Everything Looks Better in Black and White

Chapter 2
Part 2

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Chapter Description: Memories.

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Early next morning he awoke with a jerk, instantly remembering the problem at hand. He rubbed the blur out of his eyes and stood up, his pajama pants dropping like curtains to the floor. The sleeves had overtaken his arms and hands leaving the cuffs hanging in midair. Neal yelped and made for the bathroom in his floppy, oversized top. Breathing hard, he turned on the light and surveyed the reflection-a child of nine, maybe ten, stood wearing a night shirt that looked more like a gown with a neck hole that hung off his left shoulder. No, no, no, no, no, no! his voice broke into falsetto. He ripped the shirt off, which was an easy task, and gazed down at his diminished essence. No rationale this time; Neal was reduced to a child.

Needing desperately to confide, or explain, his situation to someone outside the house, he decided to sneak out and meet Ryan. He replaced his droopy night shirt and headed down the hall toward the attic. There, he dug out some old clothes from a random pile of used goods, shirts and worn out jeans he barely remembered owning. As he threaded his bare legs through the kid-sized pantlegs, he was shocked at how small he’d become overnight, a fourth grade version of himself all over again. D?j? vu of the worst shade.

Avoiding the stairs that creaked, Neal made his way downstairs and out the front door without arousing any suspicion. Ryan’s house was a couple blocks away, but Neal made good time. When he arrived he found the shades drawn and the door open, but decided to knock anyway, not knowing exactly what he would say.

Ryan’s mom, Marcia, approached the screen door, and looked down.

"Well, hello," she said curiously, her hair shorter than Neal ever remembered it.

"Hi," Neal muttered. Judging from the pause Neal knew she didn’t recognize him. "My name is Neal. I live down the street." He pointed. "And I was just wondering if... um... I could see Ryan."

"You want to see Ryan?"

"Yeah, to visit..."

"Well, I guess so," she said oddly. "Just for a little while. You can come in." She cracked the door and Neal stepped inside. He saw the familiar walls, Monet reprints, wicker chairs - and felt relaxed at the sight, even if Ryan’s mom didn’t remember him. "Ryan is in the den." She led him through the living room, past the window where Neal used to wage laser tag wars, into the kitchen, still as spotless as ever. Marcia walked to the far corner, past the couch, and reached behind it, pulling out a diaper-clad toddler from a playpen.

"He’s been a very good boy today," Marcia said, bouncing the infant up and down in her arms.

Neal stood, speechless at the doorway. No, this couldn’t be. Not this.

"But he’s about due for a changing," Marcia said, lying him down on a nearby table. "Do you want to give me a hand with him?" Neal moved closer. Marcia carefully unhooked Ryan’s diaper and pulled it away from his body, leaving him as naked as the day he was born, with his teeny upright penis exposed and hind end still doused with a fair amount of "poopsie" as she called it. "Could throw this away for me?" she said, handing the soiled diaper to Neal, and pointing toward the trash can. He disbelievingly disposed of his best friend’s diaper and turned around to see Marcia hoisting Ryan’s legs into the air and wiping the brown clumps off his rear. She soon fastened a fresh pair of Pampers on him and lifting him back up into her arms. He cooed and murmured as one would expect any baby to do; nothing seemed abnormal or out of place. It was as if Ryan had never seen his sixteenth birthday, or even his second, for that matter. Ryan’s age was now a matter of months, not years.

"Well, I don’t know what else to tell you," she said, cradling Ryan. "He usually naps around this time, so I like to keep it quiet. You’re welcome to come play with him any time you want."

Neal tried to smile and act polite, but this was too much.

"What’s your last name?"

"Postley," Neal replied weakly.

"Oh, I think I know your sister. Catherine, right? She called me, offering to babysit. She sounded like a nice girl. I’ll be sure to give her a call," Marcia said, placing little Ryan back in his playpen. Neal could see that Marcia was growing younger herself, appearing to be in her late twenties at most. The deeply surreal scene left his mouth dry and his mind exhausted. His confidante was sitting half naked in a baby pen, a chubby toddler no more than two years old, sucking and sputtering his words just like any other baby. He had no words. Neal exited the house graciously and sprinted back home as fast as his legs would take him...

