Read Online Time After Time by Tamara Ireland Stone - Free Book Online
Authors: Tamara Ireland Stone
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backpack over my shoulder, heading toward an abandoned pile of old flowerpots, and then I take a handful of dirt, dump some water over the top, and work the mud into the grooves of the shiny carabiners that hang from the external straps of my backpack.
But my cover-up efforts turn out to be unnecessary. When I get home, there’s a note from Mom on the counter saying that Brooke’s out on a date, Dad’s at a dinner meeting, and she’s going to the movies with friends. So much for family night.
I make myself something to eat and flop down on the couch. For the rest of the evening, I flip through channels, stare at the empty space next to me, and wonder how Anna and I are going to pull this off. She should be here right now. Or I should be there. But we shouldn’t be this .
I must eventually drift off because when I open my eyes again, the room is pitch-black, the television is off, and I’m covered with a blanket. I haul myself up to my room and fall into bed, still wearing the same clothes I had on when I left Evanston.
The voices coming from the TV in the kitchen are low but audible, and when I turn the corner, I find Dad with his hip against the counter, spooning yogurt into his mouth and watching the news. He looks up when I walk in.
“Hey. Welcome home. How was your trip?”
I’m grateful that he asked the question the way he did so that I don’t need to lie when I answer. “The trip was great. A lot of fun.”
Dad takes his glasses off and cleans them with the edge of his shirt. He puts them back in place and looks at me over the top of the frames. “The nights must have been cold.”
It takes me a second or two to think about how to phrase this one. None of the nights in Maggie’s house were even remotely chilly. “No, the nights were actually really warm,” I say. Too warm, in fact.
Dad finishes his yogurt and pours himself a glass of orange juice. Once I start in on my cereal there’s a lot of crunching, but the only voices in the room are coming from the television. He glances up at me a few times, as if he’s trying to think of something to fill the uncomfortable silence. But then something on the screen gets his attention, and he’s off the hook.
He reaches for the remote, turning up the volume, and pivoting to face the screen. “Breaking news this morning,” the anchorwoman says. A red and blue graphic that reads TRAGEDY IN THE TENDERLOIN flies in from the side of the screen and stops in the center—large and ominous, for effect—before it shrinks and settles at the bottom where it can’t interfere with the video footage of a building ablaze against the backdrop of the early-morning sky.
An apartment fire in the Tenderloin district claimed the lives of two young children in the early hours this morning. Five-year-old Rebecca Walker and her three-year-old brother, Robert, were asleep when a fire broke out in the bedroom they share on the third floor of an apartment complex on Ellis Street. The parents were rushed to the hospital for smoke inhalation. Firefighters were unable to rescue the two children.
I take a big bite of cereal and walk over to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee, listening as the anchorwoman passes the story to the on-the-scene reporter. I’m only half paying attention, but I catch the gist. The parents were unable to get to the children, there was no smoke detector, and an investigation is underway to determine the cause. I peek at the screen when the downstairs neighbor describes hearing screams through the ceiling and calling 911. After one more shot of the high-drama burning-building footage, they move back to the studio and the anchorwoman wraps up the story and moves along to a new one about a fender bender that’s currently being cleared from the Bay Bridge.
“That’s horrible,” Dad says, staring at the screen. I’m pretty sure he’s referring to the previous news item about the fire and not the minor car accident. “Those poor parents.
But my cover-up efforts turn out to be unnecessary. When I get home, there’s a note from Mom on the counter saying that Brooke’s out on a date, Dad’s at a dinner meeting, and she’s going to the movies with friends. So much for family night.
I make myself something to eat and flop down on the couch. For the rest of the evening, I flip through channels, stare at the empty space next to me, and wonder how Anna and I are going to pull this off. She should be here right now. Or I should be there. But we shouldn’t be this .
I must eventually drift off because when I open my eyes again, the room is pitch-black, the television is off, and I’m covered with a blanket. I haul myself up to my room and fall into bed, still wearing the same clothes I had on when I left Evanston.
The voices coming from the TV in the kitchen are low but audible, and when I turn the corner, I find Dad with his hip against the counter, spooning yogurt into his mouth and watching the news. He looks up when I walk in.
“Hey. Welcome home. How was your trip?”
I’m grateful that he asked the question the way he did so that I don’t need to lie when I answer. “The trip was great. A lot of fun.”
Dad takes his glasses off and cleans them with the edge of his shirt. He puts them back in place and looks at me over the top of the frames. “The nights must have been cold.”
It takes me a second or two to think about how to phrase this one. None of the nights in Maggie’s house were even remotely chilly. “No, the nights were actually really warm,” I say. Too warm, in fact.
Dad finishes his yogurt and pours himself a glass of orange juice. Once I start in on my cereal there’s a lot of crunching, but the only voices in the room are coming from the television. He glances up at me a few times, as if he’s trying to think of something to fill the uncomfortable silence. But then something on the screen gets his attention, and he’s off the hook.
He reaches for the remote, turning up the volume, and pivoting to face the screen. “Breaking news this morning,” the anchorwoman says. A red and blue graphic that reads TRAGEDY IN THE TENDERLOIN flies in from the side of the screen and stops in the center—large and ominous, for effect—before it shrinks and settles at the bottom where it can’t interfere with the video footage of a building ablaze against the backdrop of the early-morning sky.
An apartment fire in the Tenderloin district claimed the lives of two young children in the early hours this morning. Five-year-old Rebecca Walker and her three-year-old brother, Robert, were asleep when a fire broke out in the bedroom they share on the third floor of an apartment complex on Ellis Street. The parents were rushed to the hospital for smoke inhalation. Firefighters were unable to rescue the two children.
I take a big bite of cereal and walk over to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee, listening as the anchorwoman passes the story to the on-the-scene reporter. I’m only half paying attention, but I catch the gist. The parents were unable to get to the children, there was no smoke detector, and an investigation is underway to determine the cause. I peek at the screen when the downstairs neighbor describes hearing screams through the ceiling and calling 911. After one more shot of the high-drama burning-building footage, they move back to the studio and the anchorwoman wraps up the story and moves along to a new one about a fender bender that’s currently being cleared from the Bay Bridge.
“That’s horrible,” Dad says, staring at the screen. I’m pretty sure he’s referring to the previous news item about the fire and not the minor car accident. “Those poor parents.
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