foggy, still not quite awake. I feel the encroaching thoughts of reality coming, and I ache to keep them at bay. I do not want to deal with them just yet. I do not want to think of the coffee shop, of Luke, of Emme and Bea and Joe, of Harry and Matthias, of Rose. I do not want to think of anything at all. I do not want to think. Though I am determined to stick my head in the sand, or the slush as it were, I am incapable and tiny images of the past wander through my head the way your whole life flashes before you when you die. In a way, I feel as though I am dead. I am certainly dead to Micki, to my customers, to Jim and everyone at the soup kitchen, to Luke. Although I have known him the least amount of time, my chest aches with a particular dullness when I think of Luke Dawes. The way he would show up uninvited at my house, our silly little date, the way he humored me by taking me to that old house to look for my invisible sister. The way he doctored up his black coffee until it was unrecognizable and then scowled at me over it. His big feet stretched out in front of him, lined up with mine as we sat together. If he truly believed my story, he will know I am not dead, but traveling. Will he miss me? I wonder.
Dad takes my arm and begins to steer me towards the street. Though the wind does not blow, the air is still and cold and I wrap my arms around myself, Dad’s hand in the crook of my elbow. I am wearing what I put on to go to sleep in last night – last night which was at least a hundred years in the future, judging by the fashions on the corseted lady – and I must look a sight in my second best nightgown. Of course my feet are bare, as are Dad’s, and they feel nearly frozen trudging through the slush as we cross the street. I feel strangely uncurious about our surroundings, about our new home here. I don’t care that it may be exciting to live in England so long ago, I don’t care that we could have landed somewhere much worse, I want instead, to pout and be sullen over the loss of my old life. The loss of Elvis Presley and Gladys and the Blue Beast and cheese in a can. Who wants to live in a century without frothed milk and art shows and Stevi Nicks? Not me. I refuse to look around me and admire the architecture or the local. Not yet anyway. It feels disloyal somehow.
We are headed in the vicinity of what I know now to be Prue. She is standing at the other end of the street, not alone, and as we approach I can tell she is arguing vehemently with the person. Home sweet home is my Prue, I think.
“It was bloody well your fault, boy, and you know it!” Prue berates a boy, maybe twelve or so, who looks quite terrified. He is hopping from one foot to the other, as though he is warming up his legs in order to take off at a moment’s notice. Either that, or his feet are as cold as mine, though I doubt it in his boots. I eye them longingly. It is usually Israel that begs, borrows, or steals clothes for us all in times like these and I mentally beseech him to hurry before frostbite kicks in.
“I didn’t, mum, not exactly!” he wheedles. “I didn’t mean to knock into you like that, I didn’t! It’s just now I’ve lost them veg and if I don’t bring something back to show for my trouble, my employer is going to have my hide! It was your fault as well as mine, mum. You gotta help me by paying for your share!”
Although I don’t know what this boy is blathering on about, I have to give him respect for taking on the likes of Prue. He’s either remarkably brave or extraordinarily stupid.
“That’s a laugh, boy, you came runnin into me! Me, an old lady! Now you want to exploit me for the damages!” Prue snorts and humphs and makes a general show of her displeasure. I haven’t figured out her game, but she’s playing at something, I’d bet