Max nodded solemnly; too tired, too drained, and too weak to cry any further.
Pamela had arrived the day before with Kyle. Garfield was there. So was Nathan, and Len with the three children.
Selwyn looked at the headstone. “Never thought my sister would die young. She was indestructible.”
“Yes, she was.” Max closed his eyes, and thought about his mother in Life I. She never called in sick for work, he recalled. Not even for one day.
“She was a very strong woman.” Selwyn shook Max’s hand. He walked on.
Max stood up slowly, and turned around. Suddenly his eyes went back to the headstone. He cocked his head. Then he saw Rona, all clad in black, approaching. “Rona, look at the headstone.”
They both looked at it. It read:
Mabel Thorning Brown
May 1, 1942 –
“I want to know who ordered this headstone. My father says he didn’t do it. It’s too fast to have it ordered recently, so it must’ve been done before she died.”
“Yes. Your mother ordered it.”
Max heard a thudding sound in his head. “Wait. Whoa. Before she died?”
“Last year. Your mother was that way. She liked everything organized and didn’t want to be a burden on anyone.”
Max stared, his mind churning. He’d vowed to avoid this trip to the graveyard, with its generations of marble memorials going back to 1859. He let his fingertips skate tenderly over the polished surface of his mother’s headstone, as he knelt beside it. Only the date of death needed to be inscribed. Green leaves flipped across the cemetery in the wind and landed against his mom’s stone. Max lowered his head, his mind working feverishly—he’d have to brainstorm a back-up, in case his still-emerging plan didn’t work out. Once the service is over, he thought, I’ll have to act as quickly as possible.
He would make some excuse to Pamela.
He would go back to a time before the car accident, so the past could be altered.
He would do everything in his power to ensure that April 26th, 1997, the date of death, would never be inscribed on that tombstone.
Chapter Fifty-Five
May 1, 1997 at 8:58 a.m.
Max entered the giant, decaying building in Athens, made his way down the empty, echoing hallway to the stairs, and stood in silence facing the door that led him to Dr. Time.
The same solitary door in the same spartan hallway, he thought. He couldn’t stop himself from scheming: if he screwed up, and if his plan didn’t work, he’d have to explain why he took off from Pamela and why he was skipping a few days of his residency requirements. He’d figured if all else failed, he would simply explain that he needed time off, alone, to deal with the shock of his mom’s death. I had to escape for a few days, to cope, he heard himself telling them.
But, for the sake of his mother, his plan had to succeed.
It had to work.
Max knocked on the door fervently. He hated every second of the delay while he waited for Dr. Time to answer.
Just then the door opened. “Max Thorning,” the male Dr. Time pleasantly greeted Max. “Well! Long time no see. How are thi—”
Brusquely Max walked past him, almost knocking him down. “Save the talk, Doc. It’s an emergency.”
“So I see.”
“My mom just died.”
“Oh.” Dr. Time adjusted his glasses. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You’ve got to send me back in Time.”
“Are you sure? You know the risks…”
“Damn right I’m sure! What better reason do I need?”
“Time travel’s not intended to solve personal problems, Max. It’s only—”
“Cut the crap!” Max said, grabbing Dr. Time by the shoulder. “Just set up the goddamn Time Weaver!”
“Very well,” said Dr. Time, and walked over to the wall where the blue cube sat atop a shelf. He inspected the cube, then brought it down and held it close to his chest.
“Dr. Max Thorning, date of birth July fifth, 1971,” Dr. Time announced. “State year, month, day, and time and destination.” He placed the cube on the marked square on the floor.
Max searched his memory. What time was the phone call from his mom? He couldn’t remember. Holy shit, Max, think, think! It probably started around nine p.m. He’d get to that point and worry about it later.
“Calgary, Alberta, April 26, 1997, at 9 p.m.” he said to the cube.
“Address?” asked Dr. Time.
“Inside the living room at 1382 Wildfern Avenue, Calgary.”
At that moment, the powerful image from the blue cube expanded to fill the vast room, almost like a swimming pool full of brilliant blue water. Max gazed about, impressed. It appeared that they were standing at the bottom of the pool. Yet the image was just too light and motionless to be construed as water. Dr. Time started programming the side of the hologram.
“1382 Wildfern Avenue, Calgary, Alberta, one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven, four, twenty-six, twenty-one, zero, zero,” he announced. The hologram rapidly generated an image of the western half of Canada and the United States, then swirled with feverish intensity and zeroed in to Calgary. Max felt dizzy as the images seemed to pivot and the machine zoomed in closer.
In another second they went from the Calgary skyline at nighttime, to the front of Max’s home.
“Go inside,” Max instructed.
A blur of images zoomed them from the front of his house, through the walls, and the front hallway, all within one second, until Max found himself staring at his own living room. He found his hologram self glancing at the phone, with a hologram Pamela holding young Kyle in her arms, trying to interest him in a toy.
Max stared at this moment in time, brooding. “Too early,” he griped to Dr. Time. “Can you speed it up?”
“I can’t—”
“Oh yeah, right, I remember. Just go forward fifteen minutes.”
Dr. Time complied. Time whisked ahead. Now Max was in the kitchen getting a glass of orange juice, but the baby was screaming and crying out loud. Pamela was looking frustrated and walked off with Kyle to get him ready for bed.
