Paul sat down next to me and held me. I couldn't control my tears anymore and sobbed into his arm. It was as if the flood gates had opened. I had never felt pain so deeply before. I thought about my father and my mother and each time I thought it was over, I started again. Paul didn't say anything. He knew this was a necessary evil, that I needed to cleanse myself and face my loss head-on. After what seemed like a very long time, I let go of him and he handed me a box of tissues. I told him about the hospital and what my father had said to me. At least what I thought he'd said to me. I told him about the drawer and the notebook and the machine and while I did that, I saw the sadness in Paul's eyes. It occurred to me at that moment that, throughout my own grief, I had never thought about his.
"I don't know what the right answer is," he said after a while. "It's completely up to you whether or not you want to finish it."
"I want to finish it." I was surprised by my answer. As soon as I said it, I knew it was the truth. I wanted to finish what I had started. "Can you order the magnets if I give you the money?"
"Of course," Paul said.
"I don't want to order them before I have all the money."
"Okay. Let me know when and I'll do it."
When I went to the shop that evening, I lit a fire in the stove and filled two of the galvanized pipes with sand. The notes suggested using sand inside the pipes and then sealing them off so they could be bent into a circular shape without breaking. Once that was done, I drilled twelve holes in each one at equal distance to each other and on both sides of the pipe. The magnets would be attached to them. The pipes would then be welded to the back of the chassis.
By the end of the following week, I had finished the controls, battery compartment with connectors, and the seat with head rest and neck stabilizer. I also made another one-hundred and fifty dollars and fifty cents. Paul kept the money and ordered the magnets. They arrived the next day and I mounted them to the outer ring of the centrifugal rotor.
All that was left to do was to install the battery and work the wire fencing into a cone-like shape, not unlike that of a pilot's cabin. It would cover the upper part of the traveler's seat like a cage. I brought the rotor out back. The storage area was freezing. I was wearing fingerless gloves and within ten minutes in there, I couldn't feel my fingertips and had to go back to the shop to stand in front of the stove. The light wasn't great either and I had to wear my head lamp all the time. When I finally set the rotor into the center of the magnetic field, I didn't expect it to hold. The shape I had forged wasn't perfect, rudimentary at best. But when I very slowly let go of it, the rotor held its position in the center of the magnetic circle.
I welded the hinges onto the cabin top and connected them to the chassis. To get into the seat, one had to move one side of the cage up and climb inside. It could then be closed from the inside. But I yet had to climb into the cabin. I had thought about it a few times but I never did.
That Friday after school, I went to the store to work. It was very busy in there. I never realized how many people buy Christmas gifts in a hardware store, but there were a lot of sons and daughters who were there with their mothers buying last minute gifts for their dads. They were buying power drills and wrench sets and multi-function tools.
I don't remember ever having felt sorry for myself up until that day. I was angry at them for buying gifts that were so cheaply made. My dad always told me that the tools one uses should reflect the value of what you're making. I don't think he ever bought a cheap tool in his life. In my mind, they were buying those gifts because they didn't know what else to give. I could have come up with a dozen items to buy for my father that day. He needed a new handkerchief. His old one had holes in it from being washed so many times that the fabric had thinned out. He could use a couple of cans of Worker's Miracle heavy-duty hand cream because the skin on his hands would crack periodically. So much so that he sometimes slept with gloves on, his hands thickly covered with cream. There were those thermal socks he really liked, and he could always use a new pair of leather gloves. He was always wearing his until they would literally fall off his hands during work.
I didn't realize that tears were running down my face until Paul gently put his hand on my shoulder.
"You okay?" he said.
"Yeah." I wiped my face quickly and returned to the shelf I was stacking at the moment. We had gotten a delivery of Christmas lights that day and I was only halfway done moving them onto the display shelf.
When Paul gave me my weekly pay, I went to the car parts store and got the battery. I didn't think of how heavy it would be. I thought about asking Paul to drive me but I felt like I was asking too much of him already. He had helped me more than I could ever pay him back for. It was a two-mile walk home and thick snowflakes had begun to fall onto the quiet street.
My thoughts were all over the place and I noticed a sting of fear creeping up inside me. As the moment of truth approached, I didn't have much left to hide behind. Eventually I would have to climb into that seat and turn on the switch. I tried to avoid thinking any further than that. There was no backup plan. It would either work or it wouldn't. I couldn't imagine just going on with my life if it didn't work. I had no idea what I would do. Everything else aside, working on the machine for the last two months had given me a purpose, had prolonged my father's life somehow. I didn't want this to end, didn't want to face the possibility that turning on that rusty old switch I had installed, as per his instructions, would do absolutely nothing.
