Timepiece

Sunlight through the windows casts shadows that accentuate every edge, every imperfection in the plaster. Cracks are transformed into ridges, rivers, canyons. The ceiling above my bed is like the map of another world. I’ve had time to examine it in detail.

As a girl, my world was bounded by my parent’s corn fields and the handful of neighbors we treated like family. The shopkeepers often knew what you needed before you walked in the door. The schoolteachers paired up and taught multiple grades because there were so few students.

My world expanded as I grew older, of course. I’ve traveled and accomplished more than that girl could have ever dreamed. But now, seventy years on, my world has changed again. A simple room with a chest of drawers, a recliner angled against a table with a reading lamp. This bed, with me on it. I used to smile when I read Austin and Dickens and all the talk of old women taking to their beds. Well, look at me now.

A gentle tap at the door. Julia peeks in, enters. I had her late, long after I thought such a gift was possible. My daughter has grown into a loving and tender mother. In a life filled with surprises and defeats, she is my proudest accomplishment.

She approaches and looks down at the tray that rests across my lap. The eggs and juice are largely untouched. The toast is gone and she asks whether I liked it. I say it was excellent, although that is a lie. I took only a few bites and put the rest in the pocket of my dressing gown, waiting for an opportune moment to discard it. Acting like a little child.

I ask if Meg is home. She is. I know she is. It is Saturday and there is no school on Saturday. I ask can she come see me for a bit.

As Julia leaves with the tray, she calls out for Meg. A moment later, I hear the back screen door squeak open, slam shut, steps racing up the stairs, down the hallway to my bedroom door. She stands there, her eyes bright, her jeans grass-stained, a bit out of breath. An eight-year-old exploring the wonders of a summer morning.

She approaches the bed, looks me square in the eye. I’m grateful for that. Most people, even old friends, are unsure of where to look, what to say. My granddaughter faces me head on, somehow already braver and wiser than I ever was.

I raise a hand and point to the nightstand next to the bed. She misunderstands and reaches for a tissue. I motion to the top drawer. She reaches over and opens it. I ask her what she sees.

Meg studies the drawer and its contents. A full minute later, she turns to me and recites from memory, “A wallet, three medicine bottles, a pocket dictionary, a handkerchief, a notebook, two pens, and another box of tissue.”

She beams, clearly proud of remembering such a list.

I ask her to look beneath the notebook.

Meg reaches over, lifts the notebook and lets out a small gasp. “Oh, it’s your watch.”

I ask her to take it out and hand it to me. She notices that her hands are grass stained and wipes them on her shirt. It does no good except to transfer the slightest bit of the green to her shirt. I smile at that as she proceeds to grab hold of the watch and hand it to me.

It is an ordinary wristwatch. A woman’s wristwatch. Old. Possibly a true antique. It does not have any significant monetary value, but it was crafted in an age when people took pride in their work. A second hand sweeps past the Roman numerals and keeps its steady pace as it will tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. But the crystal is scratched in several places. The band, made of metal, is gold in name only. The thin coating has worn off in several places revealing utilitarian stainless steel underneath. The clasp, though, still opens and closes with a satisfying click.

I tell Meg that the watch has been my constant companion ever since my own grandmother gave it to me years ago. I explain that the watch is once again a gift, this time from me to her. I ask whether she can promise to always keep it near. The corners of her mouth curve down as she considers the gravity the promise she is about to make.

“Yes, grandma. I will always keep it close.”

I tell her there is something special about this watch. I explain that its keeper can use it to turn back time.

Her eyes widen. She is on the cusp of belief and disbelief, wanting truth yet still longing for the fantastical. I continue, repeating that, as the watch’s caretaker, you can use the watch to turn back time. But that there is a catch. Well, two catches, actually. Not catches. To be more precise, rules.

I explain that while you can use the watch to turn back time, you can do so only once in your lifetime.

“Once?” She pauses, thinking. “So that means I must choose wisely.”

Yes, I say.

She says, “OK, I can use the watch to turn back time. What is the second? The second catch? Or rule?”

I tell her that it works for the span of one hour only. When you reset the hands, it is as if the previous hour never happened.

She considers this new development. “So, if I make a big mistake or if something bad happens, I can undo it?”

No, I tell her. If something bad happens in the world, you can learn from it and do what you can to help. That is part of our responsibility toward one another. But turning back the hands on the watch will have no effect on the wider world. It affects only you. If you, as keeper of the watch, make a choice you regret, you have one hour to reset the time on the watch and undo that decision and try again.

She nods. She believes or pretends she does. “Grandma, did you ever use it? In your life, to turn back time one hour?”

I should have anticipated the question, but I didn’t. I struggle to catch my breath. Part of me never believed in the watch’s power, but the larger part of me came to recognize the gift was not the watch. It was understanding I could undo a mistake. Its presence in my wardrobe, in my pocket, on my wrist has helped me to be bold, to take chances, to live.

I keep silent. Meg sees that I am not about to answer her question. She moves on. “I’m afraid I might break it.”

I tell her the watch has weathered many storms. That it was passed to me, and that I am now passing it down to her, and that she in turn will pass it down to someone she loves when the time is right. I ask her to repeat the rules.

“I can use it only once. And it works to run back time for only one hour. And only for me and my decisions, not for the whole world.”

I hand the watch to Meg. She takes it, holds it to her heart. I tell her I love her and reach out to her. Her hair is long and blond and curls at her shoulder. She rocks her head back, leans into my frail hand and closes her eyes. Like her mother, one day she will be a strikingly attractive woman, with all of its promises and perils.

Julia calls out from downstairs, something about whether Meg knows anything about a stray dog loose in the backyard. Magic broken, Meg opens her eyes and gives me a kiss on the cheek. She scampers towards the door, holding tight to the watch, then stops and turns and gives me a final look. Straight into my eyes. She slides the watch into the pocket of her jeans, smiles, and goes in search of her mother.

Left alone, my mind wanders. The sun and shadows have shifted. I look around the room. I look up. The sharp ridges and rivers in the map on the ceiling appear softer, somehow less well defined than they did earlier. A different world. I’ll be going there soon. I’m ready.