Page 13 of Maybe Some Other Time

At least they let her set the table. Thelma continued to take in all the new colors of Fiestaware she hadn’t seen before, from baby yellows to pale peaches.

Robbie grunted about “buying them out of habit” and “pastels were big twenty years ago” whenever Thelma got caught up pairing colors on the table in a way that made her granddaughter squeal in delight.

“I didn’t know plates could look so good on the table! ”

To add insult to injury, the one time Thelma attempted to change the television channel—the one thing she was allowed to do, she swore—she messed things up so badly that she had to call for Megan to come down from her room to fix it.

Except Megan was aghast at how badly Thelma did things and didn’t know how to fix it!

So, maybe it was for the best that Thelma wasn’t allowed to touch anything connected to the electricity.

Everything was “digital” now, including the poor washing machine that had more dials and screens than it had any right to.

Instead of subjecting her granddaughter to helping her clean her underwear, which was still a most sacred piece of clothing to someone like Thelma, she asked if they could take her recently-arrived debit card and get a few more pieces from the local Bullock’s.

When Megan gave her a look that insinuated she had no idea what a Bullock’s was, Thelma tried Sears. That got her an awkward laugh.

“Let’s just go to Target,” Megan said. “It’s closer and cheaper than Macy’s.”

“Oh, thank God. Something’s still around.”

“Target? They had those around back then?”

Thelma bristled as she grabbed the plain brown sweater Megan had bequeathed to her. “I meant Macy’s.”

“Oh, yeah, I think Macy’s bought everyone out. Everything is about online shopping these days.” Lest Thelma gave her the most bereft look in the world, Megan said, “But a lot of us prefer to buy certain things in person. Like shoes! And pants!”

Until now, Thelma had mostly only gone to the supermarket and her night classes, where she learned about the Bay of Pigs and the JFK assassination.

A presidential assassination. Just a few years later!

She still couldn’t wrap her head around it, but naturally, Megan treated it as ancient history as they piled into her tiny two-door car.

Robbie was at one of his volunteer gigs and had taken the SUV with him.

She watched as Megan situated her phone into a holster and connected it to something called Bluetooth.

They had explained what it was to Thelma multiple times, but she still couldn’t quite wrap her head around it.

It’s like the internet. But it’s for inter-device communication.

Whatever it was, it allowed Megan to pull up a radio station on her phone and produce high-production tunes that sounded nothing like what Thelma was used to.

“Would you rather we listen to something else? Oh!” Megan thrust all of her attention on her phone as she brought up Elvis Presley. “You like Elvis?”

The first few notes of a song called “Can’t Help Falling in Love” permeated the car stereo. While Thelma recognized the King’s voice, she had to confess she didn’t know this song. The tacit implication was that it had come out after her disappearance.

“Oh,” Megan said. “Never mind.”

Like most places, Thelma was overwhelmed by the department store about ten minutes away.

If it wasn’t for the speakers promoting the loudest music she ever heard in a store, it was the gobs of fabric on the floor and the children screaming in shopping baskets while mothers pawed through racks of synthetic clothing with large soda cups teetering on the edge of spilled.

Thelma held her hand close to her heart as she stayed close to Megan, who maneuvered a basket toward the women’s clothing section.

“You’re, what, a four? A two?”

“Huh?”

Megan jerked the basket to a stop before a display of denim jeans. “Your size.”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“What size are the ones you’ve got on?”

Before Thelma could think about it, her granddaughter stood behind her, pulling on the waistline of Thelma’s jeans to inspect the tag.

“Me… Meg!”

Thelma searched the faces of the families passing her with their carts full of plastic and electronics.

This is definitely not Bullock’s… Even in her jeans and dowdy brown sweater, she was one of the best-dressed women in the whole store.

I didn’t think it could get worse than my own granddaughter.

Thelma had to willfully overlook Megan’s penchant for showing off her thighs, let alone her midriff.

The girl had a lovely figure, yes, but did she have to look like a harlot at her first big dance?

No, even the harlots didn’t dress like this.

Even the “friendliest” girls in her dorm didn’t go out showing off their skin.

They preferred to accentuate their figures with thin fabric and skirts that swished around their legs.