As disheartened as I was that evening, I installed the battery and connected it via the 50 Amp wire to the capacitor. There were only a few pages left in the notebook. They mostly had to do with safety, like not touching the cage surrounding the traveler's cabin when turning on the switch, or bracing for impact when the charge hit the cage. The last chapter was called The Traveler. I'm not sure why I hadn't read that one yet. I felt I needed to wait until I’d completed the assembly of the machine.
The machine. As it stood there in the dark, illuminated only by the light of my head lamp, it felt dead. Like a randomly assembled collage of lifeless pieces. Usually whenever I built something, I felt pride and a sense of accomplishment. Not this time. I felt empty. I left the shop at 10:30 PM. My stepmother was still watching TV in the living room. I put hot water on the stove for tea and sat down next to her. She moved the bowl of chips between us and I ate a few.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you more."
I saw that she was crying. It wasn't loud or anything. She didn't even make a sound.
"I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I forgot yours."
I didn't tell her that I’d had thought the same about her a few days ago.
"You've known your dad much longer than I did. Well, not much longer, but a few years at least. And I know you loved him. Loved him so very much."
I didn't say anything in return. I don't know why. I wanted to, but the words wouldn't come out. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry too, that I knew it wasn't easy for her and that, even though I had known him longer, she’d been married to him for eight years. That had to count for something. I went to bed and cried for a while.
Then I opened the notebook and began to read the last chapter.
The Traveler
The Traveler is an essential part of the machine. Without it, the machine will not function properly. Assembling the machine is one thing. Bringing it to life is another. The Traveler must know at all times where she wants to end up if she ever hopes to set it in motion. She must have a clear understanding of the consequences of her travels. To that effect, when travelling to the past, she should choose a destination time and date that is most likely not visited by her own self at the same moment. Much thought has been given to the paradox of meeting one's self within the same moment in time. To avoid complication, it is suggested that the Traveler journey to a point of least impact for herself and others.
One single moment can change a person's life
and stir it onto a different path altogether. The Traveler must exercise the greatest caution to not set off a chain of events she cannot foresee. The gentle traveler, kind in thought and treading lightly on the path she is on, yields the biggest chance of a favorable outcome.
It is at the Traveler's discretion to bring her affairs in order before the outset of the journey and all I ask for myself is for her to burn this notebook to cancel out the possibility of someone other than herself recreating the machine.
It is my sincere hope that I have taught her enough to prepare her for whatever is to come. She should always remember that however far she travels, she is always at home.
Once I finished reading, I started again from the beginning. The Traveler is an essential part of the machine. I had no idea what that meant. I closed the notebook and placed it on my nightstand. Then I shut off the light. I thought about going to the store in the morning to say goodbye to Paul. But I didn't know how he would react, so I decided not to. I also didn't want to say anything to my stepmom. "Remember that time machine I had told you about? I'm about to use it and I won't be coming back."
I fell into a deep sleep. In my dream, I forged a mask of iron that resembled my father's face. I tried to make it speak to me but it stayed motionless. He's gone, was the first thought I had when I woke up the next morning. He's gone and you'll never see him again.
* * *
The snow lay heavy on the tall pines, their lower branches almost touching the ground from the weight. I had to shovel a path to the shop. I saw my sister's husband cleaning off the front stoop and clearing a walkway to the garage. We nodded at each other. I never spoke to him much. My sister and he lived in a completely different world. For them it was all about Christmas decorations and holiday cards and filling stocking stuffers. They wanted to make this year special to keep my dad's spirit alive through the holidays. I found myself thinking that was a nice sentiment but I couldn't bring myself to admit it to them.
I made a small fire in the woodstove, if for nothing else than to burn the notebook. I didn't really want to burn it. It was filled with memories and seemed the last remaining document involving my dad that meant something. I sat in front of the stove for a while, at one point thinking that I should have made copies and hid them somewhere. Just in case. Eventually I opened the fire door and tossed the notebook into the flames. I’d never thought of myself as brave. I think that moment was the first time. Brave or stupid. It couldn't be helped. Some things you can postpone only for so long.
I opened the door to the storage area. The light came through a few gaps in the siding and illuminated the machine enough to see its contours. I walked around it, inspecting the chassis like a pilot checking her airplane before take-off. Then I climbed into the seat. It was cold but surprisingly comfortable. I had never thought about where to travel other than into the past. According to the notebook, the machine did not travel automatically to a predetermined point in time. After activating it, I needed to use the pedals to move. Left for the past, right for the future. The display of the old alarm clock was supposed to give me an idea where I was at any given point in time. So far so good. I closed the cabin top over my head. The metal fencing allowed me to see out with almost no interruption in my visual field. Just don't touch it, I thought to myself.
I had mounted the on/off switch to the right side of the alarm clock display. It was a basic one-way toggle switch. It seemed too simple, too rudimentary a device to control my travel through time. As I sat there, I became aware of my sweaty palms, despite the cold. I didn't want to think about the notion that the switch would do nothing; that it wouldn’t jumpstart the machine, and me, into a different time. I felt a wave of nausea creep up inside me. All this time, I had held on to the hope of this moment and now that it was here, I was paralyzed and unable to move my arm and flip it.