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Desperation set in as Catherine tried to find passable clothing. Her skintight wares which normally showed off her toned midriff no longer accented her curves, or what was becoming of her curves. While her twenty-one-year-old breasts practically spilled out of her sporty tops, her teenage boobs came off merely bulges. Bangs covering her eyes, she rooted through her substantial wardrobe, sniffling like she’d just broken up, but nothing satisfied her. A part of her believed that, if she found the right tank top or t-shirt, her proportions might return to normal, or at least, appear to.

"No, no, no," she repeated, flinging articles of clothing over the floor.

"Arrrggh!" She suddenly halted, tore off what she had assembled so far, and started over with an oversized pair of pink panties when Neal barged in without knocking. "Neal!" she screamed, covering her chest. They both froze for a moment, as the changes in each other’s physiques became obvious, especially for Catherine, whose panties proceeded to drop halfway down her thighs revealing a thinning patch of light red pubic hair between her legs. She screamed again, and Neal averted his eyes.

"Get out!"

He heeded the warning. A few minutes passed and Catherine emerged, blushing beyond recognition, with flowing pants and a jacket that hung just above her knees. They shared an awkward moment before Neal spoke.

"I just came from Ryan’s... and he’s... his mom has..." Neal stuttered, still out of breath, "Ryan is a baby now."

"A baby??" she panted.

"Not even preschool age. We have to hurry."

"Oh god. We need to get to the mall," Catherine said, fishing around for her keys. As things stood, she fell a year or two under legal driving age, but that minor setback wasn’t about to stop Catherine. She pulled the driver’s seat as far as physically possible, and gunned it for Cedarside Mall. Neal didn’t say anything as she weaved in and out of traffic like she was being chased, opting to buckle up and pray. Thankfully, the car withstood the sudden turns, and they arrived safely.

A banner draped over the main entrance entreated them to "Drop by our newest store for a taste of the good ol’ days... Opening December, The Nostalgia Network." The banner’s background featured a doctored version of Dali’s Persistence of Memory with melting clocks spinning in reverse. Inside, the store sat directly at the end of the central row of shops looking eerily commonplace. They both tore down the corridor, until they reached the entrance, when Neal grabbed Catherine by her jacket and yelled, "Wait!"

"What is it?" Catherine smacked his hand away.

He pointed to the checkout line. There, Catherine and Neal’s grandparents, from both sides of the family, stood chatting away. With purchases hanging from their arms, they conversed eagerly with one another, sharing words that Catherine and Neal couldn’t make out.

"We completely forgot," Neal groaned.

"Forgot what?"

"The grandparents are coming up for Christmas break, remember?"

"Well, what are they doing here?"

"Shopping, obviously. They’re probably on their way to our house after this. God, I hope they didn’t-" Neal stopped himself.

"What should we do?"

"We can’t let them see us. I doubt they would notice anything being different either. They probably think about reliving the past even more than Mom and Dad."

With that, they hid behind a prominent fake mall tree and waited for their grandparents to check out and leave. Once the way cleared, they hurried to the Nostalgia Network main desk. A slick man who looked like the cover of a travel brochure glanced up from his paperwork, although he didn’t seem to be working at all, but rather acting.

"Hi. How may I help you?"

"We’d like to have a DVD made... for our parents," Catherine said nervously, "... for Christmas."

"For your parents. What a nice idea..." The clerk smiled so wide his teeth were visible. "What kind of package would you like? We have several templates and designs available, from $50 up to $214."

"We want the cheapest one," Neal interrupted.

"No bells and whistles?" The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure, my boy? What am I saying-you probably can’t afford our deluxe package. Out of your price range, I’ll bet. But that’s all right..." He took the tape from Catherine and looked it over, casting a critical eye on it. Flashing another transparent grin in the kids’ direction, he excused himself and disappeared through a red curtain at the back of the store. Minutes passed and he returned, languidly strolling up to the desk, pen in hand.

