The Jump Journal

by Douglas Corriveau

  There’s the rub, I groaned to myself as I shuffled aimlessly to the hilltop where Mama Jean and I had waited for Toby to wake from unconsciousness. There is no rest of our lives. It’s just 2012 on endless repeat.

  “You’ll die again,” I continued out loud, my face tilted towards the sky. “They’ll all die again, and I can’t save them all.”

  “You can’t save everyone, Mitchell,” a deep voice boomed. It wasn’t the voice of God; Bruce strode toward me, looking sharp in an expensive suit. We shook hands.

  “Glad you could make it out.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for all the tea in China,” he said, using one of Mama Jean’s favorite phrases. I smiled, but only with my lips. I didn’t have it in me to laugh.

  “Seriously, though,” he continued. “She used to say that about her lost kids.”

  I shot him a quizzical look.

  “’Lost’ kids?”

  “She never told you about the lost kids? That was what she called the ones who came to this place, but left before she could fully help them. They never became family.”

  “I’m surprised that she would tell anyone about,” I said, “seems like that would have been a sore subject.”

  Bruce chuckled dryly.

  “You have no idea. She never stopped thinking about them. Sometimes she’d try to find them, but she told me ‘Bruce, you can’t save everyone. But don’t let that stop you from trying.’”

  I sighed and gazed back up to the clouds.

  “I’m not sure if I can accept that, Bruce.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t either, but it looks like I’ll have to.” He took a deep breath. “I’m taking over the ranch.”

  I hit him in the shoulder.

  “Get outta here!”

  A rare smile graced his handsome features.

  “I know that it’s not what anyone expected, but-“

  “But it’s perfect!” I yelped. “Seriously! But how the hell did that even cross your mind?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess I just felt like Mama Jean would have wanted that for me, you know? Like it was my responsibility to the world.”

  Responsibility to the world… that was another Mama Jean chestnut. Whenever we vented against the circumstances of live that had been cruel to us, she was loving, but far from sympathetic.

  “You’re special, but you’re not that special,” she’d scold us. “We all suffer, kiddo, and you’re no exception. But you know what makes it all bearable? People who accept their role in their world. The truth is, the world doesn’t owe us anything.” She’d wrap our hands in hers and lean in close. “We have a responsibility to the world, and the people like us in it. Make it better for them.”

  Those words echoed with me as the others said their farewells and left, some with wives and children. Most of them had been before my time, but they’d been Mama Jean’s kids too. That night, Bruce fixed up the few things that had gotten out of order since Mama Jean’s passing. Toby and I gave him a hand, stayed the night, and went out to breakfast with him the next morning. He laid out his plan for the ranch, but I’ll be honest, I wasn’t really listening to the details. Bruce was a competent guy, and he’d always been extremely protective of the family. With a few year’s temperament, he’d be able to fill Mama Jean’s shoes. I was still wrestling in my own head. What was my responsibility to the world?

  “Ryan?”

  I snapped back to reality.

  “Hmm? I’m sorry. That sounds great. I was totally listening.”

  Bruce laughed and Toby slugged me in the arm.

  “Bruce asked us if we wanted to stay on and help for a while. You know, share the load a little bit.”

  His eyes pleaded with me. Maybe more than all of us, Toby had a connection with Mama Jean. She’d been the only real mother he’d had, and as the baby of the house, he’d received more focused attention from her. Of course he wanted to stay. It was his way of honoring her memory.

  “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great.”

  It did sound great, but my attention was absorbed by the clock behind the restaurant counter. The race back to Montana hadn’t been urgent solely because of the funeral date. May 16th, my own personal New Year’s, had returned. The clock mercilessly ticked away the hours that I had left before it all wound back to August.

  Toby babbled with excitement, tossing ideas for the ranch at Bruce, who fielded them stoically. Their conversation faded to background noise as I struggled to understand what my responsibility was. Everyone that I’d saved had ultimately fallen victim to whatever I’d saved them from, so clearly playing hero wasn’t my responsibility. But if that wasn’t, what was? I mean, everything I did disappeared into the void anyway, so how could I live up to Mama Jean’s expectations?

