Time Flying (39 page)

At this point, Jeannette's voice quavered a bit, and I could tell she was working hard to maintain her composure and say this.

"I let her date Steve Collins. I knew somehow, he was bad for her,” she continued on, though I was starting to fear her anger and hate toward Steve, which I completely agreed with, derail what she wanted to say.

Jeannette seemed to sense this, too, because she paused for a few seconds, took a deep breath and regained her composure. 

"I failed Amanda, and my punishment has been to live without her all these years."

I nodded my understanding, not saying anything, not wanting to impede her progress.

Jeannette continued, “When the dreams started, about a year after she died, I considered those additional punishment, God or whoever, taunting me, showing me what my failure to keep her safe had cost."

I listened, marveling at how this amazingly strong and resilient woman could say these things without breaking down into an emotional wreck.

"Eventually," she said, "I began to look forward to the dreams, and  started to take notes when I woke up, trying to piece together a...narrative...of her life."

Jeannette reached into her purse and pulled out a small, red USB thumb drive, which she held out for me to take. I turned the small, bright red cylinder over in my hand, and returned my gaze to Jeannette.

“Please keep it,” she said, and when I nodded, she continued. "Thank you for doing whatever you did to give my little girl a life she wouldn't have otherwise had. Rich, it was so hard for me not to call you back then and tell you how much Amanda loved you...Well, in the way a teenage girl can love a boy when they are both 17 years old.” At this she smiled, with no hint of the regret I've seen on her face every minute we had been together that day.

I smiled a little and nodded. 

“I wish you would have recognized what you two had when you were together," Jeannette said, her gaze again drifting away from me to seemingly drift into the past leading to today, which included her only daughter dying in a car crash not five miles from this spot. "It was so obvious to everyone else you needed to be together," she said, now back in the present, shaking her head ruefully.

"You kids were the only ones who didn't get it," she concluded, and as an afterthought, said, “but then when you returned to 1976, not blinded by your own youth, and understood you and Amanda needed to be together."

I nodded, but instead of the comfort of knowing I'd done the right thing, I sensed the stirrings of something darker, not quite right, so I barely heard Jeannette when she said, “Thank you for that, Richard."

A few seconds of silence, then I startled myself aware again, looked at Jeannette, seeing someone more at peace with themselves than I'd experienced in a long time. I'd have time to consider and think about this impression later.

I smiled. "You're welcome, Jeannette," I said, reaching out to embrace her again, as we both stood. "And thank you for everything." She hugged me warmly, patted me on the cheek when we let each other go, and turned to leave. 

"I'll have to check to see if Hallmark makes Mother's Day cards for your alternate timeline mother-in-law," I said, opening the door and watching her walk through. Jeannette laughed, sounding exactly like Amanda. Amanda laughed all the time, but it was the first time I'd heard her mother laugh since the 90s, in the other timeline. She turned once more, smiled at me and said, “Goodbye, Rich."

As I watched Jeannette disappear around the corner of the building, a sense of relief seemed to fill the air, burdens released. But, there the hint of darkness hung around, just out of sight, a question unasked, a signal missed, and the thought popped into my mind that we hadn't made plans to get together again, which bothered me, so I made a mental note to call and check on Jeannette, and make sure she understands that it wasn’t the car accident that was behind my time travel, nor did I expect to go anywhere but wherever we all go when we die when my days in this timeline are over. I hoped she was clear on these things, but as I thought about it, the darkness, slinked away, and I made the decision to take one last trip before flying back to San Diego.

I needed to drive to Belton and talk with Annie, not sure what I would ask her, but knowing she had answers I needed. I assumed I would discover the questions on the road, or when I was in her presence. My rental car sped north in I-465, and in a few minutes I turned off on US Highway 36 and made my way toward Belton.

