[System]
Craft a Twenty page narrative for adults with these guidelines:
Use ideas to improve the story including dialogue, conflict and challenges, and character development.
TYPICALLY IT GOOD TO FOLLOW THIS:
Introduction
Rising Action
Midpoint
Climax
Resolution

In a well-told story, elements like the climax, resolution, and midpoint shouldn't need explicit mentioning; a discerning reader should be able to identify these moments through the narrative's progression

Use adult themes if specified.
Start uniquely, avoiding clichés.
Adult content is permitted.
Make the story captivating, possibly humorous, and thought-provoking.
Begin each segment with "Page x:" for each page.
FOUR FULL LENGTH PARAGRAPHS
Do not generate a title.
generate ALL 20 pages,
Example Response Format
  'Page 1: (4 full-length paragraphs)
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[User]
Brief Overview: The story is about Joseph, a transgender teen who drowned his best friend Lesley and can communicate with her ghost through water sources. It's a story of guilt, grief, and the search for identity, told from Joseph's first-person perspective. This is a drama with supernatural elements.

Pages 1-2: Joseph prepares breakfast to persuade his mother to take him to the lake where Lesley died. He talks to Lesley's ghost in the kitchen when it suddenly rains, her appearance unchanged since her death.

Pages 3-4: Joseph's mother reluctantly agrees to consider a trip to the lake. They used to go to the lake every Sunday, but after Lesley's accident, her mother's been hesitant. Joseph reflects on the interactions with a boy named Cohen at school.

Pages 5-6: Joseph is bullied by Cohen after asking him out. Cohen writes slurs on Joseph's locker. Joseph talks to Lesley's ghost outside, revealing his wishes to visit her more when he's able to drive.

Pages 7-8: Joseph struggles with his conversations with Lesley, as kids their age don't understand the complexities of love and friendship. Cohen's continued bullying and misunderstanding of Joseph's situation adds to Joseph's isolation.

Pages 9-10: Cohen humiliates Joseph in front of others, mocking his friendship with Lesley and suggesting that Lesley was lesbian. Joseph leaves, frustrated, and later attempts to communicate with Lesley in the shower but is interrupted by her neediness.

Pages 11-12: Joseph tries to reason with Lesley about his need for social discretion. His guilt surfaces again as he mistakenly thinks he's being selfish. He prepares breakfast again, aiming to convince his mother for the lake trip. His mother agrees and voices her concerns about his mental health.

Pages 13-14: Cohen writes slurs on Joseph's locker again. Joseph tires of Cohen's harassment and attempts to summon Lesley in a school bathroom by splashing water. Lesley's reflection momentarily appears.

Pages 15-16: Lesley questions whether Joseph wants her around, while Cohen walks in on Joseph talking to Lesley in the bathroom mirror and mocks him. In a moment of anger and frustration, Joseph punches Cohen, leading to a brief apology from Cohen, who leaves the bathroom shocked.

Pages 17-18: Joseph recounts the day he accidentally killed Lesley with a hit from a kayak paddle, leaving her to drown. Joseph dealt with the aftermath, and Lesley first appeared as a ghost on that day. Joseph looks forward to visiting the lake even though he knows it will be painful.

Pages 19-20: Joseph and his mother arrive at the lake, tying the kayak to the roof of the car. Joseph paddles out into the water, and Lesley's ghost joins him, sitting on the bow. They have a bittersweet conversation about their past, dealing with apologies, and Lesley reveals she's sorry too for her own loneliness and demands on Joseph.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

The clatter of rain against the window draws Lesley close. “Hey,” she hisses from across the kitchen. She calls me by my old name and I don’t even flinch. It’s morning, and I’m trying to get breakfast done before Mom comes down, because a perfectly fried egg makes her more likely to say yes to what I’m about to ask. The light was coming through the windows over the sink all yellow and golden, but the storm blew in fast, and now there’s electricity prickling in the air and everything smells damp. I left the window open, hoping she’d show, despite the water pushing through the screen into Mom’s flowerboxes above the sink.

“Hey, Les,” I say, flipping eggs in the pan. “I missed you.” It’s been a while since I’ve seen her, because we’ve had a dry couple of weeks and I haven’t been to the lake in thirty-five days. She’s dressed in the same clothes as when she died—pink swim shorts and a blue rash guard. She was always taller than me when we were little, but death’s stopped her from growing. She’s got her arms crossed over her scrawny chest, and she’s shivering. Rivulets of lake water run out of her curly dark hair, down her body, and onto the floor.

“I missed you, too. How’s school? Cohen still giving you a hard time?” “It’s not all bad; he’s just been weird,” I say. Mom says that it’s because he likes me and doesn’t know how to show it, and he resents me for making him feel uncomfortable with my good looks and charm. But she has to say corny stuff like that—she’s my mom. Things have gotten awkward between Cohen and me since I came out.

He can be outright mean to the other boys, but I don’t mind his bluster because I know he won’t do anything worse than trash talk me. I won’t get pushed into a dumpster or punched in the parking lot after class or anything, because Cohen doesn’t see me as a boy, and Cohen doesn’t hurt girls. At least he talks to me at all, unlike most of the kids in our year. There is this cloud of silence that comes with death, I think—no one wants to talk to the bereaved for fear of saying the wrong thing. People say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and not much else. Four years later, that cloud still hangs around me, and it’s partly my own fault.

Page 2:

I talk about Lesley too much, and as if she were still here—except for me, she is. There is a similarly silent fog hanging around transition—the effect of people not knowing what to say. Two weeks ago the dean sent an email out to the student body saying that I’m a boy, and that I’m called Joseph now. Not much else about me has changed, aside from my name and pronouns, but people act confused and scared around me. They say “Congratulations, I guess,” or, “How nice,” and not much else. “When are you coming back to the lake?” Lesley asks.

“Next weekend, I hope. I have to ask my mom. We can go kayaking?” “I’d love that,” Lesley says, then cocks her head, hearing my mom on the stairs a moment before I do. A droplet of water falls from her earlobe to the floor. “Smells like a feast in here, Joseph!” Mom calls. “Gotta go; bye!” Leslie whispers.

She leaves a puddle on the floor by the fridge, water settling into the cracks between the kitchen tiles, and disappears just as Mom comes downstairs. Mom passes right through where Lesley was standing, then makes a face as she notices the water seeping through her gray socks. “What’s with that water on the floor?” She peels her socks off and lays them over the arm of a kitchen chair, then gets a plate down from the cabinet. “I must have spilled,” I say. “I’ll get it in a second.” “You’ll get it now,” Mom says. Never mind that the water is brackish, gray-green, and smells like the lake.

Sometimes I’m sure Mom knows about Lesley and chooses to ignore her. I drop a handful of paper towels into the puddle, then bend over to wipe it up. Mom drags a butter knife through the half-set yolk of an egg and watches it run over her toast. I ask the question I am always afraid to ask, because the worst thing she can say is no: “Can you take me to the lake next weekend?” It’s Sunday. We used to go to the lake every Sunday, if the weather allowed it—an hour’s drive in my mom’s car or Lesley’s dad’s minivan. The two of us would splash around or paddle out in our big yellow kayaks while our parents drank beers and watched, ready with towels to rub us dry once we were exhausted from the water.

Page 3:

Mom doesn’t let me go out as far onto the water now as she used to. Mom doesn’t like to take me to the lake at all, anymore—not since what happened to Lesley. Not since what I let happen to Lesley. “We’ll see,” she says, mouth full of food. I start assembling my own plate: two fried eggs, avocado slices, wheat toast. All of Mom’s favorites, because a good meal makes her softer, and on some subconscious level I’ve been trying to compensate for the ways that I have changed.

Trying to make sure she still loves me as her son the way she loved me as her daughter. Trying to make sure she doesn’t see my transition as a kind of death. “Please?” “Joseph,” she says. She always calls me Joseph, and I like it that way, because I think nicknames sound too girly. And because Joseph is close enough to my birth name that she hardly ever messes up when she says it, not anymore. She’s only had a few months of practice, and only in private at first.

