by Amalie Jahn
But I also couldn’t lie and tell them we were still together.
“He’s not here because we broke up on Valentine’s Day,” I announced casually over my shoulder as I headed into the kitchen for a glass of water.
“You broke up?” Mom called after me. “Valentine’s Day was over a month ago! What in the world happened, and why didn’t you say something before now?”
I chugged an entire glass of water, filled the cup a second time, and returned to the family room to explain away our breakup as painlessly as I could.
“It’s no big deal,” I said finally, taking a seat beside Mom on the couch. “Nothing happened, per se. I just don’t really have time to dedicate to a relationship right now, what with my course load and writing the bill and all.”
“Seriously?” Charlie said. A knowing look passed between him and Brooke. “You two loved and supported each other through Sam’s death and all the ups and downs of your relationship over the years and you broke up over not having enough time together?”
I was resolved to protect them from the truth, even if it meant throwing Nate under the bus.
“He didn’t like that I was spending so much time working on the bill. It was a hard sell for him considering he doesn’t support the theory behind it. I guess we had a difference of opinion and this particular difference was just too great to overcome,” I explained with more composure than I felt.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Brooke said sincerely. “We all really liked Nate. He kept you… balanced.”
What she really meant was that he kept me sane and prevented me from falling into old habits. Left to my own devices I continued to work myself into a stupor at the expense of everything else in my life. To that end, the bill couldn’t pass quickly enough.
Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long to hear back from Turner about our progress. She had garnered enough bipartisan support in both houses of Congress and planned to formally present the bill on the floor of the Senate the week after Easter.
C HAPTER THIRTY ONE
The attacks started immediately. Once the press got hold of Senator Turner’s proposal, it spread like wildfire through the nation, fueling old rivalries and pitting coworkers, friends, and family members against one another. Like every politically charged campaign against time travel since its inception, protesters wearing the armor of scientific progress bubbled to the surface en masse. I’d underestimated the backlash of opposition from the scientific community as well as the emotional outcry from those who felt their right to travel was being placed in jeopardy.
I watched helplessly from school as the networks televised heated arguments from both sides of the debate. For her part, Turner worked tirelessly to gather support and present our findings. She shared the statistics of the lives lost through embryonic destruction as well as through punishable criminal offenses like the one for which Charlie had been arrested. She pleaded our case, stating that the Dickey Amendment set a strong precedent to ban federal funding for all instances where embryos were placed in harm’s way or destroyed by any means. But after weeks of battling the other side, I knew our case wasn’t going to be strong enough to end time travel. It was missing something that pie charts and grammatically correct speeches couldn’t provide.
It was missing the human connection.
People were having trouble relating to our cause because there was no emotional attachment. No face to empathize alongside. No heart.
People didn’t rally around computer generated bar graphs. They rallied around other people.
Our cause needed a champion.
A senate voting date was set for the first week of May, so I knew if we stood any chance of swaying opinions by winning the public’s support, we needed to work quickly.
I placed a late night call to Senator Turner’s private line.
“We’re losing, aren’t we?” I inquired after Turner caught up briefly on my personal life.
“I wouldn’t say we’re losing, but the vote is split down typical lines. We need to influence quite a few delegates if we are going to win.”
I didn’t want to be the face of time travel abolition but perhaps I didn’t have a choice. Perhaps it was my destiny.
I took a deep breath.
“I want to help,” I said. “I think it’s time for me to come to Washington.”
“That’s a sweet offer, Melody, but I don’t know what you can do that isn’t already being done.”
I chewed at my cuticle. As soon as I spoke the words aloud I’d be committed to sharing my truth. It was now or never.
“I can tell everyone about my story. Get me a press junket. Let me do the morning news circuit. I think if people hear what happened to Vicki they might be more receptive to our cause.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. She didn’t speak for several moments.
“Ma’am?” I said.
She cleared her throat. “You told me from the beginning you wanted to remain anonymous to protect your family and to prevent your trip from coming under scrutiny. I don’t think I can allow you to break your silence, especially when it might not be enough to make a difference.”
“But it might be,” I replied hastily. “And for Vicki’s sake and the sake of all the other people who may never be born because of time travel, I’m willing to take that chance.”
She was silent again. I imagined her rubbing her temples the way she did when she was stressed. Finally she spoke.
“What if there might be another way to connect a story to our cause?”
“It needs to be a person. A face. Someone for people to relate to.”
“Yes. I agree,” she said. “But that person doesn’t necessarily have to be you. Any chance you might be willing to fly out to Texas this weekend?”
I had no idea what she was proposing but it didn’t matter. I was on board. “Of course. Yes. I’ll do whatever I need to do to help.”
“Great. I’ll book you a ticket for tomorrow night and email you a file. I think there’s someone you need to meet.”
