Not This Time
29
Easier Said Than Done
OF COURSE, real life intruded on my firm resolve. Janna had asked me to put together a list of my ‘predictions,’ both those that had already come true and those that were scheduled in the coming years. It was something that I worked on regularly and that she read, pointing out where I’d already changed the course of events. So many of the things I remembered were what happened with Willa and, while there were some similarities, Emily was a different child.
That’s weird. I’m a mother. In both timelines. There was nothing in my former life more important to me than my daughter, so that was what I remembered most. I’d kept a journal of Willa’s development, just like I kept one of Emily’s. Half my predictions were things like when Emily would learn to ride a bike, what she would think of Harry Potter, when she would decide she wanted to play hockey and how long it would take for her to decide she didn’t want to play hockey anymore. I knew when her first date was and who took her to the prom.
But, of course, Emily wasn’t Willa. She didn’t go to school with the same people she’d known in Fargo. On the other hand, Scholastic wouldn’t even release the first HP book until next year, so that was something that Janna underlined in my list along with the Prius. It seemed there was a big difference between ‘world’ events and ‘personal’ events. Even if my new life and new decisions affected world events, the likelihood was that it wouldn’t happen for a long time. Even with the butterfly effect, the cause is so remote from the effect that it was nearly impossible to trace. Maybe one of Jesse’s children would become President of the United States because I didn’t saddle him with an unloving wife and only child. But that wouldn’t be known until after the time of my previous span on earth.
Then there were the intermediate effects. I had changed the course of development in Minneapolis by moving the condo conversions up by nearly twenty years. And now I was actively working to change the environment of the Washburn Neighborhood. Those things could have faster moving effects because they affected more people than my running away to become a single parent.
Or having a second child.
I was six months pregnant. I had already made it explicitly clear to Lily and Bruce that I would not name my next daughter Selina Kyle. And after I looked them up, I put the kibosh on Holly and Eiko, as well. I wanted a nice normal name like Emily’s. Maybe Charlotte. I’d see how long it took them to figure that one out.
It was Friday, the night before Valentine’s Day, and I’d stopped by Les’s office on my way home from work. I’d finally broken down and bought an SUV big enough to cart three adults and three children. It was used, but I was assured it was in good condition. The ground was still frozen, but we’d started the excavations to set posts for the new needle drop-offs. We wanted them ready when the rest of the snow finally melted and the druggies returned to the park. I also wanted to check the progress on the building next door to Les’s office. It was an old, 1880s era brick mansion, complete with a porte cochere. Inside, I was using one of Jim’s many planners to manage the renovation of the old house. It was about to become a shelter. In order to shield myself from liability, I was the owner but the Community Services Foundation leased it from me. With money I donated to them. This project had put quite a dent in my liquid capital, but I didn’t want the property mortgaged as we approached the turn of the millennium.
I had to wonder if I had done anything that would affect the two dramatic market turns I expected. The first would be at the turn of the century. The second would come in about 2008 as the banks started to collapse from over-valuing the real estate market. When I started selling real estate in 2003 we were celebrating because home mortgage rates were in the 4.5-5.5 % range. Then they climbed until the collapse in 2009. I needed to be ready to buy when property values dropped and banks started owning vast amounts of real estate they couldn’t get rid of.
I was thinking about all this and calculating the value I could get out of the renovated property as I walked to my car. I got into the Ford Bronco and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. I could see the problem. I’d left my lights on. I beat on the steering wheel and swore to make a sailor proud. At least Lily was home already to pick up Emily from her after school program. I was going to have to wait for hours before Triple-A would get there. The temperature had fallen to ten degrees while I was inside and people would be calling from all over the city to get their cars started.
There was a honk next to me and I looked out to see a white Lincoln. I rolled down my window.
“I left a message at the clinic that your lights were on, but apparently it didn’t get to you,” Ernie said. I’d seen his car many times, but we’d never actually met. “I don’t have cables, but I can give you a lift home and your husband can come back with you to jump it. Or your wife.”
