by Ellen Smith
“So,” Nayana said, glancing at him. “All of these elements create the fabric of your life. We don’t see time travel as moving backward on a chronological line. We see it as returning to a set of coordinates that mark a specific event.”
“Interesting,” Mara said, without a trace of sarcasm. This was exactly the kind of thing Mara loved. Once, she and her friend Robyn had bored Will half to sleep debating whether the Back to the Future movies were science fiction or science fantasy.
“A timeline rectification is simply returning a person’s consciousness to the precise coordinates of the event. Our brains process time as through we are moving along from one minute to the next in a straight line, but truthfully, our consciousness is elastic enough to hop around a bit. For example, you can probably remember some long-ago events as if they just occurred. You might even dream that you are reliving a different time in your life.”
Had she even read the file? Obviously, I would know about that.
“The rectification itself is quite easy. You’ll be sedated and we’ll induce all of you to return to the time coordinates of the crime in a dreamlike state. The only difference will be that, in fact, your consciousness really will return to this point in time and the offender will be able to change what happens by behaving differently.”
“So you’re going to hypnotize us,” Will said.
“No, I wouldn’t call it hypnosis,” Nayana said. He’d obviously hit a sore spot, based on how quickly she corrected him. “The procedure is very scientific in nature. Very well regulated.”
“It sounds like you’re going to put us in a coma,” Mara said. “Is that safe?”
“It’s not a coma either, no,” Nayana said. “A coma would put you into a deeply unconscious state. Sedation will keep you semiconscious, but allow us to use your brain’s plasticity to change the exact point in time when your consciousness will reemerge.”
“So as far as we know,” Will said, “the judge rubber-stamps this, we get sedated, and boom, we’re back to being eighteen years old in the Adams Morgan University Student Union.”
Nayana laughed. “There will be a bit more to it than that. To ensure that the rectification will go smoothly, we’ll practice the desired outcome until it feels habitual. The idea is for you all to feel so comfortable reenacting the event in the new way that it will feel perfectly natural to behave that way during the actual rectification.”
“We’d have to act it out? Together?” Mara cried. Her voice was high and tight like a violin string.
“A number of times, yes. Again, we’ll practice the desired outcomes until they feel perfectly natural.”
They were going to be in the same room as Jason Mann. They wouldn’t be separated by an aisle or protected by lawyers.
Never. Not in a million years.
“How long would that go on?” Mara asked.
“The reenactments are very intense, but you’ll be able to devote your full focus to the process. After the resentencing trial, you’ll be moved to a secure location. Once a judge agrees to a timeline rectification, they prefer for it to happen as soon as possible. It lowers the risk of possible complicating factors.”
“Such as?” Will asked.
“It’s really just a precaution,” Nayana said. “Think of a time when a jury is sequestered, for example, to limit outside influences that might affect their verdict. It would be difficult for you to focus on the rectification process if you had a friend or family member actively discouraging you. As I’m sure you know, timeline rectification can be a bit . . . controversial.”
“Sounds like the Witness Protection Program too,” Mara said. “If someone were trying to stop us from participating in a rectification, moving us to another location could give us some security.”
“Yes,” Nayana said, hesitating. “But we don’t anticipate that kind of issue in this case.”
Mara reached for his hand, and Will squeezed it.
They weren’t going to do this. Will knew it, and he was sure Mara knew it too. They would end the appointment, make their pleasantries with Nayana, walk out, and never return to this creepy-quiet building. Jason Mann would just have to rot in prison. Too bad, so sad.
Nayana made an obvious glance toward the clock. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve talked for quite a while. Now, if you’re interested in moving forward with this process, we do need to complete some paperwork.”
“Oh. I don’t think we’re ready to agree to anything today,” Mara said. She was using her polite voice. The professional voice that sidestepped arguments and backed away slowly.
Nayana didn’t seem to register the brush-off. “This is the first step in the process—let me explain. The papers I have for you today simply say you’re interested in moving forward with the timeline rectification process. It’s not a guarantee that one will be granted. If you do sign today, we’ll line up interviews with a psychiatrist for each of you and for the offender. If each of you passes that interview, we’ll go from there.”
Will squeezed Mara’s hand again. “And if we aren’t interested?” He kept his eyes trained on Nayana, who had suddenly dropped her smile.
“You and Mara each have the right to stop the process at any time,” she said, choosing each word carefully. “Right up until the moment of the rectification, either of you could say you’re no longer willing to participate, and it would be canceled immediately. However, if you do decline to participate at any point, you won’t be able to pick up the process where you left off. The offender would have to go through the rehabilitation program and apply again; both of you would have to agree to participate; we would need new psychiatrist interviews and a new trial. And”—Nayana pursed her lips here—“if you do decline to participate at this point, the offender may choose not to apply again. If you’re sure you would never want to do this, you don’t have to sign today. But if you think there’s a possibility you might be interested, I strongly advise that you do.”
Will’s stomach flipped.
