I own nothing. Don't sue me.

June 11th, 2009 (Clare is 38, Alba is 8, and 15)

CLARE: I cannot believe that I am doing this. I'm so foolish. This is stupid, but it's too late to talk myself out of it and if I could have, I'd have done so already. I've tried and tried to convince myself not to do this, but once the idea formed in my head, it grabbed on and refused to let go.

I am sitting in the waiting room, with Alba and Alba. Alba, my Alba, this time's Alba, is engrossed in a book. At eight, she is skinny and knee-scraped and smells of thick summer twilights jumping rope on the concrete, of lemonade and Popsicles. At eight, she is also reading To Kill A Mockingbird. I suppose this must mean that at some point, Henry and I did something right.

The other Alba, who at fifteen is my height and whose mess of wavy black hair remains unchanged, is dressed in a pair of Nadia Kendrick's two sizes too large jeans and a t-shirt from a vendor a block over. She is sitting next to me and reassuring me in low tones that this works out fine.

"I'd feel better if I told me this myself, Alba," I inform her, and shudder internally, although I should be used to this sort of confusing jumble of selvage from my husband and daughter. I am, though; I guess it's just using it in reference to myself that's making me jittery. I feel like I suppose Henry felt, before he time traveled; full of nervous tension and as if I am at war with my own skin. Given the fact that I'm about to be injected with the DNA of a time-traveler, this is making me considerably more nervous, which in turn makes me more nervous…

I try to put this out of my mind and focus on the future incarnation of my daughter. If I dwelled on this, I would begin to think desperately old thoughts about how quickly they grow up, so I don't.

"So, Alba," I say, and both girls look up, the girl of my own time quickly going back to her book when she sees I am looking at her older self, "How's school?"

"Mom," she rolls her eyes. "You're changing the subject. You always do that."

"I do?" I ask, mostly just for something to say.

"You do," Alba, age eight, confirms.

"You're going to be fine," adds fifteen-year-old Alba. She stops talking as a young couple exits Dr. Kendrick's office, the woman quite obviously pregnant. Old memories stir and ache. That is why I'm doing this. I remind myself. Henry, I'm not waiting for you anymore. I can't wait for you anymore. I'm not Penelope, I'm not just going to sit here and knit. I'm finding you, damn it, I'm finding you, whenever you are, now.

"Aw, how sweet," the woman says to my Albas. "The two of you could be twins. You're just absolutely identical!" She beams at me. "What beautiful children you have!" I smile broadly at her. "Thank you," I say. The moment they have gone through the doors, the three of us burst into laughter. Dr. Kendrick emerges from his office and grins.

"The resemblance is absolutely uncanny, isn't it?" he remarks wryly.

"Just wait until I come younger," fifteen-year old Alba replies. "It's absolutely incredible." She hugs me quickly. "I think I'm going, Mom-" and vanishes from my arms with a small pop.

I sigh.

"Clare. Are you sure?" asks Dr. Kendrick.

"Since in seven years I can time travel, apparently so," I answer. He peers at me.

"Have you seen yourself?"

"No…" I trail off. "I don't know how it'll work, exactly. But since Alba still exists in 2016 and I time travel, it can't destroy the fate of the universe or anything, can it?"

Alba's head pops up from her book.

"I might not exist?"

"No, honey," I assure her. "You just saw yourself. Daddy's seen you. Of course you will." She sets her book down on her chair and plops herself onto my lap.

"And you'll be okay, too?" she enquires earnestly. "And you'll see Daddy?"

"Yes. And I hope so." It would not be good if that didn't work out.

"So…you'll be happy, right?" Alba asks innocently.

"I am happy, Alba," I assure her, only half-lying. "But yes, I would be happier if I could see Daddy, too." I put on a falsely stern face. "I need to discuss with him all that junk food he's been letting you eat, and all those late nights."

Alba giggles. "He can't help what time he shows up," she points out. I sigh.

"I know, Alba, I know."

Alba gets a distressed look on her pointed little face- a miniature of Henry's, done in freckled ivory- "Mommy!" she cries, and disappears, leaving a small pair of jeans and an Art Institute t-shirt featuring Monet's Water Lilies in a heap beside the clothes of her older self. My arms stay as if wrapped around Alba, and I stare at the place Alba was just seconds ago.

"Damn," I say, surprised to find that I am nearly crying. After almost three years of this with Alba, and about twenty eight, all told, with Henry, I should be used to it, to the sudden emptiness, but I'm not.

So I stand, brush off my clothes, and prepare to learn how to disappear.