"Our most economic option would cost $53 even. A simple, basic transfer. The balance must be paid before we can proceed with your order. How would you like to pay, ma’am?" He emphasized ma’am in a patronizing fashion, as clerks often do with children they have to treat as regular customers.

Catherine produced a credit card from her purse; she’d forgotten to bring any cash.

"A credit card, ma’am? Does your mother approve of you having one?" the clerk asked with a lie detector expression. It caught Catherine off guard.

"It’s... um, only for Christmas shopping."

The clerk held his expression for longer than Catherine cared to look at it, but eventually surrendered and swiped her card through the machine. "Your video disc will be ready by this time tomorrow. You can pick it up here. I’m sure your parents will love it. It’s the gift that lasts a lifetime..."

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The doorbell rang at the Postley’s, sending its electronic version of Beethoven’s Ninth through the house. Deborah answered the door with a beaming smile, and welcomed her parents, Bill and Alice, along with Greg’s folks, George and Sue Ann. The standard hubbub followed, with Alice complimenting her daughter’s youthful appearance, inquiring about her diet and exercise regimen, while George filled Greg in with endless details of his most recent visit to the proctologist. As was custom, the grandparents came bearing sack after sack of presents, wrapped clumsily but with love. Of course, it didn’t take long before one of them asked about "the kids." So Deborah hiked upstairs, yelling for them again and again, with no luck...

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"What if tomorrow morning is too late?" Catherine whimpered. Fatigued and uneasy, she sucked in small breaths one after the other, but every new loose piece of clothing startled her nervous system all over again. Her jacket had sunk a little lower so that it now touched her kneecaps. Her feet swam in her white Nikes, so much so her heels kept slipping out with each step. She checked her bra obsessively and let out a little catlike moan when she realized how roomy it was becoming.

"I don’t know... we have to get here tomorrow morning... somehow," Neal pulled his pants up with one hand, as he spied himself in a mirror at Nails & Such. Time was taking its toll on them both. He could feel his underwear sagging, the elastic losing its battle. He shivered at the thought of waking up a kindergartener the next morning. But his worries were compounded-by the arrival of his grandparents.

The diminished brother and sister walked guardedly past the crowds and cliques that made up the mall population, both hoping they didn’t encounter any familiar faces. So inevitably, Catherine, as luck would have it, ran into Rachel Morris, literally in fact. Just as Catherine turned to make sure the grandparents were nowhere in sight, she felt her face run directly into two spongy mounds which turned out to be Rachel’s boobs.

"What the fu-?" Rachel stepped back and surveyed her Coke-stained top. "Hey!"

"Sorry," Catherine said sheepishly, praying she wouldn’t be recognized somehow. A bizarre queasiness overtook her as she stared eyelevel into Rachel’s soda-soaked cleavage, the fizzing liquid running down into the crack of her chest. She felt a momentary sickness, having to arch her head to apologize. She swore she could feel herself shrink another inch right there on the spot.

Rachel sent her a scowl, padded herself with sleeve, and walked on.

"Who was that?" Neal asked.

"Rachel. We took a creative writing course together," Catherine informed him as she once again stuck her hand down her shirt and patted around.

"Looks creative," Neal replied, grinning for the first time in three days.

"Shut up."

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Catherine made it home without being pulled over, which was a feat worthy of some recognition. Two new cars in the driveway proved the grandparents had arrived, and they both hesitated to open the front door. As they walked in, a scream came out of Deborah’s mouth and echoed down the hall.

"You two! You had us worried sick! You know you never leave the house without telling us, right?" Deborah hugged them tight, then shook Neal’s arm. "Where have you been? What possessed you to go off and not tell us?"

"We dro-" Catherine bit her tongue. "We went... to... "

"The park," Neal finished her sentence.

"Never - never - do that again, you hear me, Neal? Catherine?"

"Yes, Mom," they answered in unison.

The army of grandparents awaited them in the living room, ready with kisses and sighs of relief. Sue Ann placed her hands on Catherine’s shoulders and wondered aloud. "Oh, look how tall you’ve grown. My goodness," she cackled. Meanwhile, Bill put his arm around Neal and asked how well he liked the second grade. But as Neal fielded the onslaught of embraces, he caught sight of Alice handing a small package the size of a DVD to Deborah. She opened it and squealed with delight. Grabbing a hold of Greg, she pointed to the box and said something Neal didn’t catch.