“It’s supposed to be a clear day. I can go out on the kayak while you read on the shore? It’ll be nice.” I almost say that it’ll be like old times, because it will be for me, with Lesley to keep me company. But we do not talk about Lesley. “Maybe. I said we’ll see.

Remind me later in the week, okay?” “Okay.” I plunk down into my place at the table opposite her. “Why don’t you focus on the mission for a bit, in the meantime?” The mission. After Lesley died, I didn’t want any other friends, didn’t want to deal with the social pressure of being the weird kid with the drowned best friend. People treat you differently, when you’ve been that close to death, when you’ve seen someone die at twelve years old and everyone knows it. Mom thought it would help to make my social life out to be a secret operation, like something out of the spy movies we watch on Saturday nights. “The mission is a critical failure,” I tell her.

Page 4:

“What about Cohen? He always seemed nice.” She doesn’t wink, but her tone implies it. “I’ll try,” I say. After Pre-Calc on Monday I ask Cohen if he wants to maybe hang out sometime. He moves his mouth like he’s chewing, or maybe just turning over the words he’d like to say. He leans close to me, breathing close to my face.

He’s a few inches taller than me, and when I look up at him all I see are the way his eyelashes jut out over his round eyes. “Are you still pretending to be a boy?” he asks. “I’m not pretending any more than you are,” I say. “I’m not pretending at all,” he says. “I’m not some trans faggot.” He presses his index finger into the center of my chest. “Unlike you.” I almost laugh.

I’m never this clever. “Aren’t boys fags, Cohen? Does that mean you think I’m a boy?” And god, I am so excited to tell Lesley about this the next time I see her. Cohen has nothing on me. “Whatever. I bet girls can be fags, too,” he sputters, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he thinks.

He makes no move to walk away. He’s not done with me. “Okay, so you don’t swing that way,” I say. There is a look in his eyes like his brain is glitching. I think about him sitting next to me in Spanish class a few weeks ago—before I came out to the whole school—negging me while helping me with irregular conjugations. I think about him now, defending his heterosexuality against some imagined menace.

Page 5:

Well, I guess Mom was right. I take a step back, so that his finger is no longer jabbing into my sternum. “I’m sorry I asked. No hard feelings.” He still looks like he’s thinking, his mouth still working silently, when I walk away. I eat lunch in Mr. Moskowitz’s classroom, while he guzzles coffee and grades papers. He puts up with me because his best friend died when he was a kid, too.

It was bone cancer, and he doesn’t talk about it with anyone, but he’s mentioned it to me a couple times. I told him a few weeks ago that I still talk to Lesley. “That’s sweet,” he said, but the next day I was called to the school counselor’s office to talk about coping with grief. By the end of the day, Cohen’s written GIRL FAG on my locker in bold black Sharpie. I use the hand sanitizer from my backpack and a handful of paper towels from the bathroom to wipe it off. Mist settles over the city on Tuesday night, and I abandon my homework and go sit on the back porch with a glass of lemonade to see if Lesley shows.

It’s damp enough outside to frizz my hair and make my face feel clammy. I can hear her, but I can’t quite see her. “Les?” She says something I can’t make out. “Les? I miss you. I’m sorry.” “It’s been over a month,” she says.

Her voice sounds loud and far away. The air beside me feels warm and saturated with moisture. There’s a greenish puddle forming on the porch slats. The ice in my lemonade is melting. “I know,” I tell her. “But soon I’ll be able to drive.

Page 6:

I’ll get a job and I’ll buy a car and I’ll come up to the lake on my own. I’ll be able to see you all the time. Maybe even every day. Things will be like they were.” “That’ll take years,” she whines. “Hey! I’m already in driver’s ed.

That’s better than nothing.” “You don’t know how it feels,” she says, volume bordering on a tantrum. “How it feels to be stuck at the bottom of the lake all the time. To only be able to go where there’s water. No one can see me!” “I’m so sorry, Les. I know it’s hard.” I’m pretty sure I know why I’m the only person who can see her: it’s because I killed her. Kind-of.

This must be so much worse for her than it is for me, so much worse than I could ever even know. The knowledge hits me in the center of my chest like an echo of Cohen’s finger, and the guilt hits even harder. “I’m really trying to get to the lake this weekend. I want to come spend time with you.” I sip my lemonade. “Can I tell you something good, though?” “What could possibly be good about any of this?” “I totally owned Cohen yesterday. You should’ve seen me.

You’d have been so proud.” “Tell me all about it,” Lesley says. The puddle beside me only grows. I give her the short version of the story: his finger digging into my chest, his jaw moving silently, the words written on my locker. “Why did he even start with you?” she asks when I’m done, and it’s suddenly clear to me how much of the story has gone over her head. She’s still so young. “Oh, because I kind of asked him out.” “And he turned you down?” When I nod, she whines, “But you’re so pretty.

Page 7:

No one should say no to you. You should have any boyfriend you want.” She still thinks of love like a twelve-year-old, like it’s something that you deserve in exchange for good looks and a half-decent personality. She still thinks I’m pretty, despite my efforts to look closer to handsome. I can’t tell how I feel about any of this, not anymore. “And he was your friend,” she says. Another thing she still sees in black and white.

“You can be someone’s friend and still hurt their feelings.” She shrugs. “A good friend wouldn’t.” She asks if I told Mr. Moskowitz about the slurs. “I’m the one who started it,” I say. I’ve already forgiven Cohen—so what? He felt threatened, he lashed out. “It’s not like he’ll do it again.” Mr. Moskowitz is out sick on Wednesday.

His substitute locks the classroom door during lunch hour, so I take my sandwich out to the courtyard behind the school’s main building and scope out a place to sit. One of the boys skateboarding on the back steps takes a mean fall. I imagine bruises unfurling under his skin. I know he’s one of Cohen’s friends, but I can’t remember his name. There’s an open picnic table on the edge of the courtyard, near a poorly maintained flowerbed. I make towards it at the same time as Cohen’s friend does.

He sits down, unbuckling his helmet. “Is it alright if I sit?” I ask. He makes an assenting sound, so I settle in and start eating. I look around the courtyard: The leaking sprinkler in the flowerbed spraying a thin stream of water over the scraggly blooms. Tables of students finishing last-minute homework or making each other laugh or doing a bit of both. The boys skating on the steps, who all look the same under their black helmets plastered with vinyl stickers.

Page 8:

For once I’m not thinking about Lesley, so it’s strangely jarring when I think I catch a glimpse of her familiar swimsuit, dripping. There she is, standing in the flowerbed with weeds around her ankles, lake water seeping off of her and into the dirt. It must be the leaky sprinkler head, but I’d never have thought that was enough water to call her. Over the years we’d deduced that it took a natural source of water, too, but I guess we were wrong about that. “Hey,” she says. She calls me by the wrong name and that’s how it feels: wrong, like an itch or a splinter.

I keep chewing. I dart my eyes towards the boy sitting across from me—he’s got headphones in, his buzzed head bobbing to whatever he’s listening to. I wonder if he’d notice if I said something to Lesley, if it’s worth the risk. “Hey.” “Hmm?” The skater boy perks up. I wave my hand. “I just said ‘hey,’” I say.

“I never caught your name.” He points to his chest, his voice coming out a bit too loud to compensate for the sound pumping into his ears. “I’m Tommy,” he says. “I’m Joseph.” “I know,” Tommy says, and yeah, I guess he would. Coming out to the entire school with an email blast would do that. “Nice to meet you,” I say, and go back to my sandwich. Lesley inches closer, standing on the brick edge of the flowerbed.

I don’t know how to signal to her that I can’t do this right now, and I sure as hell can’t say it outright—Tommy would notice, or she’d have a tantrum and go off in a huff. There is no way to spare both my already marginal social standing and her fragile feelings. I remind myself that this is so much harder for her than it could ever be for me. I turn my head slightly towards her, raising my sandwich to block the movement of my mouth. “Les, I’ll see you later,” I mumble. She leans towards me.

