There were hardcovers and paperbacks—the orange paperback that Sam had thrust at her, and a hardcover edition with an understated black-and-white jacket, mostly type but with a small yellow door at the center, like a sunset as seen through a cartoon mousehole. In addition to several copies of those, there were foreign editions—Alba del Temps, ?wit Czasu, D?mmerung der Zeit—all shoved into the box as if Leonard had been cleaning out his desk in a hurry. There were DVD boxes, which Alice hadn’t seen in years. A Time Brothers box set had snuck in—six discs, plus bonus material, and right underneath it was a DVD box for Dawn of Time, which appeared to have been made into a movie starring Sarah Michelle Gellar.
She put the movie back in the box and shoved it all toward the back of the closet, except for the hardcover copy of Dawn of Time, which she tucked under her arm and carried to the couch. Leonard had always been a dedicated napper, and so the couch had a threadbare but still cozy blanket thrown over the top, and a pillow that belonged to Ursula but which she was willing to share. Alice lay down and closed her eyes. It was late, and she was exhausted. Ursula jumped onto the couch and started making biscuits on Alice’s chest, poking tiny holes into the bodice of her dress. She opened the book, knowing that she wouldn’t stop until she was finished.
If Time Brothers was Leonard looking for adventure and for family—he had not had a brother; his parents had been well-meaning but disinterested in his internal life—then Dawn of Time was Leonard looking at her—looking at himself looking at her. Alice knew that she wasn’t Dawn, that Dawn was a creation, a mix of people, of Leonard himself and what he thought about Alice, and other people, too, and then that strange alchemy of writing, when the character began to do and say things the writer didn’t expect. Alice loved her father’s book. Books! She wished there were more of them to read, hidden in a box somewhere. It didn’t matter if they were published, or if no one else read them. It was better than a diary, because there was nothing that could make her cringe, nothing that felt inappropriate for her to see. People were allowed to have privacy, even parents. But in Leonard’s book—his books!—Alice could find little messages. Sometimes it was as simple as a description of a meal that she knew Leonard himself liked to eat—fried eggs left alone in the pan long enough to turn brown and crispy at the edges—or the mention of the Kinks. They were all tiny little parts of him, preserved forever, molecules that had rearranged themselves into words on a page, but Alice could see them for what they were, which was her father.
It wasn’t a guardhouse—Dawn, who lived on Patchin Place, in the West Village, with its gas lamp at the end of the lane like something Mr. Tumnus would be leaning against, had crawled through a tiny door in the back of the closet in her bedroom, the kind of door that usually hit fuse boxes or water shut-off knobs, a jerry-rigged space built out of necessity. She was just looking for a small place of her own, but when she made it to the very back of the closet, she emerged into the ramble in Central Park. The story was complicated—portals, a mystery to solve, different years, different realities. But Alice could read it for what it was, which was a love story. Not a romance—there was no sex in the entire book, a few kisses, that was it—the book was about the love between a single parent and their only child. It wasn’t funny. It was earnest. It was the kind of thing that Leonard would never have said aloud to Alice, not in a million years. But it was true all the same. Alice wiped at her eyes and looked up at the clock. It was just before three. She sat up and looked out the window at the guardhouse. What had it cost her, traveling back? It had cost her a day. A day when her father was still alive. She couldn’t put it off forever, but Leonard had said she could go back. He had, after all. Alice shut the front door quietly behind her and ducked into the guardhouse. This time, she could do it on purpose.
Part Four
44
When she woke up in her bed on Pomander Walk, Alice knew exactly where she was, and when she was, and where her father was. She stayed in bed for a few moments, stretching. Ethan Hawke and Winona Ryder stared at her from the opposite wall and Alice involuntarily started singing “My Sharona.” Ursula was curled up on top of her stomach.
“You really are the best cat,” Alice said. Ursula tucked in her paws and rolled onto her back, her eyes still closed. Alice dutifully petted her furry tummy.
It wasn’t like Peggy Sue, an accidental fainting that caused a dreamlike delusion that wasn’t even real. It wasn’t like Back to the Future, where she could wreck and then unwreck her own life, watching herself from behind. It wasn’t even like Time Brothers or Dawn of Time, where the heroes were always busy acting out a plot, from point A to point B. Alice wouldn’t say that to Leonard, that his characters were always trying to do too much. Why were there so many books about teenagers solving crimes? K-pop fans had raised money, had used the internet to fight evil, but that wasn’t solving crimes, exactly. Alice wanted to talk to her father about Dawn, but couldn’t—he hadn’t written it yet.