Nayana reached into a folder and passed each of them a set of neatly paperclipped forms. “Why don’t you look these over first,” she said. “You’ll see that this is just expressing a willingness to continue the process.”
“Can Will and I take a moment to talk this through first, please?” Mara asked.
“Certainly. I’ll step out to give you some privacy. Take all the time you need,” Nayana said. She exited the office and clicked the door closed behind her.
“I didn’t mean to kick her out of her own office,” Mara said.
“I don’t want to sign anything. I thought we were just going to find out more about it. I didn’t think we had to do anything about it today.” Will wanted to pace. He hated pacing. Only people in movies paced back and forth when they were upset. He jiggled his foot instead.
“Do you want to walk away now?” Mara asked. “Because we can. If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.”
“But you do.”
Mara didn’t confirm it, but she didn’t deny it, either. She pressed her lips together and seemed to be thinking for a few minutes before she answered. “I said I would keep an open mind, and I am. I’m willing to meet with the psychiatrist. That doesn’t sound so bad. And that gives us a chance to think more about it.”
“I hate psychiatrists,” Will said.
That made Mara smile. “Seriously? Meeting with a psychiatrist is the part that freaks you out? Not altering time?”
“I’m a complicated guy.” Will took a deep breath. Mara hadn’t said no. She hadn’t said that this was too much, too drastic, too risky. She was considering it.
If Mara thought a time wreck might be the right thing to do, he couldn’t take it off the table for her. Will looked back at the papers. This wasn’t a decision. This was just keeping the possibility open.
“Okay,” Will said. “I’m willing to sign if you are.”
Chapter Seven
MARA
After they left the Bennington Building, Will and Mara had just enough time to grab lunch at McDonald’s before taking the Metro back to their apartment building. They’d have to drive Will’s car into northern Virginia to get to the neurologist. Mara leaned back in the passenger seat as Will drove, watching the clock and crossing her fingers that they would make it in time. A missed appointment meant a fee, and rescheduling, and another day off work.
Mara closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
They arrived just in time, but it didn’t matter anyway. The neurologist was running forty-five minutes behind. Mara rubbed her left hand up and down her forearm, squeezing gently as if she could wring the pain down and out her fingertips. She didn’t usually do that in public. Here in the neurologist’s waiting room, though, nearly everyone was in the same boat.
Beside her, Will stretched.
“Thank you for coming with me,” Mara said. “Not the most fun way to spend a day off, going to this and the other appointment.” She stopped and looked around the waiting room, even though she’d whispered the words “other appointment.” Nobody was listening to them. Or at least, no one was looking at them.
Will stretched again and shrugged. “I don’t mind. Besides, we only have one quarter left in the school year. I doubt I’ll use up all my vacation days by the end of the year.”
Unless the time wreck gets approved, Mara added silently. Who knew how many appointments they’d have to get through. They’d have the psychiatrist appointments for sure. That was another vacation day. Would they have more meetings with Nayana? Would there eventually be a trial date?
That is, if they moved forward with it at all. Secretly, Mara was already hoping that the psychiatrist would rule them out of a time wreck after meeting with them. She didn’t want to be the one to make this choice, one way or the other. It had been one thing to move on with their lives after the shooting. What else could she and Will have done? But now, they had to choose between continuing this life map and doing a time wreck. Turning down the rectification felt like saying that she was happy the shooting happened, that she literally wouldn’t change a thing. Going through with the time wreck felt like saying that she hated what Jason did more than she loved everything that happened after.
For one minute—just one—Mara wished Jason hadn’t applied for the time wreck at all.
“Mara?” asked the nurse. Mara cut her musings short. She and Will followed the nurse back to the same room they usually had. It was a monthly appointment to refill her pain meds. Mara answered all the nurse’s questions by rote. Height, weight, current prescription, current symptoms.
“And on a pain scale of one to ten, with one being no pain and ten being the worst pain you can imagine, where are you at today?” The nurse hovered her pen over the clipboard.
“Seven,” Mara said. Both Will and the nurse looked surprised. On a good day, she usually hovered between two and four. On a bad day, five or six. The last month had been especially bad.
“Right,” the nurse said, handing her a sealed cup. “You know the drill. Come back to this room when you’re done. Dr. Ricci will be in soon.”
The monthly urine sample was something Mara hated most. They were testing for pregnancy before refilling her prescription. The medicine had warnings all over it about potential birth defects and cautions for expecting or breastfeeding mothers. It was a terrible idea to get pregnant while she was taking this medicine—Mara knew that—but a part of her selfishly wished that one month, she would test positive for pregnancy. It would be a surprise, to be sure, and totally unplanned, and they’d have to take her off the pain meds and watch the baby to be sure it developed normally, and of course there were no guarantees . . .
It was totally impractical. But then, wishes usually were.
When she got back to the exam room, Will greeted her with a smile. Sometimes she felt like he could read her thoughts, even though they didn’t talk about pregnancy—or non-pregnancy—very often. Then his expression changed to concern.
“I didn’t know your pain level had gotten that much worse,” Will said. “When did that start?”
