October 13, 2013
FEMA Relief Camp
Tillamook, Oregon
For all the times people told me I wasn't going to amount to anything, I bet they never thought I'd end up living in an actual refugee camp. I mean, it's actually a 'relief centre'. And sure, I could leave anytime I wanted to. But I think saying I spent time 'living in a refugee camp' sounds kinda badass, so I'm sticking with that.
Besides, whatever people want to call it, it sure looks like a refugee camp. Just rows and rows of white tents set up in the fields around the local high school. Long walkways made of wooden pallets run between them, keeping my boots out of the churned mud that a thousand feet very quickly turned the ground into. So much for football season. Sorry, Tillamook Junior High.
I gotta hand it to those FEMA guys, though; they work hella fast. The storm hit Arcadia Bay at 8am, spent about an hour ripping the whole town to shreds, and then it was just gone. Me, Max, and Victoria emerged from the bunker at about 10:30 to find blue skies and not much else. Almost all of the trees had been torn up, laying flat all around us, like a gigantic lawn mower had just rolled right over our heads. The barn, Jefferson's Bentley, Nathan's truck – all of it was gone.
It was pretty scary. For me, at least. Max and Victoria had seen it all before. It wasn't until a few hours later that it occurred to me; even if my truck had made it to the barn, there's no way it would've survived the storm. It'd been doomed one way or another. In a weird way, I was glad I had the chance to part ways with it on my own terms, instead of coming up to find it gone.
Cell reception was long gone (probably because the tower was, too) so the three of us made our way to Tillamook on foot. That fucking sucked. The part of the highway closest to us was covered in fallen trees, and it took us an hour and a half to make it as far as Hobson Point.
We'd been exhausted by the time we'd reached the edge of the storm's path, and I never thought I'd have been so relieved to see the National Guard. The three of us got tossed in the back of an ambulance and driven right into town. It was a ten-minute drive, but I think we were all asleep in the first two and we woke up to find the FEMA camp already up and running.
If I paid taxes, I'd be happy to see them being put to good use.
I'd love to say that the first thing we did was find our families and have a great big tearful reunion, but that's not what happened. The three of us had some shit to work out first.
After we got out of the ambulance, all three of us headed to the nearest liquor store. The dude working there was chill as fuck, too. He took one look at us – tired, dirty, and pretty much entirely out of fucks to give - and asked if we were from Arcadia Bay. We said yeah, and he just nodded and said we looked twenty-one to him.
Then we got a room at the nearest hotel (Victoria might've changed into Future Victoria, but she still had Original Recipe Victoria's purse and the credit cards inside it) and finally let loose with all the shit we've been bottling up. Once we got started, everything came spilling out. We spent the rest of the day (and a good part of the night) drinking, talking, crying, laughing, screaming at each other, apologizing, consoling, hugging it out, and then drinking some more.
I learned about almost all of the 'red lights' Max had been keeping from me. Some of them weren't as bad as I thought they'd be, others were way worse, but for a couple of them I gave in to Max's begging and let her keep them to herself.
She flat-out refused to tell either of us what happened to Jefferson, though, and no amount of demanding, cajoling, wheedling, or guilt-tripping could get her to change her mind. All she'd say is that it was her nightmare, and she wasn't going to share it with anyone.
Victoria had some stuff to say about Rachel, but I had some stuff to say about Nathan, too. I'm pretty sure that if Max hadn't been there, we both would've started throwing punches. Max was right about her, though. To my shock and fucking horror, I do like her. I actually do think we're gonna be pretty good friends.
The next morning I woke up in the bathtub with a sore back and the absolute worst hangover I've ever had in my life, but I still couldn't stop smiling. For the first time in fucking forever, I wasn't a little bit disappointed to find myself back in my own life. I actually felt hope.
Once I woke up Vic (curled up in an armchair) and Max (sprawled out on the floor beside the untouched bed), we went back out into the world and finally got in touch with our worried (and pretty pissed off) families. They'd all made it out safely.
Max's parents had made it to one of the emergency muster points in Wheeler, along with Mom, and hadn't made it down to Tillamook for another 24 hours. Max wasn't exactly pumped to explain things to them, and I don't really blame her. It's one thing to get caught up in time travel bullshit, and another to be the cause of it. She's supposed to be talking with them now, though. I'll be meeting her right after.