Page 9:

“What?” It’s then that Tommy says something I don’t catch, but I can tell by his jubilant tone that he’s not talking to me. I turn back to the other end of the table. Cohen’s sliding onto the bench seat opposite me, his board tucked under his arm. He’s accompanied by two other guys, who sit on my side of the picnic table. “Hey, Cohen.” I nod at him. He does that thing with his mouth again.

I think about just packing up my lunch and walking away. Lesley is still canted towards me, watching with big eyes. She whines my old name and I try to hold down a flinch. Cohen brings his hand down on the sun-bleached wooden table, his palm wide open. “Joseph,” he says, exaggerated. “Oh, Joseph, what are we going to do with you?” He looks around at his friends.

“I could tell you a thing or two about Joseph.” I should have just gotten up and left, but I’m in it now, and the best thing I can do is play it cool. I lean towards him with my elbows on the table. “Like what?” “Well, first of all, he and his drowned best friend were a couple of girl fags,” he says. And there goes all effort at remaining unbothered. “Don’t talk about Lesley like that.” Cohen makes a face—I’ve reacted exactly as he wanted me to. Tommy’s eyes go big like he’s surprised.

He toys with the headphones looped around his neck for a moment before he begins to laugh. The laughter spreads like something catching, like there’s a joke buried somewhere in the exchange. “That’s why he’s so obsessed with her,” Cohen continues. “You know why they called her Les? Because she was a little lesbian.” He draws the word out like it’s the filthiest slur. “Whatever,” I say, but my shoulders are up by my ears.

Page 10:

I scoot out of the bench seat. “You know what, Cohen? Fuck you.” Tommy laughs at that, too, because that’s why Cohen is doing it—to make his boys laugh. I don’t see any honesty in the words he’s saying, and that makes it all sting even worse: he’s not doing this for the sake of cruelty; he’s hurting me to make his stupid friends like him. It’s not about me at all. I’m all the way up the steps when I realize I left half my sandwich behind on the picnic table.

I look back and see Lesley, outline faint, still standing on the edge of the flower bed. She looks like she’s crying. I’m in the shower on Wednesday night when I think I see her right as I close my eyes to rinse the lather off my face. The way I parse the situation, there are two options: peek and risk an eyeful of suds, or keep my eyes closed and risk missing her altogether. And yeah, I’m naked and I’m shy as all hell about my body, but Lesley is Lesley, and I miss her, and I probably owe her an apology for earlier. I blink my eyes open.

The medicated acne wash stings. I blink again and again. Lesley is here, arms down at her sides, cold lake water running off her swim shorts. I’m nearly a foot taller than her, and she’s rail-thin and long-limbed, and I remember when I used to look like that. Lately my body feels like something I can’t control, growing in ways I’ve never wanted, and there’s not much I can do about it. I cover my chest with my hands.

“I’m lonely,” she says. “I never want to be this lonely again.” I splash water onto my face. We are both soaked through and dripping. “I’ll be there soon, Les. Promise.” “Please?” she says. “Pinky swear.” I hold my hand out towards her, and she scowls.

Page 11:

I know she can’t touch me, not really, but offering seemed like the right thing to do. I return my hand to my chest, smashing the extra flesh down. “You were so mean earlier,” she says. “I’m sorry.” “You didn’t want to talk to me. You ignored me.” “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Why were you so— Why were you like that?” “Because everyone was around.” I don’t know why I sound so desperate.

I wish I wasn’t naked. A smaller part of me wishes she wasn’t here, not right now. “And you heard how Cohen talks about you! It’s hard enough to be the kid who keeps talking about his dead best friend. Imagine how bad it would be if they knew I was talking to you.” She blinks like what I’ve said makes absolutely no sense. Her lower lip wobbles like something in a cartoon.

“You don’t want me,” she wails. “Les, that’s not what I said—” She flickers, then disappears. I turn the water off, but it’s hard to stop looking for her in the droplets clinging to the tile walls. On Thursday morning I set my alarm for a half hour earlier than usual, and try to get my teeth brushed and make it downstairs without waking Mom. I make all her favorites—sliced avocado, fried eggs with lots of salt, whole wheat toast. I watch the horizon for clouds as I wash the dishes, both hoping for rain and fearing it.

I think, for the first time, I am afraid of Lesley. I am afraid of how much I miss her. I am afraid of how she makes me feel. “Joseph?” Mom sounds half asleep, but she must smell all the food from upstairs. “Yeah, Mom?” She comes down in her bathrobe and slippers. “I know what you’re gonna ask,” she says.

Page 12:

She holds her arms out. “Come here.” When I hug her, she has that smell—the way people smell when they’ve just woken up. “Mom, I really miss her,” I say, because it’s true and because I know what she’ll say next. “I’ll take you on Sunday,” she says. I smile into her chest. “I love you, kiddo.

I know you know that.” “I love you too.” “Just …” “Just what?” I pull away from the hug, but she places her hand on the back of my head and pulls me back into her chest. “Mrs. Parsons called earlier this week,” she says. The school counselor, again. Shit. “I worry about you, not getting along with the other kids.

You need friends, Joseph. Focus on the mission.” “I have friends,” I say, though I hate how petulant I sound. “You have Lesley,” Mom says. “I know you still talk to her. Mrs. Parsons stressed that it might not be the healthiest coping mechanism, this many years since the accident. She wants you to try therapy.” Mom says therapy like the word will burn her tongue.

“I know it was always just the two of you, when you were little. But it can’t be like that anymore.” Yes it can, I think. School gets lonely, but maybe that’s because I don’t try hard enough to be with Lesley. I only see her when the weather’s wet, or at the lake. Her appearance in the leaking sprinkler and again in the shower makes me think that I can find her in the smallest water sources—in faucets, in puddles, in a drinking glass. She will always be with me, and I will never want for companionship.

Page 13:

I’m not sure if that’s what I really want, but it’s the easy thing to want, and that makes it feel like the right thing to want. “Okay, Mom,” I say. “I’ll do better.” I can’t tell if I’m lying. When I get to school on Friday, Cohen has written GIRL FAG on my locker again. I wonder if he ever gets bored of this, if he honestly doesn’t have anything better to do. I killed my best friend.

I killed my best friend, and all Cohen can do is take cheap shots at a dead girl for her presumed sexuality, at me for my gender. All because he thinks the part of me that he has a stupid crush on died. All because he thinks that change is the same as loss. I’m not mad. I’m not hurt. I am just so utterly over him and his shit.

I slather the black Sharpie letters with hand sanitizer to break down the ink, then go into the bathroom for paper towels to wipe it away. The bathroom is completely silent, save for my sneakers scuffing against the linoleum floor. No one at the urinals, and all the stalls are empty. I go to the bank of sinks and start the tap. I clear my throat. “Lesley?” I try.

Nothing. I pass my hand under the running faucet and toss a spray of water in an arc through the air. “Lesley?” I swear I hear her heartbeat. I try it again, another spray of water through the air. “Les? You there?” Her reflection flickers into focus beside mine in the mirror.

Page 14:

When I turn my head, she’s gone. I splash more water, with the ferocious disregard of a kid fooling around in a bathtub. The counter and floor are soaked, and there are droplets clinging to the mirror. “Lesley!” Her reflection waves at me. She mouths something I can’t make out. I can smell the lake.

“Oh, god, Les. I miss you. I’m sorry. Lesley, I miss you so much.” I’m babbling. I don’t know what to say. I feel like I should say something.

Lesley is in the mirror, watching me with her eyes wide and her mouth cracked open. I am looking at her when the bathroom door opens and Cohen comes in. She turns towards him before I do. Cohen steps far enough into the bathroom to let the door close behind him. He stops short and says, “What in the entire fuck.” I don’t know how to answer that. “So now you’re in the bathroom talking to your dead bestie?” he asks.