Another wave of pain rolled through her right arm. She closed her eyes. “I don’t know.” She could feel him watching her. Mara couldn’t say anymore, not now, or Will might think she was the one who needed a time wreck. Which she didn’t. She needed her meds adjusted a little, but that was all.
Mara didn’t open her eyes again until she heard the door swing open. This time, Dr. Ricci sauntered through, carrying a sizable medical file. For someone who was running so far behind schedule, Dr. Ricci certainly didn’t seem stressed. He took his seat on the rolling stool and ran a hand over his gray-and-white-striped goatee, as casually as if he were just sitting down for a leisurely lunch. Mara wondered, as she often did, what the hair on his head would look like if he weren’t bald. Would it be evenly salted and peppered, like his beard, or would the grays have grown in patches, like her father’s had?
“So I hear things aren’t going so well,” Dr. Ricci said. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Mara recited it all again, ending with her pain levels over the last month. She was never exactly sure whether he was checking her answers against what she’d told the nurse, or if he just hadn’t stopped to read the file before meeting with her. Either way, Dr. Ricci nodded as Mara spoke, underlining and circling the top page of the file. Finally, he tapped the end of the pen on the page.
“We have three options going forward,” he said. “Further surgery is useless at this point, because it would create more scar tissue and press on the nerve rather than removing the pressure completely. That leaves us with medication and lifestyle changes. I can increase the dose on your painkillers, but that’s going to increase your side effects as well. If you’re already having trouble with nausea, you’re not going to want to do that. If you start experiencing more drowsiness and dizziness, we’ll have to revisit whether you should have a driver’s license or whether you’ll be able to continue working at your current schedule.”
Mara balked. “I hardly drive at all as it is. Even if it’s limited? I couldn’t keep my license even for a few trips now and then?”
“If we increase the dose the way we would need to in order to address the pain, then driving at all would be inadvisable,” Dr. Ricci said.
Mara bit her lip.
“The other option is lifestyle changes. If we choose not to up the medication right now, you could still benefit from more rest and less exertion. You may want to start with taking a break from everything for a while, and slowly adding things back in as you feel able to tolerate.”
“How can I possibly rest more?” Mara asked. “I barely do anything besides work.”
Dr. Ricci raised both eyebrows.
Mara closed her eyes again.
“Certainly, we can continue exploring pain management options,” Dr. Ricci said, his tone gentler. “However, I’m going to be up front with you. There is not a medical solution that will significantly improve your quality of life. Maybe ten, twenty years down the line, there might be new medications and new treatment options. But for now, this is what we have to work with.”
Mara opened her eyes. It wouldn’t hurt anything to ask the doctor, would it? She looked at Will, who shrugged. Her choice.
Dr. Ricci looked back and forth at her and Will, clearly waiting for someone to clue him in. Mara cleared her throat. “There’s a possibility we might be able to have a timeline rectification.”
“Really?” Dr. Ricci asked.
“This morning, we actually met with the coordinator—what is she, Will? The specialist?” Mara asked.
“She’s called a timeline rectification specialist, I think,” Will answered. “It was our first meeting with her,” he said to Dr. Ricci.
“So to be clear, this is a timeline rectification for the shooting itself?”
“Yes.” Mara felt strangely exposed, talking about the time
wreck with someone she knew. Someone besides Will. It seemed to make it more real.
Dr. Ricci didn’t look horrified by the idea. He didn’t even look that surprised.
“Well, that would certainly take care of your medical issues,” Dr. Ricci said. “If I understand correctly, your consciousness will be returning to your eighteen-year-old self. If you don’t get shot in the rectified life map”—he spread his hands apart—“then there won’t be any injury to deal with at all.”
Mara didn’t say anything. Neither did Will.
Dr. Ricci continued. “Timeline rectification isn’t my area of expertise, but my colleagues and I have certainly been interested in how it can change things for our patients. Medicine has always had limitations. There are some things we can’t fix.”
Mara struggled to keep her voice steady. “And my shoulder is one of them.”
Nobody said anything to that.
“If this were you,” Will said finally, looking at Dr. Ricci. “If you were in Mara’s shoes, I mean. Would you do it?”
Dr. Ricci didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely.”
* * * * *
It rained on their drive home. Mara looked straight ahead, stealing glances to her left. Will squinted a little through his glasses and turned up the windshield wipers. He hated driving in the rain. Mara stayed quiet, letting him concentrate.
It had rained the day her mother drove her home from the hospital too. Mara had been there for weeks after the shooting, shuttling from one surgery to the next until the doctor declared her fit to continue her recuperation at home. Whatever relief Mara had felt at leaving the hospital evaporated when her mother closed the car door.
“Our first stop is the mall,” Mrs. Gaines had announced. “You’ll need some new tops that you can take on and off yourself. Some new flats and boots too. You don’t need to be asking people to tie your shoes for you.”
“What I’m wearing works fine,” Mara had said, glancing down at her loose pullover sweater. “I’ve got some more stuff like this. Let’s just go home.”