Linked Through Time Read online

  LINKED THROUGH TIME

  Jessica Tornese

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing–www.solsticepublishing.com

  Jessica Tornese 2012

  Dedication

  For Nick–who pushed me to pursue what I thought was only a dream.

  Chapter One

  Hello Summer, Good-bye Civilization

  My heart plummeted into the depths of my stomach when I spied the shabby farmhouse at the end of the gravel drive. Dad pulled the car to a stop at the iron cattle gates blocking the entrance and hopped out to undo the chain locks. Perfect, it really is like a prison, locks and all.

  I flipped open my cell phone for the hundredth time. No bars. Hell on earth. I had been in denial the entire four days it had taken to get to this God forsaken place, but now, completely shut out from civilization, I realized my utterly long and painful summer was about to start. No cable, no cell phone, no computer, no friends. There was nothing like that here. Not even close.

  I stared in distaste at the cows milling about at the end of the driveway. Flies swarmed their massive bodies, and their tails swished and swatted in rhythm. I tried to swallow the nausea creeping up my throat. Turning up the volume on my iPod, I tried to block out the feeling of impending doom; it was well past the point of breaking into a screaming kicking fit of protest.

  Hopping up and down eagerly on the seat next to me, my brother, Corey clapped his hands. Unlike me, this summer ranked high on his list of best summers ever. Riding tractors, hunting, peeing outside….it was what every seven year old boy dreamed about.

  Gravel crunched beneath the tires as we drove slowly through the gate. Rolling down the window, my dad breathed in the air with exaggerated satisfaction. The warm, heavy scent of manure smacked me in the face as the breeze reached the back seat. Gagging, I plugged my nose and waved a hand in front of my face. God, I was going to have to walk around with a gas mask all summer, just so I could breathe.

  “Welcome to God’s Country, kids! Smell that?” Dad shouted, exuberant.

  “God’s Country smells like poop,” Corey said bluntly. It didn’t seem to bother him much. Personal hygiene and pleasant smells far from topped his list of important things.

  Dad laughed. “That’s good, old-fashioned, fresh country air! No more stale AC for us this summer!” His excitement suddenly sounded forced.

  Why on earth would any sane person want to go without air conditioning in the summer? I guess in “God’s Country”, nobody lived in reality. I sunk lower in my seat. After fighting with Dad most of the drive, trying to make his summer start off as miserably as mine, I had switched to the silent treatment, choosing to communicate anything I had to say through Corey. Just because we had arrived in the land of Little House on the Prairie, I wasn’t about to change my attitude and get all geeked out about slopping the pigs and climbing trees.

  When the car stopped, Corey jumped from his seat, leaving the door ajar as he ran up the sidewalk to the screened porch where my grandmother waited with open arms.

  Dad turned in his seat, fixing me with a stern look. “Remember your manners. Respect your Grandparents. I’m only asking for six weeks of your summer. Although after your little incident last week, I should move you up here permanently.” He paused. “This place will help you build some character. Get you away from some of those bad influences you have so unfortunately decided to hang around lately.”

  Jeez. Dad’s always talking about building character, like somewhere, in some imaginary land, a building stood half finished that I was never going to complete. What was character anyway? And so what if I’d snuck out to see a stupid concert? It’s not like I had school the next day, and I was home by curfew.

  I’d bet if you looked up the words controlling, irrational, and overprotective in the dictionary, my dad’s face would be printed big as day. I stuck my tongue out at his backside. “Whatever, Warden,” I murmured, referring to the summer as, what I felt was a prison sentence. The punishment of spending the summer in a town that was barely a dot on a map far outdid the crime. “Mom would have never made us come here,” I added, hoping the extra jab would hit him in a weak spot. It did. Dad slumped in his seat, sighed, and then got out of the car. I could only imagine what he was picturing the summer to be, and I hoped he was sorry.

