Dear Elizabeth

“Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you.” That’s what Grandma would say just before popping her wooden spoon across the tops of my hands. Despite the redness and occasional bruise, it didn’t hurt much. But this— two decades later— hurt like hell.

I’ve always been lazy when it comes to checking the mail, especially in summertime. Something about that half-acre walk down the driveway was more of a turn-off than Pimply Paul Thompson sticking his tongue in my ear in 9th-grade gym class. It felt like algae, I’ll never forget, and smelled like sour milk. Sometime in junior year, that weird kid upped and vanished without a trace. Nobody knew, or even cared, what happened to him. Curiosity prompted thoughts of him now and then when I’d reflect on my days at Belmont High.

My leisure stroll paralleled a reanimated corpse shambling to the mailbox in my SpongeBob pajamas and bearpaw slippers. Somewhere between my mother’s funeral and losing my dream job in creative advertisement to the CEO’s twit nephew who read on a sixth-grade level, I stopped giving a rat’s ass what people thought of me.

Mrs. Fielding, for example, in her black leotards and skintight T-shirt topped with a string of pearls, staring at me with a water hose in her manicured hands. You would’ve thought she’d seen Elvis the way she gawked at me. I may not have had all my ducks in a row but at least I didn’t look like a box of crayons melted on my face. Who gets gussied up to water the lawn, anyway?

Scissoring the envelopes between my fingers, I headed back inside. Bills, bills, pre-approval for credit cards, a flyer for Willy’s Waterpark, and another bill. But there was one parcel unlike the others. A pink, square envelope clearly screaming “birthday cash”. It certainly wasn’t my birthday cash. I’m a Pisces, and this was Virgo season. Closing the front door, I tossed all but the card on the console table, which had become a formal graveyard for long-forgotten snail mail.

A bold calligraphic name swept across the envelope. Elizabeth Fielding. Aside from our very common names, I imagined the rich snob was nothing like me except for the way she stormed up the driveway. Through the frosted glass, I saw her hands clenched and her feet punching the ground with every step. The angry chicken dance, as my mom would have called it.

“Christ.” I sighed. I needed this money more than she did. If this wasn’t a birthday card, then it was an invitation to a glamorous ball, where I’d likely play the role of an imposter in pursuit of my elusive Prince Charming. Hell, she didn’t need that either! Mr. Hot Babe Fielding was cut straight from the pages of every steamy novel.

She couldn’t possibly know, or even prove, I had her mail anyway without trespassing. Without hesitation, I opened the envelope to find a solid red card inside. No “happy birthday”. No happy anything. Just a red card. Praying for a small payday, I unfolded the card carefully. One piece of silver slipped into my hand and a whole lot of nothing else. Not a damn single dollar! Engraved in the aged silver surface was “Ambrose Arcade”. Talk about a relic from the past! Ambrose hadn’t been in business since high school.

“Liz!” she shouted from the flowerbeds. “Open the door!”

Though there was no money, there was enough interest for her to justify that kind of hike up Cardiovascular Boulevard. Studying the coin, I concluded there was nothing remarkable about it. Just an old arcade token void of any inherent value.

“Liz, please don’t touch that card!” She rapped at the door. Yeah, yeah. Not only had I touched her card, but I was also reading the juicy contents inside.

“Dear Elizabeth,

I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy. I love you beyond words, and I always will, whether you decide to leave or stay. The choice is yours, and I will respect your wishes.

Tibi trado me labente tempore, ut me absolves ad trisulcum.”

Confused, I sounded the words aloud. Mrs. Fielding rattled the doorknob desperately. “Liz! Stop!”

My vision blurred, then faded. I heard the sickening crack of my head on the floor before I felt the pain, followed by the clatter of the coin beside me.

I woke to a pair of strong hands gripping my shoulders. “Hey!” a man’s voice called. Wincing away the harsh glare of overhead lights, my eyes gradually focused on an olive-skinned man in a black t-shirt and blue shorts.

“Briggs! What happened? Can you stand?”

Briggs? Nobody had called me Briggs since….

“Coach Murphy!” I propped on my elbows, my voice erupting with disbelief. “Where the hell am I?”

It was very clear where I was. The gleaming sheen on a lacquered floor. Unmistakable musk pervading the air. Rebounds of basketballs striking metal hoops. The screeching echoes of rubber soles. I was in Belmont High’s gymnasium.

Coach Murphy helped me to my feet and suggested that I see the school nurse. I declined respectfully, considering I was a full-grown adult and only took orders from those who paid me to take them. He pointed towards the bleachers. “At least take a seat.”

The bleachers were more uncomfortable than I’d remembered. Rubbing my aching head, trying to piece together how and why I was here, it dawned on me. This must’ve been one of “those” dreams. Any minute, I’d awaken with a damp pillow and wonder why I was dreaming of high school.

“Wanna see a magic trick?” a timid voice whispered. It was Pimply Paul Thompson, yet I wasn’t sure why we ever called him that. The zit fairy only dusted his face with spotty pinpricks, hardly what I’d consider an acne problem.