"Dad, help me," I said into the quiet. "Please."
There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. Did I really expect one? I stretched out my hand. My fingerless gloves were worn and smudged with grease. My fingernails were dirty. I had stopped cleaning them a few weeks ago. The dust of the forge had settled deep into my skin. I touched the tip of the switch, applied a little bit of pressure, not quite enough to move the lever. I breathed in and out once more and flipped the switch. Except the echoing sound of the switch itself, there was nothing. The battery should have released electrical current into the large capacitor and from there, a charge should have jumped up and over the top of the cabin to the back where the centrifugal rotor was installed.
So silly, I thought. Did I really think this would work? I sat there for a while. The knot in my stomach slowly grew. The feeling of failure was a thin blanket over the truth — the realization that I had spent the last six weeks trying to avoid the unavoidable. That this was a well-meant gift from my father to occupy my mind and get through the hardest part of the grieving process. It had worked. Up until now. The tears blurred my vision. It was as if the ground below me gave way and I’d dropped into a dark nothing. The pain, as excruciating as it was when I had felt it a few weeks ago, was so powerful now that I keeled over in my seat. I opened my mouth but no sound escaped it. I couldn't breathe or form words or even thoughts except the one that I would never see my dad again. Ever. That he was gone and I had no way of feeling his hand on my shoulder or him ruffling my hair.
I began to moan. It seemed to help with the pain. My moans became louder. I saw my hands holding the bars of the seat on either side. I didn't feel the cold of the pipes beneath my fingers. And when I could not hold it in any longer, I screamed. It was as if all my pain, my heartache, and the loss of my father's love, my father's big love, was in that scream. My voice was raw and I let it swell to a high-pitched sound while everything poured out of me and into the world. At that moment, it was as if he had called me and I had answered...
The blue spark was blinding, and even though it was brief, I couldn't see anything for a few seconds. It was followed by the sound of the arc — the moment the welding rod connected with the steel. It obliterated my scream for an instant. A second spark followed. I could see that it came from the front where the battery compartment was installed.
And then, through the blur that was my tears, I saw the charge leave the capacitor and rip across the top of the cabin to the back. I felt my hair standing up in all directions. A snapping sound was followed by a deep humming sound. The light in the storage room was suddenly so bright that I had to close my eyes. When I opened them again, the walls of the shed were bathed in golden light. The machine was activated.
When I lifted my left foot, it shook uncontrollably. But I was afraid the activation was only temporary and I wanted to go back as fast as I could. I put my foot onto the pedal and applied the tiniest amount of pressure. The alarm clock display moved. First, it was only a few minutes. Then a dozen and, next, an hour. I took my foot off the pedal. The display moved another hour before it stopped. Saturday, December 22nd, 3:08AM. I didn't see anything different in the shed. The light was as bright as before. I pushed the pedal down again. The display went back a few more hours and into Friday the 21st. I increased pressure and skipped three days at once before I slowed down again.
Gently, I reminded myself.
I figured it would be best to go back to a weekday morning, maybe three months ago. I would be at school then and my dad would most likely be in his shop. I could tell him that I had come home from school earlier and he wouldn't get suspicious, especially if I came in through the main front door. I pushed the pedal down again, this time a little harder. The days became a week, then two and three. I slowed down again, applied only minimal pressure until I came to September 14th. I stopped at 10:52AM. For a moment, I wasn't sure whether to turn the machine off or not. I decided to leave it on. Other than someone actually stepping into the shed, nobody from the outside would notice it was there.
I moved the cabin top to the side and climbed out. I tried to look at the centrifugal rotor b
ut the light was too intense. I would need a welding mask to be able to see it. I left through the back door and was hit by a breeze of warm air. The snow was gone. The trees had not even started to yellow. My mittens. I’d completely forgotten to take off my winter clothes. I decided to leave my gloves, wool cap, and jacket next to the door of the shed. I still felt a bit overdressed.
My heart was pounding as I walked around the barn to the front door. I felt like I had sawdust in my mouth. I heard the metallic banging sound of a hammer on steel before I reached the door. I couldn't remember having ever heard something that made me happier. I opened the door and stepped inside.
He stood next to the forge, a large hammer in his hand, wearing his leather apron and a short-sleeve shirt. He saw me and without stopping, he said, "What are you doing here so early?"
I couldn't answer. I tried to smile but my face muscles didn't follow my order. They began to twitch suddenly.
"Oh, Dad," was all I could whisper before I ran to him and held him in my arms. I couldn't stop the tears from coming. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to make him suspicious that this was anything other than an early dismissal from school and me being happy to see him.
"There, there," he said. "What's the matter?"
He placed the hammer on the side of the forge.
The Time Travel Chronicles Page 16