The Jump Journal

by Douglas Corriveau

  As the days ground past, I figured out that I was going about it all wrong. The solution eluded me every time that I tried to couch it in logic. Obviously, a bit of nonlinear thinking was necessary here. I threw myself into bed that night with an intent other than to sleep; my plan was to daydream. You know that weird time right before you fall asleep when thoughts merge with dreams? I was counting on that lack of mental inhibition to supply me with inspiration.

  OK, heads up: this is going to require a little bit of effort on your part, alright? In order to give you the full explanation of what I saw in there, I have to go a little abstract. If I tried to capture this madness in prose, we both might lose our minds. I’ll just give you the play-by-play.

  It started off like another daydream. My fears, hopes, concerns, and wishes zinged through my imagination like deranged hummingbirds. It was only when a mental conversation that I was having with Tara turned into a literal circus act with a hobo named Jeff that I knew I’d hit ground zero. From then on, things came like whitecap waves, crashing over me one minute and replaced by another in the next.

  -the continuum. Black, cold, chewing away at my flesh. Not what I wanted to see, happy thoughts-

  -Tara behind a lacey veil. She’s beaut- wait, what? Focus, get your head in the game.

  -Jump after jump, year after year. Chaplain’s voice in my head. Something more precious…

  -Tara again. Damn it, why did everything come back to her? Get out of my brain, girl, don’t you know I’m trying to save my life here?

  -All those lives I’d had, addict, criminal, hermit, vigilante, school boy. Vigilante? There was something there, I just-wait, no, don’t-

  -Nicolae leers at me. You’re trash, boy. He discovered my power, but what does that have to do with anything?

  -“Thank you”. It’s the girl from Year 178, after I saved her life. There’s a theme here, I can tell. What is it??

  -Oh no. Tears falling down her face. Wake up, wake up! Betrayed her trust, 400 hundred years penance. Almost took her with me. No!

  I snapped awake, gasping for air. That was the last time that I’d go down the rabbit hole if I could help it. I stumbled down the hallway to the dorm bathrooms, my pulse beating against my ears. With trembling hands, I slapped cold water on my face, and the waking world began to look a lot less scary. God, I hated those feelings. The remnants of that half-aware dream still clung to me like a pungent odor. It hadn’t been all negative images, but the ones that stuck were a potent halfbreed of memories and nightmares. And of course, it had ultimately been a failure.

  I slammed my fists against the unresisting sink. One awful experience later, I’d found that my last hope for a breakthrough had done nothing but traumatize me with memories of my breakup and my least favorite moments from a very long and unhappy life. I mean, of all things, it had to show me tha--

  My head snapped up so quickly I almost gave myself whiplash. There it was again, that same pervasive instinct that had pursued me through that hellish experience. There’s something here. Slowly, very so slowly, pieces started clicking together. Cognitive wheels turned, and bit by bit, a picture began forming.

  A picture of the continuum, stretched to the breaking point, its narrow band grinding together. A picture of friction and unimaginable forces acting on a foreign object that didn’t belong, one with arms and legs and an unquenchable fondness for chocolate; an object that resurfaced year after year, only to be forced to exit in the same location. The image grew clearer, and my excitement intensified. I delved deeper, chasing that elusive rabbit of thought before it disappeared.

  Three faces from the dream kept flashing before my eyes; Nicolae, the girl from Year 178, and Tara. I struggled to separate them, but they continued to blend together until I finally started to see a common thread. For the first time, I concentrated on those moments, shoving aside the walls of fear and avoidance surrounding them. I knew why I didn’t like two out of the three: Nicolae had threatened my freedom when he’d uncovered my abilities, and Tara……well, let’s be honest, she broke my heart. Obviously, I knew that wasn’t her fault, but that didn’t stop it from hurting like hell.

  Still, why was that random girl that I’d saved locked away in the same vault as those two fragments of history? I didn’t have any dark associations with her. Honestly, I didn’t even remember her name. There had to be a reason why her memory was in there with the others.