"You know, Catherine, high school’s just around the corner. Are you nervous?" Sue Ann asked. "Don’t be," she said before Catherine could answer, "I think you’ll do just fine. You must be looking forward to it, right? Cars and boyfriends-oh, those are the best years, honey."

"So, Neal," Bill started in, "how’s school? Have any girlfriends yet?" He winked suggestively while placing his hand on Neal’s head. "I remember when I was eight years old. Boy, what a time we had. That was back in caveman days, you know," he snorted. "I think your mom and dad met back in the second grade..."

"Really," Neal replied, hardly interested in reminiscing with Grandpa.

"Yeah, they fell in love at first sight, right Deborah?"

"Not even close," Deborah chided. She turned to Neal. "Your father used to sneak up behind me and flick the back of my ear during art class. I was annoyed maybe, but certainly not in love..."

"I hadn’t thought about that in forever," Greg said. "I remember thinking you were the cutest girl I’d ever seen in my life. Good thing you were cootie free."

Neal and Catherine began feeling more and more desperate to get away from the throng of wistful relatives. Just as Neal had surmised, his grandparents were even more eager to see Catherine and him become kids again. He looked over their hopeful faces and bright eyes and felt betrayed. All of the honor roll awards, soccer meets, driver’s tests, and prospective girlfriends had come and gone and still, his family thought of him as a mere child. The relentless waves of hugs and kisses seemed too genuine to be anything but honest love. He could feel his moptop, cowlicked days returning in full force, along with all the trappings of the past-Ninja Turtle lunch boxes, field trips, Mrs. Noonan’s beehive, Saturday morning cartoons, buck teeth, G-rated movies, race car beds, and nine o’clock bedtimes. It came in floods. And there stood Catherine, just as she was at Christmas eight years ago, with her tangled red hair growing curlier than ever, her nose slowly becoming a little upturned picture of innocence, and crimson freckles marking her cheeks. But it was all wrong. And no one could see it.

Once they wrestled their way through the family, Catherine and Neal darted upstairs, into Catherine’s room, and slammed the door.

"What can we do?" Catherine held her hands in front of her, and stared straight ahead in disbelief. "You heard them. They think I’m in middle school! Oh my god, oh my god..." This was no hallucination, no dream; facing a situation that grew out of thin air, they knew of nothing to do except wait. But time was the enemy, with every tick of the clock propelling them further into immaturity. By nightfall, and certainly by morning, they would have grown backward to their ages in the first Nostalgia Network video, with Neal only fresh out of preschool and Catherine just graduating from fifth grade.

"Our video... that’s the only chance," Neal groaned. "The fact that it exists still proves we’re not lying. And the rest of the world is still part of 2002. Our friends are still grown up - at least I think so - and that proves we’re not supposed to be little."

Catherine felt her stomach drop again after thinking of Rachel Morris, still cavorting around the mall a sexy twenty-one-year-old woman, while she sat at her computer chair wondering if her old training bra might fit. Sweaty and depressed, she considered taking a hot shower to wake her from this nightmare, but that would require getting naked and she didn’t dare face herself.

"Mom and Dad-" Neal said, suddenly very serious, "they’re not as old as last night."

"Well, yeah," Catherine said with an "of course" tone in her voice.

"But younger than they should be..."

"What do you mean?"

"We’re growing younger at roughly the same rate, back to that ’91 video... you’re still about five years older than me," Neal explained.

"Yeah... so..."

"So, when we walked in, Mom couldn’t have been a day over thirty."

"Uh huh."

"But they weren’t that young in the video. Mom is forty-three and Dad is forty-four, right?"

"Yes."

"Then, when I was in second grade, Mom was thirty-five, not thirty," he gulped. "Mom and Dad are getting younger faster... and they’re already younger than they were in ’91."

"How?" Catherine puzzled.