  As I grabbed miscellaneous junk strewn around the car, flies swarmed through the door Corey had left open. I screeched and swatted the giant, mutant bugs. They were at least five times bigger than the ones at home. I hauled my heavy bag from the trunk, and hurried up the sidewalk, lurching under the uneven weight of books in my arms, my purse hanging off one elbow, and my oversized and over packed suitcase. After first glance driving through town, I knew seven pairs of shoes were too much. Swearing under my breath, I tripped clumsily on the uneven path and stepped on my iPod as it fell from my pocket. A sickly crunch came from beneath my foot and I moaned. My last connection to anything remotely cool had just been crushed from existence.

  I hadn’t even been there five minutes and I was ready to leave.

  Gran immediately rushed me inside the screened porch, setting my things in a casual heap in the corner.

  “Hi, Gran,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face.

  She swept me into a warm, fleshy hug. “It’s your sweet lotion they smell,” she commented, excusing the poor manners of the flies as though they were members of the family. Pushing me out to arm’s length, she eyed me up and down, assessing my growth since the last time we had visited five years ago. “Oh, Kate,” she breathed, “you look just like her, my Sarah.”

  I squirmed under her close scrutiny. Five years hadn’t been long enough. The curse of the unlucky genes had only been magnified apparently. Awesome. I get to hear all about my dead Aunt...again.

  “Doesn’t she?” Gran turned to dad, as if expecting affirmation to her statement.

  “Where’s Dad?” my father asked, dodging the uncomfortable question. He sneaked himself between us and gave a quick, awkward squeeze to Gran’s shoulders.

  Grateful for the distraction, I subtly moved aside and inched my way into the corner, hiding in the slew of bulky coats on the coat rack. It was apparent the comparisons to Aunt Sarah were only beginning. I couldn’t wait for the rest of my uncles and aunts to arrive so I could hear more.

  “Your Dad just finished chores and is taking the wreath down to the river. She would have been fifty-five today, don’t you know,” answered Gran, sadness entering her voice. Silence filled the room. Dad hung his head and she turned to stare out the window, glassy-eyed and far away.

  I leaned against the wooden slats on the wall and sighed. Perfect. We had to arrive on her birthday? God, could my dad get some sort of medal for torture? I picked at the peeling paint, wishing to be anywhere but under the roof of this dilapidated house. My aunt’s ghost still haunted them all, and I got to be the living, breathing reminder of the loss they suffered long ago.

  Dad coughed. “I’m sorry, Mom, that it’s been so long. The divorce, work, and the kids are in so many activities…..” He trailed off, out of excuses.

  Corey burst through the door, skittering to a halt, his eyes bright and his breath coming in gasps. “The rooster�
�s after me! He almost pecked me, but I slammed the gate on him!” he yelled proudly.

  Laughter filled the air, breaking the tension. The four of us walked inside, Corey animatedly filled everyone in on his quick tour of the farm. I plopped down in the first available chair, purposely leaving my luggage in the center of the room for everyone to have to walk around. Dad shot me a look of annoyance.

  Taking in my surroundings, I could tell my grandparents hadn’t changed a thing since I had last visited. Typical. I didn’t even want to think about the thirteen inch, fuzzy television in the next room, its three available channels only showing the news, soaps, and Wheel of Fortune. It was going to be a long summer.

  Gran placed a glass of water and a cookie in front of me as if I could be bribed into happiness like a three year old. Raising the glass to my lips, I took a sip and choked. The water had a trace of rotten egg smell. Well water…turn of the century well water. I had forgotten about the nose peeling smell of ancient well water; its rusty tang lingered in your mouth, making it feel like you had just sucked on an old pipe. I was going to have to stock up on Mountain Dew like a Costco Warehouse.

  “Tell me about you, Kate,” Gran pried. “Any new beaus?”

  Holding in a groan, I tried smiling politely, which probably came out looking more constipated than anything. “Actually, Gran, I think I’m going to unpack first. The drive wiped me out and I might lay down for awhile.” A long while, I thought. Maybe all summer.

