The Clock Hands I Couldn't Turn Back

I pulled my father's watch from a box of books and old bills, and the second hand didn't move. For a moment, I was back in our kitchen, listening to him tap that same watch against the counter while he waited for the coffee to drip. He had worn it every day until the storm took him. Its scratched steel face was too small for his wrist, and the leather strap had softened to the shape of his skin. The hands pointed to 8:17. "Keep it or toss it?" Mom called from the hallway. I stood in the middle of the house where I'd grown up, surrounded by half-filled boxes and the smell of packing tape. Mom had decided to sell the place before winter. I'd come back to help sort through the things neither of us wanted to admit we'd saved. "Keep it," I said. Mom appeared in the doorway, a roll of tape looped over her wrist. Her silver hair was clipped back, and she wore the same blue cardigan she'd worn to Dad's funeral. "You sure?" I turned the watch over. The back was engraved with his initials and a date I knew by heart. "I'm sure." She nodded, as if that settled something, then went back to the hall. I hadn't been home for more than a weekend in years. I lived two states away, had a job I could do from anywhere, and had arranged my life around not passing the old bridge on the way into town. That was an exaggeration, technically. I'd passed it twice. Both times, I'd watched the river until my hands went numb on the steering wheel. The watch went into my pocket. I kept sorting until the afternoon light faded and Mom left to meet the realtor. By then, I was tired enough to mistake exhaustion for peace. In the bedroom that had been mine at seventeen, I set the watch on the nightstand. The room was nearly empty. A pale rectangle on the wall marked where my posters had once hung. There was still a small dent in the closet door from the night I'd kicked it after June and I fought. I had spent eighteen years pretending the fight was the worst thing that happened that day. I fell asleep before I could finish the thought. A phone rang beside my head. I woke, grabbed for it, and knocked the watch to the floor. My hand was smaller than I remembered. My nails were painted dark purple, chipped at the edges. The room was not empty anymore. My posters were on the wall. A pile of laundry covered the chair. My old alarm clock showed 6:12 a.m. I stared at my hand. Then the phone rang again. "Hello?" "Nora?" My father's voice came through the receiver. "You awake?" My throat closed. "Dad?" He laughed. "That's generally how phones work." I sat up so fast the room tilted. His voice was rough with sleep and familiar enough to break me open. I pressed my free hand against my mouth. "Are you there?" he asked. "What day is it?" A pause. "Thursday. August eighteenth. Why?" The watch lay on the carpet beside the bed. I reached down, fingers shaking, and picked it up. The hands pointed to 8:17. My father kept talking. I barely heard him until he said, "June's leaving today, right? Your mom said she might need a ride to the bus station." "I don't know." "You two okay?" "No." He waited. I could picture him standing in the kitchen, coffee mug in one hand, watch on his wrist. "You want to tell me about it?" I looked out the window. The sky was bright, but dark clouds gathered over the water. By late afternoon, the storm would come in hard from the coast. I remembered every version of the day I had tried to bury: June's suitcase by the porch, my father's keys, my own angry voice. The crash. The hospital call. "I want you to stay home," I said. "Okay," he replied. "But I haven't said I was leaving." "You will." Another pause. "Nora, what's going on?" I could tell him about the watch. About being thirty-five one minute and seventeen the next. About the bridge and the call that ended my childhood. He'd think I was ill, and he'd be right. "Please," I said. "Just promise me you won't drive anywhere tonight." "I can't promise that before I know what's happening." The clock on my nightstand clicked forward, second by second. I gripped the watch until its edges pressed into my palm. "I'm asking you." "I hear you," Dad said. "I'm coming home after work. We'll talk then." The call ended. I sat in the quiet room, the watch cold in my hand, and watched the second hand move.