"Obviously, the answer is downstairs right now." Neal motioned below them. "Our grandparents are watching videos too, older videos, maybe before they even showed up, going through the same process, and..."

"And what...?"

"Mom and Dad are next."

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After lunch and hardy dinner passed, the gang of relatives found themselves drifting into the living room, loosening their belts and collapsing into recliners. Bill and George nearly dozed off into oblivion before Alice suggested they watch their new family DVDs. Apparently, both sides of the family had fallen in love with Nostalgia Network and announced that they’d transferred some more of Deborah’s videos, as well as a whole slew of ancient memories, including black and white slide shows of Deborah and Greg’s younger days. And not only that. Both sets of grandparents had even shelled out for the deluxe editions, complete with animated chapter searches, background music, and a computer enhancement option that produced clearer resolution.

"Isn’t that great, honey?" Deborah nudged her husband.

"Should be fun."

The first DVD featured Greg and George, circa 1965, playing some rudimentary form of tee ball. The graininess of the original eight millimeter film had been largely smoothed away by Nostalgia Network’s restoration process, leaving a clearer picture than any of them had imagined possible. A mild-mannered seven-year-old, Greg rarely played any outdoor sports, but this video showed him having what looked to be the time of his life. Donning a miniature bandana and a red and white striped tee-shirt, Greg fit the part of the all American kid with his neatly trimmed buzz cut and Wally Cleaver nose. George could be seen encouraging his son, as Sue Ann filmed the occasion.

"This would have been a year before you met Deborah," Sue Ann noted.

"You were a short little booger, weren’t you?" Deborah looked at her husband. "I don’t ever remember your hair being that short. Was it always that short?"

"Up until second grade or so," Greg answered.

"You look like a little sailor," Sue Ann laughed. "I don’t know what possessed me to buy all those striped shirts."

The tee ball tape ran out almost as soon as it began, and was replaced by Greg running through a sprinkler in the backyard in his swimming trunks. "We didn’t have a lot of film from any one particular time, so we just had them splice it all together," George explained. "This one is from 1967. Remember that sprinkler, son? You used to spend hours romping around in the thing. Never were much for clothes either..."

Greg blushed for the first time. Deborah giggled.

"It’s true. When he was starting preschool, we had to remind him it wasn’t OK to take his clothes off at school. Whatever chance he got, he always ripped those overalls off and paraded around like Adam. It was a war just to get him to dress for school in the morning..." Sue Ann continued.

A hint of embarrassment washed over Greg as his mother relayed the intricacies of his younger, more naturalist days. But nevertheless, he looked back fondly on that time, the days that seemed simple and God-given, even if his memories betrayed them. As he watched himself, a na?ve third grader in Twin Falls, Idaho, he wondered how in the world he ever felt upset or world-weary back then. Everything was decided for him. No loose ends tickled his brain. No grayness. Only black and white, and a safe, unchanging world to explore. Yes, he had enjoyed being naked, leaving even the burden of his clothes behind him.

Deborah paid attention to every frame of the video. Caught in a moment of unfurled memory, Greg looked over at his wife. A vivid image of Mrs. Bach’s second grade classroom filled his senses. There sat Deborah, an eight-year-old stranger, picking away at an art project covered in Elmer’s glue and multi-colored sequins. Her stringy brunette locks hanging untidily from her kitty burettes, she seemed unconcerned with anything but her work, and certainly unconcerned with Greg.

"You were such a cutie pie! Look at those big ears!" Deborah said, grabbing Greg’s earlobe and wiggling it.

A still black and white picture appeared next. A landmark photo. Little Greg and Deborah’s first picture together, both of them making horrid faces at the camera. The resolution crystal clear, as if it were taken only yesterday in his parents’ backyard, wowed everyone in the room. Greg and Deborah gazed into their own ten-year-old eyes, and discovered a remarkable chill coursing down their necks.

