Read Online The Repeat Year by Andrea Lochen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrea Lochen
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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unexpected visit to her place last year.
“Did you enjoy the party yesterday?” Olive asked.
“I always do. Your mother’s guacamole was excellent. I was surprised to get an invitation. It’s been a while since Kathy’s thrown a party, hasn’t it?”
“It has.” For a moment, the death of her father and courtship of her mother floated between them. And because Sherry’s expression encouraged her to say more, Olive said, “Three years to be exact. Or rather, two years.” She flushed.
Sherry nodded regally, as if by granting her approval, she was bestowing a favor on Olive. “And are you having a nice new year so far?”
Her question caught Olive off guard. She was about to say,
Yes, and you?
but something stopped her. There was something about the way Sherry had said
new
. Most people rushed the words
new
and
year
together as though they were an inseparable expression, part of a phrase that had become almost meaningless with use. But Sherry pronounced the word as though she were asking a question. As in: Oh, is that sweater new? As in: But is this year
really
new? “It’s been kind of crazy,” Olive said at last. “I’m having a hard time adjusting.”
Sherry steepled her masculine fingers. Her intense brown eyes sought Olive’s in a way that made Olive feel as though Sherry were physically reaching out to her, not just reaching, but pulling. At that moment Olive fully appreciated something that she had always suspected: Sherry Witan was not an ordinary middle-aged woman. She was not simply bookish or socially awkward. She was alien. Olive had been only twelve years old when her mother introduced her to Sherry, whom she was instructed to call
Ms.
Witan. Four other women had come over to their house to discuss
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
, which had stuck in Olive’s head because of its funny-sounding title. She’d been quietly finishing her social studies homework in the kitchen when shouts erupted from the living room. Poking her head through the doorway, Olive had witnessed a white-faced Sherry towering over the other book club ladies. “None of you get it,” she had accused. “You don’t understand the sacrifice she made for him. Why did she even tell him the truth? For
love
?
For nothing.
Look where it got her.”
Olive saw the same intensity in Sherry’s face now. But instead of yelling, Sherry murmured, “I overheard you yesterday.”
“I know.” Sherry hadn’t exactly been Miss Subtle at the other end of the couch with her nose stuck in
Barns across America
. “With my aunt Laurel. I heard you”—she had been about to say
snort
but thought better of it—“laugh.”
Sherry shook her head. “That’s not what I’m referring to. I was outside the bathroom. You said, ‘I’m not crazy. I know I’ve lived this year before.’”
Olive felt her cheeks flush. At the very moment she had been wishing for a confidant, a nosy eavesdropper had been lurking outside the bathroom. She didn’t know what to make of this. Was Sherry questioning her sanity? Would she tell her mother? Or was it possible that Sherry was experiencing the same thing?
“I saw you looking at that wall of family photographs. I saw you studying that newspaper.” Sherry listed these facts off as if they were proof of a crime. She stared at Olive.
Olive didn’t break eye contact. “So what?” she asked, and sat perfectly still with her hands clasped in her lap as though she were posing for a portrait that Sherry was drawing.
“I’ve talked to only one other person about this before, so if I got it wrong, just forget it.” Sherry scooted forward until her knees were brushing the coffee table. She and Olive were now leaning toward one another, like friends with a secret.
“Please go on.”
“It’s not just a feeling, Olive. It’s real. You’ve already lived through 2011. I have, too, and I remember all 365 days of it. But here I am back at the beginning. Here we are, I should say.”
Olive nodded,
“Did you enjoy the party yesterday?” Olive asked.
“I always do. Your mother’s guacamole was excellent. I was surprised to get an invitation. It’s been a while since Kathy’s thrown a party, hasn’t it?”
“It has.” For a moment, the death of her father and courtship of her mother floated between them. And because Sherry’s expression encouraged her to say more, Olive said, “Three years to be exact. Or rather, two years.” She flushed.
Sherry nodded regally, as if by granting her approval, she was bestowing a favor on Olive. “And are you having a nice new year so far?”
Her question caught Olive off guard. She was about to say,
Yes, and you?
but something stopped her. There was something about the way Sherry had said
new
. Most people rushed the words
new
and
year
together as though they were an inseparable expression, part of a phrase that had become almost meaningless with use. But Sherry pronounced the word as though she were asking a question. As in: Oh, is that sweater new? As in: But is this year
really
new? “It’s been kind of crazy,” Olive said at last. “I’m having a hard time adjusting.”
Sherry steepled her masculine fingers. Her intense brown eyes sought Olive’s in a way that made Olive feel as though Sherry were physically reaching out to her, not just reaching, but pulling. At that moment Olive fully appreciated something that she had always suspected: Sherry Witan was not an ordinary middle-aged woman. She was not simply bookish or socially awkward. She was alien. Olive had been only twelve years old when her mother introduced her to Sherry, whom she was instructed to call
Ms.
Witan. Four other women had come over to their house to discuss
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
, which had stuck in Olive’s head because of its funny-sounding title. She’d been quietly finishing her social studies homework in the kitchen when shouts erupted from the living room. Poking her head through the doorway, Olive had witnessed a white-faced Sherry towering over the other book club ladies. “None of you get it,” she had accused. “You don’t understand the sacrifice she made for him. Why did she even tell him the truth? For
love
?
For nothing.
Look where it got her.”
Olive saw the same intensity in Sherry’s face now. But instead of yelling, Sherry murmured, “I overheard you yesterday.”
“I know.” Sherry hadn’t exactly been Miss Subtle at the other end of the couch with her nose stuck in
Barns across America
. “With my aunt Laurel. I heard you”—she had been about to say
snort
but thought better of it—“laugh.”
Sherry shook her head. “That’s not what I’m referring to. I was outside the bathroom. You said, ‘I’m not crazy. I know I’ve lived this year before.’”
Olive felt her cheeks flush. At the very moment she had been wishing for a confidant, a nosy eavesdropper had been lurking outside the bathroom. She didn’t know what to make of this. Was Sherry questioning her sanity? Would she tell her mother? Or was it possible that Sherry was experiencing the same thing?
“I saw you looking at that wall of family photographs. I saw you studying that newspaper.” Sherry listed these facts off as if they were proof of a crime. She stared at Olive.
Olive didn’t break eye contact. “So what?” she asked, and sat perfectly still with her hands clasped in her lap as though she were posing for a portrait that Sherry was drawing.
“I’ve talked to only one other person about this before, so if I got it wrong, just forget it.” Sherry scooted forward until her knees were brushing the coffee table. She and Olive were now leaning toward one another, like friends with a secret.
“Please go on.”
“It’s not just a feeling, Olive. It’s real. You’ve already lived through 2011. I have, too, and I remember all 365 days of it. But here I am back at the beginning. Here we are, I should say.”
Olive nodded,
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