The First Last Day (5 page)

“So how did that affect the future of science?”

“Einstein wasn't content to do nothing about the dream. He thought about it—a lot. He finally came to the conclusion that events look different, depending on where the viewer is standing.”

“But why does that happen?”

“It has to do with the amount of time it takes for light to reach the eye. Many believe the dream influenced Einstein's theory of relativity.” Dad leaned back in his chair. “So you see, his dream might have changed the future of how scientists looked at space and time.”

I wasn't sure I could be like Einstein and come up with a new theory about the universe, but I hoped my dream could help me change the future for G-Mags.

•  •  •

Once I was in the car with the Damicos, I tried to figure out a way to bring up the symptoms of a stroke without sounding weird. After looking it up on the Internet, I was pretty sure G-Mags's dizzy spell was a sign that something was wrong. I cleared my throat. “Um . . .”

“Yes, Haleigh,” Mrs. Damico said, turning toward the backseat.

“I, uh, was just wondering how G-Mags is doing.”

“She's getting a little gardening in while we're gone.”

“But how is she feeling?”

“Very well, thank you. It's nice of you to ask.” She
turned forward and began directing Mr. Damico toward the correct road to take.

How could I talk them into taking G-Mags to the doctor when nothing was wrong yet? I decided to bring it up again when we got back. After all, G-Mags had been fine until just before dinner.

Once we arrived at the hotel, Mrs. Damico gave us her instructions, and Kevin pulled me toward the taco place.

As we took our seats, I looked for the guy I'd dreamt about, the one who had been sitting behind me. The chair was empty. Looking down at the menu, I felt a little better. If there was no man there and no painting in my room, then not everything in the dream was coming true. Maybe G-Mags would be fine after all.

But then . . . I spotted the man with his briefcase. He passed us and sat behind me.

After a minute or two Kevin blew the paper on his straw across the table. I caught it and rolled it up into a tiny ball.

Kevin's eyes opened wide. “Wow! Good reflexes.”

I smiled, secretly hoping that saving G-Mags would be as easy as catching that paper.

After we finished lunch, Kevin and I moved on to the shops and then to mini golf. With each hole, I tried to convince myself that even though almost everything was the same as in my dream, it didn't mean G-Mags would have a stroke at the end of the day.

When it took me only four tries instead of six to hit the ball between Humpty Dumpty's legs, I jumped up and down.

“There's still no way you can win,” Kevin said.

I shrugged and gave him a smile. My excitement had nothing to do with changing my score, but everything to do with changing the future.

As soon as we were through, Kevin took the clubs up to the front counter. This time I grabbed my backpack and hurried behind him. The second he stepped onto the boardwalk, I spotted the rickshaw bicyclist headed straight at us. My hand flew out, almost as if it weren't mine, and yanked Kevin out of the way just in time.

“Whoa, thanks!” he said.

I stared at the back of the rickshaw as it kept going. “I'd almost forgotten about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, nothing. I just saw him before and he was driving recklessly.” I clutched my backpack and strolled into the hotel. Everything that had happened so far seemed to mean one thing: if I could improve my golf score and save Kevin from a scraped knee, there was a good chance I could prevent G-Mags from having a stroke.

W
hile Kevin watched the movie, my eyes were fixed on G-Mags. She looked out the window, stirring her stew as if nothing was wrong.

“Why don't you sit?” I asked her. “I'll take over the ragout.”

She waved me toward the table. “I don't need to sit. I'm perfectly capable of cooking dinner, but you can keep me company if you'd like.”

I sat on a kitchen chair, close to her. It felt weird to think something terrible might happen, and I was just
waiting. Like I was the only one who knew there was a hurricane coming, and I should have been yelling out, “Close all the windows! Hide in the closet!” Instead, I was watching everybody go through their normal routines. It didn't seem right.

I clutched the cell phone in my pocket.

Then, just like in my dream, G-Mags went to get the silverware and had her dizzy spell.

