We Made It to the Merge! Now What?" And then another, from _Fantasy_ , February 2004, which was headed, _The Mating Game_ and contained this article: "How to Take Your Woman on a Real Date." I turned the pages, reading as rapidly as I could. Suddenly, I came to the page that I was looking for. I took a deep breath. I was going to have to read this page in its entirety, word for word, and figure out what was happening. But I knew this one wasn't an assignment—it was my own, personal journal, a history of our relationship. I had written it myself. I read the first part, then skipped to the last paragraph, which read: "And if you ask me, she's just being cruel. And for my own part, I do believe she is truly in love with that guy I see all the time—Mr. Mysterious. I don't know. I just don't know." I stared at the page, transfixed by the way this article seemed to reflect what was happening in the pages of my own journal. I looked away, and it wasn't long before I was reading the words on the page again. _We made it to the_ , and again I closed the book. Now I knew it. It was a date. It was a date that had happened a long time ago, a date that had made something happen that I hadn't expected. I would never have imagined that it would all come to an end when I was eleven, but that's when the end had begun, and I wondered whether it had always been inevitable, like the beginning. And now, it had come to this, and there were no more dates in my future. I didn't know how to process what had happened, so instead I took a deep breath and turned the page. The pages were all filled with journal entries, dating back to the very first entry: _January 11, 1971_ Dear Diary, I have decided to start keeping a journal, after a long period of thinking about it. I am, of course, afraid that it will be too good, and that no one will believe me. I am sure it won't be so, and I have decided to start right out by writing the story of my life. It is my hope that this journal will help me in the future. I have only just begun to live, and it seems likely that I will want to continue to do so. When I get back home after being alone for four years, I know that I won't want to waste this time by being a nerd and not doing anything. So, as I'm a new girl, I should start as early as possible, by writing this entry, telling myself and my future family that I have got to find time to do this again. And when I get older, I'll hopefully do so. And so the first entry went, and my life as an eleven-year-old began. After that, the page was filled with day-by-day accounts of my life as a girl, the life of a young girl. I had the journal for four years, but in four years, things happened that changed the course of my life. ## **EIGHTEEN** **T** he next morning, I went to school in a fog. I did my homework, barely. I didn't even bring my history book. I didn't bring it in because I knew that I wouldn't be able to concentrate. I put it in my backpack and walked home, sitting in the bus and not paying attention to anything that happened. At home, I sat at the kitchen table with my history book open, and a cup of tea on the table in front of me. I wasn't planning on doing any schoolwork, but I was curious about the assignment. I had told Mr. Kinnally that I wasn't taking the course, so when I read it, I was going to ask him what this could possibly have to do with the book I was supposed to have read in my own free time. I opened my book to page one, looked for the words _Diary, Diary_ , and saw, instead, _Fancy Frills_ , and wondered what could possibly be in an "American History of Frills." I leafed through the book, looking at pictures of women wearing enormous hats and men in suits, or women in bonnets that covered their entire faces. And then I saw a picture of a woman's face, a full-length picture of a woman with straight dark hair, and, on the next page, her name: Emily Dane. Emily Dane was mentioned in this book! I looked at the date on the page: "June 23, 1899." In my brain, I made the connection: Emily Dane was the person who had been killed by the runaway horse. I remembered the news story that was on the evening news a few months after the accident, and then I remembered going to her funeral, and being sad because they put her in the ground so quickly. And then I thought about what she had said to me, that she was buried alive. I tried to remember what Emily Dane's sister, Miss Dane, looked like. I tried to think of an exact description of her. I tried, and I tried, and I tried. I tried for a very long time, but I couldn't picture it. My vision was a blank white space, like staring at a blank computer screen. I felt my eyes grow heavy, as if I was getting drowsy, and even as I closed my book, I knew that what I had remembered—the story of Emily Dane—was about to disappear. **THAT EVENING, I WAS** in bed with Alison. We were kissing, and the thought of how we could all go back, to an empty house, just the two of us, kissing each other, was too much. I broke away, sat up, looked down at Alison, and told her what I had learned that morning in history. "I want to go back," I said. "I want to go back to when we first got together." Alison smiled, then put her hand on my cheek, moving it down to my shoulder, and kissed me on the shoulder. "I know," she said. "I know what you mean." "I feel like we'll never have a life," I said. "I feel like we're living in the future." "Well, if that's what you want, then we'll do it," Alison said. "But maybe we should start back at the beginning." "I think the beginning is gone," I said, "or I think it will be gone if we have to go back to it." "Maybe if you have a good rest tonight, you'll feel better in the morning." "Yeah, I probably will," I said, and I leaned over to kiss her. I kissed her for a long time, and then she pulled away, looked at me. "This was a bad idea," she said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have." I pulled her closer. "It's okay," I said. "It's okay." We kissed again, and when we pulled apart, we looked down at the ground, then up at the ceiling. "I'm so glad that this place is only temporary," she said. "And that it will eventually be over. I'm sorry." "I'll be gone tomorrow." "Don't say that," Alison said. "That's not going to happen." "I know," I said, "and I'm sorry." Alison's hand was on my shoulder, and I leaned my head against hers. She held my hand in hers, and we sat there and watched TV. ## **NINETEEN** **T** he next day, I took a walk to the old railroad station. It was a long way from school, but I went anyway. I had tried to sleep, but I had been up before the sun that morning. In the hall, it was all anyone was talking about. They all thought that Emily Dane had a thing for him, or him for her. He supposedly had something he was going to show us in history class, or was planning to show us, but he never did. But Alison's best friend thought that Emily Dane had a thing for me, and so she had tried to let me know that she knew. I didn't care if Emily Dane liked me or not. She was dead, and nothing I could do about it was going to change that. I had slept for a little while last night, but it was only a few hours. It wasn't nearly long enough. Ahead of me was the old railroad station, the same station where my mother and I had visited ten years ago. A crowd of tourists milled about, all taking pictures, with and without cameras. The place felt empty. My eyes took a long time adjusting to the light. When they did, I looked around and was finally able to see the place properly. The tracks led out onto the prairie, and all around the station, there were fields of tall grass. The station itself was a little rectangle, built from gray stone. Its tall windows had long since disappeared. The inside