Page 28 of Maybe Some Other Time

She entered the kitchen and grabbed an apron off the wall. While it wasn’t as nice as the one she had in the ‘50s, it was better than nothing.

She was about to open the fridge when she caught sight of two pairs of eyes staring at her from the staircase.

“Megan!” Thelma forced her heart to stop pounding by placing her hand over her chest. It didn’t work. Especially when she realized that a stranger stood with her granddaughter.

“Heeeey…” Megan came out of the shadows. Another woman followed, grinning and cheerily waving to Thelma in the kitchen. “Don’t mind us. This is my, um, girlfriend… Emma.”

The other woman waved even more vigorously. “Hi! So excited to meet you. Meg has told me so much about you.”

Megan shushed her. “What’s for dinner?”

Thelma’s judgmental eyes danced between her guilty-looking granddaughter and the young woman with long black hair and tanned skin.

Is she Asian? Thelma had unfortunately learned—the hard way—that she wasn’t supposed to openly ask those kinds of questions anymore.

So she kept it to herself, especially since she never intended to offend guests.

“Pot roast,” she said, holding her breath. “My, beef sure is expensive these days. No wonder your father wasn’t excited…”

“Damn, I haven’t had pot roast since Mom made it like ten years ago.”

Thelma released her held breath. “We also have the leftover apple pie for dessert. Will you be staying for dinner, Emma?”

The young woman’s smile broadened. “Can I?” When Megan lightly elbowed her, Emma continued anyway. “I mean, I guess I’ve gotta get home soon…”

“Nonsense. Unless you’re expected somewhere else, why don’t you stay for dinner? I’d love to get to know Megan’s girlfriend.” Thelma gestured to the table. “Have a seat. I can better entertain once I’ve got everything in the oven. Takes a while to cook.”

Giggling, Emma hurried to the table. Megan was slow to follow. “This is so cool, Meg,” Thelma heard her guest squeak. “It’s really like being back in the ‘50s. Look at her! And pot roast and apple pie for dinner? Wow. Peak white people bliss.”

Thelma glanced over her shoulder. Both girls looked guiltier than should have been possible for their age.

She knows. That was all Thelma could think about as she peeled potatoes and cut carrots in half.

Dwelling on that possibility wasn’t worth the effort it took.

So, Thelma concentrated on her meal, imagining her son coming home from helping to close the library and smelling the same succulent pot roast Thelma used to make when he was a kid.

Surely, that will cheer him up. Robbie often acted as if he still didn’t quite believe that Thelma was actually his mother, despite the FBI’s report and a blood test certifying their relationship.

(The way Megan had squealed to see the test results still rang in Thelma’s ears.)

When she had everything in the oven for the next couple of hours, she poured herself a glass of wine from Robbie’s stash and brought it over to the table—where Emma had been watching her under the guise of studying for a final.

“So, Emma…” Thelma sat with her legs off to one side, where she folded cloth napkins fresh from the dryer. “How long have you been with Megan? How did you two meet?”

Such polite conversation was exactly what Thelma would indulge in had this been her house in the 1950s, and these girls were completely normal in their being together.

If it were my male cousin with his new girlfriend from college, I’d ask the same questions.

But Thelma also wanted to know… and she wanted to pull a little power move that said she was not shaken by this situation.

If Emma knew the truth, then she knew. There was nothing Thelma could do about that. It’s between them and the FBI.

“We met in Shakespeare English our freshman year,” Megan said, looking up from her phone. “We were friends first. Then… you know, one thing leads to another…”

“Meg!”

More giggles. Thelma couldn’t hide the tiny smile that appeared to hear two young women so happy together.

“It’s all right,” Thelma said. “You’ve told her, haven’t you?” That was directed at Megan. “About me.”

“I’ve told her what I told the neighbor.”

“You told Gretchen that I was in a cult!”

Megan shrank away from her. “Oh, God. She told you?”

“You might be surprised what comes back to bite you in the bottom, young lady.”

Emma snorted in amusement.

“What has she told you, Emma? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Tran,” Emma said. “Emma Tran.”

“Of course. Ms. Tran.”

“Thelma… come on…” Megan said.

“What? I’m being polite.”