  As Bruce drove us back to the ranch, I gazed dully out of the window, seeing and not seeing the open, sunlit fields. The gravel driveway crunched under the tires, jarring me out of my stupor. Toby bounded up the stairs, eager to implement his ideas, while Bruce sighed in exasperation.

  “I don’t know how you survived living on that road with that kid. He’s an endless ball of energy.”

  “Not always. Let him run with this, Bruce,” I said softly. “He’s taking her death hard. Working here with you will help him heal.”

  “With me?” Bruce asked curiously. “That sounds like you’re thinking of heading off.”

  I didn’t bother denying it. It was written all over my face.

  “I need to find my responsibility. It’s not here. I wish to God it was here, but it isn’t.”

  “Toby will be crushed that you’re leaving.”

  “He’ll be ok,” I murmured under my breath. Suddenly, I felt a thought nagging at me. “Bruce, Mama Jean told me that she felt responsible for Toby’s suicide attempt. Why would she feel that way?”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned up against the car.

  “I guess because she wasn’t watching when it happened. Normally, she stayed glued to the camera monitor, but since there were two of you in there, she stepped away for a little while.” He looked down. “She was always grateful that you were able to save him.”

  “But if I hadn’t been in there, she wouldn’t have left the monitor?”

  Bruce frowned.

  “I suppose, but what does that-“

  “Hah!” I pumped my fist in the air furiously. “That’s it!”

  I thrust my hand out for a high-five, and Bruce slapped it instinctively, then shook his head to shake off his confusion.

  “Wait, no! What does that have to do with anything??”

  “Everything,” I breathed exultantly. “You can’t save everyone, but that shouldn’t stop you from trying! I gotta go say goodbye.”

  I left Bruce in the dust as I dashed up the steps and into the house in search of Toby. I swung my head through each door until I found Toby in his old bedroom, pounding at the heater with a rubber mallet. I knocked on the door frame.

  “Hey! Here, give me a hand.” He waved me over eagerly. “This thing hisses like a pit full of cobras. I want to get it sorted out before someone else takes this room.”

  “So you’re gonna bludgeon it into cooperating with you?” I grinned.

  He spun the mallet in his hand nonchalantly.

  “Whatever works, right?” he said cockily.

  “Ok, well, put down the hammer, John Henry. Let’s see if we can fix this without assaulting the thing.”

  And we did, and after an hour of sweating and straining, we dissected it, adjusted a few pieces and Frankenstein-ed it back together. As we sat in the middle of the room, exhausted but victorious, it finally clicked just how much I was gonna miss that kid.

  Toby tossed himself flat on the floor, his arms splayed out to the sides.

  “Dude! I’m so glad we’re staying on here. It’s like being home again!”

  “True that,” I laughed. I checked my watch. Year’s end was just minutes away. If I was going to say
goodbye, it had to be done now. “Hey, Toby?”

  He jerked back up to a sitting position, a huge grin still plastered across his face.

  “What’s up?”

  I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t bring myself to actually say goodbye to my surrogate little brother. A lie of omission, not a lie, I reminded myself.

  “Mama Jean would be really proud of you.”

  His grin faltered for a moment, but then returned, stronger than ever.

  “Thanks, Ry.”

  He thrust a hand toward me as an invitation, smirking. I wrapped my hand around his thumb as he did the same, and we pulled each other into our typical “bro hug”. It was our celebration of a job well done, whether that was hustling pool or fixing a malfunctioning heater. I sniffed and cleared my throat noisily to cover.

  “MH-hmm! Well, ah……I’m gonna go,” I said awkwardly. “I’ll check in with Bruce to see if he needs anything else done.”