Victoria told her mom and dad the truth as soon as she saw them, but she pretty much had to. They'd seen OG Victoria the day before the storm, and forty-eight hours later she'd aged two years. Along with her big-time attitude adjustment, they were actually pretty easy to convince. They'd mostly just been happy she was safe, right up until she confessed what she'd done to Kate Marsh.
Holy shit, did those smiles vanish in a hurry. Me and Max made ourselves scarce after that. I'm pretty sure she's planning to go talk to Kate today, and that's probably gonna suck.
As for me? Well, even though Douche-vid spent the whole storm running around with his phone turned off, somehow I'm the bad guy for not immediately answering his many, many calls. He'd headed up to Barnesdale during the storm, along with a bunch of people from Blackwell, and he'd actually made it down to Tillamook before Mom did. He'd started looking for me (unaware that I was sleeping it off in a hotel room) and had himself a nice little freak-out when he couldn't find me.
After Mom got here, the two of them spent a couple hours getting each other even more amped up about it. So much that by the time I did get in touch with them, they both yelled enough that I didn't feel like sharing any more than I had to. And even if El Dickbag Supreme already knows the score, he's not going to say shit unless he knows I'll back him up.
Which I will, eventually. I'm just waiting for the right moment to bring it up. And whatever Max might think, that isn't the same thing as stalling.
Finally reaching the tent we've been calling home for the last twenty-four hours or so, I shoulder past the entrance flap and immediately recognize the tinny sound of the small radio Mom had in the car when she finally left town with Max's mom and dad.
"...and although NOAA officials have refused to comment on the actions of Clifford Matheson, the lone meteorologist staffing the Bayview weather monitoring station during the night of the storm, or on the seemingly unfounded emergency weather SMS he transmitted on an otherwise clear night, there can be no doubt that his decision to do so saved over a thousand lives.
"Matheson's impromptu AM broadcasts, which he dubbed Radio Free NOAA, have since gained viral fame. Both the NOAA office in Portland and the agency headquarters in Washington D.C. have been inundated with calls, e-mails, and even protestors demanding that Matheson be cleared of any charges of wrongdoing, even though no such charges have been brought forth.
"Meanwhile, the Federal Emergency Management Agency is on-site to offer care and support to Arcadia Bay's displaced residents. The relief camp, located in the nearby town of Tillamook, Oregon, was assembled and operational less than six hours after the storm had passed. FEMA's quick response to the disaster stands as a testament to the major reforms and restructuring the agency has undergone since Hurricane Katrina.
"Tragically, not all residents heeded the warning, instead choosing to try weathering the storm in their homes. Although the exact number of dead had yet to be determined, current estimates are..."
"Ugh. Turn that stupid thing off," I grumble, dropping the big paper bag I've had tucked under one arm onto my cot. Fucking news bastards. Bad enough that they're swarming all over the camp looking for the next hard-hitting interview; I don't need to listen to them spout it all back at me, too.
Mom spares me a brief glance. "I'm listening."
"Listening to what? It's been two days and they've just been repeating the same shit over and over." I drop into the folding lawn chair I found yesterday, scowling at the radio. "I mean, isn't there anything else happening in the country right now?"
"The entire town just got wiped off the map, sweetheart," she says sadly, as if I need to be reminded. "As far as the media is concerned, nothing else is happening anywhere right now."
"She's right, Chloe," David chimes in, like he always fucking does. "Twenty-four-hour news channels live for this kind of thing."
"Fucking vultures," I mutter as I pull a cardboard food container out of the bag and hand it to Mom; David's just gets tossed on the cot next to him. Opening my own, I scowl at the mediocre-looking bologna sandwich inside. "Is this the best they can do? I don't pay taxes so the government can feed me this crap."
"Since when do you pay taxes?" David asks, smirking. Even though I was thinking the same thing just five minutes ago, I still consider telling him to go eat a dick. The only thing that stops me is something Max told me about the first timeline, about how David reacted when he learned that I'd been killed. After all the shit he's put me through, I can barely wrap my head around the idea that he actually cares about me. If it'd come from anyone other than Max, I'd have called bullshit in a second.
