To Margot, on Her 18th Birthday

You stretch a gloved hand toward Margot to swipe her auburn curls out of her eyes. The maternal urge to fix your child, like a primate yanking bugs off their baby, is baked into your DNA. You stop short. Her protective helmet blocks the way.

You sit together in the showroom of The Time Dealer. It’s all white and steel and so bright you wish you had worn sunglasses. You haven’t had much need for those in a long time.

The day’s travelers sit to one side. On the other, a display of glass domes, large enough for a person or two. The room looks as though it should smell like an air freshener, maybe vanilla or something musky, but you wouldn’t know.

Margot kicks her chair legs, her industrial boots clank against the cold metal. She fusses with the strap of her air-filter tank.

“We don’t have to do this. It’s supposed to be something fun for your birthday,” you say.

“No, I want to. Just nerves,” she says. “What did you do for your 18th?”

As you sigh, fog blooms on the glass in front of your face. How do I explain the Old World?

“Your Grandpa Gene took me out for pancakes and then a hike in the Blue Ridge Mountains,” you say.

Her face crumples. “A hike?”

“Oh, it’s…well, it was a long walk through nature.” The “was” catches in your throat. These are only concepts to her.

Margot was an infant when the fires rippled across the Great Plains, sending rockets of smoke into the sky, before spreading to the whole of North America and beyond.

In the end, it had been the data centers that tipped things over to the point of no return. The faster AI grew, the smarter it got, the more space it needed to house its brain. First the data centers overtook empty lands. Then the oceans. Eventually, the data centers were launched into the sky, becoming the new constellations. The Earth was being heated from all sides.

You can admit there were some benefits. AI created out new cures to old ailments, human lifespans ticked higher and higher. Then it figured out time travel.

When the fires began, you strapped Margot to your chest and fled don foot as far as you could, not stopping until you found pockets of land untouched by the fires. You walked, even when your legs felt heavy and your blood felt like acid flowing through you. When it became too hard, when you wanted to quit, you buried your face into Margot’s carrier, smelling her powdery new baby smell and running your cheek against her skin.

The air is toxic now; the haze still hangs over the world, covering over the sun like a cataract. The data centers, built like fortresses, stayed standing.

You think about telling her that she too went on a hike once, but today is not the day for such stories.

A man with the hairline and stature of an ostrich shouts Margot’s name.

He introduces himself as Jerry and guides you to a room with one of the domes you saw earlier. “It’s like the fish bowl in The Cat in the Hat,” Margot whispers. The only children’s book you managed to save when she was a baby.

“Welcome to The Time Dealer, ladies. What can we do for you today? ”

“It’s her 18th birthday,” you say.

“Well, no better day to travel through time and space then!”

He slides a tablet in front of Margot. It’s a standard contract for time travel: The Time Dealer is not liable for death, dismemberment, and/or psychosis during or post journey. The traveler cannot exit their capsule. Payment due before travel. No refunds. Enjoy the ride.

When that’s signed, Jerry flicks through experience options.

“What about a half hour with the dinosaurs? A girl about your age watched da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa for a bit last week, if art interests you,” he says.

Margot looks at her knees. “I’d like custom travel, please.”

“That’s going to cost extra, y’know.”

She asks for so little – she has so little – this splurge is worth it. You smile in approval.

“And I want my mom to come with me,” she says.

The words hang between the two of you. “Honey, this is your birthday.”

“Please.”

You wonder if she’s been planning this the whole time. You can’t tell if you’re angry about her secrets or touched by her kindness. You give Jerry a little nod as your eyes fill with tears.

“Alright then!” he says. “That’ll be another fee!” he adds.

As you stand before it, the pod shimmers, a cloaking mechanism. Nobody in history will see you. At this price point, you cannot interact with the past, only watch it. After the fires, the people with means paid to travel back in time and remain there. Their escape hatch. For everyone else, time travel is a brief reprieve, saved for years.

Jerry pushes a button here, twists a knob there. You wonder if he even knows what he’s doing.

“So birthday girl, where are you headed?”

“Blue Ridge Mountains. 30 years ago.”

A small yawp escapes your mouth. Oh my sweet girl, you think. You take Margot’s gloved right hand in your left, give it a squeeze, and you both step into the pod. You sit cross legged on the padded floor.

Jerry seals you in. He holds up three fingers to count down. He mouths, “See you soon.”

You feel like a vacuum is inhaling you, your body is pulled from all sides. You worry the machine will yank your skin clean off your bones. You wonder if that would be the worst thing.

Then, a flash and a thud.

Your hands leap to your eyes. Your body hasn’t experienced the full force of the sun in years. It’s so brilliant it hurts. You move your fingers away slowly, revealing the Blue Ridge Mountains, stacked one in front of the other, stretching for miles. The trees look like cotton balls, stained with verdant ink. There are only wisps of clouds in the blue sky. Margot’s mouth opens and shuts like a fish stranded on a beach.

“Mom, the sky –”

“No smog,” you say.

“And the sun. Was it this bright when you were kid? The trees…I didn’t think the trees would look like that.”

You give her a soft hmm in response. What could you say? You wish you could leave this pod, rip off her oxygen tank and fill her lungs with chilled mountain air. You want to lie in the grass, arms spread like a starfish and listen to the birds forever.

But the clock is counting down.

“I can’t believe you lived in this,” she says. You sit in silence for a while, craning your heads as birds glide over you.

The control panel chimes. Ten minutes left.

“Mom, I love you,” Margot whispers before she rips off her gloves and helmet.

She slams every button on the control panel like a child playing a piano with too much force. It groans but is unbroken. She screams, and it is a sound so desperate and piercing that your heart nearly breaks.

Before your brain can stop them, your hands pound on the panel alongside Margot’s until the lights flicker and the machine goes quiet.

There is sweat along her hairline. You remove your own helmet and gloves and wipe her brow. You can’t remember the last time you felt her skin; all the gear that has kept her safe has also kept her from you. Its smoothness feels familiar. You press her cheeks between her hands and paint kisses across her face. Margot laughs before pulling away and reciprocating. You wrap your arms around her, and in the closeness, your mind takes you back to that baby powdery smell.

You brush her hair out of her eyes and twirl a curl around your finger. You both look at the door, but she reaches for it first. With the panel dead, the locks have been disengaged. Margot pulls down the handle and the pressure releases with a hiss.

You step into the sunlight, let its rays dance across your skin and you take your daughter on a hike for her 18th birthday.