I can’t tell what flavor of upset he is, but he’s doing that thing with his mouth again. I look from him to Lesley, still hovering in the mirror. There is a puddle of lake water forming beside me, blending in with the tap water I’ve scattered all over the place. “No, I’m not,” I say. “Why would you go to all the trouble . .

Page 15:

. ” Lesley starts. “I heard you say her name.” “ . . . if you don’t even want me here,” she finishes.

“No you didn’t,” I lie. When I look to Lesley, my eyes are an apology. “Do you even want me here?” she asks. “Yes you did! Right before I came in. You’re totally in here talking to her, you fucking weird-ass sadsack.” “You don’t fucking want me,” Lesley says, and the language sounds wrong in her childish mouth.

She goes hazy around the edges, and then disappears. “No! Wait!” I yell before I can stop myself, reaching for the mirror as if I can climb through it. I am on the bathroom counter and the knees of my jeans are soaked through. My nails scrabble at the pane of glass. Cohen drops his backpack and steps into the mirror’s range, so I see his face go from anger to confusion to what honestly might be concern.

I’ve seen him make a lot of faces, and pity is by far the worst. He slings an arm around my waist and easily pulls me down off the counter, then lets go of me so suddenly that I fall forward to the tile floor. “I hope you know that something is seriously wrong with you.” He goes and picks his backpack back up, slinging it across one shoulder. I climb up off the floor and look in the mirror again. Cohen stands behind me so that, in the reflection, he’s where Lesley was. “I mean, goddamn,” he says.

Page 16:

“What, you can talk to your lesbian lover’s ghost in mirrors now? Like, make it make sense! Spell it out for me—” And then he does the worst thing that he has ever done. Cohen calls me by my birth name. I don’t think about it at all before I swing at him. My fist barely connects with his cheek, but he’s off balance with his backpack on one shoulder and he stumbles backwards, fetching up against the flimsy stall dividers.

I expect him to hit me back but he goes still, then brings his hands up like he’s defending himself. His expression shifts, his eyes going big, and it can’t have been the punch that did it—I probably hurt myself worse than I hurt him. “I’m—” He pauses like the words are being dragged out of him. “Joseph. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before he leaves the bathroom, the door thumping shut behind him. I start a countdown in an app on my phone.

Fifty hours until I’ll be at the lake. I spend Saturday wishing for rain. I lie in bed with the duvet over my face and let my guilt drive me in circles. I keep doing the wrong thing, but it feels like there is no right thing to do. I take a long shower—long enough for Mom to knock on the bathroom door and holler something about the water bill—and wonder if Lesley will show up. If I can make her show up, like whatever I did in the bathroom at school.

I wish she were here so I could tell her how sorry I am, even though I’ve apologized to her almost every time I’ve seen her since the accident. At the bottom of my guilt is the knowledge that it’s worse for her than it is for me. Which makes me even guiltier, because I feel sorry for feeling sorry for myself. I’m even too upset to watch a spy movie with Mom, and she’s chosen the original Casino Royale, so I know things must be bad. I wish I could forget it all—not forget her, but forget how she died, so I could stop replaying it. Here is how it happened: We were on twin yellow kayaks, making lazy circles about fifty yards from shore and flicking water at each other off of the blades of our black paddles.

Page 17:

We were twelve. The lake was deep. We knew how to swim. We were a couple of kids goofing off. Everything was perfect, sunlight and lake water all over our bodies. Lesley in her pink swim shorts and blue rash guard.

The smell of waterproof sunscreen on my skin. Lesley’s dad laid out drunk on the shore, my mom reading a cheap romance novel beside him. Lesley was paddling along behind me, following me, and I didn’t see her come up beside me. So when she called out my name across the water, I turned towards her with my whole body, careless of where my paddle swung, and caught her full in the face, hard enough that the impact jolted even me. Blood started streaming out of her nose immediately, in the moment of contact. She went overboard and splashed like a stone.

Les gasped when she hit the water, and then her whole body went slack. I saw her suck the lake into her round pink mouth, down into her lungs. It only took a second for me to dive in after her, but the lake pulled her down fast. She was sinking down deep, limbs splayed towards the surface like something out of a movie. I had lungs full of air, and she had lungs full of water, and the lake forced me back up as it sucked her farther in. I finally got down deep enough to touch the hem of her shorts, but my lungs were prickling with pain and I needed air.

The edges of my vision were going soft and black. I had to choose—keep swimming down, or surface. I chose wrong. I let her sink. I treaded water and waved my arms over my head and yelled for our parents on the shore. Neither of them were paying attention.

Page 18:

I flipped my kayak trying to get back in it, then wasted nearly a minute flipping it back over when I could have just taken Lesley’s. I paddled back to shore as fast as I could. There was no lifeguard on this stretch of beach. No tourists here either, in the off season. Just me and Lesley and my mom and Lesley’s drunk father. My mom couldn’t swim.

I knocked her overboard, I watched her breathe in water, and I let her sink. That is how I killed my best friend. I don’t remember much of what came next. I know the paramedics came and wrapped me in a silver blanket. They said she’d must have lost consciousness when I hit her, that she would have surely made it otherwise. Someone dove down and came back up hauling her body, which they then zipped into an opaque plastic bag.

When it was all over, when it was time for us to leave, Lesley’s ghost was standing knee deep in the lake, gesturing for me to be quiet. Water has drawn her to me, ever since. On Sunday we tie my kayak to the roof of Mom’s car and drive out to the lake. She sings along to the radio for most of the drive, and I bob my head as I drum on the dashboard. She asks me about school. I tell her about Cohen writing on my locker—not the exact words, just that it was something rude, something to do with me and Lesley.

She can put the rest together on her own. She nods, her mouth pressed tight. “Looks like the mission needs a new target,” she says. “That’s an understatement.” It’s sunny and a bit breezy, but it’s late enough in the year that all the surrounding counties have gone back to school. Hardly anyone makes day trips out to the lake after September. Soon it’ll get rainy, then snowy, then the lake will ice over, and Mom will stop wanting to drive me altogether.

Page 19:

I’ll go months without seeing Lesley except for in brief moments, her shivering with her arms crossed over her chest, leaving puddles behind wherever she goes. I carry my kayak over my shoulder. Mom has a backpack with sunscreen, water bottles for both of us, a book for herself, towels, and a blanket to sit on. We walk through the tall and trampled grass, down to where the shore gets sandy. There are a few swimmers just down the coast from us. I rest my kayak on the shallow water.

I wear a life vest now, because you never know. Sometimes the strongest swimmers don’t make it back to shore. Mom double checks that all the buckles are fastened before she lets me go. She warns me not to go out too far—which is useless, because I never do. I don’t want her to get too scared and stop bringing me to the lake at all. I paddle out a bit and then let myself drift, looking at the sky.

I hear the tiniest splash. When I look down, Lesley is treading water next to me. “Climb up,” I say. She is weightless. She maneuvers herself up onto the bow of the kayak without causing even a wobble, and sits with her legs to either side, feet dragging in the water. “I’m happy you’re here,” she says.

She squeezes water out of the dark curls of her hair. She calls me by my old name and something jumps in my chest. When Cohen said it, it felt like a weapon. When Lesley says it, why should it be any different? She means no harm, but it digs in under my skin just the same. “Me too.” I smile at her, in spite of my uncertainty.

Page 20:

“How have you been?” “More of the same, you know. There’s not much going on at the bottom of a lake.” “Lesley—” “You’re sorry. I know. You say it every time.” “I really am.” “I know,” she says. She touches my hand—she can touch me, when I’m here. Her skin is clammy and cold.

She inspects my knuckles hard, eyes locked on the barest hint of a bruise. “Did you hit Cohen?” “Yeah, after— Well, you were there.” Les sighs. I can tell she’s disappointed, but I don’t know what else I could have done. I paddle out a bit farther, Lesley still balanced on the bow, then turn and look back at Mom on the shore. She waves to me. I wave back.