  I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding my breath. As I forced myself to breathe again, I rubbed a fist against my eyes as if the secret lay just behind them. This was like losing something and trying to remember where it was, except I had lost it over two centuries ago and was only now trying to find it. I paced the bathroom floor, incredibly grateful that it was still the wee hours of the morning. The last thing that I needed was to deal with the pre-class bathroom rush.

  There was an unrelenting nervousness about diving into this memory that I couldn’t shake. Something in me rebelled against the idea, even though I knew, just knew, that the answer that I’d spent years searching for was on the other side. Without giving myself any more time to think about, I dove in.

  I traced back the flow of events and characters: girl, mugger, gun. The mugger saw me, grabbed the girl, and voila, hostage situation. I talked my way close to the guy, he freaked out, and before I knew it the whole thing was out of control. The only thing to do was to grab the lady and bail into the time stream before her brains were rearranged into some very unpleasant graffiti on the brick wall.

  Then what? None of that seemed like a reasonable source for the twinge in my gut warning me to steer clear. What had happened next? Without warning, a “lightbulb moment” struck me with all the subtlety of a truck. Remember that? It’s not an idle metaphor when I say it.

  Sorry. Like I said, it hit me like a bolt out of the blue. The girl hadn’t thanked me. Or screamed. She’d gotten sick, her Technicolor yawn puddling in the sidewalk. I suppose that could’ve been caused by the trauma of having a gun crammed against her temple, but I figured that it was far more likely to be a result of time travel.

  In the Ohio State University dorm bathroom, I leapt to my feet, mouth agape, hands on the back of my head in absolute shock. I took little half-steps in all directions at once, as if my body couldn’t come to a decision about which way to go. The mirror captured me perfectly: lips moving in an attempt to yell or scream in revelation, but no sound emerged; face pale and, oddly enough, sweating; hands clenching and unclenching, desperate to take action.

  I’d found it. I knew what bound those three together.

  And I knew how to break my curse. Forever.

  Out of sheer joy, I kicked the bathroom wall. It was harder than I thought, and I had to stifle a yelp of pain, but even as I hopped about on one foot, I couldn’t help smiling. It made so much sense! I cursed myself out half-heartedly for not thinking of it sooner, but it was hard to do with any conviction. Tara’s break-up with me and Nicolae’s attempt to use me were parts of the past that I’d purposefully locked away and hoped never to see again. Little did I know that they were two-thirds of the answer that I craved. And the girl? There hadn’t been any negative association with her; my brain was just too good at isolating the things that I wanted to forget. The common denominator amongst the three had labeled the memory of her rescue as hazardous and, like a well-tuned machine, my mind knew what that meant. Lock it away! He doesn’t want to see that! Presto. Never thought about her again.

  Now, thanks to a really trippy dream experience and an unpleasant jaunt down memory lane, I knew everything. I knew what my subconscious had been trying to tell me. I knew the secret to surpassing the Rubber Band obstacle. Most of all….I knew how to get my life back.

  I just had to hope beyond all hope that she would agree to help.

  Chapter 33

  Finality is the ultimate end of all things. The flower loses its last petal, the swan sings its song, and the man breathes his last. But finality is not always morbid;
it’s not always accompanied by fear, or sorrow, or even pain. Sometimes it means freedom. Everything comes to an end, good and bad alike. That fact can provide a sense of hope, because… maybe...the end of one thing will lead to the start of another.

  Isn’t that worth hoping for?

  ****

  By the time I’d sprinted back to my room, slammed the door, scrambled around in search of a pen, found one, and snatched an empty notebook off of my shelf, I was both out of breath and starting to doubt my sanity. Neither was a good thing. Questions surged through my head like paparazzi taking embarrassing snapshots of my self-doubt. Am I really basing this on a bizarre dream? Is it safe? What if it doesn’t work? Is this notebook big enough?