Shit! This scumbag knew way too much about my life if he knew I had a husband and a wife. Well, he did live in my neighborhood, though two blocks north, right on the lake. I was going to freeze out here waiting for a tow truck. But did I dare accept a lift from a known pimp?
“I don’t think I’m safe going with you, Ernie,” I said frankly. “I’ll just call AAA from the clinic. As soon as I walk in, they’ll probably tell me my lights are on. Thank you.”
“I’m not a threat to you, miss. You are doing good things for our neighborhood. I give you my word.”
What should I do? I’d wanted to meet the mysterious pimp for a long time. I had planned to give him a piece of my mind. What better opportunity would I ever have? I made sure all the lights were off and stepped out of the Bronco. I locked the door and went around to the passenger side of the Lincoln. A pretty young woman held the door for me.
“Please sit in front, ma’am,” she said. “I’m used to the back seat.”
“Becci, you know I’ll make it up to you tonight, honey,” Ernie said.
“I know. It’s no problem, Ernie,” the coed said as she slipped into the backseat.
I turned to introduce myself.
“I know who you are,” Ernie said. “Just like you know who I am. Still, it’s nice to meet you. Out here in our world, we just call you Angel.”
“That would be pretentious of me.”
“I’m an angel, too,” he laughed. “But you are the Angel of Mercy. I’m somewhat darker.”
“I would hardly call your work angelic,” I scoffed.
“I’m also called the Angel of Death,” he said calmly. A chill ran down my spine. “You know, there is something interesting about that. Popular iconography paints every angel with just one characteristic. Mercy. Death. Light. Michael with his sword. Gabriel with his trumpet. We’re like old Greek gods and goddesses. But mythology only ever paints one side of things. What does Gabriel do while he’s waiting to blow that horn? You see, an Angel of Mercy is also an Angel of Judgment. She’s not compelled to be merciful. You reach out to the homeless, the addicted, the abused. You give them the mercy of shelter, treatment, protection. But you judge me. You would not forgive me and give me shelter.”
“From what I understand, you are well-sheltered without my assistance.”
“But what about the torment of my soul?” he said. The question hung in the air. He laughed. “I’m the same way. You see, I am the Angel of Death because I can ignore suffering and people die. But I am not compelled to grant death to everyone. Becci, back there behind you, was trying to kill herself when I found her. I took death away from her.”
“At what price?”
“Her life, of course.”
“Not sure she got a good deal.”
“Becci? Are you happy, honey?” he asked over the seat. We turned on 45th. I hadn’t given him directions, so it was obvious that he knew where I lived.
“I’m still learning about happiness, Ernie. I’m happy when you are pleased, but I’m not always happy when I’m with a client. Sometimes I wish I’d been able to just save myself for a husband,” she said. “I know that’s a silly thing.”
“Would you rather be dead?” he asked.
“No, Ernie. You showed me life is better, even if I’m not always happy with it. Are you?”
I was shocked. Was she really challenging her pimp? From what I knew of the profession, he’d punish her for that. I rushed into the gap.
“Don’t be harsh with her, Ernie,” I said. “You asked a question and she gave you an honest answer.”
“Angel thinks I’m going to punish you for telling me you aren’t always happy, Becci. Do you think I’ll punish you?”
“No, Ernie. Not unless we both agree I should be punished. I trust you.”
“You see, Angel?” he said to me. “I didn’t save her life to make it miserable. You and I… We’re on the same side in the fight. We’re angels. I don’t expect we’ll agree on this, but we’ll find ways to work together. Here you go.” He pulled up in front of my house. I took a deep breath.
“Thank you for the lift.”
“When’s your baby due?” he asked. “It’s nice to see the kids in the neighborhood. It gives me hope.”
“Hope for what, Ernie?” I asked.
“Hope that we’ll make life better for some people. Maybe not the whole world, but our little corner of it,” he said. I lifted the door handle to leave. He put his hand on my arm, not really preventing me from leaving, but asking me to stay a moment. I looked into his eyes. “Angel, those new needle disposal stations are going to help. That new shelter is going to help. Your donations to the clinic are going to help. I hope someday you’ll understand that I’m helping, too. Have a happy Valentine’s Day.”