I jumped up from the chair. “Please!” I shouted. “Let me call 911.”

Everyone turned to me with the same puzzled look. The urgency in my voice had scared them. But not for the right reason.

Kevin looked away from the TV and asked if I was okay.

“It's G-Mags,” I said. “She needs a doctor.”

“I'm fine, dear, really,” she said. “It's just a little dizzy spell.”

I bit my upper lip and nodded, feeling foolish.

Kevin turned to me. “You've been acting weird all day. Are you okay?”

I forced a smile. I wanted to tell him what was bothering me, but it would have sounded crazy. And
with Mr. Damico being a psychologist and all, I certainly didn't want to seem crazy.

Minutes later, G-Mags was fine.

Still, before I met Dad outside to walk me home, I leaned toward her and whispered, “Promise me you'll call the doctor if you get another one of your spells.”

“I will,” she said. Then she handed me a container with a leftover cannoli inside and added, “Make sure you stop by before you leave tomorrow morning. I have something else for you.”

I wasn't sure what would happen later or if I'd done enough to warn G-Mags. But I could feel the ragout bubbling up in my stomach as I walked home with Dad.

F
ifteen minutes later, I walked into my room and screamed.

Mom ran to see what happened.

I pointed to the painting resting on the yellow box on my desk. “Where did this come from?”

“I found it in your closet this morning,” Mom said. “I put it on the porch for a while—in the sun. I thought you'd packed up your oil paints before we left for the shore.”

“Uh, no,” I lied, studying the blue swirls, the sand stegosaurus, the stick figures. It was definitely my
work. But I hadn't painted anything that day. Finding the yellow box in my backpack was the one part of the dream that hadn't come true.

So how did this painting get here?

Mom examined the canvas and smiled. “It's beautiful. You've captured everything perfectly.”

“You always say that.”

“And you can believe it. I'm an expert, you know.” Mom's an art history professor and had been working on a book about van Gogh all summer.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“You better leave that out.” Mom gestured toward the canvas. “Oils can take weeks to dry.”

I nodded, still staring at the picture. If I'd actually used the paints, did that mean I hadn't been dreaming after all, that when I'd painted my heart's desire for a mulligan . . . I'd gotten my wish?

There was no other explanation.

I thought for a few minutes. Hearts could have more than one desire. Couldn't they?

I gazed at the painting, squeezed my eyes shut, and wished that G-Mags wouldn't have a stroke.

I'd warned her earlier. I'd suggested that the
Damicos call 911. And now I'd wished on the painting.

Would that be enough to change the future?

•  •  •

Unable to sleep, I watched the clock's red numbers change: 10:15, 10:16, 10:17. What time had the doorbell rung before? I couldn't remember. Rolling over to face my desk, I caught sight of the painting one more time before drifting off to sleep.

Within what seemed like minutes, I leaped out of bed.

The doorbell echoed as I headed to the living room, praying I'd encounter something different from before. A doorbell in the middle of the night didn't always mean trouble. Did it? Maybe it was good news. Like my parents won the lottery or something. Why hadn't I wished for that?

Darkness filled the living room as the words I dreaded echoed in my ears.

Again, Kevin's eyes were tinged with sadness.

I stood frozen, unable to think of any words to help him. What followed was exactly as I'd remembered: the sheets, the blanket, the water. Then back to my room.

As I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, my eyes stung.

How could my wish have given me a whole extra day with Kevin but not allowed me to change something as important as G-Mags's stroke?

•  •  •

At the sound of the alarm, I jumped out of bed and looked at the clock's red numerals: 7:00. I rubbed my eyes and got a heavy feeling in my stomach. Kevin would be on the couch this time, and G-Mags would be in the hospital. I was sure you could have only one mulligan in life. If you ever got one at all.

I tiptoed through the hallway, turned the corner into the living room, and nearly fell over the couch.

Kevin was gone!

