Page 4 of Time After Time
“Sebastian wasn’t there.” The name slipped from my lips, lingering on my tongue before fading away. The dream had been so vivid, so real, that an unsettling weight settled over my chest. Trying to shake off the feeling, I absent-mindedly rubbed the spot just above my heart, as if that might somehow ease the ache.
“I didn’t speak to Mum and Dad…” A shuddering breath escaped me, my words quivering as they passed through my lips. I didn’t want to utter the d-word, fearing it would become real. “Sylvie wasn’t there, either.” Mr. Whiskers offered intermittent meows, as if in response or in an attempt to offer solace to my words. “And even you weren’t there.” Pouting, I drew closer to him, leaning against the washbasin with my elbows to bring our faces close together, my forehead pressing against his. “In the dream, there was another Mr. Whiskers, just like you.” In consolation, his tongue darted out, licking the tip of my nose a couple of times.
“Never mind. How about we have some breakfast?” I suggested, standing up as he purred. My stomach echoed with a growl, matching his eager meows. I smiled at the gleam in his eyes as he hopped off the sink, his little body wiggling with impatience.
Before leaving my room, I nudged the vase of tulips further from the edge, noticing that Mr. Whiskers had shifted it too close for comfort. But my attention was caught by something more unsettling—the mantel clock from my dream.What?“Has this always been here?” I asked aloud, turning to look at Mr. Whiskers. His white whiskers twitched, almost as if acknowledging my confusion.
Shaking my head, I focused on the clock’s hands, which were still frozen at 12:12, exactly like in my dream, before everythingwent black. I lingered for a moment, the unsettling memory creeping back, but then I finally left the room, making a mental note to get it fixed.
I pushed the strange feeling about the clock aside as I made my way downstairs, the mouthwatering smell of pancakes filling the air. My bare feet hit the last step, and my mind immediately wandered to images of fluffy pancakes stacked high, gleaming thanks to the syrup and crowned with dollops of whipped cream. Fresh strawberries, ripe bananas, and maybe even a few slices of kiwi popped into my thoughts.
Mr. Whiskers swiftly turned left and trotted into the living room, likely on the hunt for his ragged red-and-white toy fish, which at one point had been bigger than him. He’d roll around on the floor, playing by himself, waiting for the call that his meal was ready. When it came, it would be served on his metal plate, engraved with his name.
As I stepped further into the expansive, open living room and kitchen, my attention shifted to my own rumbling hunger. My mum’s hot pink floral dress swayed with her every movement, her curly blonde hair bouncing in time with the beat. She was a splash of pink against the white and blue kitchen cabinetry. With a wooden spoon as her microphone, she twirled and sang along to ABBA’sSuper Trouper. I stifled a laugh, watching her perform. She always said she’d had been ideal for the films if she weren’t tone deaf.
Mum had always been an ABBA fan, and theMamma Mia!films only deepened her love for their music. That’s why our house, inside and out, was painted white and blue—just like the houses in Santorini. But whenever we mentioned that, she’d passionately correct us, insisting the films were set on the islands of Skopelos and Skiathos.
I crept closer, peeking over her shoulder as she turned to face the stove. The sight of the perfectly round pancakes made mystomach growl even louder. “I’m starving,” I mumbled, my voice thick with hunger. But her sudden sideways leap, like she hadn’t noticed me coming downstairs until now, proved I’d caught her off guard.
“Geneviève St. James!”Uh-oh. She’d used my full name.“Do you want to send me to an early grave?” Her voice was light, but there was a mock-serious edge to it. I could imagine the corners of her mouth twitching, like she was fighting to keep a straight face.
As she turned to face me, a flash of my dream flashed through my mind. In it, Mum’s sun-kissed complexion had faded, the usual radiance in her skin replaced by the inevitable marks of ageing. Her hair, still styled in that familiar 1980s fashion, seemed thinner, the once-bright blonde now duller. I quickly brushed the thought aside, not wanting it to linger any longer.
“I’m so sorry.” A sheepish smile tugged at my lips, though I hoped she wouldn’t notice the slight quiver in my chin. The thought that something might change between us, or the uneasy feeling that my dream meant more than just a dream, stuck in the back of my mind. I tried to focus on something else, like the growl in my stomach. “I’m starving.”
