by Ellen Smith
“Two more stops,” Mara announced suddenly. “Do you have everything?”
“Everything like . . . what?” Will asked. “I thought we just had to show up.”
Mara was already checking her jacket pockets and slinging her purse around her good shoulder. “I just meant make sure you have your Metro pass and your jacket and whatnot.”
She was such a mom. The thought made Will ache a little bit. If the appointment went well today, maybe she could be a mom. Maybe in their new life map, they’d already be parents at this point.
The train lurched to another stop, and Mara closed her eyes again.
“Hey,” Will said, reaching over and touching her knee. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Of course it is,” Mara said, without opening her eyes. “We always make it through. No matter what.”
* * * * *
If Will had thought Nayana’s office was impersonal, the waiting room of the psychiatrist’s office was downright cold. There weren’t even magazines on the tables or abstract art on the walls. Just a room full of uncomfortable maroon chairs. Will practically had to fold himself in half to sit down. That was the problem with being so darn tall.
Without anything to distract him, Will couldn’t find a way to stop his heart from racing. Will knew about psychiatrists. There was the one he’d seen in college that diagnosed him with PTSD. What if this psychiatrist said the other one was wrong? What if he thought Will was just oversensitive? Imagining things? Even if the main motivation was healing Mara’s shoulder, surely his PTSD factored in. What if he wasn’t crazy after all?
What if that blew it for both of them?
Chill, Will told himself. He and Mara would probably get called in together, like they did to Nayana’s office. This appointment was just a formality, anyway. Nothing to it.
The door to the waiting room opened, revealing a middle-aged woman with a deep voice and a deeper scowl. “Sterling?” she called.
Will jumped. “Yes?”
The woman pointed to the hallway behind her. “Second door on your left.”
Will and Mara both stood. The receptionist shot a glare at Mara. “Mister Sterling first, please.”
“We’re doing different appointments?” Will asked.
“You have different appointment times, don’t you?” The woman looked annoyed. “Second door on your left.”
Will glanced back at Mara. She smiled encouragingly. If she looked as worried as he felt, it didn’t show.
The second door on the left was marked with a laminate wooden nametag engraved Dr. Aaron Hendrix. Will was surprised to see a man standing just inside the doorway, hand already extended for a handshake. For once, Will didn’t have to look down to make eye contact. Dr. Hendrix was easily as tall as he was. About three times as wide too. Glasses, like him, but Dr. Hendrix’s kept sliding down his nose. It was probably sweat. Dr. Hendrix’s pale skin was pink and blotchy, as if he’d just run up the stairs.
“Mr. Sterling,” the psychiatrist said, pushing the glasses back up with his index finger. “I’m Dr. Aaron Hendrix. Pleased to meet you, although naturally I wish we were meeting under different circumstances.”
Did everyone in the Bennington Building say that?
“I’ve read through your complete mental health evaluation,” Dr. Hendrix began. He shut the door behind Will and gestured him toward a chair. “It was completed by one Dr. Rodriguez approximately seven years ago.” Dr. Hendrix plopped down behind the desk, rolling back slightly in the desk chair as he did.
“When I was in college,” Will said. “Yes.”
“I want to commend you for seeking help so soon after the incident. Many people have difficulty admitting that there is a problem and try to handle it themselves. They want to ‘tough it out,’ so to speak.”
Dr. Hendrix’s tone was complimentary, but Will still felt stung. I got help because it was the right thing to do. I’m not weak.
“I see you have a documented diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder and a detailed analysis of how the shooting contributed to your condition.”
“It caused the condition,” Will said.
Dr. Hendrix pinched his lips and nodded shortly. “I just want to do a quick assessment to bring us up to speed. Are you seeing a psychiatrist currently?”
Will cracked a smile. “Yes. You.”
Dr. Hendrix didn’t laugh. Okay. Not the time for humor. Will cleared his throat. “No. I saw Dr. Rodriguez for six months or so. He worked for the university I went to. He mostly just wanted to make sure I understood what PTSD was and to help me learn some ways to handle everything.”
“Do you take antidepressants?”
“No,” Will said vehemently. “I’m fine.” Too late, he realized that this wasn’t the time to put on a front. Mara needed this rectification. “I mean, I didn’t feel that they would help,” Will amended. “I don’t always have nightmares. Just sometimes. So I didn’t want to take medicine every day for a problem that only crops up from time to time.” Will was making it worse, he was sure.
Dr. Hendrix jotted down some notes. “It looks like you’ve had stable employment since graduation. Any issues at work?”
This was not the time to be a hero. Still, Will couldn’t make eye contact with the psychiatrist when he answered the question. “We’ve had some issues with school violence this year. There was a bomb threat a few months ago where we had to evacuate the building. Earlier this week, a student had a gun on campus. Suicide threat. We were all on lockdown for that.” Will slid his eyes up to meet Dr. Hendrix’s. “I guess it’s been a trigger for me.”