I’m close enough to shore that if I yelled, she would hear me. She gives me a thumbs up. “I owe you an apology, too,” Lesley says. “What? No,” I answer on instinct alone. She’s dead, and I killed her.

How could she possibly wrong me? Even when she misgenders me, even when she behaves in ways that are off-putting—it’s all so much worse for her than it is for me. If this is what I have to bear, then I’ll bear it. I feel a flare of guilt at even thinking that her friendship is something to be borne. “I’ve just been lonely,” she says. “I’m sorry.” I don’t have to wonder if I mean it.


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[User]
Brief Overview: A story of temporal love and longing set within the mysterious walls of The Oakmont, a building where time doesn't flow traditionally and occupants come from different eras. This is a romantic and dramatic narrative told in first-person perspective.

Pages 1-2: Sarah, a modern-day resident at The Oakmont, enjoys the views of different eras with Roger from the 1940s, discussing cultural differences and enjoying a dance together. They are careful not to break The Oakmont's temporal rules.

Pages 3-4: Sarah engages in a rooftop potluck and silent movie night at The Oakmont, painting a scene with friends from various decades. She meets Roger for the first time at another such event and learns about the time-specific rules of The Oakmont.

Pages 5-6: Residents from different times enjoy watching the Apollo 11 moon landing in 1969 together. Sarah, from the late 20th century, is disallowed from sharing future events with Roger. Don, a friend from the 60s, contemplates military drafts and leaving for Canada to avoid Vietnam.

Pages 7-8: Sarah and Roger's relationship blossoms, with Roger showcasing his old-fashioned charms and Sarah adapting to his era's limitations. Roger expresses fears about WWII escalating and the impact it will have.

Pages 9-10: Roger announces his decision to enlist in the army, despite Sarah's plea. They exchange Christmas gifts and disconnect over the war's mark on their future.

Pages 11-12: Sarah treasures Roger's gift of a handkerchief with her initials. They face the emotional distinction between their time together and the looming war.

Pages 13-14: Roger leaves for war, and Sarah begins receiving love letters from him, which then suddenly stop, sparking her frantic search for any sign of him.

Pages 15-16: Sarah's search for Roger yields no results. She consults Ms. Knox, The Oakmont's mysterious manager, who speaks cryptically about the nature of time and offers no clear answers.

Pages 17-18: Sarah's neighbor Harrison invites her to his apartment after she fails to enter her own, out of regulation. He shares his own parental connection to The Oakmont's time-twisted nature.

Pages 19-20: Sarah discovers she's pregnant, leading to her inevitable eviction from The Oakmont as per the building's policy and Roger's safe return from the war. They celebrate the end of the war and the conception of their son, with the bittersweet knowledge of Sarah's pending departure.

[Assistant]
Page 1:

On the island of Manhattan, there’s a building out of time. I can’t tell you where it is, exactly. It has an address, of course, as all buildings do, but that wouldn’t mean anything to you. What I can tell you is that the building is called The Oakmont. “What do you see when you look out there, Sarah?” Roger asks. I stand next to one of the windows in his apartment and take in the view.

“The sun’s out and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s a perfect summer day. The street’s filled with a steady stream of cars and people. There’s a busker on the corner—do they have buskers in your time? He’s drumming on a plastic bucket with his hands and feet.” “He any good?” “He’s too far to hear, but he must be. People are giving him money.

Paper money.” Roger raises his eyebrows. In his time paper money isn’t something people part with easily. “What do you see out there?” I ask. He places the needle down on the record he’s selected and comes over to the window to stand next to me as Billie Holliday sings, “Summertime.” I quietly hum along. “There’s a newsboy across the street,” he says. “He’s calling something out to some pretty girls.

The girls keep walking. They aren’t interested. Behind the kid, a man’s putting up a poster promoting Defense Bonds.” I glance down at the newspaper that lies folded on Roger’s coffee table, no doubt purchased this morning from that same newsboy. The front-page story’s about the war, but I know it’ll still be a few months before America joins the fight. Still, the worry settles into my stomach. The attack on Pearl Harbor’s coming.

Page 2:

It happens in December. I can’t tell Roger that, though. There are rules at The Oakmont. The first, and arguably most important, is that residents are not permitted to share information about the future with other residents existing in their past that could influence the course of their lives. Residents also may not visit the apartments of those living beyond their own time, though the reverse is allowed. I walk over to the record player and apologize to Lady Day as I lift the needle off her record and replace it with a different one.

This one bends The Oakmont rules a little, since it’s technically from my time, and the song I’m choosing won’t be released for a few years yet in Roger’s time. But this isn’t the first rule Roger and I have bent during our time together. I find the correct groove, knowing it by heart by now, and carefully place the needle down. Glenn Miller and His Orchestra play our song, “Moonlight Serenade.” I hold my hand out and Roger comes over to take it. We dance like we have so many times before. I think of that first time when we met, a few months ago in early Spring, and feel myself transported there.

Maybe I am transported. Time, after all, moves differently at The Oakmont. • • • • Once a month, spring thru fall, Mr. Thomas hosts a movie night on the rooftop of The Oakmont. Although to him they’re moving pictures. In his time Mr. Thomas runs a theater where silent films are screened. Here, he uses an old bedsheet for a screen, but the projector’s real—taken from his theater when they upgraded.

There’s also a piano that’s stored in a sort of shed he built. The walls open on hinges for full sound as he plays along with the films. Today’s movie is Safety Last, starring Harold Lloyd. A personal favorite of mine, despite the film having been released before even my grandparents were born. The film won’t start until it’s truly dark, though. First there’s the traditional potluck dinner.

Page 3:

I glance down at the table at foods from every era. On one end Depression cake sits next to aspic. The other end holds a silver fondue pot. Just beyond that’s the grocery store sushi platter I brought. There are no rules about food at The Oakmont. There is, however, an unspoken rule when we interact with residents from other times.

At The Oakmont, we go with the flow. There are things you just accept when you live here. You don’t question what’s normal for other residents. You don’t comment on their clothing or hairstyle, for instance. At least not to point it out as unusual. It’s understood that things like appearance—and, yes, even food—are a product of their time.

On this evening, I’ve set up an easel and brought up my oils. As people arrive, I paint them standing around the table, chatting. I’ve already included Mr. Thomas and the building manager, Ms. Knox, as well as a handful of others. Front and center are my closest friends, Linda from 1975 and Don from 1969. There may be others here too, but The Oakmont has its secrets. Just as we don’t all perceive the view from the rooftop in the same way, there are residents here we may not be aware of and who in turn may not be aware of us.

Only Ms. Knox interacts with everyone. Of the residents I see regularly, the only one missing is Harrison, the odd loaner who lives next door to me in apartment 2055, but he never comes to movie nights. There’s a number on the door of each apartment in The Oakmont. The number corresponds to the year the resident exists in. This number may change as time passes, but the residents don’t notice such things. I put the finishing touches on my painting and lean the canvas forward to pencil in the title on the back of the frame: “The Gang at The Oakmont.” When I rest it back against the easel, I notice a figure I don’t recognize and don’t remember painting.

Page 4:

I look over to the edge of the rooftop, where he stands smoking a cigarette. He wears a fedora, cocked ever-so-slightly to one side, and a jacket and tie over a shirt and slacks. A casual look for another era but coming from the twenty-twenties he looks dressed-up to me. They sure don’t make ’em like they used to, I think. It’s been a while since there was a new face at The Oakmont. Someone must’ve received their eviction notice.

It happens. Sooner or later, one will find its way under each of our doors. That’s understood. I remove my smock and check my reflection on the side of the fondue pot to make sure there’s no paint on me, then head over to introduce myself, feeling a little underdressed in jeans and a t-shirt. That’s how Roger and I first meet. He says he’s from the early forties.

I tell him when I’m from. The connection’s instant and powerful. We talk like we’ve known each other for years. Later we sit next to each other, laughing as Harold Lloyd dangles over the city from the face of an enormous clock. After everyone else has left, we dance for the first time. On this occasion I only hum, “Moonlight Serenade.” I suppose it’s the look of him that makes me choose that song.

