By Pamela Love
“Doctor Holloway! Can we please swim in your pool?” The boy looked about nine, and a couple of multicolored beach towels flapped over his shoulder as he came running toward Denise, who was about to pull the lawnmower’s cord. With him was a slightly younger girl, an inflatable swim ring encircling her waist, its unicorn head bobbing as she hurried to keep up. “Our mom said it’s okay.”
Denise Holloway paused to drink the last of the water in the canteen dangling from her belt, swallowing a bitter chuckle with it. A college dropout, she was certainly no doctor. And the yard she was mowing wasn’t hers. It belonged to the Bartons—a wealthy couple who had just moved in. Most importantly, the kids were pointing at the center of the expensive Zoysia grass in the pristine corner lot, which obviously lacked a pool. In this neighborhood of new-builds, it had never had one. Strike three, kids. “No.”
The girl whined, “Aw, come on. Mom told us about the pool. She said you’d let us if we asked nicely, and Frank said ‘please.’”
“Not my place, kid. Plus, you’ve got the wrong address. There’s no pool here. See?” She gestured to what was her fourth lawn of the day. She wished she had a riding mower. She wished she had a lot of things.
“So? It just doesn’t have a pool yet.”
Frank turned toward the girl. “Gwen, we’re not supposed to be rude, remember? But my sister’s right. The pool will be there, just like this will be your house someday.”
Denise bent to start the lawnmower. “Oh yeah? When’s that? I don’t play the lottery.”
“No, but you do invent the first working time machine.”
She stood bolt upright. “What?”
Denise had never discussed her time travel theories with anyone. She didn’t use any substances, legal or otherwise, that would make her drop that caution. And she definitely didn’t talk in her sleep, not that there was anyone to overhear her that way. “You’re being ridiculous. Now go home.”
“Your time machine’s not a dream. It’s a plan.” Frank shrugged. “Or was.”
“Or will be!” Gwen jumped up and down.
A failed one. Denise pushed her graying braid over her shoulder and pulled down her baseball cap harder. “Beat it. Your mother shouldn’t have told you to talk to strangers. Besides, I’ve got work to do.”
Gwen tugged on Frank’s elbow. “Come on. She said she’s got work to do.” She winked at Denise before scampering off with her brother.
Not on any time machine, kiddo. Denise started the mower and gave it a vigorous shove. It is hellishly hot today. Soon sweat was streaming down her face and back in Niagara-level quantities. If I did have a swimming pool, I wouldn’t be much wetter than I am right now.
The time machine. She didn’t remember writing something down anywhere, but maybe when she was young and stupid in college? Maybe the kids’ mom had gone to school with her. That had to be it. Which mean girl was it? There had been so many.
Her mind wandered as she pushed the mower in long, overlapping rows. What if her ideas had gelled? What if she had made that time machine work? She sure wouldn’t have this side hustle mowing lawns. Not that her “main hustle” as a janitor was much better, except for being indoors with air conditioning.
Time travel had been a ridiculous, impossible idea. She’d been smart to forget about it. But if it had worked—where would she go? She turned to glare at the surrounding McMansions. Elsewhere. What would she do? Elsething. She snorted.
If she could make it work now, her “elsething” would be going back and fixing her mistakes, inventing the machine even sooner. For starters, she’d refuse that disastrous internship where she’d been falsely accused of theft by her “mentor” covering his own dirty work. She’d gotten six months in prison and had all her dreams—even the non-time travel ones—destroyed. Not that she could ever go back and tell herself what to do. If her theories were correct, she couldn’t cross her own timeline.
Despite herself, a tear rolled down her cheek. It dripped off her face, landing in a drop of sweat on her right hand. She stopped, staring at the momentary quiver of the two forms of saltwater. Hey, I didn’t account for the positive chrono-particles altering the motion of the negative ones when they interacted. If I added enough energy, I could increase their momentum, and start a chain reaction—that could work!
Denise leaped into the air with even more exuberance than Gwen had shown—and came down in a pool. Surfacing, she spat out a mouthful of water and looked around frantically. Why was she in a swimsuit? And the Bartons—where did this pool of theirs come from?
Wait—was this the Bartons’ McMansion? The sign hanging from its deck said HOLLOWAY. And somehow, the house didn’t seem tacky now, though it was identical except for the sign.
The house’s sliding glass doors slid back. Frank and Gwen looked out. “Hey, Mom! Now can we go swimming?”
Denise relaxed so that she was floating on her back. She started to backstroke to the soda sitting on her deck chair. New memories of the re-engineered timeline came flooding in, overlapping with the original ones—how she’d taken a temp job cleaning an industrial warehouse, where she’d dumpster-dived for the supplies and equipment she needed for one quick and dirty—and one-way—time trip. She couldn’t meet herself directly, but apparently sending her kids as messengers didn’t create too big of a paradox. “Sure! The water’s fine.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
What a lovely story. Wouldn’t we all like to have the chance at some do-overs!
Definitely!
Thanks to my husband for thinking of the title of this story!
What a fun story! (and definitely a witty title)
Nice job sending the kiddos to spark a little genius… ;)
Thanks so much!
What a fun story! How nice to skip the hard parts and get right to swimming in your pool!
I appreciate your compliment!