Yesterday

21^st June 2000

The setting sun cast its last rays onto the orange, patternless curtains that shimmered and rustled like falling leaves on a dry autumn day. Izzy sat on the floor of her bedroom, drawing next to her sunshine-decorated bed.

Her tongue stuck out as she wriggled to lie on her front on the grey carpet, swinging her legs, scribbling her future on a plain piece of paper. Her crayon flew over the blank slate, creating a wilderness of colours and patterns. Mumbling unintelligibly to herself as she worked, she stopped every few seconds to take the breath she kept forgetting.

Anja, her mother, watched over Izzy's shoulder with an indulgent smile only slightly marred by the occasional wince as her child's crayon missed the paper and slid onto the carpet. She dropped herself to the floor and assumed the same position as her daughter, lying down beside her.

“What are you drawing?” she asked tenderly. The mess of round, purple scribbles conveyed nothing to her.

Izzy grinned, a smile full of half-formed teeth. “My future, Mama. See, this is me.” She pointed to a small circle near the middle that featured two dots and a misshapen semi-circle for a face. “And this is my tree-house.” Her index finger circled the large blob underneath the picture-her. “And my dog, and my typewriter.”

As if on cue, the family's Irish Setter bounded in, and snuffled his way between Izzy and her mother. Izzy laughed her sweet, heart-melting laugh. Gently, she pushed him away with a playful chide. “No, Brio. I'm showing Mama my picture.” She looked at her mother with a soft, pleading expression.

Anja smiled, and answered Izzy's look with a question. “Your typewriter, honey?”

Immediately, Izzy's face lit up, her dimple appearing. She turned back to her drawing with renewed energy. “Silly Mama. My typewriter. 'Cuz I'm gonna write stories, and I'm gonna do it betterer than anyone ever. I will.”

“That's a beautiful dream, honey.”

Izzy's face crumpled. “Not a dream. I'm gonna make it happen. It will happen, Mama!”

“Yes, dear.” Anja glanced out of the bedroom window to see the sun already set, and darkness spread over the sky. “It's time for bed now.”

“Yes, Mama.” Izzy slid her arm over the carpet to gather the crayons as her mother picked up her drawing and placed it on a shelf with the others.

A few minutes later, Anja was tucking her daughter in. Izzy wriggled around to get comfortable. Eventually, she settled down. Her mother sat down beside her.

“What age do you think you'll wake up as tomorrow morning?” she whispered, as if they were sharing an important secret – as if there was someone around who might hear them.

Izzy giggled. “I think... I'm gonna be 105!”

They smiled at each other for a moment. Anja bent down to Izzy and kissed her gently on the head, said goodnight, and got into her own bed. They both knew speculating about tomorrow was useless – after all, it might be years of their time until they actually met again at what they now called 'tomorrow' – but it was a cute game neither of them wanted to give up.

時間

The next morning...

4nd March 2031

Izzy woke up with the passive memory of her husband calling her, saying he had to sleep over at a friend's house after a long and tedious business meeting, rather than making the drive back at one o'clock in the morning. It was just like him to find some excuse for going to Marty's, she thought, with a smile on her face.

After taking the customary ten seconds to sort her memories, she rose from the double bed.

Quickly, she changed into the uniform that hung in her wardrobe – unconsciously recognising each item that met her eyes – and completed the wake-up routine she somehow remembered doing every morning for the last five years. It was almost funny, when she thought about it, that she'd been using that routine for longer than her whole lifespan had been when she had finally dropped off to sleep yesterday.

Making herself a coffee in the kitchen downstairs, she sat down at the table and sifted through her latest notebook to refresh her mind on how much of her first novel draft she'd written. To her dismay, she only counted 21,000 words. A groan escaped her. Where had the last 3,000 gone? That was her favourite chapter.

“What's the groan for?” Her husband walked in, sliding off his shoes, laces already untied – he always undid them outside the door. She looked up from her notes, recognising his smooth brown hair and solid build.

Izzy smiled tentatively. James never had much patience with her writing – it was just a passing hobby, he said. She would grow out of it. And they had more important things to think about, like paying attention to the jobs that would actually earn them money.

“My... last chapter,” she advanced, and paused, unsure of whether to continue. She didn't want to risk annoying him as soon as he walked in. Beginnings – small beginnings, large beginnings – were precious.

He smiled. “So forgetful. You wrote it in a different notebook. This one.” He took a pocket-sized notebook out of his coat, and threw it to her.