“I think I’m living one,” I answered. “But sure, what’s your trick?”

Paul opened his palms, revealing a silver coin. Ambrose Arcade. “Hey!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get that?”

The self-proclaimed magician closed his hand over the token like a Venus Flytrap ensnaring its unsuspecting prey, then dramatically shimmied his hands. Poof! They were now empty.

I was about to ask why he was visibly shaking when he leaned in, pressing his hot mouth to my ear. Slick and cold, and that smell I’d never forgotten!

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I recoiled to see the startling surprise on his face. Between his fingers was the missing token. Is this how it happened? I pondered. For all those years, I’d thought Paul had jabbed his tongue in my ear. He extended the token to me, and our fingers brushed as I accepted it.

“Th- they made me do it.” He tilted his head back to a group of boys giggling as they huddled near the locker room. “They said they’d kick my ass and pour syrup down my throat if I didn’t.”

Diabetic. That explained the smell on his breath. I glared at the boys as I descended the bleachers, approaching them against Paul’s pleading to let it go.

“Uh oh, Donald, it’s an angry girl.” Jeff Masters taunted, flapping his knees in a mockery of fear. “We’re so scared!”

Slapping my hand around his testicles, I wrenched him off his feet. “You boys better think long and hard before screwing with that kid again, because the next time I hear about it…” I squeezed his tiny stones and breathed into his ear. “…I will rip your balls off and staple them to your chin. Got it, Turkey?” The boys backed away while Jeffrey, helplessly suspended by the jewels in the clutches of a madwoman, nodded breathlessly and whimpered. “Yeah”.

“Good,” I grinned. “Now, gobble.” Through tears, the boy obeyed and emitted a series of throaty gobbling calls until I released him. The little bastards scrambled into the boy’s room. Paul met me at the bottom of the bleachers. “Thank you,” he exclaimed. “That was the coolest!”

At the sound of the bell, I navigated to the afterschool pick-up line. Autopilot from days gone by. My breath caught in my lungs when I saw my mother waiting in her metallic skylark Buick. I raced into the car and stretched over the middle console, grabbing her in my arms.

“Holy shit, Mom! I can’t believe you’re here!”

“First of all, watch your language. Second, what’s with all this love today?” She draped her arm around me and kissed the top of my head.

“I’ve missed you so much!” My voice cracked.

“Wow, honey, no tears! It’s Friday! Pizza night!”

I lowered the visor to check my smudged eyeliner in the mirror. What I saw staring back jolted me. My teary face wasn’t running with eyeliner because I wasn’t wearing any. Smooth, unblemished skin and eyes untouched by sleepless nights, I was staring at a 15-year-old Lizzy Briggs! If I was dreaming, I wasn’t ready to wake now. To be with my mother, dream or not, how could I hope for more?

That evening, as we shared a pepperoni pizza, I talked to her about scheduling regular check-ups. I could tell my mother anything, including my story of time travel or whatever dream or psychosis this was. Emphasizing the importance of her health, I explained that four days after my 19^th birthday, she would lose the fight against cancer.

Later that night, I examined Paul’s token. There was nothing unusual about it except it literally teleported me 14 years into the past. “Embra tempore tibi,” I struggled to recant the words from Mrs. Fielding’s card. “Timi temore…” My eyes grew heavy and soon, I was out.

In the following weeks, I learned much about Paul. His stepdad was being released from prison for things Paul knew nothing about. His mother had been scared of her own shadow lately. In return for his openness, I shared with him as well. I told him about finding an Ambrose Arcade coin, identical to his, in my neighbor’s mail and the bizarre sequence of events that followed. He thought I was spinning yarn. In our tender moment of laughter, I ignited Paul Thompson with his first-ever kiss. Heat surged through his body and his hands trembled. I took them in mine and kissed him again.

The day Paul didn’t show up for school was the first time I’d ever skipped class. I remembered this from before, the boy who disappeared. Large moving trucks were beacons to his house on Whittle Street. I gave him the “what the eff” speech and he explained in secret that his mom had gotten death threats for turning his stepdad over for a laundry list of felonies. They were under the protection of the law now and had to move. A different home with different names, both details of which were kept hidden from him until Whittle Street was in their rearview mirror. “I’ll come back,” he promised, sealing his words with the most passionate kiss I’d ever had.

Years went by. Our cherished coin eventually found a home in the drawer of a dusty jewelry box. My mother lived up to her promise and had regular breast exams. Though she still got cancer, they found it early. Four days after my 19th birthday, we celebrated with steak. She had another three good years before I’d lose her again.

My career launched with Borden Press. Driven by creativity, advertising became my dream job. When I saw Darryl Scott, the CEO’s nephew, step off the elevator, I was struck with a sense of déjà vu. Call it a vision, if you will, but sometime in my life, I had a premonition of this red-headed beak-nosed man-child. As he was greeted by good ole Uncle George and toured cubicles to meet the laymen folk, I slipped into Mr. Scott’s office and dialed my phone. I set his phone on speaker and muted mine. Once they disappeared into George’s office, it was no time before the family drama unfolded in the workplace.