Less than 24 hours later I was in the air over Kentucky, halfway to Texas, munching on stale crackers and sipping from a two ounce cup of soda. I’d read through Luciana’s file half a dozen times and knew why she was the perfect champion for our cause. The only hurdle would be convincing her to share her story with the world.
A taxi delivered me to her house, a modest ranch on the outskirts of San Antonio. I had no idea what her emotional state would be, but I convinced myself that regardless of our meeting’s outcome, I would leave her better than I found her. It took me several moments to work up the courage to knock on her door.
I was greeted by a petite Hispanic woman with soulful eyes and a cheerful smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked. A hint of her Latino heritage was still noticeable in her speech.
“Mrs. McArthur, my name is Melody Johnson and I was sent to speak with you by Senator JoAnne Turner because we need your help with something. I was wondering if you had a few minutes that I could speak with you about it.”
After a slight hesitation she invited me inside and led me to an oversized sectional in the family room.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Thank you,” I told her, taking a seat on the couch. There were photographs on the fireplace mantel of Luciana and her husband Jonathan at various vacation destinations as well as tchotchkes from their travels decorating shelves around the room. “You have a beautiful home,” I said.
She chose a chair across from me, folding her legs beneath her as she sat.
“Thank you. I try to fill the space with memories. Most days it helps.” She shifted her weight nervously as if she couldn’t get comfortable. “You said there was something someone from the government needed my help with?”
I smiled genuinely at her, hoping to convey my intentions were pure. “I work for Senator Turner, and I don’t know if you’ve been following the news at all, but s
he’s proposed a bill to end government sanctioned time travel. It will be voted on next month.”
I watched her face carefully for an indication of whether the bill would be something she’d be willing to support. Her eyes did not betray her emotions, so when she didn’t speak, I continued.
“The bill itself was actually my idea, not Senator Turner’s. I decided to work to defund time travel when, after taking my own trip, I returned to discover my niece had disappeared. As it turned out, I inadvertently traveled to the exact date of her conception and she was never created. My nephew Mikey was born in her place.
Tears pooled in the corner of Luciana’s eyes. I didn’t know whether to go on.
“Ay,” she said at last, blotting the mascara from her lashes. “My niño too.”
I leaned forward, sensing an opportunity to make a connection.
“Your son, Eduardo. The same thing happened to him?”
“Si,” she replied. “No one told me it might happen.”
I placed my hand on her knee, a gesture of solidarity. “Me neither,” I said. “Would you mind sharing with me what happened, if it’s not too difficult?”
She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She was thinking about her little boy and I couldn’t help but feel responsible for dredging up painful memories of her past.
“Jonathan and I had a beautiful wedding. It was small. Just a few family and friends. He was scheduled for deployment the following week, so we took only a four day cruise to the Caribbean for our honeymoon to make sure we’d be back in time for him to ship out.” She paused, turning to stare out the window so she wouldn’t have to face me as she welled up for a second time. “I’d never been on a cruise before. It was wonderful. The most magical four days of my life.”
She was crying in earnest now, and I handed her a napkin from my bag to wipe her cheeks.
“I remember calling him during his deployment to let him know he was going to be a dad. I’ll never forget that day, when he told me he couldn’t wait to raise our child together. The army let him come home for two weeks when Eduardo was born, and I thought then that saying goodbye when he left was the hardest thing I was ever going to have to do.” She laughed feebly. “Little did I know.”
She composed herself and I could tell she was mentally preparing to share the rest of her story.
“What made you decide to use your trip?” I asked.
“Jonathan came back from his deployment and was home for a little over a year.” She glanced at a group of photos on the end table beside where I was sitting. “Before my trip, there was a picture of the two of them on a hike along the river. He carried Eduardo everywhere on his shoulders. They were really something together.” She shook her head. “Now I don’t even have photos of my baby to help keep my memories alive.”
She stopped speaking, seemingly lost in remembrance of her son, and I waited patiently for her to begin again.
“Just after the baby’s second birthday, Jonathan got picked up for a stateside training rotation in Louisiana. The convoy was involved in an accident on the way and while most of the battalion walked away with only scratches, he and four other soldiers died from their injuries.” She shook her head. “Two tours overseas and he ended up dying because one of his men fell asleep behind the wheel. What are the chances?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. McArthur,” was all I could think to say. I hated making her upset.
“It happens, you know? When you’re an Army wife the threat is always there. But then again, I guess the threat is always there regardless of what type of wife you are. Tragedies happen every day, don’t they?”
“I suppose they do,” I said, suddenly realizing the purpose of her trip. “And after he died, you went back to relive your honeymoon?” I asked.
She nodded. “It was the worst mistake of my life. If only I had known,” she cried.
I knew it was unnecessary for her to finish telling her story. She had obviously reset her timeline during her trip and instead of conceiving Eduardo as she had the first time, she ended up never getting pregnant at all.