The day progressed and got colder, November promising a bleak winter ahead. The trees in Belton were long bare, having shed all their leaves, the wet, matted piles here and there telling the story of a windy autumn. The feel of the place was so far removed from the quaint, pastoral setting I visited only seven months ago, I had a hard time believing I drove through the same Belton, Indiana. I pulled up to the house my father grew up in, now owned by an old woman who represented the lynchpin, the connection between today, and the yesterday I would travel to in the next year. The place seemed colder, harsher and less inviting.

The tree in the front yard, the one my Grandfather planted when my father was a baby, still stood overlooking the house, like seven months before, but all of its leaves were gone, and its lush, majestic appearance different now. I walked up the sloping and cracked sidewalk to the three steps of the porch, where the table and chairs still sat, silent and empty. They looked almost abandoned, sitting without the plastic, floral patterned tablecloth that had covered the table. I rang the bell.

I heard no voices, or even footsteps, before the door swung open, Annie's daughter Liz stood before me, the storm door's screen separating us. Behind her, the living room was illuminated by a single lamp, and I could see several collections of boxes in the room. Someone had been packing, or,unpacking.

Liz had been a good friend of my father's as they grew up, running into each other a few times after my parents bought the lake cottage, but they didn’t really keep in touch. She recognized me instantly.

“Richard!” Liz said, opening the screen door and inviting me in. As I entered, she noticed the cane, but didn't say anything about it.

I had seen her interest though,and said, “I had an accident a few months ago”.

She nodded in acknowledgement.

I laughed, “Actually, the day after I met you and your mom here in April.”

“I know,” she replied. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. I drove back to Cincinnati that night, and the next morning, I was out running some errands, getting ready to go back to San Diego, when a woman ran a red light.” I wanted to make sure she understood the accident had nothing to do with my visit here.

She nodded, not surprised by my story. “I just need this,” I held up my cane, “to get around, for a little longer.”

Liz smiled and said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, unless you were driving the truck that hit me, nothing to be sorry about!” I laughed, encouraging a polite chuckle out of Liz as well. “Is your mom moving?”

Liz’s smile disappeared as she said, “Oh, Richard. I guess you didn't know…”

Now, was my turn to wear a furrowed brow came.

“Mom passed away about six months ago. We just sold the house.”

Driving here, I didn’t even consider the possibility Annie would be gone. Sure, she'd been 90 years old, but seemed to be in excellent health, and mentally, sharp as someone 20 years younger. Hell, I thought, 50 years younger for that matter.

My turn to say, “I’m sorry” came, and I asked about the circumstances.

“It was all pretty sudden,” she replied, smiling sadly, and laughing a little as she explained “as sudden as someone 92 years old dying can be.” She got a summer cold, and within a few days, she developed pneumonia. She went into the hospital in Indianapolis, and had an aneurism the second night.

I nodded, “Wishard?” feeling odd as I Liz nodded, and I realized I had been at the same hospital visiting Thelma the night she died, from my perspective, about a year ago. It had been 1990, of course, but again, for me barely a year ago. “I’m sorry, Liz. A sweet lady,” I said.

“Most of the time,” Liz laughed. “She lived a good life, and said so a lot.” We both nodded in agreement and smiled, each of us silent for a few seconds remembering the lady who had been my father's friend's mother for 70 years, and the person at the center of the strangest experience of my life.

“How's your Dad?” Liz asked, after a few seconds.

“Fine,” I answered. “I told him we'd met, but didn't get into all the details.” Liz nodded her understanding.

“So, what brings you all the way out here? You still live in San Diego, don't you?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” I replied, realizing my trip to be pointless now. I had a question for your mother that hadn't occurred to me until I was in the car after meeting Amanda's mother at the cemetery.  Such an obvious question, I was surprised I hadn't thought to ask while here before. But then again, my trip to Belton last time uncovered a “mother of all information bombs” I hadn't counted on. I'd been so overwhelmed, I guess, I hadn’t thought to ask Annie if she’d known me in the past, since I will, according to my Grandfather’s letter, travel to 1933 Belton, soon. “I just had a question for your mom.”