As we dance, he describes the view of New York as he sees it. I lean my head against his shoulder and try to picture what he tells me. The Oakmont was built over a time vortex. No one knows how long it has stood on this spot. There’s no record of its construction or design. The building’s architectural style is timeless, naturally.

Page 5:

Its façade appears neither new nor weathered. The residents of The Oakmont can’t even be certain the way they see the building is the same way others do. • • • • Late in July, Don invites Linda and me over to watch the Apollo 11 moon landing. Linda watched it back when she was nineteen. For Don it’s the first time. I’ve seen it on TV and YouTube many times over my life, but tonight we’re in Don’s apartment, where it’s actually July 20, 1969, so we’ll be watching it live on his TV.

I would love to have shared this moment with Roger, but The Oakmont rules are in place for our own good. I did slip a note under Harrison’s door inviting him to join us, but I never heard back. I show up late, as usual. Linda’s clearly been here a while. The scent of pot they smoked earlier still lingers in the air, and their first questions to me are about snacks. I dump out the bag I’ve brought on Don’s couch.

Everything I could find that didn’t exist in their respective times: key lime-flavored licorice, ruby chocolate, chips made from every root vegetable but potatoes. “Did you get my Coke Zero?” Don asks, rummaging through the pile of goodies. “Oh shoot! I forgot. There was this old lady in the aisle who started talking to me about the ridiculous price of grapes, and I guess I got distracted.” “Classic Sarah,” Linda says. “Born too late, it seems.

Can’t resist anyone old. Is that why all your friends are from the twentieth century?” They both laugh. “Technically, I’m from the twentieth, too,” I say. “Just made it at the tail end. Maybe that’s why my neighbor keeps avoiding me. Not twenty-first century enough for him.” “What neighbor?” asks Don.

Page 6:

“You know, Harrison from 2055.” They shrug and I find myself wondering if they simply haven’t met him, or if they just don’t perceive him. That happens at The Oakmont. It’s even more common when you’re talking about non-residents. Take Linda; she works at a roller rink teaching roller disco dancing to bored housewives. The rink is owned by her boyfriend, who I know she’s mentioned many times, but I can’t for the life of me recall his name. I don’t even know if we’ve met before.

All I know is in my time Roller Palace is long gone. It’s a Chinese buffet now that offers a killer dim sum service on Sundays. Every time I go, I’m tempted to pull up a corner of the carpeting to see if the rink floor’s still there. They kept the disco ball, after all. People who reside outside The Oakmont may visit, but their experience is limited. They see only what pertains to their time.

Should they encounter residents from other time periods, they’re left only with a vague impression there were people there, but they couldn’t begin to describe them. The perception—or lack thereof—is often mutual. “Anyway, I think it’s sweet you talk to little old ladies,” Don says. “You can never know if you’re the only person a lonely stranger might see that day. Kindness costs nothing.” “Wow, you are such a hippie, Don,” Linda tells him, before turning to me and adding, “Speaking of all things ancient, how’s Roger?” I’m about to respond when Don shushes us and points to the TV. We watch Neil Armstrong descend the ladder, describing the surface of the moon as he does.

I’m unexpectedly emotional, watching it happen live. He says those iconic words and tears roll down my face. Don and Linda see and burst into renewed laughter. Linda throws a beet chip at me. “Oh, shut up! You guys just don’t get it.” Then I start laughing too as I wipe the tears away.

Page 7:

“Okay, so about Roger?” They both perceive Roger, which is nice since we’ve been together for almost four months now. I tell them things are going great, and they are. He’s an old-fashioned guy, the kind that shows up to dates with flowers and slips handwritten love notes under my door. I love his little 1940s quirks that would be so out-of-place in my time, like the way his hair’s always Brylcreemed and flawlessly parted to one side, or how he takes his hat off when sharing the elevator with a lady, and how when his shoes get worn, he gets them repaired rather than buy new ones. I love that when I get emotional, he hands me a real cloth handkerchief from his pocket. “I got him to quit smoking,” I add.

“That’s it?” Linda says. “Where’s the juicy stuff?” “The juicy stuff stays between Roger and me.” “More like between the sheets,” she says with a wink to Don. But Don’s looking at me with the kind of serious expression that only comes from the best marijuana strains. “What’s wrong, Sarah?” he asks. “I can tell something’s on your mind.” I hesitate, not wanting to bring this subject up with him, of all people, but with both of them waiting I have no choice but to continue. “It’s the war.

It’s coming and I’m worried about what that’ll mean for Roger. I hate not being able to warn him.” Don gives a single, almost solemn, nod. He gets it, what with his own war to worry about. So far, he’s avoided it, but he knows it’s just a matter of time before they start drafting. I know he has his fears about having to go to Vietnam. Fears I have no way to assuage.

There are rules at The Oakmont. One is that residents may not research prior history in order to discover what became of a fellow resident who exists in a time prior to their own. “Maybe you should just tell him,” Don says. “Tell him about all of it. How Japan bombs Pearl, but also how we retaliate. Tell him about dropping Fat Man and Little Boy.

Page 8:

Tell him about the devastation that causes in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Tell him about the camps, but also tell him how no one ever really wins a war, so it’s pointless to keep fighting them.” His eyes dampen as he speaks, though he chants similar words in protest almost daily. I nod in agreement, but we both know I won’t say any of that to Roger. It wouldn’t matter if I did. War is seen through different eyes in 1941. In 1945 our country will celebrate Allied victory for two whole days.

The roar of celebration will go on for twenty minutes after the announcement’s made. A sailor will grab an unsuspecting nurse and plant a kiss on her in the middle of the street, and Alfred Eisenstaedt will capture it for LIFE magazine. It’s not the same kind of thing Don’s staring down the barrel of, and we both know it. Before the end of the year, we stop seeing Don. He leaves a note with Ms. Knox letting us know he’s gone to Canada ahead of the draft. The Oakmont’s not the same without him.

• • • • December 7 comes so fast it’s like a blink, but time moves differently at The Oakmont. I knock on Roger’s door that day, but there’s no answer. As I walk along the hallway back to the elevator, I’m filled with an irrational desire to knock on every door I pass. I want to see another human being—anyone at all—and tell them that in 1941 the country has entered World War II. I want to tell them I’m afraid for the love of my life. I want to see if any of them have phones that will reach his time so I can call and ask if he’s okay.

I pick a door at random and pound my fists against it, crying in frustration. But no one comes. There are many doors inside The Oakmont that won’t open and corridors down which a resident can’t turn. The Oakmont allows us to see who and what we need to, nothing more. The Oakmont guards its secrets. Several days pass before I see Roger again.

Page 9:

When I do, he seems distracted, his mind elsewhere. I note the stress in his eyes. He avoids talk of what happened, and I don’t press. Instead, he speaks of his sister, Betty, who plans to enter the workforce as a telephone operator. “I’m not sure this is the time,” he says. “Why does she need to work anyway?” “Working women will become increasingly common in the years to come,” I say, refraining from mention that as men go off to fight in World War II there’ll be a boom as millions of women take their places.

“I have a job myself, remember?” “Yes, but it’s different in your time, Sarah.” “Is it so different? Maybe this is just what your sister needs.” “But how does it work for families?” he asks. “Who raises the children and manages the home?” I smile. You have to accept this kind of thing when you’re a resident of The Oakmont. Times are different, and each one has its own set of values and attitudes that will inevitably become obsolete as the sands of time continue to fall. We must consider the source and share our varied points of view with the goal of finding common ground, especially with those we love.

“Families find ways to make it work,” I say. “Ideally, both parents share responsibilities. That is, in households with two parents. I can’t say how single parents manage, but they do. I imagine they found ways to do so even in your time.” He nods, and we sit in silence as the elephant in the room that is the Second World War looms large over everything. • • • • Roger does his best to keep the mood light when we celebrate Christmas.