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Upstairs, Neal flicked through the list of TV channels to reassure himself that the rest of the world existed in the right timeframe. He clicked by C-Span coverage of the House of Commons, a Bravo presentation of Rashomon, and the ubiquitous 24 hour news channels. Everything gave the impression of normalcy. He didn’t know whether he feared not finding news station coverage of the Nostalgia Network’s victims, or whether he feared finding it. His clothing felt warm, because it grew larger. His sleeves covered his hands and his pants had grown conspicuously spacious in the last hour. With no trace left of his former age, let alone the onset of puberty, Neal began resigning to what might be his new age, one would that would start him over at square one. His mind turned to Ryan...

The phone rang. He heard Catherine pick it up the line, probably by force of habit.

"Hello?" she said, recoiling at her elevated voice.

"Yeah, uh, hi. Is Catherine there?" Jeremy asked. Catherine panicked. Would he know it’s me? Could I fake it? she wondered.

"This is she," Catherine said, attempting an artificially lowered voice.

"Catherine? You sound different. Are you sick?"

"Oh... yeah, just a little under the weather," she stated in the raspiest tone she could produce with eleven-year-old vocal chords.

"Well, um, I wanted to know if you could make it to the party... you know, next Thursday night? It’s at my place, downtown. I could pick you up..." Jeremy couldn’t shake the idea that some little girl had picked up the phone and decided to fool around.

"I’d really, really like to, really, but I can’t. Uhh, studying..."

Now, Jeremy knew it had to be a joke. "Come on. Who is this? Get off the phone and get Catherine, all right?" Jeremy said in a "jig is up" tone of voice. Studying, he thought, that’s worse than some lame hair-washing clich?. Obviously, Catherine’s bratty cousin or some little visitor had elected to answer the phone and play some infantile practical joke.

Only silence came, and eventually Jeremy hung up, perturbed.

Catherine walked in, zombie-like, and collapsed on Neal’s bed. Face down, she whimpered and beat the pillows, as she felt no real breasts, only hints of pressure, digging into the mattress. She tried to recall what she was like in the fifth grade. At the time, she didn’t have many friends to boast of. She remembered her first training bra, almost an insult in its size, that did more to support her self-esteem than anything else. She remembered the splotches of acne that invaded her forehead just before middle school. Oh my god, my period, she thought, I’m probably past my first period! Reality rolled in. Womanhood had passed, and girlhood had returned.

"I have to do it all again," Catherine cried into the sheets.

"What?" Neal spun around.

"Everything! Little frilly panties with lace, no friends, zits. It’s not fair!"

Neal contemplated his recollections of kindergarten. Kindergarten, he shook with that dreadful thought. Something about that word - that overlong German eyesore - made his toes curl. Coloring books, nap times, trips to the bathroom accompanied by teachers, urinals that nearly touched the ground, reciting letters of the alphabet... he wondered if he could live through it another time. Or would he sit there, surrounded by babyish cohorts, still dreaming about driver’s licenses and having sex while he chomped on a graham cracker?

"I was thinking about Ryan," Neal said out of the blue.

"What about him?"

"Well, being an only child with a single mom, I guess everything just happened faster, but I noticed something..."

"What?"

"Ryan didn’t seem-" Neal halted briefly.

"Didn’t seem what?"

"Marcia picked him up from a playpen, took off his diaper right in front of me, wiped him off, and held him. But all the time, nothing seemed unusual. He didn’t cry or scream or try to get away when he saw me..." Neal ruminated. "Surely, he would have recognized me."

"So what?"

Neal thought for a moment. He recalled a line, buried deep somewhere in that scientific website, about a "point of no return," an area beyond recovery, where memory ceased and functions began anew. The essay likened it to an "event horizon," preventing anything else from escaping. "The future and the present become irrelevant," it said.

"We still have our memories," Neal said.

"You mean-are you saying we might lose them too?"

"I don’t know. We’ve gotten this far, and we’re still thinking like ourselves. But Ryan-I think he might have forgotten what it’s like to be sixteen."

"I don’t know which is worse," Catherine thought out loud.

--------------

A slide show of Deborah’s diaper days played across the screen, fading out of one picture into the next; the relaxing sequence of images almost lulled them into a trance: Deborah crawling over the ugly orange couch in the den; Deborah sucking her thumb and fiddling with her ears; Deborah lying nude on her stomach on Mom and Dad’s bed; Deborah swatting the cat and looking agitated; Deborah taking a bath with her favorite squeeze toy.

