“Hello?” It wasn’t her dad—it was Simon Rush. The room sounded packed and noisy, an aviary full of science fiction writers. Alice could picture him, one thick finger poking into his opposite ear to block out the noise.
“Simon? Hi, it’s Alice. Is my dad there?” She would have apologized for calling so late, but there was clearly no need.
“Hey, Alice, sure, hang on.” She heard the muffled sound of a hand on the receiver, and then the clink of the hard plastic phone onto the glossy wooden bedside table, she assumed. It took a couple of minutes for Leonard to make his way across the room—Alice could see the whole scene, all his friends strewn about, laughing and talking, drunk and smoking, having a great night. Maybe there were endless opportunities for parties, and for love, if you built a life that made room for them. When Leonard finally got to the phone, he was panting a little bit.
“Al? What’s going on? You okay? It’s the middle of the night!”
“I’m fine, Dad.” She’d wanted him to go to the hotel because it made what she had to do easier. She had to choose to be an adult, to be that first and his daughter second, instead of the other way around. Alice had always been good at self-parenting as a kid—making curfew, getting good grades—but she’d forgotten to do it as a grown-up, too. “I just wanted to say good night.”
Leonard exhaled. “Whew, god, you scared me. You have fun tonight?”
“Sure,” Alice said. Her body felt normal again. For the past few hours, she and Sam had mostly been sitting in front of her closet mirror putting on every shade of lipstick she owned and talking about Ethan Hawke and Jordan Catalano and whether the movies they loved were actually good or if the movie stars were so beautiful that it didn’t matter. They’d blotted their lips on the inside of Alice’s closet door, first in a straight line and then nearly halfway up the whole door, a cloud of kisses, until it looked like wallpaper. “How about you? Are you having fun?”
Leonard laughed. “Well, someone brought a frozen margarita machine from home and is making margaritas, so, yes, we are all having a pretty good time. I’m going to have a headache in the morning, but talking to Barry always gives me a headache anyway.”
“Okay,” Alice said. “I love you, Dad.”
“Sure you’re okay, Al-pal? Do you need me to come home?” His voice sounded louder, like he was cupping the phone with his hand. Alice could picture him turning his back to his friends and facing the wall, maybe shushing them with a finger.
“I’m really okay, I swear.”
“Okay. I love you, too, I really do.” She could hear him smile. He had been young, and she had been young—they had been young together. Why was it so hard to see that, how close generations were? That children and their parents were companions through life. Maybe that’s why she was here now. Maybe this was the moment when they were both at their best, and together. Alice thought about Kenji and his beautiful mother. He’d gone home early—his curfew was only midnight. Alice could understand how hard it probably was for his mom to let him out of her sight at all. Once you had proof of the sudden cruelty of life, how could you ever relax? How could you just let things happen?
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad,” Alice said. She wanted to remind him of all the things he was supposed to do—to write Dawn, to find Debbie, to be happy—but she knew that she didn’t have to. She would have to trust it this time. Because she wasn’t going to come back. Wherever she ended up, that’s where she was going to stay. “Will you do one thing for me?” She was going to tell him not to do it anymore, not to travel, that all that love would kill him eventually. But then Alice thought about how good it felt, right now, to hear his healthy, strong voice, to hear him having fun with his friends, and to be so full of it all, and she found that she couldn’t.
“Of course, honey, what is it?” Leonard asked. The blender went on in the background. It was so loud, he could probably barely hear her.
“Just take care of yourself,” Alice said. “Okay?”
“Until the future,” Leonard said, the line from Time Brothers. Alice laughed. Leonard must have been drunk, drunk enough to find his own work amusing. He hung up first, and then Alice sat there until the phone started to blare out its complaint. She settled the receiver back in its cradle and looked at the time. The plan was to leave him a note, telling him what she knew, more or less. Telling him not to travel, not to jump, not to visit. Alice started to write it over and over again, but it was never right. Instead she just wrote, Until the future/my future/your future, what does the future mean, anyway? love, Alice, threw the rest in the garbage, and went to bed.