Considering that, and after everything that's happened, getting in a fight with David just feels like a waste of time. And now that I'm thinking about it, this is probably as good a time as any to tell them what's going to happen next.
"So, I'm getting out of here," I say, and Mom gives me an exasperated look.
"Oh, for goodness sake, Chloe. If it bothers you that much, I'll switch it off." She twists the radio's volume dial until it clicks. "There. Better?"
"No, I mean I'm leaving. With Max, first thing tomorrow."
"Leaving?" She blinks, like the word doesn't quite make sense.
"Yeah, leaving. As in, going to somewhere that isn't here, and then not coming back."
"W-what?" she stammers. "Sweetheart, you can't just leave."
"I sure can."
"But...why?"
"Why not? It's not like I've got anywhere else to be. The house is gone, David's job is a bunch of scattered bricks and yours exploded."
"I know that, but..." She shrugs helplessly. "I'm sure we'll figure something out."
"I already did. And it's me and Max, leaving together."
"Where will you go?" For a woman with a nineteen-year-old daughter, she's having a lot of trouble with the idea of that daughter moving away. "What will you do for money?"
"I'm sure we'll figure something out," I answer, smirking a little. Honestly, I've got no idea what we'll do. I know the medical bills are going to add up fast, but I also know I can't stay here anymore. Victoria said she had an idea, but she was pretty tight-lipped about the details.
"Chloe..."
"Joyce," David interrupts. "Would you mind giving Chloe and I a moment alone?"
Oh, fuck my life. I swear to god, if Douche-vid tries to drop some bullshit fatherly wisdom or something, I might actually throw something at him. If he tries to strongarm me into staying, I'll definitely throw something at him.
"I...alright," Mom nods, a little hesitantly. "I'll be right outside, though."
I don't bother watching her leave, fixing El Douche with an unimpressed look. "If you're gonna try to change my mind, you might as well save your breath."
"I'm not." Well, there's a plot twist for you. "There's just someone I thought you ought to know about before you go."
"And who's that?"
"Private First-Class Chester Patrick Munroe." He says, and as soon as the name leaves his mouth he looks like he wants to take it back and walk away. "Good kid. Good soldier, too. He was about your age, joined up right out of high school. He just wanted to serve his country."
"Uh...okay."
He sighs. "You ever heard of 'Don't Ask Don't Tell'?"
I've heard the name before. Something to do with gay people in the Army, I think. "Pretend I haven't."
"The official title is Defense Directive 1304.26, and it was a bullshit half-assed policy pushed through by a cowardly administration. It said that gay people could serve in the military as long as they didn't openly state they were gay." He shakes his head. "Basically, homosexuals were only allowed to wear a uniform as long as they stayed in the closet. And while the Army wasn't allowed to ask if someone was gay, if they admitted it themselves then they got discharged."
"I'm guessing ol' Chester was gay?"
"Yes, he was. He was also from an extremely conservative family and was struggling with a lot of internalized homophobia. Poor kid had himself all tied up in knots about it." He hesitates. "So he did exactly what soldiers are told to do if they've got a problem. He went to talk to his Sergeant."
"Lemme guess. That was you."
"That was me. And I..." He looks down and actually seems ashamed. "I did what I was supposed to do. I reported him to the chain of command."
I'm on my feet in a heartbeat. "You fucking what?!"
"I'm not proud of it, Chloe. If I could take it back, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I'm not making any excuses for myself, but..." He takes a second to collect his thoughts. "Do you remember when I told you about my friend, Phil Becker? About how he was killed by an IED?"
"Yeah. So?"
"The Army has procedures in place for overseas operations. Rules that soldiers are supposed to follow in order to minimize those kinds of risks. Things like proper route reconnaissance, defensive postures, responses to suspected devic-"
"So?" I interrupt. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
"Thing is, those rules get pretty old after a while. Especially in places like Iraq and Afghanistan, when you're already exhausted, and those rules are the only thing standing between you and a shower. It gets easy to justify cutting corners. That's what happened the day Phil got killed, and after that I got a little...militant...about doing things by the book."