Izzy stretched her hands out and caught it just before it fell. She stared at it blankly. He'd taken it. Why had he taken it?

He spoke, seeming to have read her mind. “It's about time I supported you. And if you get cracking with that novel, we'll have another source of income.” He winked. “We'll need it, to handle what's coming.”

Izzy stared at her husband. There must have been a gap in her memory somewhere – she must have not absorbed them properly – she couldn't remember.

James looked at her with a concerned expression. “You didn't sort your memories properly this morning, did you?”

She nodded.

“Then I can tell you.” He grinned. “You're having a child. In about... eight months.”

She stared. Slowly, she pushed her gaze down to the pocket-sized notebook in front of her. Distraction. She needed a distraction to be able to process the information.

Her husband knew her well enough to recognise this. “I read your story. It's good. And I got you a...” He covered his mouth theatrically. “That was supposed to be a secret.”

Izzy smiled at him. He hadn't even said what he'd got her – but she went along with it anyway. “Are you gonna tell me? Or do I pretend I didn't hear?”

“I might as well. Or, better: I'll show you. Just a minute.” James slipped his shoes back on without bothering to tie them up, and stepped outside.

Izzy waited. A minute passed. She tapped her fingers against the table, flicking idly through her bigger notebook.

James came back a minute later, carrying something heavy – at least, that's what Izzy inferred from the grunts and heavy breaths coming from him. She couldn't see what he was carrying, as he was facing away from her. Intentionally, it seemed.

Carefully, he backed closer to her, checking over his shoulder every step to see if he was going to bump into anything. One agonising minute later, he was almost pressed against her table. “Here. Ready?”

Izzy stood up and cleared her things from the table in the same sweeping motion she'd used the day before to tidy her crayons. “Ready.”

James turned round and dropped the thing onto the table.

Izzy gaped. Large, blocky shape – suspended black keys with silver outlines – a typewriter. The typewriter, that she'd been dreaming about since she was three years old. And in perfect condition.

“You didn't take enough time to sort your memories,” her husband said with a glance at her uniform. “It's Sunday.”

“You... James... How much?” It wasn't sitting on the table in front of her... it couldn't be. “We can't afford...” She trailed off, as if ending the sentence would somehow convince her husband to send the typewriter back. She couldn't have that. Her dream, made reality, and gone.

He crossed to her side of the table and put an arm around her. “It's okay?”

“It's... thank you.”

時間

The next morning...

1^st October 2010

Izzy winced as sunlight hit her pillow. She rolled over. “Not yet,” she mumbled.

Anja stood over her. “Izzy. You're already late for school.”

“I don't want to go to school.” She covered her head with her pillow. “Leave me alone.”

“If you don't go to school, you won't learn anything.”

“Great. I won't learn. First world problem.”

Anja sighed. She had hoped her daughter wouldn't fall into stereotypical teenage behaviour. She tried a different tactic. “Cleo'll be there.”

Izzy sat up. “She's better?”

Her mother nodded.

Izzy jumped out of bed and shooed Anja out of the room so she could get changed. Cleo had been ill for two weeks. Or at least, Cleo's mother had said she was ill – Izzy's overactive imagination had screamed that Cleo had gone missing, and she'd spent the next few days running around town, trying to find her. She'd only stopped when Anja had reported seeing Cleo in her own house – but that was small relief, as her mother wouldn't say what kind of illness it was, leading Izzy to speculate on anything from a cold to cancer.

Izzy packed her things, rushed downstairs to eat a quick breakfast, and managed to jump on the school bus just as the tires were inflating to leave. She wriggled all the way with the impatience of a small child. She couldn't wait to see Cleo. To see if she was alright, of course – and to tell her about her new story idea. It was lit. The magic system was centred around lost memories, and she absolutely couldn't wait to share it.

She hung around the school gates for Cleo, where they usually met. After a minute, she whipped out her phone and texted her best friend.

U coming? she wrote.

Three dots – Cleo was online. Izzy's attention zeroed in on the screen, oblivious to the giggling groups of girls passing her on their way to class. She scrolled the tab down to check the wifi.

Finally, Cleo's text came through. Y. Coming.

A moment later: “Here!”

Izzy's head snapped up. There was Cleo. Afro frizzing the wind, a smile as big as Africa on her face. She cannoned into Izzy at 100 miles per hour and wrapped her in an intense bear hug.

Izzy laughed. “Hey, hey.” Gently, she pried her best friend off her. “Remember our deal?”