My door opened and Becci was holding it for me. She offered me her hand as I pushed myself out of the deep, comfortable seat.
“Good night, Miss Angel,” she said. “See you around.”
Charlotte Anne was born on May fifth, just a couple weeks before my twenty-sixth birthday. There were no complications and she had both her mothers and her father in the room to welcome her to the world. Later that evening, her sister, Emily, and brother, Robin, got their first chance to touch their baby sister.
To me, the birth of my daughter felt like I had finally broken the hold my former existence held over me.
On June 6, 1999, I officially retired, seven years after selling my first condo conversion for Loring Properties.
Now what?
Well, I’d calmed everyone’s fears about the Y2K catastrophe on our computers. We had the fixes installed and took reasonable precautions to back up everything. So, both the business and the home would be fine. We did all go around singing our local hero’s pop song “Party like it’s 1999.” Brilliant guy. He released that song in 1982.
I’d decided that for a while, I was going to focus on being a mother. I’d carefully moved some investments in high tech companies that had grown rapidly, to more stable investments. I knew they were going to crash in the next year. My broker hated me for moving my investment in Microsoft to Apple. But I knew Microsoft was as high as it was going to get and Apple was as low. I went to my list of predictions that I updated as I remembered things and wrote ‘iPhone, sometime around 2006 or 2007.’ I found that when I remembered inventions and new products, those were things that were easily tracked by Janna.
I continued to meet with Janna every other week. I found it refreshing to be able to talk about what I was experiencing with someone who gave it credibility and helped me not become obsessed with it.
By the time I turned twenty-seven, I had settled comfortably into the role of full-time mommy. Oh, I was still working with the clinic and the shelter. I had managed a private donation to provide needle exchanges and condoms. I intentionally ignored the source of the donation, but I had to admit that Ernie was helping make the neighborhood a better place. It seemed that everyone knew the exact timing of when a police car came through the neighborhood. Odd how there was never a crime being committed at any of those times. There was never a prostitute on the street. There was never a drug deal going down.
I took Emily to play with a friend and Charlotte with me to my appointment with Janna. She loved seeing the baby and one-year-old Charlotte was cruising around her office trying to reach anything her chubby little fingers could grasp.
“So, tell me what is in store for the world in the new millennium,” Janna said. “Is there anything you are looking forward to?”
I looked at her and images of planes crashing into the Twin Towers filled my memories. It wasn’t that the event had particularly affected me personally in my former life. We lived in Fargo, North Dakota. What did New York have to do with us? The thing was that those most isolated and distant from the event had seemed to be the ones who responded most violently to it. The people I knew viewed the attack like a sporting event and suddenly America was the home team and we were going to take out all the opponents. I suddenly remembered that my friend Marcie—whose mother had been sucking my father’s cock when they were killed—had married a high school classmate who went into the Army. They were stationed someplace in New York when his unit was sent to Afghanistan. He didn’t return. Was that where she was now? Was this the last year before she became a widow?
I grabbed a tissue as I realized tears were running down my cheeks. I’d avoided mentioning anything about the attacks so far. But her direct question had suddenly made them very real again. I pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote my predictions. I didn’t dare put too much detail in them. I dated the top of the page, 27 July 2000.
George Bush elected president.
Voter fraud or election tampering claimed. Supreme Court rules in Bush’s favor.
11 September 2001, America attacked. Landmarks destroyed in NYC. About 3,000 people die.
April 2002, War in Afghanistan begins. Then in Iraq.
2002, Paul Wellstone, only U.S. Senator to vote against war in Iraq. Killed in plane crash.
November 2008, Barack Obama elected first black president of the U.S.
I folded the paper and put it in an envelope. She watched me seal it and write on the front: “Not to be opened until after 9/11/2001.” Janna looked at me and unlocked her file cabinet. She dropped the envelope into my folder and relocked the cabinet.
“That bad?” she whispered. I nodded.
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