Emma cut in before things could get more awkward between Thelma and her granddaughter. “She’s told me a lot about you,” Emma admitted. “Especially how you, uh, got here…”

“Emma!”

While pressing corners of napkins together, Thelma looked up from her lap and hit Megan right where it hurt most—with a mother’s all-knowing gaze. You fine-tune it after your first child. With a boy like Robbie? Ha! “So, she knows that I’m actually your grandmother, time-traveled here from 1958?”

“Well, uh…”

“Yes!” Emma leaned forward, her arm banging against the table, and her not giving a single damn.

“I didn’t believe it at first! I thought she was pulling my leg!

” Emma’s voice grew increasingly louder as she finally let loose the intensity of her thoughts.

“But then she showed me all of the stuff from the FBI! I thought that either she had officially lost her mind because of computer science class or she was trying to pull a massive prank on me.”

“How lovely.” Thelma smacked another folded napkin atop the pile she had accumulated between her and Megan.

“I swear I didn’t mean to,” Megan said. “It just kinda fell out of my mouth one day. I mean, Emma and I have been together as long as we’ve been in college. I tell her everything! Do you know how hard it was to keep something as major as this to myself? It was impossible!”

“I’m not judging you, sweetheart.” Thelma sighed. She had run out of napkins. Now, what would she busy her hands with? “I just worry about it getting out and the FBI being angry at all of us. Your father is going through enough stress as it is.”

“Holy shit. So cool.”

Thelma resituated herself in her seat, giving Emma Emma her undivided attention. “That’s what Megan kept saying when we first met.”

“In the FBI building…”

“So. Cool.”

Thelma allowed a smile of acknowledgment to cross her face. “It’s been a major adjustment. Megan has been a wonderful guide in this brand-new world.”

“You should have seen her the first time we were in the feminine hygiene aisle.”

“Now, Megan, that’s not necessary…”

“See?” Megan conspiratorially leaned in toward her girlfriend. “Look how flustered she is. She told me they used to use a belt to hold pads in place back in the ‘50s.”

“Pads? Oh, my God. I could never anymore.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of the other options these days.” Thelma got up, taking the stack of cloth napkins with her to the hallway linen closet. “I’m quite comfortable with what I have!” She returned empty-handed. “No belts required.”

“Did you know that self-adhering pads weren’t a thing until the ‘70s?” Megan asked Emma.

“Whoa. What about tampons? That’s all I use.”

Thelma winced. “Most ladies preferred not to back in my day.” The corner of her mouth twitched as she grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the island counter and cut it up to go with her wine.

“But they weren’t unheard of. My friend Sandy liked them.

Was always trying to get me to try them.

” The knife continued to hit the cutting board with a satisfying click every time she sliced through a “Cosmic Crisp.” So many varieties of things these days.

Thelma had been overwhelmed by the choice in fruit at the grocery store the first time she saw things like durians and dragonfruit, but one of the stores they visited had a helpful employee who let her sample whatever she wanted.

Dragonfruit? Yes. Durian? That was a nope.

“You talk about Sandy a lot,” Megan observed. “Was she a neighbor?”

With the knife now lying on the cutting board, Thelma arranged her apple slices neatly on a Scarlet Fiestaware plate and brought them over to the table.

She gestured for Megan and their guest to help themselves, but they were more interested in the wine Thelma drank.

Megan helped herself to her father’s stash while Emma remained behind.

“She was my dearest friend. We went to college together. In fact, she was my maid of honor at my wedding.”

“When did you get married?” Emma asked. “Do you have pictures?”

“Not on me, no. But I got married in 1950. In the little Lutheran church I grew up in.” She hated how much her mind continued to drift back to church. “Sandy was by my side all day. My mother joked that it was like I was marrying Sandy instead of Bill.”

Thelma sipped the wine. It wasn’t until she put the glass back down that she realized Emma was staring at her—more so than she had before, and Thelma was a dang time traveler.

“I see,” the young woman said.

Megan returned with two more glasses of wine. “We’ve got pictures around here somewhere. Dad was born a year later, right?”

“Yes. Didn’t take long.”

Both girls now stared at her.

“What is it?”

They opened their mouths.

“Are you…”

“Did you…”