“Wait right there,” Liz said, turning to walk into the kitchen. Half a minute later she returned, holding an envelope in her hand. This one new, not brittle and old like the one she gave me on the front porch of this house not a year ago.

On the front of the envelope was an elegant, if slightly shaky, handwritten “Richard” in ink. Like the letter Annie delivered to me from my Grandfather, her daughter passed along a note from her. I took the letter and said to Liz “this is getting to be a habit.” She smiled back at me, nodding.

The letter, written in the same careful script on the envelope, consisted of three short paragraphs:

Richard,

You have in your hand another letter from the past. I know you will read this, because you will tell me you have when we meet again. For me, it will be our first meeting. For you, our second. I believe I will look a little different from I did in April when you were here, but you will recognize me. To me, you're a child, half my age, but I am aware at this time in your life, you are not necessarily looking for adventure. You are about to find it, however, and I hope you embrace that adventure with every fiber of your being.

You have much to do. You need to recover from your accident and from what followed it. I need to tell you that you won't simply wake up in 1933, as happened the first time. Before you come back to Belton, you will have many trips. Do whatever you must to keep your family together, though it will not be easy to do. You must all stay together, since your daughter Samantha is my dearest friend in the world.

I will see you soon, but I'm afraid you will have to remind me that we know each other.

Sincerely,

Annie

Well, that explained why Liz didn’t act surprised when she learned of my accident.

At the bottom of the page was a hand-drawn map. Simple lines drawn to lead me to a place not far away from here.

I looked away, stunned at what I had just read. “Samantha is my dearest friend in the world?” I asked Liz. “And what's this map?”

Liz looked at me for a couple seconds before speaking. “This is a strange situation, Richard, but I think it’s going to be all right.”

I nodded at her, still not able to think of what to say, settling on “Thanks, Liz.”

She smiled in response, and we hugged, her tight embrace reassuring. Not letting go, she held me tighter and whispered almost inaudibly, “Say ‘hi' to my Mom for me,” barely getting the words out before choking off a sob.

We held the hug a few seconds longer, until I her arm loosen and I pulled back, saying, “I will.”

I left with the letter, and standing by my rental car, folded the page in half to better study the map. I held it up to orient myself with the landmarks. The house, the Belton School a quarter mile away, and the road running between the two all were represented on the map, so I got in the car and drove toward the star drawn outside of the town out of town and just off the road. A simple drawing of a house over a ravine, with an arrow pointing north and “100 yards” next to proved to be an old covered bridge in disrepair, and the gravel road turnoff 100 yards further along the road.

My car kicked a plume of dust into the chilly air as I crept along he gravel road toward what, I had no idea. I reached the end of the lane, which terminated in a kind of cul-de-sac. I stopped the car, observing between the gravel and the tree line was a fairly well maintained area of cleared brush, not manicured, but cut back on a regular basis. It only took a few moments, before a small object caught my eye. Two-thirds of the way to the tree line stood a small, 18 inch high obelisk, a thick, squat version of the Washington Monument. I approached it, carefully threading my way through the underbrush, cane supporting my steps. The object of my attention had been here a long time, the surface pock marked and stained by the elements.

As I got closer, I could make out several numbers etched in the surface, professionally carved, intended to last a long time.

“08-12-1958 3422 92127”

I couldn't believe what I saw. I recognized the numbers at once. “08-12-1958” being the day I born. “3422” the street address of the house on the West side of Indianapolis I grew up in, and “92127” our zip code in San Diego.

The meaning was obvious. This obelisk had been put here by someone who knew a great deal about me, or...

I had put this thing here myself. That truth was clear. I had put this marker here, sometime in the past, but for what reason? I have to believe easier ways of telling myself I had been here existed, I figured. But here was this stone marker, saying nothing more than that.

I looked around, taking in the area. A lot of trees, pretty flat, accessible from the main road, yet secluded.

A good building site.

No, an excellent building site.