I roll my eyes, because seriously? "No shit."
For a second he looks like he's about to snap back at me, then he looks down again. "The rules said that if a soldier disclosed that he was gay, it gets reported and they get discharged. Simple as that." He swallows heavily. "It was supposed to be about unit cohesion. Soldiers' effectiveness as a team."
"What?" I snort. "Can't get any killing done if people like me are around gaying up the place?"
"I...I wish I could say it was more complicated than that, but it wasn't. When all was said and done, Don't Ask Don't Tell was institutionalized discrimination, just like every single regulation like it. It took me a long time – too long – to see it for the bullshit it was."
"So, what? You got Chester kicked out of the Army?"
He clenches his fists and I force myself not to flinch. "I don't know if it was the notice itself or if he just couldn't bear the idea of going back to his family, but the day Munroe found out he was being dishonorably discharged, he went back to his barracks room and shot himself. The last thing he said to me that day was 'I really thought you'd have my back, Sarge'.
"I got out of the Army not long after. I came back to Arcadia Bay to try and start over, but the past is a tough thing to shake." It's like he has to force himself to look me in the eye. "I didn't pull the trigger, Chloe, but I may as well have. And I'm going to have to live with that for the rest of my life."
"So...what? Am I supposed to feel bad for you now?"
His brow furrows, like he's confused by the response. "Excuse me?"
"What happened to that guy is all kinds of shitty, but do you really expect any sympathy from me? If it weren't for Rachel, Chester's suicide wouldn't have been the only one you were responsible for."
"What do you mean?"
Un-fucking-believable. Apparently he needs it spelled out for him. Does he honestly not realize that he almost did the same thing to me? "You came into my life like you owned it. Your shit started appearing one day, and suddenly pictures of my dad were coming off the walls."
He scowls at me, like I've somehow fucking offended him. "Now, I never aske-"
"Stop," I interrupt. "I listened to you, now you listen to me."
"...fine."
"You were an angry, chauvinistic hardass to me from day one. You and my mom had only been on, like, five dates before you started trying to 'set me straight'. I lost my father and my best friend in the same week, and you thought you knew how fix that?"
He opens his mouth to say something, but I manage to silence him with a glare.
"Here's a question for you, David," I continue. "Can you think of a single time you were nice to me – just fucking nice to me – when Mom wasn't in the room? Because I can't."
"I..." I can see him racking his brain for an example. He seems surprised when he comes up empty. I'm not.
"Exactly. What you did – what you called 'tough love' – was shout at me, and belittle me, and treat me like I was a fucking failure just for being the person I was. I had to live like that for a year before I met Rachel. A fucking year, never knowing what was going to set you off next. Do you really think I never considered ending it?"
"Chloe, I..."
"I had the fucking razorblade in my hand when Rachel talked me down. It was a few hours after I told my own mother that her new husband had hit me. You remember that? I was sixteen years old. I had a black eye that you gave me, and you just stood there while she told me not to make up stories. I wanted to kill you for that, but figured it'd be easier to just kill myself."
"I...I said I was sor-"
"Don't you fucking dare," I snarl. "You always said you were sorry. You always said it'd never happen again, and it always fucking did. Well, if you're gonna say it now, you'd better mean it." I lean in. "Because I swear to god, if you ever touch me again, I'll gouge your fucking eyes out with my bare hands."
For a second, he actually has the goddamn fucking audacity to look a little amused. "I doub-"
"Or I'll just let Max take care of you," I add, and his jaw actually snaps shut. He's got no idea Max's powers might actually be gone, and I'm in no rush to tell him. "She bent reality in half to save me from myself. What do you think she'd do to you?"
I lean back again, giving him a second to think on that before I continue.
"Now, I don't know about you, but I'm pretty fucking tired of this whole...thing." I gesture between us. "Which is why I'm willing to try starting over with some new rules."
"Is that right?"
"Yeah. It is. And don't worry; there's only three of them."
He grunts but doesn't say anything. Army-boy can be quiet. Who knew?