Her laugh echoed through the room, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to reveal the dimples I always envied. I couldn’t look away as they deepened the bigger her smile became, dancing across her cheeks. I couldn’t help but wish I had dimples like hers. Sylvie had been lucky enough to inherit them.
Still, the resemblance between us was striking. We both had those bright green eyes that seemed to catch the light, and our skin had that sun-kissed glow, the kind that darkened into a tan after a few days outside. Our button noses were identical—the kind my dad used to flick playfully. Mum’s blonde hair wasas bright as sunlight, while mine was a light chestnut, falling in loose waves.
Every morning, she struggled with her curls, trying to tame them into something manageable, while my waves fell naturally into place. Recently, she’d added blonde highlights to my hair, which I loved. The sun made them shimmer, and I often found myself admiring the way they caught the light.
I leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before moving to set the table for us.
Dad was an early riser, always out in the garden at the crack of dawn. While I enjoyed starting my day with the sun, I could never get up as early as he did. But he was always out there, tending to our fruits and vegetables, and his dedication had earned our produce a reputation as the best in Golden Sands.
My sister, on the other hand, preferred the nighttime. For her, waking up early was a personal ordeal, so she usually stayed in bed until well into the late morning.
My thoughts were interrupted when Dad walked through the front door, his face lighting up with a broad smile. He shot me a playful wink before his eyes turned to Mum. Instantly, his expression softened with affection, and the tension in his shoulders melted away as he moved toward her. Without missing a beat, he slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Her laughter bubbled up, light and carefree, as she tilted her head back, her eyes gleaming like a schoolgirl’s.
I couldn’t help but sigh, smiling as I watched. Dad began swaying his hips in an exaggerated dance move, leading Mum around the kitchen island, their steps clumsy but full of laughter. Their grins stretched wide, and when their eyes met, it was like they were discovering each other anew, falling in love all over again.
Dad threw his head back, laughing loudly enough to fill the room—a laugh I definitely inherited from him. Then he leaned in, pressing tender kisses to Mum’s lips.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, weaving through the dark, curled strands that reminded me of my own, though richer in colour. She drew him closer, guiding him to tilt his head as he welcomed her with much-anticipated kisses.
Dad’s hand shot toward a pancake, soaked in syrup and topped with a big swirl of whipped cream, right as they were whispering and giggling about something. Mum gave him a quick, playful smack on the stomach, laughing as she warned him about the mess he was about to make. He grinned wider, shameless, then wandered over to the sink. He turned the faucet on too strongly, sending water droplets splashing onto his t-shirt. Afterwards, he carefully wiped the syrup off his fingers with a paper towel.
“Good morning, my sweetheart,” he greeted, strolling over to me with an affectionate hand on my shoulder. He pressed a resonant kiss on my forehead, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I’m heading over to Jenkins’ house to help with his new garden,” Dad announced, strolling to the blue fridge to grab two water bottles. Mum rolled her eyes at me, silently telling me that Dad’s plan to visit the Jenkins’ for gardening tips wasn’t exactly new—his excitement had probably been the subject of many whispered late-night talks. Anticipating his hunger long before noon, she’d already packed a lunchbox filled with fruit and snacks. “I’ll be back for lunch,” he added.
As Dad turned, his gaze found Mum, who was leaning against the kitchen countertop, her hip tilted out as she rested one hand on the surface, the other holding a lunch box. “I got married,” he declared with a fond smile as he stepped closer. He took the lunch box from her hand, his fingers brushing hers as he did. “Tothe most incredible woman,” he murmured, his smile widening. “I’m a lucky man.”
Mum’s eyes sparkled with joy as Dad finished their exchange with one last kiss. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he headed toward the front door, throwing a grand wave before shutting it behind him. But not without glancing back at me with a teasing look, making me laugh.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Dad’s voice came through the closed door. “Your sister’s been waiting for you in the car for a while.”
I wiped my mouth, realising something had dribbled down the side of it—probably chocolate syrup or whipped cream. “What?” I sputtered, glancing at the plate. It was empty, and from how spotless it looked, no one would have guessed I’d just devoured a few pancakes.
