by Amalie Jahn
I ordered meals for both of us, with extra fries and dessert for her. She was ravenous, just as she’d been the time before. I decided to try and find out more about her life, and in the process, perhaps determine the cause of her death.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she replied through a mouthful of fries.
“Where do you live?”
“Here in town.”
“No, I mean, do you have a place where you stay?”
“You’re asking if I live in a house?”
“Yes,” I replied, embarrassed by the response I knew I would get.
“Sometimes people I know will let me stay with them. Some have apartments. That’s always nice. Mostly I bounce from here to there. There’s a shelter I stay at once in a while. Good people there. But I don’t like to take a spot from somebody who needs it more than me.”
“What about the money you get every month?” I blurted out.
“What about it?”
I was reluctant to press her about it further but found I couldn’t keep myself from the truth.
“Why don’t you use that money for rent?”
Her hand twitched involuntarily against the table. “That money doesn’t go very far, Charlie. I usually spend it right away on stuff I shouldn’t. I know it’s stupid, but I don’t know any other way. This life is just who I am.”
I considered her admission. My mother was a college-educated drug addict from an affluent family living on the streets because the simple fact was she was never anyone’s priority. I couldn’t stand the thought of continuing the cycle.
Before finishing her burger, she excused herself to go to the restroom. I had a feeling she didn’t actually have any need for the facilities, but instead felt she couldn’t make it through the meal without taking another hit of whatever she was on. In her absence, I hastily pulled a pen from my knapsack and began writing her a note on a paper napkin.
Mom,
I want you to know I don’t blame you for what happened in your life and I know you did the best you could. Under different circumstances, you would have been the most amazing mother.
Your parents and my father let you down, but not because of anything you did. It was because they were cowards, too afraid of disappointing strangers to honor their relationship with you. I promise you that if I ever become a dad, I will love my kids the way you were never loved. Unconditionally.
I won’t be able to see you again after today, and I wanted you to know it isn’t your fault. I made a promise that must be kept, and my future depends on maintaining that trust. Please know that if it was within my power to cure you of your addictions, I would. But I think now that’s up to you.
With love from your son,
Charlie
I tucked the napkin under my leg as she returned to the booth, her eyes glazed and bloodshot. She finished her meal without attempting any further conversation.
“You want an apple pie? Maybe for the road?” I asked as she slurped the last of her soda through her straw.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”
I handed her five dollars. “Go pick out what you want. I’ll wait here.”
While she waited at the counter, I carefully folded the napkin and placed it into the duffle she left sitting on the bench. She returned with vanilla soft serve for both of us and a small stack of apple pies she tossed into her bag.
“I really need to thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For the food. And for caring enough to come and find me once you found out the truth about your adoption.” She licked her cone. “Why did you come find me?”
Her question caught me off guard. In all the days I’d been searching, I still hadn’t pinpointed what was so important about finding her. I wanted to hear the truth, of course, but somewhere along the way, my search for her had become about more than that. It had become about finding myself.
“I guess I just wanted to hear your story. I wanted to find out where I came from. Who I came from.”
“I’m sorry all you found was me.”
I locked eyes with her, and for an instant, caught a glimpse of the girl she’d once been. And then, it was quickly overshadowed by the presence of her own self-loathing. She truly believed she was unworthy of love. And not only love from others, but love from herself as well. It was the conviction on which she based all her life’s decisions.
“Why would you say that?” I asked.
She finished the last bite of her cone and licked her fingers unapologetically. “Because it’s true. You came looking for someone to fill a role in your life. A role I’m not cut out for. I’m never gonna be anybody’s mom, Charlie.”
“That’s not true,” I replied. “I don’t need you to be my mom. When you gave me up, you made sure I had a mom. A mom that could do the things you weren’t able to do at that time, through no fault of your own. And so what I need isn’t another mother. What I need is simply this… for you to know that you are loved. Not because of what you did or didn’t do for the past 20 years, but just because you are someone special. You are Victoria Weddington, and you gave birth to a baby boy who loves you, no strings attached.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “I don’t like to talk about this stuff. It hurts too much. I don’t wanna think about it.”
“Okay. We don’t have to talk about it. But you deserve good things, Mom. You deserve to be loved.”
She fidgeted with her hands in her lap, refusing to look at me again. “I think I should get going now,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
“Can I drive you somewhere? Somewhere safe?” I followed her across the dining room to the door.
“Nah. I’ll be fine. Lasted this long without a knight in shining armor.” She glanced up at me. “I’m glad you came. It’s nice, knowing you turned out to be such a great kid. You would’ve been a mess if you’d stayed with me. Your father knew it the minute he saw us. He knew I’d ruin your life and he was right.” She reached up to touch my cheek. “But look at you now. He must be so proud.”