  I didn’t have answers for any of those concerned voices. Well, if I had to guess, I’d say the notebook was big enough, but that wasn’t one of my major worries. It’s good enough, though. Let’s start with that.

  The notebook was crucial. It was going to be (fingers crossed) my last journal. It had two purposes, the most important of which was to serve as a chronicle of my life, or at least a condensed version of it. The five-subject, spiral bound pages could only hold a fragment of the past forty decades. I would have to pick and choose which to voice; every word had to pack a punch.

  Shoving all of my doubts aside, I picked up the pen. It was a clicking pen, with straightforward black ink and a thick, clear, plastic body. The rubber grip was a nice touch too. I savored the last moment before diving into this project. With the exception of brief breaks for food and sleep, nothing, absolutely nothing, would interrupt me from writing until my work was done.

  It took weeks. Hours on end of hand cramps, cross-outs, and what I strongly suspect was the beginnings of carpel tunnel syndrome. Looking back, I realize that I was an idiot. It would have been a lot easier to type.

  Whoops.

  Regardless, I pounded through it, heedless of spelling errors and typos. There were stories in those pages; I hadn’t realized exactly what my life had been like until I had to put it down on paper, but…..Whoa. I had done so much. Right and wrong, selfless and selfish, my actions kaleidoscoped into an array of short stories that dwarfed what my imagination alone could produce. The individuals who I’d encountered were as diverse, and frankly, as wacky as all the lives I’d led. The closer that I got to the end, the more that I realized that despite all the heartbreak and suffering, there were some memories that I would miss.

  At last, it was done. I used up the entire notebook, including its cardboard back. Bone tired and mentally drained, I sat back and looked at it. It was…kinda pathetic. I mean, really, for such a precious record of my history, the whole school notebook look wasn’t doing it for me. I glanced over at my other journal, a stylish, leather-bound ledger. That was more my speed. With a little creativity, I jimmied the leather cover to fit over the new journal.

  A glint of light reflected off of a nearby penknife and caught my attention. I had one last burst of inspiration; I carefully carved a symbol into the worn material like a coat of arms. I figured it was apt: a man with outstretched arms pushing against the circular walls of an analog clock. I’d been stuck in the past long enough. It was time to break the glass and step back into the real world.

  A satisfied smile fleeted briefly across my face, only to be chased off by a worried scowl of anticipation. This next part, happily forgotten about while in the throes of writing, was not something that I was ecstatic about. “Terrified” is the proper adjective, I believe. Over the course of my life, I’d told my story no more than three times, and it hadn’t been easy any of those times. This time, I wasn’t just telling a story; I was pleading guilty. This journal was my confession, written and signed with blood. I hefted the notebook in its leather shroud, surprised at how light it was. Somehow, I thought with all of the tribulation contained in its pages, it would have a bit more weight to it. The urge to proofread returned, but it was a barely disguised attempt to put this encounter off for as long as possible. There was no more procrastination; it had to be done.

  I grabbed my favorite leather jacket. The soft worn fabric squeaked in protest at my death grip. The leather wasn’t as tattered as it should’ve have been after so many near death experiences, but like everything else, it reverted back to its original state at year’s end. It suddenly occurred to me just what I was setting out to do, and that sobering thought dropped rose-colored lenses over my eyes. I drunk in the sight of my room, letting every poster and piece of scattered clothing sear itself into my mind before I switched off the light and slowly closed the door for the final time.

  And with that, I went off in search of my rescuer.

  ****

  I found her in the library. I’d known where she would be all along; I remembered her habits perfectly. That devil spawn professor of hers had no doubt assigned some ludicrous piece of torture today and set the due date for tomorrow. Still, it took three hours for me to reach her. The library was my last stop on a walk that circled the entire campus. I’d just wanted to see everything again before I talked to her.

  Now, as I wound my way through the cheap wooden chairs and scratched study tables, I had to smile. She sat staring down at a textbook as if willpower alone could make its contents understandable. She chewed her left thumbnail while her right hand clicked her pen’s button like a metronome on crack. It was an old familiar sight that somehow eased my nerves. With decisive steps, I approached her table and desperately hoped she wouldn’t be too upset that I was interrupting her focus.