But based on what Thelma saw while Megan yanked on the size tag in her jeans? Things could be worse. Her granddaughter could have thin straps barely holding up her breasts while half her buttocks was on full display in the middle of a department store!

Tears welled in Thelma’s eyes. It didn’t matter that nobody watched them or cared. Thelma cared. Everything was loud, bright, and so damn smelly. What was that smell!

“These say two.” Megan released her grandmother. “We’ll start there. What else do we need? Underwear? Some bras? Come on, let’s get you a couple of dresses!”

“Let’s just find a shopgirl to help me,” Thelma said after attempting to recollect her demeanor. “Give her my size and we’ll tell her what I like.”

“Huh? Shopgirl?”

Thelma couldn’t believe the disbelief she heard in her granddaughter’s voice. “You’re kidding me. No more shopgirls?”

“We’re on our own here, Gran… erm…”

They stood between the table of folded jeans and a rack of empty plastic hangers. Thelma pursed her lips. Finally, they had approached this moment.

But did it have to happen here?

“Just call me Thelma. Please.”

“Right. Thelma…”

The sounds around them dulled. Suddenly, Thelma didn’t smell that odor anymore.

“Did you know your other grandmother, Meg?”

The young woman absentmindedly looked through a stack of jeans. “Not really. My mom’s mom died when I was a kid. I didn’t get to visit her much. As for you… well, we assumed you were dead.”

“To be fair, I was. For about sixty years.”

“Dead implies there’s a body somewhere. Or at least your energy has returned to the universe, you know?” Megan plucked a pair of size twos from the bottom of the pile. “That’s what I think when we talk about this stuff. Physics matter. Where was your matter during sixty years?”

“My matter?”

Megan placed the jeans in the basket. “You know. The particles that make you… you. Where were they for sixty years?”

Thelma couldn’t answer that.

Her tastes were likewise abandoned as they pushed the large cart through narrow aisles and nearly knocked over two shoddily constructed displays.

Every time Megan showed her something, Thelma shook her head, either because the clothing was too form-fitting or a garish color.

That was before she vetoed other pieces for their poor quality and scratchy fabrics.

It took half an hour just to collect a couple mid-length skirts, a few blouses, and two dresses that didn’t show off everything Thelma preferred to keep beneath her clothes.

“You really like expensive stuff, Thel.” Megan looked at the price tags on what they had assembled while on their way to the lingerie department.

“The price of higher quality in modern America.”

“You’ll look great, though.” Megan steered the cart to a whole aisle of bras. Just hanging there! My goodness! Thelma swallowed the lump in her throat as they approached. “Now. What kind of bra do you wear?”

Thelma almost died right there.

She insisted that she try the clothes on by herself, because the thought of even her granddaughter looking at her half-naked while helping her wear a bra was too much to bear.

Yet what Thelma assumed would be a good opportunity to decompress and think about nothing for a few minutes soon turned into a fresh nightmare when she realized the changing room was as loud and smelly as the rest of the store.

“Nope, not that one.” Megan quickly closed the door to a room again. “Maybe down here, huh?”

When she was finally alone, Thelma took off her sweater and screamed into its threads.

But she would find her composure again. She was a lady, after all.

She had picked several pieces that weren’t offensive to her skin—or her sensibilities.

Everything served a perfunctory function while still being somewhat stylish.

If I’m buying it here, then that means it’s modern enough to help me blend in, right?

No, nobody would see the bra and panties she had been wearing the night she traveled into the future, and garters were a thing of the past…

but Thelma remained worried that she wouldn’t be allowed to look like herself while still adhering to the rules around her.

She refused to dress like Megan. How she dresses in the modern world is between her and her mother… and God, I suppose.

Speaking of Him, Thelma said a small prayer before trying on the pullover bra that had no right to be as comfortable as it was.

A collared shirt came next. After she fluffed her curls over the collar, she tugged on a burnt orange skirt that swished over her knees and landed with a sad flop against her shins.

When she put her heels back on, however, she wasn’t angry at what she saw in the mirror.

At the last second, she popped open her purse and pulled out her white and red handkerchief, which she tied around her throat.

“Oh… not bad, Thelma.” She turned in front of the mirror. “And you dressed yourself! All by yourself! What a big girl.” She giggled to think of how she used to talk to her daughter.