year-old staring back at me. This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming. I pinched my left arm and felt the very real, very sharp pain. 

But I remember living through this. I remember going to prom, graduating high school, moving away. I remember getting married and having my daughter. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Melissa asked, breaking into my thoughts. “Mr. Johnson wanted me to come and make sure you were. You look as white as a ghost.”

Melissa Wiggins. She died of a drug overdose in high school, I have a memory of that. Did I somehow come back in time to fix something or was my future self all a dream? 

“Yeah, I think I’m okay,” I answered. “Maybe I should go to the nurse and go home.”

“Okay,” Melissa said, “I’ll go let Mr Johnson know. I hope you feel better.”

“Me too,” I said, as Melissa turned and went back upstairs. She was my best friend in elementary and all through middle school. It was so good to hear her voice. I forgot how much I had missed it.

Twenty minutes later, I was walking the three minute walk home. Then I stopped. Home. Home at 10 was not the same home as it was when I was 40. Home at 10 was a lifetime ago, a part of my life I wanted to forget.

I stood next to the set of train tracks. My home at 10 was on a dead end street, a mere four houses away. I stood and stared. Light blue sided house with navy blue painted window shutters. The house was an eyesore, the inside was a nightmare. In the distance, I heard a constant beeping siren. The train. It was probably about three miles away. I looked down the tracks towards the graveyard and the woods beyond. No train in sight, yet. I looked back at the blue house.

I stopped talking to my mother when I was 26. Her screaming fits and violent mood swings became too unbearable. At 10, I was still living in a world where mental disorders were swept under the rug and not talked about. In my unchosen childhood family, seeking treatment and keeping mentally well wasn’t an option available for choosing. So as I stare at this house now, dread feels my being because I know already how uncontrollable she becomes. As I have grown, or at least in some other timeline now, I’ve been wary of pills. With her, pills could help, maybe, or counseling. Anything, anything at all. 

The train horn became louder. I stepped off the rocks where the track bed flowed behind and walked towards the cement of the road. The ground beneath me began to rumble and shake like it was a small earthquake. The horn whistled again and I stood hesitant. There was a moment in time that I thought I was well past this point and I would’ve been happy to never revisit this moment in time again. But now that I’m here and knowing what I know now from having an extra thirty years of memories and growing, I find myself wondering what I can change. And if I change anything now, does that jeopardize my life with Eric and Megan. The train horn spouted off again. The ground shook harder. I looked down at the ground. It shook harder than I remembered it. I looked down the tracks. I could see the train whip around the bend from the woods. The horn screamed louder and longer this time. Chug-chug-chug-chug. It came rumbling along. I stared at the train, watching it come down the tracks faster than I had ever seen it. Chug-chug-chug-chug. Choo-choo-choo. The train wisped by and I fell backwards, landing on my back and smacking my head against the ground.

Chug-chug-chug. Choo-chooooo. I sat quickly up. I was back in my dark, moonlit bedroom. My side of the comforter is down near my ankles. Eric is still sleeping. I stood up and walked by my dresser, towards the bathroom. As I walked by the dresser, I glanced at myself as I walked by and I could see the outline of my 40-year-old self. DIng, Diiing. I abruptly stopped in the hallway at the top of the stairs. Knock-knock-knock. Someone was at my door. But it was so late. I slowly stepped down the wooden steps towards the front door, trying to get a glimpse of who would be knocking at this hour. Knock-knock–knock. The knocks grew louder. I stepped behind the front door and peeked around the side window. An officer stood at the door. I quickly flipped the front light on and unlocked the door. I opened the door. The officer looked down at me, “Hi, ma’am, sorry for bothering you this late. I was in the area, so I figured I’d stop by. I was just about to leave and try another time.”

“Is everything okay, officer?”

“Are you the daughter of Wendy Wagner?”

I inhaled and exhaled, “Yes,” I answered, “What seems to be the problem? I honestly haven’t talked to her in years.”

The officer took his hat off. “I’m afraid to inform you that she passed away earlier tonight. It appears to be a self inflicted gunshot wound. I’m sorry for your loss.”

It took a moment for what he said to register in my mind. “Thank-you officer.” I managed to muster up the courage to say. He turned and stepped down the five wooden steps of the porch. When he got to the driver's side of the cruiser parked in my front yard, I shut the porch light off. I closed the door and relocked it. I turned around, my back against the door and scooted down to the floor, sitting in my front hallway in the darkness of the night.