Cleo gave a sheepish smile. She had agreed not to hug Izzy in public, as long as she was able to do it in private, or around their families. Her good memory was notorious – she could remember last year's test exams, what she'd answered for them, and all the correct answers. She'd even been tested by their teachers – but she always seemed to conveniently forget everything she didn't want to remember.

“Any juicy stories?” Cleo said.

“Yeah! Another Fantasy. The magic system's based on lost memories – you can draw magic from the content of stuff and things that you can't remember – like your birth, and stuff like that. Nothing written yet, but I've almost got it all planned out.” Izzy was almost literally jumping up and down as they walked up the slope to the school. She had a tendency to mould her behaviour around her friend, when they were together.

“Hey! It's my job to be bouncy!” To prove a point, Cleo started actually bouncing, her hair flying. Her thoughts went to their favourite English teacher. “You should tell Mrs Territ. It's absolutely buzzworthy!”

Izzy frowned. “I didn't tell you? Mrs Territ's having a baby. She's not coming back for... a year, about.”

“No-o. You didn't.” Cleo sighed. Things had actually happened while she was out of school. She hadn't been in the mood for school news since the diagnosis– but she wouldn't think of it.

Izzy saw her friend's thoughts straying to unwelcome areas. She tried to take Cleo's mind away from it. “You were ill, weren't you? I thought you'd gone missing... I took ages trying to find you.”

The misguided attempt to help warmed Cleo's heart. Izzy didn't have to know about the... thing. At least, not yet. For now, she had to be normal.

She grinned. “Don't tell anyone... but I was writing.”

“Sneaky!”

Further conversation was cut off by their arrival at their first class. A quick tap on the side of the head – their secret signal for 'Don't tell anyone about the writing' – and they entered.

At the end of the school day, Izzy flopped into her mother's car. She was exhausted; she barely ever tired herself out physically, but mental exercise was so much more strenuous.

She decided to go to bed early. Within minutes, she was asleep.

時間

The next morning...

27^th March 2034

“Why?” James raged. “To spite me? We nearly went bankrupt to buy that thing, and you–”

Izzy interrupted him. “It's for Cleo, okay?” Her voice quietened. “It was for Cleo.” She wasn't angry. Just sad. It wasn't her husband's fault. She couldn't attach the blame to anyone, as much as she wanted someone to be mad at. It might've helped with the grief.

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I know why you did it. You got angry with me for yesterday, and that was the nearest thing, isn't that right? Isn't it?”

Izzy flared up. “It has to relate to you, doesn't it? Has to be something to do with you. Well, guess what? It wasn't. Anything to do with you.” Why didn't he just go away?

She mentally recoiled. No. She didn't want that. When she was little, she'd wanted to live alone. Not now. Not when she knew what it was like.

“You're accusing me of being self-centred? You don't notice what I do.”

“And I don't care,” Izzy retorted before she could stop herself. No. This wasn't going where she wanted it to. He needed to stay, he needed to understand. She took a deep breath. “Slow down. Please. We need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

“This,” she shouted, “is not talking.” She paused. No. She needed to fight this rising anger. To counter it with good memories that brought good feelings.

But how could she even try, when every good memory brought her back to Cleo?

James didn't seem to notice she was on the verge of tears. He never noticed how she felt if it didn't fit with what he wanted, she thought bitterly. But she allowed herself a glimmer of hope when he visibly calmed himself down a little.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet – but not the quiet that was sister to calmness. It had the same quality as a dam thats old stones had been slowly corroding, and were gathering their strength before the dam broke at last. “Shouting won't give us what we want.”

“Really?” Izzy bit back the follow-up sentence to the word, but she herself was like a dam. Her anger couldn't be bottled. “I didn't expect that from you. You always just shout until you get what you want, don't you?” Her voice matched his in softness and danger.

James looked at her scornfully. “What do you know about what I want?”

Nothing. The thought came to her unbidden, unwanted. She tried to push it away, but it was as unstoppable as the sun that was setting outside their window. Nothing. It reverberated around her head. She couldn't think anything but that word.

Tears came suddenly. Her eyes met James's. Her husband had never looked more like a stranger than at that moment.

She raced up the stairs and into her bedroom, and heard the slamming of the front door before she slammed her own. She flung herself onto the bed, the sheets gradually dampening.

The argument had exhausted her. Ignoring generations of precautions and warnings about sleeping before the sun had set, she forced her mind into the regular sleep-preparation pattern. After a few minutes, she fell asleep.

And woke up yesterday.