The last picture reminded Deborah she needed to tend to something. She excused herself from the living room quarters. As was routine when Neal was six, she tramped upstairs and yelled for him.

"Neal?" she called. "It’s time."

Neal opened his door warily, cracking it only far enough to stick his head out. "Time for what?"

"You know what time it is, silly," she said, exhausted. "Get in here." She opened the door to the bathroom and turned the lights on. "I’m not telling you again."

Neal looked back at his sister fretfully; Catherine just shrugged. He reluctantly emerged from his room and drug himself into the bathroom. With the bath water already running, towels in place, Deborah immediately began stripping him of his clothes, which fell off without much effort. She started by grabbing the bottom of his shirt.

"Raise your arms, honey" she ordered bluntly. She proceeded to pull his shirt over his head. The pants, already absurdly large on him, flew off next, followed by his socks, and finally, the last vestige of his independence, underwear. "I know how much you hate baths, but it’s a fact of life."

Neal, wordless and powerless, could do nothing but humor his mother, who now looked undoubtedly youthful herself. He stepped into the tub, stunned by his own undeveloped body, and squatted into the water. His legs, normally covered with millions of blonde hairs, felt soft and slick as the steaming bath water rolled over them. Neal tried to remember how uninhibited he felt around his mom when he was six, how taking a bath right in front of her made perfect sense, but he couldn’t deny how humiliated he felt. Deborah grabbed a wash cloth from under the sink a commenced cleaning Neal’s backside, wiping thoroughly behind his ears, and down his back.

"Raise your arms again, sweetie" she said, scrubbing his hairless underarms with the soapy rag. "Stand up," she continued. Deborah kneeled on the bath mat and leaned over to wash Neal’s privates. He cringed as the terry cloth touched his shrunken genitals. Deborah swabbed all around, not even flinching as she wiped up and down his skinny legs, under his groin, and over his butt. At least I’m not getting any younger.

Neal heard the door bell ring "Ode to Joy" downstairs. "Wonder who would..." Deborah mumbled, sitting her little boy back down and reaching for the shampoo.

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"I’ll get it," Greg said, heaving himself up from the couch. At the door, a young man with gelled black hair and an apathetic air, greeted Greg sincerely, albeit with some trepidation. Lacking a winter coat, the young man appeared to be feigning warmth, keeping his hands tucked away in pockets.

"Hello. Can I help you?" Greg asked.

"Can I talk to Catherine?" Jeremy inquired, still freezing.

"Well, I don’t know about that. Who are you exactly?"

"I’m a friend from school," Jeremy answered.

"You seem far too old to have met my Catherine at school, young man-"

"Jeremy."

"-Jeremy. You’re obviously in your twenties, and Catherine is only in the fifth grade," Greg explained, "so I think you’d better be going now."

Jeremy grasped the edge of the Postley’s front door. "What did you say?"

"You’re at least twenty-one, young ma-Jeremy, and Catherine just turned eleven, sir. And unless you’re some kind of student teacher or something, I suggest you leave right-"

"Jeremy!" Catherine came running from the stairs.

"Catherine? Is this a joke? Am I on TV?" Jeremy said, skeptically eyeing the flat chested little girl before him.

"You know this man?" Greg asked, surprised his daughter might react so wildly to a man he’d never seen. "Honey, do you mind explaining?"

Catherine had to be light on her toes. "He’s... he’s... Jeremy works as a teacher’s aid at school... with..." She strained to recall her fifth grade teacher’s name. "... with Mrs. O’Brien." She displayed a gap-toothed smile for her father, proving Jeremy a safe visitor. Simultaneously mystified and bemused, Jeremy stood frozen at the doorway. Two things appeared indubitably clear: someone here was lying and this adorable redhead yanking at her father’s sleeve, though she bore an outstanding resemblance, could not be Catherine Renee Postley. His Catherine wore slinky outfits and cursed up a storm when her parents weren’t looking. This girl probably had yet to hear a curse word spoken out loud.