I opened my mouth to tell her the truth. I started to explain how I disappointed my father at every turn growing up, and that I was an abysmal failure in his eyes. But when I looked at her, I realized she didn’t need to hear the truth. No good could come of knowing she gave me up to a man who barely tolerated me. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t.
“He is,” I replied instead.
“I am too,” she said.
With that, she opened the door and disappeared into the glare of the afternoon sun. I wanted desperately to go after her, but I was frozen in place by her final declaration. With those words, she became to me the most unlikely of benefactors, presenting me with a gift I didn’t realize I needed until after it was given.
My mother was proud of me.
The entire drive back home, I wavered between anger and despair. There seemed no end to the pool of hatred I felt for my father. It was trumped only by the anguish I felt knowing my mother’s death was imminent and that I would never see her again.
Two days later, I locked my bathroom door behind me and settled myself on the floor. I watched the hands of my watch counting the minutes until the transfer would occur, returning me to the present timeline. My stomach churned as I considered the consequences of the changes I made, and as a bright flash blinded my vision, I silently prayed I would find my world just as I left it.
P ART THREE
C HAPTER TWENTY TWO
Upon my return to the time travel facility, it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim chamber. Once I regained my sight, I noticed two agents standing in the adjacent room through the window. It seemed odd that they would send more than one person to take me home, but the relief of being back overshadowed the strangeness of their presence. The door slid open with a faint hiss. Both men turned to face me as I stepped into the room.
“Mr. Johnson, we’re with the Department of Travel and we’re here t
o detain you for questioning and place you under arrest. Your trip was in violation of time travel code, section 17, article 2.”
I stopped breathing as my mind went blank. Something was terribly wrong. My legs buckled beneath me, and I struggled to remain upright, steadying myself on the metal doorframe. I tried to speak, but there was no air in my lungs. I took a deep breath, and with considerable effort, found my voice. “I have no idea what that is. I don’t know what happened. What did I do?”
The closest agent reached out to take my arm. His grip was firm and his fingers dug into my flesh. “You need to come with us. Your case worker will be able to explain the charges once you’re processed.”
Oh God, I thought. What about Brooke? I promised I’d come for her.
“A phone! Please, I need to make a phone call!”
“You’ll be allowed one call from downstairs.”
My head was spinning, and I leaned against the agent as we made our way out of the chamber and into the hallway. As I was led through a series of narrow corridors and staircases, each one looking exactly like the last, I struggled to make sense of what was happening. I tried desperately to recall a single event during my trip which would have resulted in my arrest. By the time we reached In-Processing, I had all but given up on trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. I assumed I was about to find out.
They delivered me to an area which reminded me of every interrogation room I’d seen on TV. There were no windows and the only light came from a single incandescent fixture on the ceiling. I was instructed to sit at the table in the center of the room and without any further explanation, both men disappeared out the door, which closed with a resounding thud behind them. Panic overtook me. Then I remembered my phone call.
“Hello!” I cried out. “I’d like to make my phone call please! Hello?”
There was no immediate response and I was about to call out again when the door creaked open. An unfamiliar officer placed a phone on the table and stationed himself stoically beside the door.
“You may make one call. Please be advised that your conversation is being recorded.”
I reached for the phone, and without stopping to consider other options, immediately dialed Brooke’s number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then it clicked to voicemail. I ended the call and tried again, frantically pressing the redial button. This time, instead of ringing, it went directly to her recorded message. I closed my eyes and listened to her voice. As I was about to leave a message, I reconsidered, remembering that she was supposed to have been waiting for me at my house. I hung up a second time and entered my family’s phone number onto the keypad. I held my breath as the call connected.
“Johnson residence.”
It wasn’t my mom who answered the phone. It wasn’t Melody either.
“Dad?” I whispered.
“Charlie? Is that you? Speak up, Son. I can barely hear you,” my father snapped.
For a second, his voice didn’t register in my head. It was as if I stepped inside a movie, and my life was not my own.
But it was my life. And my father was still in it. The phone dropped from my hand onto the table.
The reason for my arrest became painfully clear.
I steadied my hand to retrieve the phone from the table.
“It’s me,” I confirmed.
“Where the hell are you? Why are you calling from a government exchange?”
“I’m here, Dad.”
“Where’s here? Tell me what’s going on this instant!”
I tried to clear my head. I knew my father’s presence was the direct result of whatever law I’d broken, and there was no avoiding the punishment I was about to face.
“I’m at a time travel facility, about 30 minutes east.” I paused, gathering the strength to say what needed to be said. “I used my trip, Dad,” I told him bluntly. “I found out about the secret you’ve been keeping from me my entire life. If you’d have told me the truth on your own, maybe I wouldn’t have done what I did. But what’s done is done.”