“I see,” Dr. Hendrix said, jotting down some notes. “I want to talk you through the realities of timeline rectification for your situation. There are certainly ways in which a timeline rectification would be helpful for you, but it’s still important to carefully weigh this decision. There are some benefits to the events in this life map that you will not receive after a timeline rectification.”
Here we go. Despite himself, Will let out a sigh.
That seemed to pique the psychiatrist’s interest. He scribbled down more notes. “You seem resistant to the idea that there have been benefits from the shooting.”
“No, it’s just—” Will sighed again. This was much easier when Mara was here. “At first, right after the shooting happened, everyone was shocked and upset too. And then, I don’t know, after a few weeks, people started pressuring us to find the bright side to what had happened. They kept talking almost like the shooting was a good thing. Like if we looked hard enough, we’d see that it was really a blessing in disguise. And I just don’t feel that way.”
Dr. Hendrix nodded thoughtfully. “Give me an example, please.”
Will was surprised at how easily the answer came. “Like the issues I mentioned at the school where I teach. My principal’s all up in my face trying to get me to share my story and share my perspective with the students, as if I have some big, overwhelming ‘life lesson’ to share.” Will used his fingers to make quotation marks in the air. “And I feel like, did I do this wrong? Because I don’t feel wiser or more grateful than I think I’d be otherwise. I don’t have an incredible perspective to share to help people ‘choose the right path,’ or ‘appreciate the little things,’ or ‘remember what’s important.’” More air quotes. Will was embarrassed by his own dorkiness.
“No,” Dr. Hendrix said. “It doesn’t sound like you’re doing anything wrong. Everything you’ve said sounds perfectly normal to me.”
Perfectly normal. Will relaxed a little. Wait. If I’m normal, will he say we don’t need the time wreck? Will was about to speak up again—no, really, we’re not doing that well, trust me, I’m a mess—but Dr. Hendrix had another question.
“You say everyone was pressuring you to find the bright side or to feel grateful because of your experience. Then you mentioned your principal. Are there any other people who specifically pressured you over this?”
“No, no. That was just an example. People in general is what I meant.”
Dr. Hendrix didn’t write down anything. “No one at all? No one else specific?”
“Well, my mom, I guess,” Will said. “My whole family back home.”
Now Dr. Hendrix was writing. Will must have said something interesting. “And how many people would that be?” the psychiatrist asked. “Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”
“No, it’s just my mom, brother, sister, and me. No dad in the picture,” Will said, waiting for Dr. Hendrix to pounce on that. This was the kind of junk psychiatrists probably liked to hear. And do you feel you’re really seeking a time wreck because you lack a father figure to look up to?
But Dr. Hendrix didn’t seem interested in that at all. “Has your family always been so unsupportive?”
“I wouldn’t say they’re unsupportive,” Will said. “They’re religious. They want me to understand the purpose of God in this and how it all works toward the greater good.”
“Are you religious, Will?”
Were psychiatrists allowed to ask that? Maybe they could ask anything they wanted. “I like the idea of a God,” Will said. “I like the music and the stories—except that one with Abraham and Isaac, that one always creeped me out—but I don’t think I feel it. When I shut my eyes and pray, I don’t feel what everyone at their church seems to feel. I don’t feel like dancing or praising or falling on my knees. I just feel normal.”
“So,” Dr. Hendrix said. “Do you think that the shooting could have been God doing something terrible to work toward the greater good?”
“No,” Will said. “No. I mean, I think God is good, but I think sometimes things just happen. Bad things. Like this, obviously.”
Dr. Hendrix nodded. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, like a Bobblehead doll.
“One more question,” he said. “Tell me more about your relationship with your wife. How do you think you would have met if it hadn’t been for the shooting?”
You Get One Life
By Renee Rasmussen
One life.
One time.
One chance to get things right.
There are so many times that I’ve waited and wished and prayed for a second chance, only to be denied. Have you read all the articles out there about timeline rectification? I have. Have you looked up an inmate in the system to see if they’re nearing eligibility for parole . . . meaning they might have a shot at getting into the rectification program? I have. Have you written personal letters begging an inmate to consider a rectification? I’ve written over 200—averaging one a week for four years.
I had a perfectly ordinary life until I was thirty-two years old. Not perfect, mind you. Perfectly ordinary. I had a roommate who was friendly and a cat with terrible cat-food breath and a job I liked well enough but wasn’t a career.
And then, one day, in the middle of my very ordinary existence, I was knocked unconscious. I woke up in a hospital bed, attached to more monitors than I’d ever seen in my life. My apartment had been broken into by two teens who were high on drugs and looking for anything they could steal and sell on the black market. I didn’t know them, and neither did my roommate. Our door was locked. Our blinds were shut. We just had the bad luck to be in the first-floor apartment when these two men got the idea to break in.
They were arrested quickly, did us the favor of admitting their guilt, and are currently serving their sentences. This is where the story gets interesting: at the end of the trial, my lawyer turned to me and said, “Give it a few years. If they qualify for the rehabilitation program, you’ll probably get a time wreck. This isn’t forever.”