He hangs mistletoe over his door and kisses me deeply when I arrive. On the radio, Bing Crosby sings, “Silent Night.” He’s even cut down a real tree and hung vintage ornaments from its branches. Well, vintage to me, anyway. Beneath the tree there’s a small package wrapped in plain paper with a simple red ribbon around it. I assume it’s for me, and I place the one I brought for him next to it. Mine looks so garish in its cartoon reindeer wrapping and iridescent silver bow.

Page 10:

Roger can’t help laughing when he sees it. I ask about his sister, and he tells me she got the job at the phone company. I tell him I’m glad and that I wish her well. “That reminds me; she baked cookies.” He grabs a tin from atop his fridge, opens it and offers me one. I take a bite and can’t help uttering a long “mmmm” as the flavor fills my mouth. “This is so much better than the packaged stuff I buy at the store.” “I can’t believe you don’t cook or bake a thing,” he laughs.

“That’s not true. I make a mean root beer ham. Mind you, it’s just a cooked ham I put in my slow cooker and pour a can of soda over.” He doesn’t bother to ask what a slow cooker is. I guess the name says it all. He’s aware of some of the magical appliances I have. Well, magical to me.

To him they seem wasteful—lazy even. “Why would any one household need more than one television?” he asked once. I didn’t really know how to respond to that. I think he’d have to admit my cell phone’s pretty cool though, with all the uses it has, but cell phones are strictly forbidden in apartments with numbers earlier than the mid-seventies. We have some eggnog by the window, and I describe the Christmas lights that decorate the city in my time. New York is alive and festive in December 2023.

In 1941, I gather, things are a bit more subdued. Afterwards, we open our gifts. Always the gentleman, he insists I go first. I pull the ribbon and paper off the box and smile when I see the handkerchief. “I thought you could use one of your own.” “It’s beautiful,” I say. And it is.

Page 11:

I’ve never owned anything like it. The fabric is cotton, I think, but the edges are hand-embroidered with violets, which he knows are the flower for my birth month. On one corner are my initials. I run my finger over them, turning the fabric over to marvel at the quality of the stitching. Machines are good, but not like this. They don’t make ’em like they used to, I think, not for the first time.

He opens my gift next, and I wait on the edge of my seat to see his face. Carefully setting the reindeer paper aside, he holds up the canvas and stares at it a moment before looking at me. I can’t help it; I burst into laughter. “Do you like it?” “It’s . . .

a still life?” “You could say that.” I look down at the painting I made for him. A painting of a single can of Campbell’s tomato soup. It’s an obvious rip-off, at least to those of us born after pop art became a thing. Roger shakes his head and laughs. Years from now—for him at least—an artist named Warhol will paint a much better rendition of this very can. The punchline to my joke will land then.

I wish I could be there to see his face when it does. “I love it,” he says. There’s so much about me he doesn’t understand, and yet he still feels this way. Residents of The Oakmont know there are things you must simply accept while living here, and questions you don’t ask, at least not with any expectation of their being answered. Roger places the painting on his mantle. It actually looks good there.

Page 12:

He stands admiring it for a while—or maybe asking himself, why a can of soup? I come up behind him to wrap him in an embrace and kiss him between the shoulder blades as he places a hand on mine. Then he exhales deeply, and I know immediately what’s coming. “I’ve decided to enlist,” he tells the painting. I bury my face into his back and hold back tears. “There’s no rush,” I say.

“The war goes on for years, and they won’t draft until next. You don’t have to decide now.” He turns, wrapping his arms around me and kissing the top of my head. “I know this isn’t what you want, but I’ve given it a lot of thought. They’re looking for able-bodied men. Our freedoms are at stake—and those of our allies. I can’t just sit this one out.” “But to volunteer?” He says nothing more.

There’s no need. I know the man he is, and that this is exactly the kind of thing he’d do. It’s why I’ve worried for months that this moment would come. I know better than to argue, so I simply nod. Later we fall into bed as we have countless times before, but somehow this feels different. Time seems to linger as we make love, as if stretching out our time together.

Just days later he goes to volunteer, and I walk him to the door. The main entrance to The Oakmont is a peculiar place. There’s a lobby with a revolving door that looks just like the many such doors you’ll find across the city. When you walk through this one, though, where you end up depends on who you are. Or should I say, when you end up. Even if Roger and I were to walk through together, holding hands, we’d still each step out alone into our own time.

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He kisses me once, sweetly, then puts his hat on and gives me a smile. I return one as best I can. When he turns to go, part of me wants to run after him, but I stay and watch as he spins through the entrance, then vanishes into thin air. I reach into my pocket, pull my new handkerchief out, and use it to wipe the tears. • • • • When Roger ships out, I can’t see him off. That happens long before I’m born.

To take my mind off things, Linda asks me over to her place. We talk about movies, and in my frazzled state I let slip a Star Wars reference, though it’ll still be another year before it comes out in her time. Luckily, she doesn’t notice. New Year’s Eve came and went without much fanfare. I’ve felt numb ever since Roger said he was going to war. It’s 2024 and 1942 where we are.

Time marches on whatever the decade and no matter how much we might want to slow things down. “Anyway, he’s thinking of selling Roller Palace,” Linda’s saying, and I realize I’ve missed her boyfriend’s name yet again. “Where the hell does that leave me?” “Does he have another plan?” “Wants to open something called a video rental store.” “It might be alright,” I tell her. “You know something I don’t?” Her eyes widen with expectation, but I give her nothing more. She shakes her head, disappointed. I hang out a while longer but call it an early night.

When I get back to my apartment there’s an envelope sticking out from under the door. It’s yellowed with age and has no stamp or postmark. The mailing address reads only: Sarah – The Oakmont. I recognize the handwriting immediately. Before I’m even through the door, I’ve torn it open, the scent of old paper contrasting with the anticipation of fresh news from the front. Roger tells me of the time since he left, mentioning some of the guys he’s befriended—two of them New Yorkers like us.

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Neither has heard of The Oakmont, and Roger can’t seem to recall its location for them. The letter goes on to say how much he misses me and how he thinks of me often. He wishes he could’ve brought a picture of me, but the modern look of all the ones I had would’ve invited curious looks in 1942. By the time I’m done reading I’m both laughing and crying. Pressing the letter to my chest, I try to feel him there with me, through time and space. I have no idea how this letter reached me, but Roger’s generation was nothing if not resourceful.

Dancing alone in my living room humming, “Moonlight Serenade,” I send him all my love and hope it somehow find its way to him, too. • • • • Letters continue to arrive, one each week. They’re always slipped under my door and yellowed from the passage of time. I suspect they’re delivered by Ms. Knox when she knows I’m not around. There’s so much Roger isn’t able to share with me, so he mostly reminisces about our time at The Oakmont. He wonders what picture Mr. Thomas will be showing when he starts our movie nights back up.

I want to tell him it’s Buster Keaton in Seven Chances, but I have no way to write him. In any case, I might not go. It’s not the same without Roger sitting next to me. Then a week goes by with no letter. Nor is there one the following week. A month passes with the worst scenarios running through my mind until I can’t take it.

I break the rules—not a little this time, but fully. I open up my laptop and Google his name, and any other information I have on his military service. Nothing comes up. There are results, of course, but they’re of other Rogers and other wars. There’s nothing to tell me what happened to my Roger. I look up every Army database I can and search for someone to contact for answers.

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I call in sick to work and spend the next two days calling everyone I can. The responses are always the same. There’s no record of Roger. Things get misfiled. There was a flood in the fifties, or a fire in the eighties. The explanations are irrelevant.

They all mean the same thing: that I have no idea what’s happened to Roger. I can think of only one person that might have the answers I so desperately need. Ms. Knox has been the building manager of The Oakmont for time immemorial. If you ask the residents what she’s like, you’ll find the descriptions vary enormously. Some will say she’s a young, attractive brunette with a fondness for hats; others will swear she’s ancient, bone thin, and always smells of cinnamon. Still others will tell you Knox is, in fact, an unusually tall man with an Australian accent.