  Gran smiled sympathetically. “Of course, dear. We can talk later. You can have any room upstairs.”

  Like their house is the Hilton with, oh, so many choices. I trudged the squeaky, treacherous stairway to the second floor, my suitcase banging each step with a dull thud. I could already smell mothballs and cedar.

  In a perfect line, like a trail of train cars, the senior portraits of Dad and his ten brothers and sisters hung in succession on the wall. The youngest were at the bottom, twins, Laura and Linda. Then came Joyce, Janice, my father, Dean, Matthew, Patrick, and Louise. I stopped at the one portrait that didn’t have the traditional graduation pose. It held a photo of Aunt Sarah that could have easily been a picture of me. The curly brown hair and strong cheekbones, even the birthmark that resembled a butterfly by the right eye were all identical to my own features. Chills ran down my spine. Why am I the “lucky one” to look like her?

  Hurrying past the photos of the eldest children, Bobby and Rodney, I set my eyes on the oval stained glass window at the top of the stair. I couldn’t look at her anymore. She creeped me out. Was it coincidence that we were here this summer, of all summers? The summer I turned fifteen, the same age Aunt Sarah was when she died? And why did we have to arrive on her birthday of all days? Dad couldn’t have had worse timing. Not only thinking of myself (although, I have to admit, that was my main concern), I also felt sorry for Gran, having to be constantly reminded of her dead daughter day in and day out for an entire summer. It gave me bad vibes just to think about it.

  Of the three possibilities, I finally chose the middle bedroom and collapsed on the bed, exhausted from the thirty hour drive and the emotional battles waged with my dad. The springs screeched in protest to my weight and the headboard rattled against the wall, sending chips of paint from the wall floating to the ground. Sunlight filtered through the window in pinstriped rays across the bare wooden floor. Looking around the simple room that was to be mine for the next few weeks, I took inventory of my few possessions.

  A single string hung from a lone bulb in the ceiling, the only light. A small wooden dresser stood empty in the corner and a metal rod acting as a potential closet, sorry as that was, hung on the opposite wall. Someone, probably Sarah herself, had scrawled crooked lettering into the side of the dresser closest to the bed. Upon close examination, I could faintly make out the words I am so alone. Tell me about it. I knew just how the writer felt. Who wouldn’t feel trapped and isolated here?

  The headboard on the bed was scratched and cracked down the center; it was probably older than Gran and would, quite possibly, collapse on me in my sleep. The mattress, soft and squishy, felt like it could swallow me whole if I stayed still too long. A tempting idea. A handmade quilt decorated the bed in soft blues and yellows. It’s worn, pale shade made the room seem sad and tired. Even the paint on the walls was faded and cracked, as bleak as my hopes for the upcoming weeks.

  That was it. No posters, no pictures, nothing. It could have been a room for anyone…anyone in a mental institution. I rolled onto my stomach and stared out the window. Outside the dark screens, the roof to the side porch stretched out beneath my window, a wooden ladder resting on the rusty metallic rivets, the perfect accessory for an escape. I perked up at the idea of possible freedom. My hope quickly vanished when I thought about my surroundings. There wasn’t anything to escape to, not for miles. The only thing remotely of interest, were the rapids just down the road, but I was forbidden to go there. No one really ventured there since the infamous drowning. Leave it to Sarah to take away the only thing of interest in a fifty-mile radius. It just wasn’t fair.

  Pawing through my purse, I wondered if I could scrape together enough money for a bus ticket home. If I arrived on Mom’s doorstep without warning, there was no way she could turn me away. She was only spending her summer with Phil, the latest in a long line of boy toys. I could add a whole other element to their otherwise monotonous, take-out eating, movie on the couch watching, lives.

  The sad wad of bills I unrolled on the bed answered my question quickly. Thirteen dollars and seventeen cents. Not even enough to buy a CD much less a bus ticket.