This isn’t forever. I clung to those words as I tried to rebuild my life. My roommate was too traumatized to consider another apartment in the city. She ended up moving back to her home state to be with family. She took the cat too. I hope they’re doing well, but to be honest, the whole experience was so hard that we can’t talk without it all bubbling back up.
I don’t have my old job anymore. When it reached the point that I’d been in the hospital longer than I’d ever worked there, they let me go—and legally, they had no obligation to keep me for as long as they did. Finding a new job and getting insurance with what are now “preexisting conditions” was a nightmare. I’d like to go back to counseling, but I can’t afford it. I think a vacation could be restful, but I have to save up all my days off in case I need another surgery.
For years, the only thing that kept me going was the chance that someday, I might get a timeline rectification. Believing that all my struggles were temporary helped me handle every challenge.
At last, the time came when the criminals could qualify for the rehabilitation program. They both signed up.
They both dropped out.
I felt like I was going crazy when I found out they’d left the rehabilitation program. What happened? Why did they change their minds? Could they try again? Finally (after I wrote many, many letters), one of them wrote back. He had been willing to put forth the effort to rehabilitate, but his partner in crime wasn’t. Prison was working for him. He was powerful there, respected. He didn’t want to change. The other criminal—the one who had written to me—was very sorry, but unless they were both willing to rehabilitate, a time wreck would be impossible. He was working toward his own parole, apologized again for his actions, and wished me well.
This is forever. It took me one letter to realize it, but much, much longer to believe it. For over a year, I devoted myself to the cause of convincing these two men to change their minds.
But after a while, I began to realize that I simply couldn’t change people who weren’t willing to change. The only person I could rehabilitate was myself. And so—slowly, painfully—I began the long, hard process of accepting my reality.
This is the problem with time wrecking: it lets victims focus on changing the past instead of shaping the future. At some point, we all must decide whether we’re going to keep looking back or start moving forward. My journey has been full of stops and starts and many, many backward glances, but I am finally moving forward. At last, I’m starting to heal.
This is forever—this one broken, beautiful life. We’re only guaranteed one chance to do it right.
Let’s make it count.
Chapter Thirteen
MARA
Saturday was a sleeping-in kind of day. It was warm but overcast, tucking in the city with a snug blanket of humidity.
Or smog. It was probably smog, Mara reflected as she went for a second glass of water from the kitchen. She’d been up since six o’clock, when she’d taken her first round of pain pills for the day and stopped to eat a little breakfast. She didn’t want another repeat of Tuesday, that was for sure. Ever since, she’d been careful to eat her crackers, drink her water, and take antacids at the first sign of a stomach gurgle.
She still didn’t feel all that well. Mara’s shoulder ached more as the week wore on and taking off work for the appointment Friday had been a welcome relief. Welcome until she heard what Dr. Hendrix had to say, anyway.
Don’t think about that now. Hold it together a little longer.
Mara glanced up at the clock. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and Will was still asleep. Let him, Mara’s intuition told her. Will had been up with two nightmares last night, even though he wouldn’t tell her what they were about. Mara scribbled out a note and left it on the kitchen table, just in case he woke up and noticed her missing.
Going out to run a few errands this morning. Try to get some more rest. Love you!
—M
Not that the errands Mara had in mind would take very long. She liked to get fresh flowers for the end table, especially when they’d had a bad week. It made their cluttered little apartment feel more like a home. Grandmary would have approved.
Granted, Grandmary always had a vase of flowers somewhere in the house because she had maintained an enviable flower garden.
Thinking about that garden—that house—made Mara’s heart start hammering. She tried to talk herself out of it for the whole walk to the Metro, but she still boarded the train heading toward Arlington.
There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just a little visit. But Will would be hurt she hadn’t asked him to join. He probably would have tried to talk her out of it.
“Why are you torturing yourself?” That’s what he’d say. “Leave the past in the past.”
On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t have said that, now. Ever since they’d gotten the letters about the time wreck, leaving the past in the past was impossible.
Mara’s heart thumped faster when she got off the train at the familiar stop. There weren’t many passengers getting off here on a Saturday morning. Most people were going the other way, into the city for a day of sightseeing or shopping. It hardly took any time at all for Mara to go through the turnstiles and up the tall escalator to the street.
Emerging into the sunlight brushed off the last waves of guilt. Arlington was still a part of her, even if she didn’t live here. She belonged here.
The breeze picked up a bit, and Mara walked extra slowly to take in every detail along the route. The deli where she used to stop to pick up soda had changed management. There were new neighbors in the house at the corner, people who parked their cars outside of the garage and used the space as a potting shed. Mara heard them arguing over whether it was too early to plant tomatoes and peppers. She walked on, head bowed, until she was directly in front of the house.
Grandmary’s house had always looked like a little storybook cottage to Mara. It had red brick along the bottom and white siding on the second floor, with little green shutters surrounding every window. The front window had leaded glass. When she was little, Mara used to trace her fingers along the diamond pattern and pretend that she was Rapunzel looking through her tower window. Other times, she pretended to be Goldilocks, testing out the furniture before the three bears came back home. It was strange to look at the house now and know that other people thought of it as home.