The Rockmore House

10 | Searching

October 22, 2016

It was unrealistically hopeful to think that hiding a photo of Pete out of sight would keep him out of my mind. The blank space on the corkboard reminded me of him, and so did the boardwalk along the river that I drove by everyday, and so did Bill's Garage where he worked, which had since become a dry cleaners. And so did Sophie's house, which had been Pete's house in 1953. Pete's bedroom on the first floor was a family room with a huge television mounted to the wall where his beautiful painting had been. It had to still be there, buried underneath layers of paint. I couldn't even go in that room anymore.

And so did the kitchen in my own house where an older woman with weathered hands once peacefully whistled along to the radio while cutting fresh green beans until That Harrison Boy and an unfamiliar girl in an inappropriate bathing suit barged in.

He was everywhere. And he was nowhere. My Google searches were still fruitless. Peter Harrison of Palmer, Michigan and his potential alias, Peter Brennan, had disappeared. It seemed like the only place he existed was in my head.

And who could tell me otherwise? I wondered if Liz was still stuck in the past or if she'd eventually tracked down her sister and returned to her life. She was Pete's niece, so she might know something. But I wasn't sure if I'd ever want to see her again and if I did, I didn't even know her last name to try to find her.

One thing that bothered me was that chronologically the last real conversation Pete and I had was an argument. To me, the last time Pete and I were together, while I was somewhat coherent, at least, was a goodbye on the beach. But to him, it was when I yanked my arm from his grasp and shouted at him that it was over between us. After the way I acted, I wouldn't blame him if he never thought fondly of me again. Maybe that was for the best- for him, anyway.

But for me, I didn't know what was best. I wanted him to stop invading my thoughts, while at the same time I worried that my memories of him were fading. The one photograph I had of him captured only one expression of many. When I tried to picture his face while I was awake, it was fuzzy. But sometimes right before I fell asleep the blurred image became clear just for a second, like he was right there in front of me, but it was always gone before I could commit it to memory. My dreams were the same; within minutes of waking up, his smile and his brown eyes became indistinct.

Despite all of my questionable decisions that summer, because I'd been with Pete that night we went to the drive-in, he made it to his twentieth birthday. Maybe that was the only reason I ended up in 1953 and all I was meant to be to him.

I told myself it was selfish to want to see him again after everything that had happened. But I did, anyway. I daydreamed about finding him the next summer, but in the back of my mind I knew that if I really wanted to, I could try to find him any time I wanted. The idea made my heart race and skin prickle and I couldn't stand to consider it for more than a few seconds at a time.

The last time I saw Pete, at the beach, I only had to touch the waves to travel back to 1953. And when I traveled to 1886 I was only knee-deep in the river when it happened. I didn't have to be submerged in the water to time travel. The pool was empty for the season, but the river and the lake were always there.

But he had his own life to live and I had mine. By some miracle, our lifelines intersected once, but they had to continue in different directions. I knew we were a lost cause from the start, so why was I still torturing myself? Why couldn't I let him go? That last night when he took me to the pool to send me back home, he'd even told me not to come back to find him, so why did I even entertain the possibility?

I rolled out of bed, plunged my hand to the bottom of my sock drawer and came out with Pete's rolled up belt. The bloodstains from when he used it as a tourniquet on my leg had darkened the leather and added to its deep marbled patina. His belt was the proof I needed to see occasionally, to know that it was all real.