  “Ok, I’ll see you later, bro,” he said cheerfully. I paused in the doorway and tapped my hand against the frame. I steeled myself and turned back to finally say goodbye.

  Toby was frozen in place. The air in the room swirled in barely visible waves and coils, rippling like heat radiating off a sidewalk in summer. I blinked and the movement of my eyelid was lethargic. I gazed at Toby’s motionless form as the continuum gathered power. As the tension built, I strained against the current, trying to reach Toby. The air constricted suddenly, binding my ankles and working its way up the rest of my body. Before it consumed me entirely, I said what needed to be said.

  “Goodbye, little brother.”

  Year 398

  Middle of January

  Chapter 30

  Why is it that the one thing you want most in the world always seems like it’s dangling just out of reach? It doesn’t matter if it’s the girl of your dreams, fame and fortune as a movie star, or a World Series victory from the Chicago Cubs. The carrot hovers inches away, torturing us like a dog is tortured with a treat resting on his nose. Unlike the well-trained dog, we snap at it, but some force pulls it away before we can sink our teeth into it. We lead our lives this way; if only this, if only that… if only, if only, if only. It takes strength to take off the blinders and see the truth.

  We were never close to the carrot.

  We just thought we were.

  ****

  Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t whine to me about how I’m skipping too much, or complain that the story is boring, or that you’re tired and want to go to bed. This is (and was) my life, and from the moment you picked up this journal, you chose to follow my rules. If I say we’re skipping two centuries worth of my existence, well then, damn it, we’re skipping two centuries worth of my existence!! I am frustrated, I am caffeinated, and I am mad as March Hare, but mostly, I’m just tired of it all… just like I was back then.

  I didn’t start out that way in Year 180. At the end of 179, I’d finally come to understand what my responsibility to the world was. Every single person on Earth was trapped in an infinite cycle, and they didn’t even know it. That burden of knowledge fell to me (hurray!) and while it was entirely my fault in the first place, I knew that it was my duty to bring the loop to an end. It was back to the research, lads!

  And that is the true story of how I spent two centuries. I don’t really feel the need to explain myself to you of all people, but if you really can’t get over this, I’ll try to spoon feed you. Try to think of it like this: In the story of your life, in which you must list every important twist and turn, how many individual days do you think you’ll include? Hmm? What’s crucial to the tale? The correct answer is no, you wouldn’t include all of the minutia from your life’s history. You just can’t. So you’d pick and choose, weighing your ingredients s to mix together a steaming pile of you casserole and hope that you don’t bore the poor sucker who has to read it.

  Ahem. Now that you have context and I’ve vented my leftover emotions, we may continue.

  I spent those centuries buried in theory after hypothesis, struggling to comprehend the nature of time travel. It was like asking a Magic 8-ball to write a soliloquy on the meaning of life. Sure, you’ll get an answer if you shake it hard enough, but it won’t be a good one. This intellectualization of what I’d always known to be an extremely physical activity was getting me nowhere. It became clear that there was only one way to get results: experiment.

  The idea went against every fiber that I had. After everything I’d gone through, after the agonizing withdrawal and the daily fight against my impulses, I hated even the thought of jumping. To give in now was tantamount to sacrificing all of the pain that it had taken to get here. And for what? A small hope of redemption?

  As much as I denied it, the reality was staring me in the face every time that I opened my eyes. In order to save the world, I’d have to risk losing myself. A shadow of the dragon rustled in anticipation; it had been so long since I last embraced the dragon that it had faded into obscurity. I wasn’t entirely convinced that this whole idea wasn’t just some devious plan that I’d dreamt up to trick myself back into addiction, but the more that I thought about it, the more I could hear Mama Jean and Chaplain’s voices. Fight for what’s precious, they instructed. You may not be able to save them all, but you have to try. I made up my mind: I’d do it. A shudder ran through me, and while I tentatively identified it as fear, I wasn’t sure. I just prayed to God that it wasn’t excitement.