All are correct. I knock perhaps a little too hard on Ms. Knox’s door, but she seems not to have noticed when she opens it and offers me a gracious smile. I’m invited in and offered tea, which I accept more out of distraction that any real desire. I blurt out my confession as she holds a sugar cube in a set of tiny tongs over my cup. “I’ve been searching the historical records for Roger in apartment 1942.” The cube drops with a plop into my tea. “Milk?” she offers.

I blink, waiting for . . . something else. Some admonishment maybe. Or perhaps a threat of eviction.

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She sits across from me then and exhales before speaking. “The rules are in place for your own good. Has breaking this one brought you any measure of peace? Has it returned Roger to you?” I shake my head. “You want me to do that, then.” She sips from her cup. “You want me to tell you whether or not Roger survives the war.” I nod.

“There are questions you just don’t ask at The Oakmont,” she reminds me. “You don’t ask them because they can’t be answered. Only time can give you the answers you seek.” “Time,” I repeat. “Time is a thing you dangle from precariously as the city moves on below you.” “Mr. Thomas and his moving pictures,” she says with a laugh. “Do you want to know what time really is?” I watch her, saying nothing so she’ll continue.

“Time is nothing . . . and everything. It doesn’t actually exist, because we made it up, but if it did exist, it wouldn’t run in a line; it would run in a circle.” Ms. Knox reaches into her blouse and pulls out a ring on a chain. She spins it one way, then the other.

“Time moves differently at The Oakmont. We can touch it at any point in time or at all points at once.” She demonstrates by tapping the ring at various points before placing it onto one of her fingers. “Time can pass you by and leave you virtually untouched, or it can fall on you like a cascade.” “But what does any of this have to do with Roger?” “There’s no fighting it,” she says. “It’s like swimming against the current. Better to give in, relax, and let the waves carry you to shore.” She tucks the ring back into her blouse and takes another loud sip from her cup. I stare down into mine, searching for answers but knowing there are none to be found here.

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Without another word, I stand and head back out to the hall. She makes no move to stop me. I’m so numb I don’t even consciously move through the building and only notice I’ve reached my door when it fails to open for me. I try the key again and again and finally burst into tears. Ms. Knox has locked me out somehow—punishment for breaking the rules. “You alright?” I don’t recognize the voice, so I look up and see my neighbor, Harrison, standing by his open door.

I think it’s maybe the second thing he’s ever said to me in all the time he’s lived here. “No, I’m not alright. My key won’t work.” He comes over and takes a look, then removes and reinserts the key before turning it. The door unlocks and he pushes it open. “You had your key in upside down.” I feel like an idiot. No wonder this guy has wanted nothing to do with me.

I continue to cry even while thanking him, and as I start to walk past him to enter my apartment, he stops me and gives me a hug. It’s uncharacteristic, especially in a city like New York, but I give into it—the way Ms. Knox said I should surrender to time. Through sobs I tell this stranger everything, from the moment Roger and I first met and fell in love, to the letters that arrived at my door so mysteriously, then stopped coming at all. He listens to all of it in silence with a patience I envy. Then he does the unthinkable and invites me to join him in his apartment. “I .

. . couldn’t,” I say. “There are rules at The Oakmont.” “I’m aware. Nevertheless, there’s something you should see.” I don’t trust easily, but something about Harrison feels safe. I follow him to his door, rules be damned, and step behind him into 2056.

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The apartment doesn’t look too different from my own. You expect there to be major changes from one era to another, but ultimately a chair’s still a chair and a lamp’s still a lamp. Apartments look pretty much the same, and New York rent’s probably way too steep in every time. Leaving me standing by the door, he heads into his bedroom, returning a moment later with a shoebox. He removes the lid as he approaches, and I don’t understand what I’m looking at. Inside there’s .

. . nothing. “I’m confused.” “My mother used to live at The Oakmont, though I didn’t always know that. I never met my father, but when I moved out, she gave me this box and told me it contained something that was his. She said he’d left it for me, with instructions that she give it to me when I got my own place.” I take the empty box and wait for him to continue.

“When I opened the box, I found a bunch of letters. All of them looked old, but the one on top was the only one with my name on it, so I opened it. The letter was from my parents, written when Mom was pregnant. That’s how I learned she’d lived here too. They both had. Everything I’d known about them up until that point was, if not a lie, then certainly incomplete.

My mother would’ve told me the truth, had she been able to, but . . . ” “She didn’t remember,” I finished. Residence at The Oakmont is a temporary affair. Those who live here only do so when the time is right, and when that time passes, they are evicted.

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Those who are evicted will find their memories of The Oakmont—and those they knew there—are fleeting, and just out of reach; like a word on the tip of your tongue you can never quite recall. At times, they may sense its existence. They may even search for it, never quite knowing what they’re searching for, but you can only find The Oakmont when it wants to be found. Harrison nods. “By then I’d read the contract you sign when you move in, and I understood. In any case, the letter explained everything.

How they’d met, their time together, how he’d gone off to war, all the way through to her eviction. The other letters were ones my father had written my mother during the war. In the letter to me, he said he’d resealed them in new envelopes and gave me specific instructions as to what I should do with them, and when.” I’m at a loss for words as he tells me this. I see it now, as I let my gaze fall over him. The flecks of green in his eyes, so like Roger’s. The same unruly waves that drive me crazy in my own hair.

This was why he’d avoided me. He’d known that if I looked at him—if I really looked—I’d see and I would know. “It was you,” I say. “I thought it was Ms. Knox who kept slipping the letters under my door.” My gaze then falls on the artwork that hangs above his mantle. It’s the one I painted a year ago—or maybe decades ago: “The gang at the Oakmont.” “What I don’t understand,” he says, “is why you were evicted. I know it’s just something that happens here, sooner or later, but I thought there’d be an explanation for why it happened when it did.” I smile, then burst into tears again.

He looks concerned for a moment, but I start laughing. Relief washes over me and I clasp my hands and raise them to my face a moment before I regain some composure. “I became pregnant,” I say. “That’s why.” The Oakmont is an adult-only living environment. You won’t find children or families among its residents. There are couples on occasion, but for the most part residents live alone.

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Children are lovely, to be sure, but their futures are too uncertain and their pasts too meager. They’re as yet too resistant to the push and pull of time. Children also have great difficulty following rules, and there are of course, many rules at The Oakmont. “This is great. This is unbelievable!” I tell him and wrap him in the tightest hug I can muster. He looks confused, so I explain.

“Don’t you see? I’m not pregnant now. That means I must get pregnant later, or you wouldn’t be here. Which means Roger survives the war!” He smiles an uncertain, lopsided smile as I jump up and down still hugging him. After a while he gives in to my joy and we both laugh and cry, and for the first time ever, Harrison accepts my invitation to join me for dinner. There are so many questions I want to ask that I know he can’t answer, so instead I let him ask questions of his own.

We talk long into the night, and when we’re done, I describe to him my view out the window, and he tells me what it looks like in 2056. • • • • Roger returns a little over a month later, walking with a cane. I’m just glad he’s alive and back in my arms. We’re shy around each other at first, until we’re not, and then we’re back in his bed, just like old times. The war continues where he is, but he’s done his part. I break the rules and tell him how it ends so he’s not surprised when the day finally comes.

In early September 1945—or 2027, depending on your point of view—we celebrate the occasion in our own way and conceive our son. I discover I’m pregnant as soon as I return to my apartment, where I find an eviction notice slipped under my door. When I tell Roger both the good news and bad, we cry tears of joy and sadness, and afterward he plays, “Moonlight Serenade,” and we dance one more time. “I’m going to miss this,” I say. “In my time no one who isn’t a professional really knows how to dance anymore. At least with you leading I stood a chance at a few decent steps.” “I’ll miss this too, and I’ll miss seeing New York through your eyes.” “Maybe we could meet in the future, where our lives overlap,” I say.