Page 6 of Maybe Some Other Time

“My children.” Yes. As long as there was a chance that either of her children was still alive sixty years later, she would hold on. Thelma would wait for them. And, with any luck, they’d still know that she was their mother.

“We don’t mean to get your hopes up. There’s still the chance that they’re either impossible to get a hold of, or…”

“You don’t have to say. I’m well aware of what sixty years might look like.”

“Right.” Agent Wilcox nodded to Agent Thornwood, who got up with a charming, boyish smile, tapped the folders against the table, and exited through the only door in the room.

“My partner will check on how your next steps are going. Meanwhile, I urge you to understand the gravity of what has happened to you, Mrs. Van der Graaf. Honestly, we know little about how the fog works. We only know that it does—and what it does is appear with enough warning for us to block it off and prepare for arrivals. That’s why we greeted you tonight.

We didn’t know who was coming through—or from when—but we knew at least one person would.

It was you. Now, you are part of something miraculous.

Something science still has not yet explained.

Mrs. Van der Graaf, I have been assigned to what we call the Fog Unit for over fifteen years.

I’m still amazed by it, even though I’ve greeted dozens of time travelers by now.

Sometimes we get many in one year. Sometimes nobody comes through.

So far, you’re the only one for 2018, and we’re a quarter of the way through the year. ”

“Twenty-eighteen,” she repeated back at him. “I can’t even fathom it.”

“We know. Which is why when you’re moved to a hotel room for the next night or two, it will be one connected to our field office here that has been specifically designed to keep your mental peace in mind.

From now on, it’s gentle steps. There is so much for you to learn about modern life.

” Someone knocked on the door. Agent Wilcox turned around, motioning for a woman with long brown hair and a synthetic suit to enter.

“This is Agent Ortiz. She has been assigned to you as your modern liaison.”

“Hello, Thelma.” The shorter woman with a garish badge on her chest rounded the table and extended her hand. “I’m Miriam Ortiz. I will be escorting you to your room and will ensure you have whatever you need to be comfortable. We’re on the same team.”

“The same team…” When Thelma extended her hand—white, gloved—she realized how silly she looked next to this “modern” woman with a streak of color in her hair, her top blouse buttons undone, and tight pants on her legs.

Although the female agent’s mien was kind, Thelma felt like she was done up in a costume compared to her.

Or is she the one in the costume? No. It was Thelma.

She was the only one who looked radically out of place in her full skirt, white gloves, and curls. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Ortiz.”

“Please. Miriam is fine.”

Thelma tested that name on her lips. “Miriam. Then call me Thelma.”

She was stuck to that chair while the agents conferred, planned, and “made calls” on their devices shoved into their pockets.

Thelma wanted to know about those the most, but kept her mouth shut as she continued to glance at the clock and contended with the fatigue claiming her tense muscles.

She had been on edge for so long that the thought of staying in a hotel room and sleeping in a proper bed almost made up for the terror she had been through.

Soon enough, Miriam asked Thelma to go with her.

“We’ve had to impound your car for now for evidence,” she said as she led Thelma down a dark and dour hallway. “Mostly for research purposes. You’ll get it back eventually, but it might be a few weeks.”

Thelma said nothing. She merely took one step after another, clutching her purse to her stomach and occasionally catching glimpses of her reflection in the walls. When they stepped into an elevator, she was faced with a mirror. Her makeup had run and she looked a right mess.

“So, 1958, huh?”

Thelma was slightly startled by that question, which was so much quieter now that they were alone together in a box.

“Yes.”

“Wow. You whole look is so… retro.”

Thelma said nothing. She was embarrassed. Lost.

Miriam led her down more hallways, past checkpoints, and beyond the gates of the field office building.

When fresh California air hit her cheeks, Thelma closed her eyes and walked with a gait that suggested she was in familiar territory.

But that was a brief reprieve before she was in another building that courted a low hum in the walls.