"Why do you need to see Catherine?" Greg reiterated his question, still slightly unconvinced.

"Daddy, Jeremy offered to help with my homework," Catherine said the words as they popped into her head, "and he’s just dropping something off, OK?"

"All right, well, make it fast, and then you come back inside with us, OK?"

"OK, Daddy," she said sweetly, placating her father at every turn.

She stepped outside and closed the screen door behind her. Once Greg had removed himself, she seized Jeremy’s sleeve, and pulled him off to the side, out of view of the relatives chatting inside.

"You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?" Jeremy accused.

"No, no, Jeremy, listen to me," Catherine nearly hyperventilated as she spoke, "This isn’t a joke. We’re not pulling one over on you. My parents-I don’t know how they’ve done it-but they’re making my brother and me younger. Every day for the past three days, they’ve started acting like we’re littler and littler. They don’t see anything wrong, but you... you see it like we do."

"What the hell is this? That’s impossible. You people are crazy." Jeremy started to walk away from the fretful child.

"Jeremy!" Catherine exploded. "I lost my virginity to you!"

He halted midstep. His breath rose in the air like a fleeing ghost. "What?"

"Two and half years ago, at the Marriott downtown, after we went to Magnolia’s Bar, just before my twentieth birthday," she rolled the dates out with exacting accuracy. Jeremy turned to see a shivering pre-teen, with a face that echoed the Catherine he knew, only a thousand times more innocent and white.

"Catherine, how-"

"I don’t know how, Jeremy. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. But I need you to help me."

"How?"

"I don’t know that either, but you have to try. No one will believe us. Just see if it’s happening anywhere else, and what we can do about it... There’s a video place called-"

"Catherine!" Greg yelled from the porch. "It’s cold. You’ll catch something. Come inside." He made his way into the yard. "I think you’ve talked with your friend long enough, all right? So, please, come back inside. You can talk to him at school." Greg gripped Catherine’s shoulders and marched her back into the house. She turned and mouthed the words, "Call me."

As she stepped back inside, another dread fell over her. Seated casually around the TV, her relatives welcomed her with open arms once again, begging her to come see what fun they’d cued up on the television. But on the big screen, she saw a sight that tied an instant knot in her insides. Dancing on the monitor, complete with sparkling silver tiara and pink tights, was a six-year-old version of Catherine, a ballerina happily prancing around the kitchen on Halloween night 1986. She knew immediately by her numerous missing teeth how old the video must have been.

God, no, she thought, as a feeling of sick horror ensued. And her relatives, grandmas and grandpas, stared intently back at her with new faces-less gray and tired, less ashen and elderly. Their expressions cheerful and oblivious, Bill and Alice wore fewer wrinkles then any time in the last fifteen years. George’s white wisps of hair had turned to a distinguished salt and pepper affair while Sue Ann looked ten times fuller and fresher than her usual gaunt self.

Catherine broke away from Greg’s grip and bounded upstairs, her eyes growing red and puffy. Deborah had just finished bathing Neal; with a towel wrapped around her baby boy, they witnessed Catherine scurrying into her room, sniveling and on the brink of tears. She slammed the door with a loud crack.

"Neal, baby, you head into your room and get dressed for bed. Mommy’s going to check on your sister, all righty?" Deborah patted him on the tush and knocked on Catherine’s door.

"Go away!"

"Catherine, I’m coming in," Deborah announced. She discovered a distraught schoolgirl huddled onto a corner of her bed. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. "Catherine, I understand you’re going through a lot of changes right now. I’m here to tell you... don’t worry, honey. We all feel the same way at that age. You’re unsure about everything-insecure-thinking you’re the only one who feels the way you do. God, I was so nervous before my first day of middle school. I remember all those grown up girls around me. I thought I’d die. But you catch up with them eventually, maybe not right away, but it comes in its own time."

Deborah caressed her young daughter’s hair. "Maybe tomorrow we’ll go out to the mall and start looking at some bras. How about that? I think you’re ready now."

The mall, Catherine remembered. "OK, Mom."

 

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