  I expected my first jump in over fifty years to hurt. Hell, I would’ve bet my house, my farm, and my neighbor’s house and farm on it. You know what I didn’t expect? That it would hurt that much. It was pure agony. I hadn’t realized that I’d built up such a tolerance during my addiction days. This pain was as bad as the trip to the Ferris wheel, and I had only jumped back a few hours this time to get my “sea legs” back under me. As I lay gasping in the fetal position, all I wanted was to either curl up and die, or quit while I still could. In unison, every voice in my head, including the emaciated dragon, shouted like a rioting crowd. No sacrifice, no victory! I didn’t give myself any time to think. With a gut-wrenching groan, I staggered upright and called on the continuum for the first of many, many times.

  For two hundred years, I experimented. Two hundred years. I jumped, hopped, side-stepped, and zig-zagged every way that I knew how until I literally could not bring myself to do it anymore. The centuries weren’t kind to me; I was regularly depressed, I drank to beat the band, and I lost what little conviction I had that I could actually beat physics at its own game. The problem was very simple: it was the Rubber Band effect.

  Sorry. In case you forgot, I once described my loop as a rubber band stretched into a straight line. My jump to the Ferris wheel was on one side of that line, and the jump back to stop myself from making that first jump (May 16th) was on the other side. The problem was that any attempt to go beyond either of the two endpoints resulted in utter, often agonizing, failure. There was some fundamental concept that I was lacking; whatever that core element was, its absence meant that I was chronically too late.

  I tried everything, and I do mean everything, to reach that echo in the woods behind Ohio State. I yelled to get its attention long enough for me to reach it. Bust. I took a savage time-stream beating in an attempt to arrive even earlier. Failure. At one point, I was so desperate that I took a knife with me and threw it at the echo’s head. I missed, and I failed. It was just as well that one didn’t work out; I hadn’t thought it through at all. What if I had killed my past self? I was desperate, but not suicidal. Still, as the long years dragged on, I had less hope with each passing day until, finally, there was none left at all.

  ****

  So there I was. Lonely. Despondent. Above all else, however, I found myself just sick with frustration; utterly disgusted and fed up to the hilt with life. Let me tell you, you’ve never been as skunked at a bar as I have. Why? Because you’ve never downed the same bottle of Jack eight times in a row. Sure, the effect is entirely
psychological, but that’s beside the point. Each jump put me back in the same physical state that I was in before diving into the bottle, but my inebriated mind failed to recognize that I was no longer drunk. And thus I drowned my sorrows, in recycled booze and jukebox tunes.

  As I slurped and slipped my way past the legal limit one evening, a fellow drunkard bumbled up to the bar and slurred a request for his lost keys. The bartender politely informed him that no one had turned in his keys, and as he nearly toppled into a pair of burly truckers on his way out of the bar, I marveled at the barkeep’s patience. That poor sap had asked for his keys three times in the past ten minutes, and every time that she turned him away, he promptly forgot that he had already asked. I took another long pull of whiskey, the harsh liquor rasping against my throat.

  The “dive de jour” tonight was a mish mash of sportsmen paraphernalia, polished mahogany countertops, and taxidermy. High class met “redneck” in a bizarre twist of fishing photos and chrome lamps, strange slogans and top shelf booze, and a flannel-clad clientele being served by an East Coast city girl complete with manicured nails and unnecessarily uncomfortable shoes. I chuckled internally at the curious cross-bred decorations, but realized that I was laughing out loud when the truckers shot me side-long glances. Oops.

  I caught sight of myself in an ornate mirror. Maybe I am a little drunk, I mouthed to my reflection, giggling at the funny shapes my lips made when I talked. I glared up at the deer head mounted nearby. I knew it was judging me with its dead little eyes.

  “So wha’,” I mumbled. “’S not like it matters.” I pointed accusingly at my furry adversary. “I can drink when…,” What was the next word? What was I talking about? I couldn’t remember. “You’re dead and I think tha’s funny.”