“I came back to nothing,” she wept. “No husband, no child. I lost them both.”
“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” I said again as I moved to the floor to sit at her feet. “I can only begin to imagine your pain and grief, but your story is the reason I’m here. We are fighting to end time travel so other families won’t be forced to live through losses like ours, but sadly we are losing that fight. People aren’t connecting with our cause because we have no ambassador. No story for them to connect to.” I placed my hand on top of hers. “I was hoping… we were hoping, that maybe you would be able to fill that role for us.”
She peered down at me through her tear streaked lashes, disbelieving my request.
“You want me to tell them about Eduardo?”
“Yes. I need you to tell the world how time travel changed your life.”
She pounded her fist into the arm of the chair. “It ruined my life!” she cried.
“I know. So please, Mrs. McArthur, say you’ll help me pass this bill. I need you.”
She didn’t respond and I thought for a moment she was going to ask me to leave. And then she took my hand in hers.
Her voice was thick and her eyes blazed with the fervor of her grief. “I will help you. Just tell me what I need to do.”
C HAPTER THIRTY TWO
It took several days to arrange for Luciana’s short-term relocation to DC. Turner set her up in a spacious downtown hotel room for use as home base while she prepped for her national debut. I met with her over the weekend she moved in, introducing her to Turner’s staff and helping to acclimate her to the area. We briefed her on the bill’s short history and rehearsed her speeches. By the time we were finished, I was confident our bill would pass.
And that’s when all hell broke loose.
Turner booked Luciana’s story exclusively to Meet the Press, but someone in their office leaked rumors of her account to the media the night before her interview was set to air. We woke Sunday morning to negative sound bites on every major network.
“They haven’t even heard what she has to say and they’re already trying to tear her down. They have no idea whether or not she’s a ‘religious zealot’ or a ‘fearmonger,’” I complained to Turner as we sat together in the green room waiting for Luciana’s interview to begin.
Turner smiled broadly. “My sweet, innocent Melody, this type of publicity is a good thing, believe it or not. Our cause is finally gaining momentum and the opposition knows it. Up until this point they haven’t felt threatened. The fact that they’re stooping to straw man attacks means they’re getting scared. Luciana is a slam dunk and they know it.”
“You think so?” I asked hopefully.
She put her arm around my shoulders. “I know so,” she said. “Let’s just hope Luciana holds it together for this interview.”
As it turned out, we had no reason to be worried about Luciana holding up under pressure. She sailed through the interview, relating her story of time travel destruction like a seasoned professional. Calls from each of the morning news programs came in before her segment cut to its first commercial break. We happily accepted all of the requests and after brunch together at Le Diplomate, Luciana and Turner boarded a plane for New York City. I, on the other hand, drove back to school alone to begin another week of classes, closing in on the end of my third year.
Lesley discovered me early Monday morning, still in my pajamas, glued to the television in the common room of our apartment.
“Is that the woman who lost her baby?” she asked, sitting beside me on the sofa.
I nodded.
“I heard about her on the radio yesterday,” she continued. “Such a sad story.”
I ignored her, focusing instead on Luciana’s heartfelt proclamation in support of the bill.
“Do you think the bill will pass because of her?” she interrupted again.
I shrugged and t
ried not to be annoyed at Lesley for distracting me.
“This is your bill, right? The one to end time travel?”
As Luciana’s segment ended, I turned to face Lesley, wondering how she knew about my involvement.
“He told us about it,” she said, taking a sip of coffee from her mug.
“What did he say?” I asked her.
She swallowed her last mouthful of coffee and set her mug on the floor. “He said you needed time to yourself to do what you needed to do. He said the bill was important to you for some reason and that we should leave you alone.” She picked up the remote and flipped to another morning news program. “So that’s what we’ve all been doing.”
I felt a strange sense of affinity toward him that he hadn’t divulged all my secrets.
“That’s all he said?” I asked.
“Yeah. Pretty much. None of us can figure out why ending time travel is such a big deal to you all of a sudden, but it seems like we shouldn’t try to stand in your way when you have something in your life more important than we are.”
I felt like I’d been slapped in the face.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, turning back to the television.
“I don’t know. It’s not always a bad thing I guess. You’re just driven is all, in a way the rest of us aren’t. Once you get going you don’t know how to put on the brakes. Poor Nate just felt like he was some sort of road block I guess.” She stood up and started toward her room. “But I’m happy for you that your bill’s gonna pass. The only bad part is knowing I’ll never get a chance to use my trip.”
She disappeared into her bedroom and I stared blankly at the TV screen. I didn’t know how to feel about my friends’ perceptions of the bill or time travel or me for that matter. And although it was ridiculous to assume Nate hadn’t told them anything about what I was working on, I wondered just how much he shared, especially considering Lesley’s comment about not being able to use her trip. Did she judge me for having taken mine?