“The truth about what? What are you rambling about?”
“The truth about my adoption. About my mother. About what you did to her.” I felt my courage growing. “I know everything.”
I could hear his shallow breathing, and pictured him regaining his composure on the other end of the line. He coughed into the receiver.
“Just come home, Charlie, so we can discuss this in private.”
“I can’t come home. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Why can’t you come home?” he asked, unable to mask his annoyance.
“I’ve been arrested. Apparently I broke one of the traveling laws during my trip. I think I know now what I did, but I have no idea how I did it. I’m probably going to need an attorney so you’re going to need to get me one,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness. “Send him here to the facility.”
“What am I supposed to tell him?”
“I don’t know! But I’m going to need as much help as I can get.” My mind raced. I felt like I was forgetting something important. Suddenly, I remembered Brooke. “Has anyone talked to Brooke today? Is she there at the house?”
“No. I didn’t know to expect her.”
My heart sank. “Well, she should be on her way, so when she gets to the house, send her to the facility as well.”
“Charlie, I don’t understand what’s happened. What have you done?”
“I don’t know exactly. But unlike you, I’m going to take responsibility for my actions.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he yelled.
“Just get me a lawyer!” I ordered as I clicked the button, ending the call.
I was offered a bottled water by a petite woman in a pantsuit three sizes too large for her tiny frame. I declined the beverage, and she sat across from me at the table.
“Hello, Charles,” she said.
“Good morning,” I replied.
“My name is Leigh Cavanaugh. I handle new cases here at this facility. I’ve been informed that you are waiting for an attorney to be present before we speak?”
“Yes.”
“I believe I just saw someone arrive for you. He should be here any minute.”
There was an uncomfortable silence between us as the minutes ticked by. Finally the metal door from the hallway creaked open, and a formidable looking man stepped into the room.
“Charles Johnson?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
He extended his hand as he sat in the chair beside me. “I’m Patrick Miller. I’ve known your dad for a long time. Let’s find out what’s going on here.”
“Are you ready to begin?” Ms. Cavanaugh asked.
I nodded.
She cleared her throat dramatically. “Please be advised that we are being recorded and that anything you say or do can be used against you during the hearing process. My name is Leigh Cavanaugh. I am with Mr. Charles Johnson, the accused, and his attorney, Mr. Patrick Miller is also present. Mr. Johnson, we have tangible evidence of you making changes to the past during government sanctioned trip 396DIB92 resulting in a life or lives being saved. This is a violation of time travel code, section 17, article 2. You do understand that the contract you signed prior to your departure defined the terms of your passage through time, and clearly stated that it is against the law to make any changes to your timeline?”
My head was spinning. “Yes,” I replied.
“I am obligated to inform you, the penalty for saving a life during a trip can be up to 15 years in prison with a minimum sentence of 10 years. It is one of the most highly penalized offenses and you should know that accused parties are rarely released on technicalities. You will be given an opportunity to make a statement to the overseeing board, but given the solid evidence against you, I cannot allow you to leave this facility until after the board has heard your case.”
“No bond?” asked Miller.
“Not for this offense.”
“How long unti
l the hearing?” Miller continued.
“It usually happens pretty quickly. Three days? Five at the max. Mr. Johnson will be given accommodations here at the facility until that time.”
The grimness of my situation uncoiled like a cobra warming in the sun. My father’s presence was the only proof the government needed to convict me. There was no question I would spend the next decade in prison. And while I was rotting away behind metal bars, the future I imagined for myself would disappear like Brigadoon in the fog.
In that moment I understood, I was never going to marry Brooke.
The thought of her brought a stabbing pain to my chest. My Brooke. My smart, sweet Brooke. She had warned me repeatedly about the serious nature of time travel. Of the inevitable chances I was taking with our future. I suddenly regretted not taking her advice more seriously. I needed to see her. I needed to see her right away.
“What about visitors,” I asked.
Ms. Cavanaugh seemed startled by the question. “Uh, yes, you will be allowed visitors.”
“When?”
“Once we’ve finished here, you’ll complete your processing and be taken to your quarters. You should be allowed visitors after that time.”
“Are we finished then?”
She gazed curiously across the table at me. “I suppose we could be. For now. I assumed you or your attorney would have some questions.”
Miller pushed his chair back from the table, scraping the metal feet against the linoleum floor. “Perhaps we will have some questions later, after Mr. Johnson has had the opportunity to assess his situation.”
Ms. Cavanaugh gathered her papers, and stood up. “Please feel free to contact me. In the meantime, if you would like some time alone together to discuss your case, you are welcome to stay here. If not, I can take you straight to processing.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I headed for the door.
“Mr. Johnson, don’t you think it would be wise for us to discuss this matter further?” Miller asked as I reached the threshold.