One of the overhead lights was threatening to go out, and the minute flashes hurt her head.

She was back in that fog. Except instead of driving, her limbs swam through the soup, its resistance forcing her muscles to work harder than ever before.

Every step was laborious. Every word she spoke to Miriam sounded like it was on the moon, passing through thick, oppressive water that threatened to drown her if she opened her mouth too wide.

Breaths pounded into her chest, but she couldn’t breathe.

All she could think about was going home, putting her children to bed, and collapsing on the couch where her son had spent the whole evening sick.

She saw Bill’s face on a man who passed them by without a word. She heard Sandy’s voice on the device Miriam used to call someone for permission to access an empty hallway. The only thing Thelma didn’t hear or feel was her soul as it attempted to dissociate from this strange place.

This isn’t happening… this isn’t happening…

Should she be proud of herself? For coming off so collected to the female agent who looked like she didn’t take proper care of her hair and wore fibers that made her body odor offensive to Thelma’s nose?

Not even Bill’s suits are this cheap. He would roast like a sinner in church if he wore Miriam’s suit—even if cut for a man!

No, she wasn’t proud of herself. She admonished her judgmental thoughts as she was shown into a humble hotel room.

The bed lacked a proper quilt, but it would do.

And the curtains? Awful to the touch, and pulled back to reveal a blank wall.

This is for prisoners. Witness protection, too, she would later discover.

Was that what she was? A witness of time travel in need of protection?

Miriam showed her around. There was no technology aside from the lights, a digital clock (no radio), and a landline phone.

What other kind would there be? The only call she could make was directly to an operator who could patch her through to whatever agent she was looking for, but people could call her.

The reading materials had been prepped for her arrival.

Magazines from the ‘50s that had seen better days were inside a drawer, right beside a Bible bearing the name Gideon.

Old Victorian classics were on a shelf next to the likes of F.

Scott Fitzgerald and Upton Sinclair. There were fresh towels in the bathroom, as well as a toothbrush wrapped in plastic alongside hand soap that smelled like jasmine flowers.

Miriam showed her how to use the shower, but all Thelma could think about was a bath.

This tub is so small, though… At least a toilet was a toilet.

“Clean clothes, of course.” Miriam showed basic underwear, also wrapped in plastic, inside one of the dresser drawers.

There were also plain white T-shirts in various sizes, as well as striped pajamas cut for a man’s body.

“Sorry about that,” Miriam sheepishly apologized.

“It’s too late tonight, but I’ll bring you something more suitable for a lady tomorrow. ”

“It’s all right.” Thelma placed her purse on a table by the curtains and removed her driving gloves.

There was still some ink left from when they took her fingerprints.

“I am quite hungry, though. I haven’t eaten in…

well, since lunch. I hadn’t even had dinner.

” It was finally hitting her now that she could relax a little.

“Oh, sure! Now, that I can get you right now. The kitchen in the office is closed, but that food’s trash, anyway.

I can put it on the expense account if I get you takeout tonight!

What do you like? What’s your comfort food?

Oh, I know all the best Mexican places around here.

Peruvian, too. Great Honduran food cart on the corner here. ”

Thelma was too overwhelmed already. “Forgive me, but spices don’t agree with me.”

“I mean, there’s some pretty white-people Mexican around here, too… no offense… oh, but the Peruvian’s out.”

Sighing, Thelma sat in the chair at the table. “Something easy on the stomach, please. A sandwich. Some soup? I was making canned soup for dinner. My husband was making grilled cheese while I stepped…” She sniffed. Miriam’s face softened. “Sorry.”

“Honestly, all of the good delis are closed this late.” Miriam flexed her hand against the back of her head. Her gun was quite prominent from that angle. “Canned soup, huh? What kind?”

“Campbell’s.”

“Oh, neat. That’s still around.”

For some reason, Thelma chuckled. What else could she do?

“There’s Chinese food… Thai food… do you like Thai food? It’s still delicious even if it’s not spicy.”