  I closed my eyes, allowing my body to sink down into the spongy mattress. Maybe I could sleep away the summer living vicariously through my dreams. I tried picturing home; the beach with its colorful umbrellas and bright bikini prints. The smell of sunscreen and surf wax, salt air and coconuts, those were the smells of comfort, not cows and pigs.

  Seconds turned into minutes. I let myself drift away, imagining a ride on the back of a jet ski, the wind blowing my hair into a frenzy, the salt water spraying my face.

  * * * *

  Loud laughter interrupted my dreams of home. Rubbing my eyes, I squinted at my watch, trying to read the tiny hands, seven p.m. I’d slept through dinner. Listening carefully to the voices below, I could tell someone had already stopped over to welcome my family’s arrival. News traveled fast in a small town. I snuck down the stairs trying to eavesdrop a little on the conversation, but the third step from the bottom gave me away with a traitorous squeak.

  I peeked around the corner and froze. The visitor at the table was a man so gorgeous he took my breath away. He had what I liked to call “the three b’s”—blond, bronze, and built. His voice resonated from the walls, powerful and smooth as he laughed at something Gran said. I closed my mouth, realizing it hung open like a fish’s out of water and forced myself to enter the room.

  “Just stopped by to pay my respects. Her birthday was always special to me,” said the stranger. He accepted a glass of lemonade from Gran along with a kiss on the cheek.

  “You never miss a year, aren’t you sweet,” Gran answered, patting the man on the shoulder.

  Dad looked up and motioned me to the table. He looked annoyed, which was his usual look these days when I was around. He was probably mad that I missed dinner. “Dave, this is my daughter, Kate. Kate, this is Dave Slater, the town’s new mayor.” He hesitated then added, “And Dave is an old family friend.”

  Gran chuckled. “Oh, he was more than that. Dave was an old beau of your Aunt Sarah’s. The love of her life,” she said with a pang of wistfulness.

  Dave turned in his chair to greet me, his glass of lemonade halfway to his mouth. Our eyes met and a spark of electricity jolted my body. Dave jumped from his chair as though he had been stabbed with a fork. His glass dropped from his hand and shattered into a million jagged pieces that skittered haphazardly across the floor. His tan face turned a shade of pale I could easily have
called ghostly white, and it was his turn for his jaw to flap open, leaving a gaping hole wide enough to, as my father so delicately puts it, catch flies. I couldn’t help but feel surprised and a little pleased at such a reaction from a grown man. It wasn’t until he sputtered an apology that my heart sunk back down from its temporary high.

  Shock evident in his icy blue eyes, Dave stuttered, “She…she looks like…Sarah.”

  I sighed, reaching for a towel hanging by the sink. Of course. It was always about Sarah. Lemonade had made its way under the table and I could think of no better place to hide. Dave muttered a stream of apologies, all the while, clenching his hands uselessly at his sides. Gran clucked her tongue and ordered Dad to take Dave outside while we cleaned up the mess.

  Dave’s feet retreated quickly through the front door, my father slow to follow. I could feel his eyes boring into my backside as I wiped up the sopping mess. I didn’t dare come out from the table until they were gone, embarrassed that Dave might have another half stroke. Too bad he had such a thing for Sarah, he could have been a decent distraction this summer. He’s ancient, older than my father! But so HOT!

  Heavy boots clomped through the door just as I wiped up the last of the sticky drink. Grandpa, fresh from the fields, stood large and heavy in coveralls and a John Deere hat. Work gloves hung from his pockets and a beer was clamped in his work worn, grimy hands. He stared at me for a few minutes then grunted what sounded like a hello. I approached him awkwardly, trying to give him a hug without really touching him. He smelled of sweat and hay, grease, and of course, manure.

  Edging past him and through the door, I left my shoes behind in the pile of worn work boots and garden shoes.

  “I guess I’ll go find Corey and see what he’s up to,” I said to no one in particular.

  Grandpa grunted in response, his focus turning from me to the fresh blueberry pie cooling on the table.