NINE TIME MACHINES: Do you want to undo your entire life on planet earth?

CHAPTER 45

No angels accompanied us across Florence Street bright and early Tuesday morning. Neither did one pop out from behind the dark shadows on Granderson or Lillian streets. But the beret woman was there. She in her tent of a dress and Hazel in that black floral; bonding on mutual fashion appetite, I suppose. In fact, it wasn't until the bus pulled off that I realized the oddity of the situation. Hadn't she said that she lived down this side, the last time we met?

I listen to their conversation about dress patterns and fabric choices. Hazel lets her in on the three-toned dress she plans to make, which wins a tone of approval. And I'm sure I heard the beret woman invite her over. Now phone numbers are exchanging. I wonder if either of them realizes they don't as yet know each other's names. Silly people, the lot of humanity, the way they stumble into each other on the road of life. Then the highlight of my morning clangs like a church bell. The bus swings down Freedom Street. This is where Ebony's sister lives and where my castle dwells without its heiress. I try really hard not to focus on all that I've lost over the past four years. And staying away usually does the trick. But just knowing that we breathed the same air since the tragedy tugs out more of my seams.

How do those old familiar corners feel now, I wonder? Do they miss the truths their walls suppress to lie in that witch's face every day? To tell her that she's the true owner of its mysteries and memories? Does it weep for my mother the way I've never brought myself to? Oh, how I wish Ebony's sister has a special corner where she too curls up in a ball of pain and shame, so that she can spend every waking hour fearing the homelessness she condemned me to. I glue my eyes shut with what's left of Matron Caine's glue until I feel the bus make a right and left to join Xerox Street, onwards to glory. But not quite! Something always has to go wrong in Mary Pethiel Land, just to remind me that I'll never reach that much-desired finish line. The bus makes a few weird noises before we hit the final stretch then drags itself off the road. I don't know which one feels worse, never starting on your journey or dying just before getting there.

"Oh my, here we go again," beret lady says. "It was good yesterday when I left; and now this."