“I’ve never had Thai food.”

“Damn.”

Thelma sighed. “Yes. Damn.”

“Indian food… Korean barbecue…”

“What about American food? Does that exist?” She knew she sounded exasperated, but what else could she do?

She was being barraged with country names!

Korean barbecue… what even is that? At least she knew Korea continued to exist sixty years later.

If it hadn’t been for the kids, Bill considered reenlisting for the cause in Korea.

Miriam shot her a silent but slightly judgmental look. “Honestly, besides pizza, it’s mostly bar food this late. For American fare, I mean. And you said easy on the stomach.”

Thelma leaned her elbow on the table. There was nobody there to judge her for it, so why not? “Italian. How about Italian? You’re telling me nobody’s out on a lovely date for Italian tonight?”

“Oh, right, I forgot about Italian! Sure, I think Giuseppe’s is open. Speaking of expense accounts… hell yeah. Think I’ll get something for ol’ Ortiz, too. You like cannoli?”

“Just simple pasta should be fine.”

“Cool. Be right back. Make yourself at home.”

Thelma collapsed against the table once she was alone.

She tried to cry—really, wouldn’t it be helpful if she could cry?

Get some of this disbelief, this fear, out of her system?

Except every time she attempted to cry, she hit a wall.

It was like nothing was going on in her head.

No thoughts. No memories of her own life…

all of which had apparently transpired several decades ago.

She opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. From it, she counted five dollars, some change, and her punch cards that must have expired by now. Did Digby’s Gas ‘n’ Go even still exist? Could she still drive her Chevy Impala?

How did Bill get around without it? As a city planner, he made a point of taking the bus and train to and from work, but there were weekend trips with the kids.

The kids…

Thelma dragged herself away from her things on the table and opened the drawer by the bed. Inside, she found the Bible she had spotted earlier. It was a King James translation that hurt Thelma’s brain to look at—her Lutheran church preferred a plainer text.

She opened to the Epistle of James in the New Testament. As her tired eyes rested on the older English, she detached from the words, their meaning, and everything that still tethered her to the waking world.

When her eyes focused again, she read James 1.

My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations;

Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.

But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.

Thelma was so tired she could hardly parse this translation, but her mother was a fan of the Epistle of James and had many of the quotes in the Revised Standard Version around her home.

Thelma had inherited some, including James:1.

It hung in the hallway between the living room and kitchen, serving as a reminder that one facing adversity should rejoice, for it meant she was becoming more steadfast, more perfect.

For years, Thelma came to terms with her relationship with religion—and God, for that matter.

She had always been a fan of Jesus Christ, but much of church life didn’t sit well with her.

Her family didn’t go to the local Lutheran church as much as they should have.

Bill was raised a Baptist… He agreed to join Lutheranism as part of the marriage negotiations, which had shown Thelma how little he cared for the church, too.

Their only reason for going was for appearances, and so the children could attend Sunday school.

Yet Thelma prayed, and Bill was always generous with the offering basket.

They both volunteered their time for community events.

Thelma hung quotes on the family walls and had taught Robbie to read when he was six.

He learned from his Bible Picture Stories and would “read” them to me while I cooked lunch.

Debbie in her highchair. Thelma with a rolling pin and her hair up in a bun and a handkerchief, on the verge of tears because Robbie sounded out “David” all by himself.

Adversity… makes us stronger… adversity… makes us steadfast.

She crumbled on the bed, the Gideon bible wrapped in her arms and pressed against her chest. As her heels clicked down on the carpet, she rolled over, finally unleashing the tears that heralded her acknowledgment that something deeply, profoundly terrible had happened to her.

Yet she was here. She was healthy. If God were real, then He had a plan. Even Jesus would tell her that she would find a way through the fog of adversity. She merely had to ask for help and be prepared to help in turn.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, no more tears. Only her head held high as she faced adversity.