Part VII: Time Warp 2000’s – Now: Special Delivery: #2 (Chapter 100)

December 31, 2001, 4:24 p.m.

New Year’s Eve. A year after Kaitlyn’s prediction.

My last workout of the year.

Sad.

Why, I’m not sure – maybe because I fear 2002, the direction it may take.

This year has been no picnic.

Exactly one year ago, my life changed forever.

Who knows what additional unforeseen catastrophic events this night may bring?

Beginning with Nicole’s wedding?

No, I can’t think like that – I have never seen my girl happier.

The Winnehaha Pavilion, that sacred place where my own journey began so many years ago...

I’m happy for her and Arianna, though a bit anxious too.

They’ll be okay – they obviously adore each other – but I worry how they’ll fare as a lesbian couple in rural Pennsylvania, how my granddaughter will handle having two moms.

Kaitlyn, thank God, is a tough, resilient girl –

That when Nana died, her spirit whooshed out of the old woman’s body and entered Nicole’s womb, breathing into the baby O’Toole women-folk strength.

I snap on my sports bra, Danskin top, bicycle pants, socks, and running shoes.

Slender this year.

I could justify skipping today, but I’m determined to put in at least one hour of treadmill, even on Sal’s rickety machine, just to prove that there are no holidays from fitness and good health.

It’s important to maintain my fitness, especially if I decide...well, I don’t really want to think about Candy Halloran and her problems, not tonight, anyway.

Sheldon wonders why I’m being so obsessive about the treadmill.

How can I make him understand that I must keep running, if only to keep excess fat off my bones, my body primed and toned for the possible marathon ahead? Shel’s against my giving Candy the time of day, let alone one of my…., but he cannot decide this for me.

I pop a CD, Universe Sampler 92, into the computer drive, and await the rhythm and Timpani of “Evolutions/Twilight,” by Giles Reaves.

*

As Kaitlyn predicted, the letter arrived one year ago today, almost to the hour.

On New Year’s Eve, a Sunday, it arrived via TimeCycle, a private courier service.

Same Day Sunday Delivery, echoes of the Special Delivery bomb – the announcement of my mother’s pregnancy with Johnny Junior – my stepfather, not yet my stepfather, sent my grandparents back in 1964.

Surprises always seemed to come all dressed up in formality, the trappings of bright color, this time a neon yellow, a playful color – not the haughty red, white, and blue of my youth –

Still, fancy unexpected envelopes usually foreshadowed bad news...

The delivery man, a scary-looking creature who crawled out of a beat-up Toyota Supra (barely containing two large slobbering dogs), didn’t help alleviate my terror.

“Special delivery from Baltimore,” he said, cigarette bobbing up and down, ashes dropping to the ground. He thrust the yellow envelope and a pen at me. “Sign right here.” He tapped impatiently on the signature line.

The dogs in the Supra thumped around, their barks and howls insistent and impatient, barely muffled by the closed windows.

I paused and studied the envelope.

“Don’t worry, lady. I’m legit.” He pulled from his pocket what looked like a trading card and handed it to me. The picture, more or less, matched the man in front of me. Henry, employed by TimeCycle. “See?”

Just as Kaitlyn predicted.

“Okay.” My hand shook as I signed, making sure that it was really addressed to me. It was, but I had no family or close friends in Baltimore, so I couldn’t even imagine.

Who was the sender? Why not deliver this in person?

Baltimore is less than an hour away, probably cheaper for the sender to drive up, slip the thing between the doors, and run like the devil.

Besides, what could be so urgent that I had to read the contents today, not wait until Tuesday?

“I don’t know anyone in Baltimore,” I said to Henry as I took the envelope from him.

My voice must have been shaking because he said, “Don’t worry, it’s not a bomb.”

“It’s just so strange...”

Déjà vu of 9/11.

“Look, I’m sure it’ll be okay. Maybe you ordered something and forgot about it. Happens. Anyway, it’s too light for anything lethal. ‘Sides, we x-ray suspicious packages.”

Only slightly reassured, I gave the man a tip and took the letter inside.

The Supra revved up and took off for its return to Baltimore.

My heart raced as I pulled the tab and reached for the contents.

Just an ordinary letter written on light pink paper, bearing a strange, yet vaguely familiar, hand…