I dashed to the kitchen to look at the calendar. Swallowing hard, I stared at the number
26
and the words:
A mayfly has an average life expectancy of twenty-four hours.

Although I was more confused than ever, I decided not to wake Mom this time. What would I say?

I headed back to my room and examined the painting. It was still shiny and wet. Bringing it closer, I inhaled the smell of the paint and linseed oil.

My pulse raced. Could I be getting another do-over?

I
studied G-Mags from across the table and tried to think of how to warn her.

As I laid the rubber spatula on the spoon rest, an idea came to me. “Next week before school starts, I have to get a physical,” I announced.

“I already went,” Kevin said. “I grew two inches since last year.”

I looked at G-Mags. “When was the last time you went to the doctor?”

“At my age I'm at the doctor's office more times a year than I can count.”

“Maybe,” I said, “it would be a good idea to go today.”

Kevin gave me a weird look.

“Don't I look well?” G-Mags said, patting her curls. “Maybe I'm having a bad hair day.”

“Oh, no. It's just that . . . my mom has an appointment at the doctor when we get home, so I've just been thinking about good health.”

“She's in great health,” Kevin chimed in. He turned to G-Mags. “Aren't you?”

“Don't you worry about me.” She placed the last cannoli shell on the counter to cool.

I took a deep breath and blinked until my eyes stopped stinging.

•  •  •

As I pushed through our cottage door, my frustration grew. Dad's notebooks and papers were scattered all over the desk. I hated to disturb him, but I had to.

I tapped his shoulder, and for a second he was startled.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just wondering . . . have you ever had a day where you felt like you'd lived through that whole twenty-four hours already?”

Dad swiveled his desk chair toward me. “You mean like déjà vu?”

“It's more than that. It's like the whole day is almost
exactly
the same as yesterday.”

Dad stroked his beard. “You mean like a time loop?”

“What's a time loop?”

“I guess you could explain it like a clock that goes backward and keeps resetting itself.”

“Is that a real thing?”

“I read a short story once about a man who kept experiencing the same hour over and over again. It was called ‘12:01 P.M.' No matter what the man did, after an hour the clock would spring back to 12:01 p.m. and he would live that hour over again.”

Was that what was happening to me? “How long did that go on?”

Dad shook his head. “I read the story about fifteen years ago. I don't remember the ending.”

My skin prickled. “Could people go back in time in real life?”

Dad leaned back in his chair and laughed. “No. But according to Einstein's theory of time dilation, time
would run slower for someone traveling close to the speed of light. So, if you were in a spaceship traveling that fast for four years, when you came back to Earth, more than sixty years might have passed for everyone who stayed on the ground.”

“Wow. That would be weird. I'd be sixteen, but you'd be more than a hundred.” A twinge of dizziness came over me. I wasn't sure if it was Einstein's theory or the thought of Dad being that old.

•  •  •

Later, when I played Scrabble with Kevin and the Damicos, I got another idea about how to help G-Mags. When no one was looking, I lifted the receiver off the landline in the kitchen and punched in 911. I knew the number could be traced, and an ambulance would be there in a little while, even if I didn't say anything into the phone.

I took tiny bites of my cannoli as I kept my eyes fixed on the front door, waiting for the paramedics to arrive. I was almost done when there was a knock. Mr. Damico answered it.

“We received a call from this house,” a man in a uniform said. “Everything okay?”

Mr. Damico looked around the room. “Looks like it.”

“Are you sure?” the man asked.

I held my breath as his eyes lingered on mine. Could he tell I was the one who called?

“It must be some mistake,” Mr. Damico said.

I whispered to G-Mags, “Maybe you should go with them, to see about your dizziness.”

“Don't be silly,” she said. “I'm fine.”

“You're positive everyone is okay?” the paramedic said.

G-Mags went to the door. “My son is right. There must be some mistake.”

As I watched the guy head toward his truck, I got a sick feeling inside. Wasn't there anything I could do to help G-Mags?