‘Skip’ by Maya Lowy
The machine was quieter than I’d imagined, though in retrospect I wasn’t sure why a steampunk chuff-and-burble type thing was what I’d had in mind. All the other modern technology was silent and touch-responsive, after all. Why should this one be different, just because the dreamers and inventors had been fantasizing about it since the beginnings of time?
‘Know when you’re going, then?’ The middle-aged man who greeted me had the air of a chipper mechanic, crossed with a hotel concierge. Presumably he spent all day, every day, giving old folks like me the chance of a lifetime. He scanned my code and ushered me into a sleek, comfortable booth to finish off the fine print: a couple of air-scribbled signatures, some face IDs, and a confirmation of where and when I wanted to find myself. I guessed I was just like everybody else who had just turned eighty and been offered their OAP benefit of the one free hour in the past: enthusiastic, determined, ready. Truth was it hadn’t taken a lot of rehashing for me to know what I wanted to revisit. Sure, I had regrets in my life, but I knew the visit wouldn’t be able to change anything. I knew, too, that I’d still be my current self on the trip – no wrinkle-free, pain-free, youthful opportunity to relive athleticism, or effortlessly digest rich meals. I’d be my current self, a wizened old lady covered in liver spots, with frail white hair and cloudy eyes. No point in visiting lovers or friends, looking like I did now.
It wasn’t closure I wanted, anyway.
My paperwork was done, my name was called. I was led into the sleek machine. The friendly man punched it all in for me, and I closed my eyes and leaned into the cushions.
I knew before I exited that it had worked – I was back. The air smelled different, like it was made up of different chemicals. The houses looked different, the roads, the cars. A wave of something strange, like nostalgia but far more immediate, crashed through my body. I’d lived in this world once, but not like this – I’d been a girl. This world, it wasn’t made for me as I was now.
The house looked just as it had the first time around. This time, I wasn’t with my parents. If anything, it made me feel even more nervous. But this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I walked to the door and knocked.
I’d forgotten what the woman looked like, but she was instantly familiar – apron, cleft chin, tired eyes, messy bun. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see the puppies.’
She frowned. ‘Did you call ahead? I wasn’t expecting anyone today.’
‘It’s for my granddaughter. She’ll be visiting later in the week,’ I lied.
Looking me over and gauging me harmless, the woman allowed me in. The house smelled like a strange mix of tea, Sunday roast, and dog. The floors were dirty. There were traces of many small children, but none of them seemed to be home.
‘Here they are, then.’ She pointed them out to me. Four pups, no mother. Reportedly, I recalled, they’d been found in a bag on the side of the road. Poor things. They were black and white, painted in broad strokes, except for the runtiest one, the dappled one. My one. Skip.
Trying to play it cool, I stroked all four puppies, cooed to them, let them sniff me. Then I picked up tiny Skip and held him in my arms. He settled right away. I knew the kind of pets he liked – little tugs on his ears, long strokes on his back. You’re my good boy, I whispered to my pup. My very good boy. Yes you are.
Not wanting to draw any unwanted attention, when the woman came back to check on me, I politely left. ‘She’ll love them,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell my son to ring you. Thank you very much.’
I spent the rest of my hour sitting at the park down the road, enjoying the autumn chill, and letting myself remember, really remember, that Wednesday after school when my parents and I had come to meet the puppies. I remembered how little Skip, who would spend his whole life with me, had come swaggering straight over, wagging with his whole body, as if meeting me was a reunion with someone whose smell he already knew, someone who knew the kinds of pets he liked, someone who was an old friend.
From issue #16: autumn/winter 2023
About the Author
Born and raised in Santa Cruz, California, Maya Lowy received her MFA in poetry at the University of New Orleans in 2016 and currently lives in Gloucestershire, UK, with her husband, son, and dog. Her work can be found in Horror Tree, Triggerfish Critical Review, Infection House, and other publications.