"First of all, you are not my father, and you never, ever will be. I don't answer to you in any way, so you don't get to dictate any part of how I live my life, ever. Got it?" I wait for him to nod. "Second, you'll get exactly as much respect from me as you give. Act like a piece of shit, get treated like a piece of shit."
He frowns again, then sighs, looking away. "I suppose I can't argue with that."
"No, you can't. Finally," I jab a finger at him. "If I hear you've raised your hand to my mother one fucking time – if I even suspect it - I will end you. No mercy. No second chance. Just a stain on the fucking wall. You understand me?"
I see the brief surge of indignance in his eyes and I silently dare him to say he'd 'never do something like that', but he's not that stupid. There've been too many fights between the two of us over the years, and too many times that he let his temper take over. He hasn't got a leg to stand on here. He knows it, and I know it.
"...understood."
"Don't test me, David. You'll lose."
He gives me another sharp nod and, for once, precisely none of the bullshit attitude I'm used to.
"Alright then," I finish, standing. "Good talk."
He looks like he's still got more to say, but I'm out of the tent before he can say it. I give Mom a nod on my way by. "Don't worry, we didn't kill each other."
"Chloe, wait."
I sorta want to ignore her and keep walking, but she's still my mom. Just because I'm leaving doesn't mean I want to leave on bad terms. "Yeah?"
She blinks, surprised. I don't think she actually expected me to stop. "I just...can we talk about this? Please?"
I think she knows that she can't change my mind, but I guess there's no harm in letting her feel like she tried. "Look, I've got somewhere else to be right now, but..."
"Chloe..."
"But I'll be back later tonight. We can talk about it over shitty ham sandwiches, okay?"
"Thank you, sweetheart."
She looks so relieved; it almost makes me feel bad. I wonder how thankful she'll be at breakfast tomorrow when I drop the cancer and time travel bombs on her at the last minute. Preferably while Max is waiting outside in our shitty $1800 used car with the engine running.
October 13, 2013
Starbucks Coffee
Tillamook, Oregon
"Starbucks just doesn't taste as good here as it does in Seattle."
"...you think you're a time traveler?"
"I mean, I know saying that makes me sound like the worst kind of hipster, but it really doesn't."
"Max, please..."
"Maybe it's the beans? Like, what it they have some secret coffee bean reserve that only goes to Seat-"
"Stop talking about your damn coffee, Maxine!"
As much as I want to snap back, I force myself not to. Someone here needs to keep their cool and from the way Mom and Dad are glaring at me, I don't think it's going to be either of them. Taking a slow sip, I place my coffee cup down and give Dad a decidedly unimpressed look. "First of all, it's rude to shout in public."
"I beg your pard-" Dad starts, but I cut him off.
"Second, don't think for one instant that I won't walk right out of here if you do it again." It breaks my heart to see how hurt they are at the threat.
I hate having to act this way. It's why I've been avoiding (hiding from) them for the last twenty-four hours. I even went as far as to crash in Victoria's motel room, just because Mom & Dad wouldn't think to look for me there.
I wish that talking to them could be as easy as talking to Chloe had been, but if that phone call on the morning of the storm showed me anything, it's that I need to keep control of the conversation. Unfortunately, that means that 'nice' Max might need to let 'hardass' Max take the wheel a few times.
It also means not throwing up from anxiety, but so far, so good.
"Now, let's get the basics out of the way. Yes, I'm a time traveler. No, this isn't a joke or a prank. No, I don't expect you to believe me right away. Yes, I can prove it."
"Oh, can you now?" Mom asks, skeptically. She's definitely got her lawyer face on now; she wants facts and evidence.
"Sure can," I reply, smirking my smirkiest smirk. "Tell me, how long does a tattoo take to heal?"
"I..." Her stern expression falters; that's obviously not something she was expecting. "What?"
"How long does it take for a tattoo to heal?" I repeat. "You've got three, don't you?"
Her cheeks turn a little red. "Only two, Max."
"No, it's three," I correct. Too bad only one of us remembers that particular mother/daughter heart-to-heart conversation. It was pretty enlightening. Wine may have been involved. "The butterfly on your left hip that you got in high school, the raven on your right shoulder blade from your first year of college, and then there's the one on your-"
"Alright!" she shouts. Ducking down in her seat, she glances around furtively. Even Dad looks a little startled. "When did you see..."
"I've never actually seen it," I reassure her, adding, "Thank god."
She looks pretty relieved to hear that, and I don't blame her. "Then how do you know about it?"
"The same way I know about that little fling you had the summer after college. You know, while you were backpacking in Europe?"
"You mean Charlie?" Dad asks, unimpressed. "You'll have to do better than knowing about one of your mom's ex-boyfriends."
"Right." I nod, not looking away from Mom. "Charlie."
I see it on her face a half-second later; she knows I know. Pretending to scratch my nose, I move a hand so Dad can't see me silently mouth the name 'Charlotte'. Mom's eyes go as wide as saucers and her blush goes into overdrive.
"Honey?" Dad gives her a concerned look. "Are you alright?"
"Anyway," I jump in, earning a brief, grateful look from Mom. "How long does a tattoo take to completely heal?"
"I...I don't know." She shrugs. "About a month and a half?"
"And the last time you two saw me in person was about five weeks ago, right?" They nod. Holding out my arm, I roll my wrist over and tug my sleeve up a few inches. "Well, does this look freshly healed?"
"...that's a tattoo."
"So it is."
"Max..." She hesitates, glancing at Dad. "Sweetie, that's a pride tattoo."
"Mhm."
"Why do you have a pride tattoo?" Dad murmurs, staring at my wrist.
"I dunno. I just thought it was pretty." I leave them hanging for a second, because at least one of us should be enjoying this conversation. "Oh, and because I'm gay. That's probably what you meant."
"...oh."
"Is that a problem?"
"No!" Dad practically shouts.
"Of course not!" Mom agrees, quickly.
"I just..." He looks like he's searching for the right words. "I guess I thought coming out to your parents was supposed to be a bigger deal?"
"Oh, it was. I was all nerves, but you guys were really cool about it."
"What? When?"
"Thanksgiving."
"You didn't say anything on Thanksgiving."
"Next Thanksgiving." I'm laying it on pretty thick, but I really need this to land.
"As in, almost two months from now?"
"For you. Almost two years ago for me," I pause, glad I took some time to rehearse earlier. This is working just like I hoped it would. The longer I can keep them off-balance, the better. "Though to be fair, you already knew I was gay when I 'came out' so it's not like I surprised you or anything."
"We did?"
"You saw us making out at the mall." I shrug. "It was a whole thing."
Dad goes from bewildered to stern(ish) in a heartbeat. "And exactly who was the other half of 'us'?"
"Chloe."
And he's back to bewildered. They both are. This is actually kinda fun.
"Chloe...Price?" Mom asks, slowly.
"Yup."
"You're...you and Chloe are...?"
"Mhm." I nod.
"How long? I mean, when did this start?"
"For me? Since next Halloween." I pause. "About four days ago for her. The hazards of time travel."
"Max, I..." She looks away for a second, and I see her eyes harden a little. Damn it. I almost had her, but now she's gone back to 'thinking rationally'. It's funny; Mom is one of the smartest people I know but looking at things logically doesn't always help in the wide world of time travel. "Sweetheart, it doesn't matter whether you're gay or straight or have a tattoo. We love you no matter what. You don't need to make up stories."
So she's not going to take my word for it? Fine. That's what backup plans are for.
"What about this?" Reaching up, I tug the borrowed beanie off my head and watch my parents' jaws drop when my hair, longer than they've ever seen it, falls past my shoulders. I swear, not cutting my hair was probably one of the smartest choices I could've made. People can explain away a lot of stuff, but there's absolutely no way to convincingly fake two years of hair growth. "Think I'm making this up, too?"
"That's...that can't..." Mom swallows, hesitantly reaching out. I lean in, patiently allowing her to check for extensions or signs of a wig. After a moment she sits back and stares at me, stunned. "You're...you're really telling the truth, aren't you?"
"Yup," I say, absently tying my hair back into a ponytail.
"But...but how?"
"That's a long story, and I think it'd be best if I started from the beginning." The conversation had been kind of fun up till now (for me, at least) but it's time to get serious. "You guys better get comfortable. This is going to take a while."