Sweating bullets and stumbling over words, attempting to salvage the situation and prevent my unjust termination, George told the boy he would find a position with a full benefits package. Darryl accused him of reneging on the deal. Hoping to capture enough chatter for potential blackmail, I recorded the conversation, acting on the gut feeling they were planning to sabotage my career. Turns out, Darryl was way ahead of me.

“If I’m not Creative Lead, I talk. Everyone will know what you did to that kid on Egleston Street. Didn’t even tap the brakes when his body broke your windshield. For good measure, I’ll see that Aunt Joyce knows what you really do on your late nights at the office.”

“That kid was dead the moment I hit him! Stopping the car wouldn’t have changed that. It would only have ruined our lives! Don’t you think I’d do anything to change what happened that night?”

As predicted, I lost my job to Darryl Scott. He took Creative Lead and I took a hike with two full boxes of memories. I detoured to the police station on my way home that day. Following Mr. Scott’s arrest on murder charges and Darryl’s confession to misprision of felony, I was called back to the office by the Chief Marketing Officer. A picnic of apologies was laid out before me in a nice spread with a job promotion for dessert. Creative Lead to Creative Director came with a healthy salary boost.

Celebrating the arrival of Friday with customary pepperoni pizza, I sprang off the couch at the sound of a knock at my door. Securing my robe, I cautiously opened the door, praying this wouldn’t evolve into a late-night news headline. It took me a moment to recognize the face smiling down at me. My heart didn’t only skip, it tumbled.

“I told you I’d come back,” he said with a wink.

Paul told me about the woes of witness protection, dispelling the cool image portrayed on television. His mother finally stopped living life over her shoulder when she found a weekly gathering of like-minded women. It was something of a small church group except for the witchcraft. He could cite the Witch’s Code faster than his ABCs. But at least he got a cool name out of it. Dylan. Strong. Mysterious.

We weren’t dating long when he popped the question, and we moved onto Smoky Falls Loop two months after our wedding day. Quiet suburban paradise, miles from the city. We had our ups and downs, with downs as deep as canyons. In every argument, though seldom, I would bring up that damn coin. Though I hadn’t seen it in years, our wedding vows coalesced around the token that brought us together. For Dylan, that meant the day of his mystifying magic trick on the bleachers in gym class. For me, it meant… something altogether different. A dream I once had, maybe, of another life before this one. A life without Dylan. One that had almost faded from memory over the years, until the day I saw her.

I fanned the sprinkler across the sunflowers, intentionally arranged to frame our custom-made sign, “The Fielding’s”. That’s when I spotted the reclusive young woman from across the street. She ambled sleepily down her driveway in SpongeBob pajamas and big hairy slippers. My jaw dropped. Like so many moments in my life, I realized that this wasn’t a simple case of déjà vu. It wasn’t a fleeting sensation of butterflies. This was undeniably real.

She shot me a sideways glance as she emptied her mailbox. Amid the stack of white envelopes was a pink square. I stood frozen, overwhelmed by the memories flooding me at once. That card! It was from Dylan! Oh, the senseless fight we had before his trip to Philly! Over a damn cat we didn’t even own! He must’ve sent the card from the post office before he left. There would be the token I always cursed in our arguments. He had found it in a jewelry box before the move and kept it safe ever since. I never meant any of the horrible things I’d said. I wouldn’t have changed a single moment of our life together. This life had been the best I could imagine for myself. The incantation in that card, I remembered! Chronomancy, the alteration of time, undoubtedly learned from his High Priestess mother and her witchy friends.

I sprinted up the girl’s driveway. She couldn’t get her hands on that coin or that spell. Whatever would happen to me, to Dylan, if Lizzy took that trip into time?

“Liz, please don’t touch that card!”

* * *

“I grabbed the doorknob, desperate to get inside. Locked, of course. Moments after hearing the thud inside, my vision went black. That’s when I woke up here, again, but instead of Paul sitting next to me, it’s you.”

My best friend, Mags, stared at me, speechless and still as stone. “So,” her eyes raced with thought, “You blacked out and hit your head on the floor. We all saw it.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Liz, there’s nobody here named Paul Thompson or Dylan Fielding. You have a concussion.” After announcing to Coach Murphy and the rest of the gym that she was escorting me to the nurse, she pulled me to my feet, and we left the gymnasium. The halls were silent as we passed through, all but the clanking of a single locker. A tall lanky boy with disheveled brown hair fought to neatly stuff his books in the disgruntled aluminum cubby. My heart stopped, as did my feet.

“Who’s that?”

Maggie glanced at the boy with disinterest and rolled her shoulders. “Don’t know.”

The boy raised his eyes at me. For what seemed like an eternity, our eyes locked. Resisting the urge to run and grab him up into my arms, to confess my devotion and unyielding love for him, I simply smiled. And my darling Paul smiled back.