  “Hey.”

  Her head shot up.

  “Oh, thank God!”

  “Well, I guess,” I stammered, caught off guard by her response.

  “You have no idea how much I was wishing for a distraction just know,” she said. “I swear, my head was about to explode. I don’t want to ‘find the derivative’, it can stay lost for all I care.”

  “Calculus frustrating you a little?”

  She gasped in mock surprise.

  “It’s like you can read my mind!”

  We grinned at each other, but after a second, I shifted uncomfortably, clutching the journal close to me for comfort. She noticed.

  “Hey, is everything ok?” Her voice was laced with genuine concern, which was all the more surprising considering that she barely knew me.

  I nodded mutely. Then shook my head. I tossed the notebook onto the table and just let it lay there on the table between us. She was dying to open it; curiosity was practically radiating off of her, but she wouldn’t do it. I hadn’t offered and she wasn’t the type to assume.

  She ducked her head a little, trying to reestablish eye contact with me.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Actually…,” My voice dropped out, and I cleared my throat harshly to get it back. “Actually, that’s why I’m here, but I was hoping you could read it instead.”

  “Read what?”

  I wondered how to answer that question.

  “It’s, uh, probably just easier to read it through. I can’t really summarize it.”

  “What is it?” she asked, eyes sparkling. “Is it a story that you’re working on?

  Why couldn’t I talk? I had to shake my head silently again.

  “OK, not a story,” she said quickly, noticing how tense I was. She gestured to the journal. “Should I-“

  Without another word, I slid over the leather-bound book. Four centuries worth of time-travel and turmoil, caged in one unadorned journal. Her thoughts on its contents would decide my fate. I should have been terrified, but I was so tired of it all, so broken, that even if she dismissed me after the first few pages, I wouldn’t be able to feel anything in response. Yet somehow, as her beautiful blue eyes scanned each line, an ancient emotion stirred inside of me like a sea monster slowly waking from hibernation. It was so strange and so familiar at the same time that I had trouble placing that feeling, but as I watched her read my life story, I remembered its name: Hope.

  She took
her time, poring over my journal as though she couldn’t tear her gaze away from it. Can’t say I blame her. Depending on your interpretation, it’s either a fascinating story or the ramblings of a lunatic. Either way, it’s a good read. Hell, I might have even enjoyed it myself if I hadn’t lived it. Anyway, she read almost all night. She didn’t check her watch or cook up some excuse to leave, she just read. She was so focused that it made me feel lazy and awkward just hanging around, so I pulled out some printer paper from a nearby work station and started journaling. By now, keeping a log was such a force of habit that, if by some miracle she agreed to help me, I wanted the record to be complete.

  As the sun began to peek through the bottom of the library windows, she finally lifted her gaze from the journal and met my waiting, questioning eyes. I had thought that I couldn’t be nervous about this; I couldn’t have been more wrong. When you’ve run from something for as long as I have, you can easily trick yourself into believing that you’re no longer afraid. Holding eye contact with the woman that I loved (and run from for 400 years) after she had read an account of my sins was almost unbearable. I started to sweat and hoped she couldn’t tell. What would she say? What was she thinking but was too kind to say? Would she help me? The questions raced around my mind; faster, faster, faster until they didn’t even make sense anymore. I was having the beginnings of a panic attack, so I did the only thing that I could do: I blinked.

  The connection of that magical stare was broken and I was able to breathe again. I was quick to reengage her, but I held back a little so that I wouldn’t freak out again. Her fingers drummed on the journal, creating a soundtrack to our silence. Two minutes felt like an eternity, but eventually she took that slight intake of breath that everyone does when they’re about to break a gap in conversation. I was beyond petrified as I waited for her inevitable judgment, her well-deserved disgust and dismissal. She looked me right in the eye and asked, softly: