Page 8 of Maybe Some Other Time
Something hadhappened.Something hadchanged.
She wasn’t in Kansas anymore… and her little boy might be dead.
“Robbie…”
Yet despite her anxieties, she fell back on the possibility that this might all make sense. She might even see Robbie soon.
She hoped she recognized him. She hoped he recognized her.
Chapter three
James:1
She sat in an interview room with no windows. For over an hour, they took her fingerprints, plucked her hair, and swabbed her mouth with cotton for some confounding reason. Male agents inappropriately treated her like they were her doctor, while female agents grilled her for personal information. Where was she born? Who were her parents? Did she have dental work done? None of them was perturbed by any of her answers.Pasadena, California. Beverly and Thomas Ericson. Only a few fillings.They made her recite her birth year again.1930.What was her address?4545 Hemlock Street.Who was her husband?William Van der Graaf.When were they married?1949.What was her occupation?Housewife, of course.
They then asked more invasive questions about Bill. What was his military background?Army. World War II, Europe.Did he have any other wives to her knowledge?Of course not!What washisoccupation?City planner.What was his salary?About ten thousand a year.What bank did they use?Security First.
She didn’t understand any of this. How could she, when she slowly realized that something miraculous had happened? It wasn’t just the presence of—quite frankly, somewhat slovenly—female agents who spoke gruffly with their male coworkers at the FBI office. It wasn’t the swearing in her presence, which only shocked her the first time she heard ashit!come out of Agent Wilcox’s mouth. Nor was it the strange, plastic furniture in the interview room. She just simply felt out of place in her gloves, handkerchief, and travel coat. She sat up straight while the agents slouched in their seats. Her makeup was bright and colorful compared to the female agents who wore browner, pinker colors, if any at all. Even the curly-haired ones didn’t look anything like Thelma’s hair, which required foam rollers and preparation.
Mostly, it was the devices. They spoke into tiny walkie-talkies with no antennas. They carried clipboards with screens. Entering a locked door didn’t require a key, but a number and a fingerprint, like straight out of a spy movie. On the way to the interview room, they bypassed a row of photographs of servicemen and agents in their formal dress, and Thelma couldn’t pry her eyes off the crisp, colorful photos. Or, if she were honest with herself, the number of Black men and women represented among their ranks.
Deep down, she suspected what had happened… but she couldn’t realistically believe it.
When the adrenaline started lowering in her body, she was overcome with fatigue. But Thelma stayed awake in her chair despite the clock high up on the wall saying it was almost ten at night.Robbie… I hope he’s okay.When Agent Wilcox and the other young man—Agent Thornwood—arrived with manila folders, she said the first thing on her mind.
“Has anyone contacted my family? My husband?” She eagerly looked between both agents’ faces as they sat across from her.Despite her gloves being on her hands, the way Thelma clutched her purse made her tendons tense. “They think I just stepped out to the market. I told them I’d be back within twenty minutes, but it’s been three hours.” When neither man offered her information, she slumped in her seat, shoulders sagging as she gave up all propriety. “Please,” she begged. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Agent Thornwood opened one of the folders while Agent Wilcox, with his aged face and somewhat gruff demeanor, attempted to speak to her softly. “Mrs. Van der Graaf, do you have any idea what’s happened to you?”
She covered her mouth with a gloved hand that smelled like the leather material of her steering wheel. “I just told you that I don’t,” she said between deep breaths.
“Remind me again what year it is.”
This was the tenth time someone asked her what year it was! “1958,” she repeated just as many times. “I was born in 1930. I was married in 1949. My son Robert was born in 1950… my daughter Deborah in 1953…” Did she have to go on? “I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m a housewife. My husband is William Van der Graaf. My maiden name is Erickson.”
She held back a sob. Agent Wilcox slid a magazine to her from across the small table.
It was aReader’s Digest. The date on it was 2018.
“What…” She picked it up, immediately seeing the headline,“3-D Printed Human Organs,”and swearing she knew every individual word but not what the heck they meant together. “What am I looking at?”
“Mrs. Van der Graaf,” Agent Wilcox said, arms crossed on his chest, “we are a unit that specializes in time-traveling phenomenon. Specifically, we track and get ahead of what are called ‘interdimensional storms,’ which is that fog you were driving through earlier.” As she gaped at him, he continued,“You entered the fog in 1958. You drove out the other side and into 2018. To us, where we anticipated the arrival of a time traveler and set up to receive you.”
“You… this is…” She choked. “A joke.”
“Unfortunately, it is not, Mrs. Van der Graaf. You are not the first. You probably aren’t the last. The thing about the storm, besides the fact that we still can’t scientifically explain it, is that we can anticipate its arrival but not who will come through. Let alone from when. We have indigenous time travelers from several hundred years ago. Catholic missionaries who speak Spanish. And plenty of people like you. Old-fashioned Americans who come from many different decades. Our unit exists to not only apprehend—hm, I meanreceive—people like you, but to help you figure out your next few steps forward.”
“You’re saying Itraveled through time?” She kept staring at the clock, as if it held any damn answers! “I’m sorry, this is…”
“If you need a few minutes, we understand. Take your time.”
“How do I go back!”
The silence following her outburst was more damning than what she anticipated.I already know…
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Van der Graaf, we don’t know how to send people back. The storm only works one way. To you, you’ve only aged three hours. But to the world, sixty years have passed.”
Agent Thornwood cleared his throat. “We asked you a lot of questions to ascertain your identity, Mrs. Van der Graaf. Since you came from 1958, odds were high there was a missing persons out for you.” He slipped her a piece of paper. Thelma gasped to see a photo of her on one side, and what a computer had decided she looked like fifty years later.So old!Both of her gloved hands covered the lower half of her face as she saw the date she went missing, who to call, and where she was last seen.“Driving a 1958 Chevy Impala on Hemlock Street...”
