“Maggie?” Irene questioned, worry tinging her voice. She reached out and rested her hand on Maggie’s brow. “Are you sick? You feel a little warm.”
“Yes. I think I must be.” Maggie’s voice wobbled, and she pulled a pillow over her face, hiding her despair from Irene. How many times would she have to lose him? The hole was widening and her sorrow was sucking her under. She needed Irene to leave her alone for a while. Maggie didn’t want her to see the messy display that was threatening to boil over.
“He’s downstairs. He’s seems very agitated, but I’ll just tell him you’re not feeling well, all right?” Irene turned to leave.
“Wait! Who’s agitated? Who’s downstairs?” Maggie had missed an essential part of the conversation, it seemed.
“Why, Johnny, dear. I told him you weren’t here, that you were at school. But he said you weren’t at school, that he had already been there this morning looking for you!” Irene’s voice dropped to a girlish whisper. “I told him I would come see if you were here after all.”
Maggie shot upright, flinging the pillow to the side. “I want to see him. Stall him, please?”
“Are you sure you feel well enough, dear? He scares me a little. He’s so intense! It’s like he looks right through me and doesn’t like what he sees.” Irene’s voice had faded a little at the end, and Maggie looked back at her aunt, remembering the girl in her peach prom dress, standing in the parking lot in front of The Malt with her whole life in front of her. A pang of loss surged through Maggie, and she turned and wrapped her aunt in her arms.
“Aunt Irene? I don’t want Johnny to leave. Will you please just tell him to wait. I want to see him, Aunt Irene. I need to see him. Okay?” Maggie released her aunt and stepped back, slipping the white coat from her shoulders. Surprisingly, Irene made no comment about the jacket, she seemed too stunned by the red dress.
“Irene?” Maggie waved a hand in front of her aunt’s face, jolting her from her reverie.
“Oh! Okay then. I’ll go....Maggie, you’ve got....something....is that sand? Do you have sand in your hair, Maggie!” Irene’s face wrinkled in confusion.
“Of course I don’t, Irene!” Maggie lied, and then she laughed, and then she wanted to dissolve into messy, futile tears, remembering how the sand got there. Irene shrugged, turned, and left the room. Maggie brought the jacket to her face and inhaled deeply. Johnny’s face rose up before her, wrapped in his scent. Her knees buckled, and she thought she might not be able to face the boy who waited downstairs. But her need to see him was greater than her dread that nothing had changed.
She ran up the stairs to her own room and laid the precious white jacket on her bed, shimmying out of the red dress and pulling a brush through her curls as she raced around the room. Oh yeah, that was definitely sand. She yanked on a pair of jeans and her favorite pink shirt, ran back to the bathroom and brushed her teeth twice. Did her hair smell like the reservoir? She sniffed, trying to detect anything fishy. Nothing. Good. She didn’t have time to shower. Her hair still bore some curl from the prom, but her face needed make up. Time travel had left her haggard. Maggie stared at her reflection and tried to get her bearings. She dabbed on a little of this and a little of that and tried to bring her face back to the present. She tried to keep her mind from dwelling on Johnny, just two floors below. She would see him soon enough.
***
He paced from one side of the room to the other, and when she came into the room he stopped, his jean clad legs spread in a belligerent stance, his arms clenched at his sides. He clasped Roger’s scrapbook in his right hand. But the expression on his face wasn’t belligerent; it was undecipherable. He walked toward Maggie and stopped a few feet in front of her. He took the book from under his arm and opened it, skipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for.
“Can you explain this to me?” His voice was so low Maggie couldn’t tell whether he was angry or not. His face was carefully blank, and Maggie reached out to take the book from his hands.
She looked down at the page he had opened to, looking into the laughing visages of Irene and her friends. She had seen that picture before. There was the picture of Johnny and Peggy. A strange lump formed in her throat as her eyes lingered on Johnny’s smiling face. Just last night, just hours before, she has kissed that mouth and danced in those arms, and here he was again with the great stone face.
And then her eyes fell on a picture that she hadn’t seen before. It was a shot of the dance floor. Couples danced in close proximity, and the effect was slightly blurred as if the cameraman had caught everyone in differing degrees of motion, everyone but the couple in the center of the shot. Maggie gasped as she recognized what she was seeing.
It was a picture of Johnny and her. They stood motionless, their hands clasped between them. Johnny was staring down at her, and her chin was lifted toward him, her eyes locked on his. Maggie couldn’t pull her eyes away from the picture, and for several hushed seconds the sounds around the room magnified tenfold: the ticking of the clock on the mantle, the chirping of birds outside, the far off sound of a passing car. And her own heart, pounding in her chest.
“I remember you, Maggie,” Johnny whispered, close to her ear, his breath tickling the hair that hung near her cheek. She raised her eyes to his and the blank, harsh expression was no longer there.
“I still don’t remember anything after the night of the rumble, but I remember you. I remember this!” He pointed at the picture of the two of them, captured forever in the image on the page. “I don’t know what to think, or how to feel...but I remember you.”