“All right. Getting close,” Max said. “Another five minutes.”
Time moved forward.
Now, with a hesitant look on his face, the hologram Max was picking up the phone.
“All right, this is it,” said the real Max to Dr. Time. “I’m going in.” He walked into the hologram as it was still running.
“You do realize that going back in Time will not necessarily prevent your mother’s death, don’t you?”
“Sure, but—“
“In fact, she may still die from any other cause in the days or weeks ahead,” Dr. Time warned him.
“Look, whatever! I don’t care,” Max snapped. “Can we get on with it?”
“Very well,” said a clearly miffed Dr. Time.
Max stepped into the hologram, taking his place within his virtual reality self. Suddenly, Dr. Time’s apartment was gone, and Max felt the coolness of the phone in his hand.
“Hi Max!” was his mother’s voice. “How’s my doctor’s doing?”
I’m here, Max thought, his knees nearly buckling with relief. I did it. I really did it.
His voice choking with emotion, he mumbled, “Hi Mom, it’s so good to hear your voice.” Oh, you have no idea just how much!
He wiped his sweating forehead, and stumbled onto the sofa, his head throbbing.
“You too, Max,” his mother replied.
Max fought to keep his breathing regular. “Uh, I was thinking about taking some time off, and coming down for a visit…”
Chapter Fifty-Six
April 27, 1997 at 12:03 p.m.
“Max, wake up!” Pamela forcefully shoved Max’s shoulder as he lay asleep in bed.
Max awoke groggily. He had a faint recollection of Pamela’s hand on his neck, and that Pamela had already tried waking him hours ago.
He grabbed the clock on his bedside table.
Just past noon. What the hell?
All the memories rolled over him, again and again, flattening him. The first version of the phone call with his mom. Finding out that she’d died in a car accident. The drive to his mother’s house, which he’d feared he would never survive as he was too badly shaken to handle the rental car. Then the visit to Dr. Time. And the successful jump back in Time. And then—
Pamela was still shoving him. But Max couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel his feet or legs. “I can’t get up,” he moaned.
“Are you sick?” Pamela asked. “Not again!”
Max closed his eyes. In his head he heard his mother’s voice. What day was today?
It’s Sunday, April 27, 1997.
The third Sunday, April 27, 1997, he would be living through.
The third time.
Life III.
Was it Life III from now on? No, no, he decided, feeling bleary. He would only classify a span of his life by the number of times he had lived it. Life III would be mercifully short—ending in a matter of days on May 1, 1997, when he’d begged Dr. Time to take him back to that scene where he phoned his mom.
Life I would always be his original life, from birth to death. After being doggedly pursued by Life II for so many years, Life I would finally be on its own again on October 27, 2013. It was as if Life II was a small dog never releasing its powerful jaw from the tail of a larger dog, Life I, and wouldn’t do so until October 27, 2013.
And from that point on, he would not know the future.
But now, even as he changed his present, he would still always feel like he was living on borrowed time.
He’d given up twenty-six years of his life. In the present—that is, in the alternate 1997—he’d re-lived ten years. Well, not even ten years yet. He had more than sixteen years to go.
Sixteen more years. It was forever. He was trapped.
Max shivered, and squeezed his eyes into slits. There was no shortcut. The only escape was through going back even further in time. Which you don’t want to do, bro, trust me. Re-living time exhausted him, demoralized him, and sapped him of hope and energy.
One day at a time.
Twenty-four hours a day.
Three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
And he still had five more days of Life III to re-live.
His head throbbed. He felt heavy as a stone. He was too tired to go back to sleep. Maybe you can get up, and take a cold shower, wake up for good, and play with Kyle. Yes, he could do that.
But sleep overpowered Max once more. With its grasping, greedy claws, sleep pulled him down to the bed, and held him there.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
April 28, 1997 at 6:37 a.m.
It was Day Two of Life III. Three more days to go.
Like ghosts on a television screen, Max saw Nathan striding toward him in the hospital corridor. “Hey buddy, how goes it?”
“Uh, I’m okay,” Max grumbled.
“Good. Say, can you give me your thoughts on a diagnosis? I have this patient. He’s experiencing shock-like sensations along with nausea, headaches and drowsiness.”
Max groaned. He remembered all this in great detail when Nathan had talked to him at his mother’s place after the funeral, back in Life II.
“Okay, but listen,” Max muttered. “The patient had excruciatingly painful shocks, and you ruled out Lhermitte’s Sign. You said it might be an early symptom of MS, but revised your opinion as the MRI showed no white matter lesions. And you also ruled out pyridoxine toxicity, cancer, and all other common neuropathies.”
Nathan cocked his head. He gave Max a strange look. “Whoa. How do you know all this?”
“You told me.”
“I never told you shit.”
“And later on, Dr. Helmsley will recommend a DNA analysis of chromosome twenty-two in your patient, as he figured it might be type II neurofibromatosis.”
Nathan stared at Max. “Dr. Helmsley hasn’t even provided me with his recommendations yet.”
“He will,” Max said, seeing the scene from Life II play inside his head. “And now I’ve helped you. I have to be going.”
Before he departed, he heard Nathan’s bewildered voice behind him:
“Man, you’re some weird dude, Max.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
April 29, 1997 at 7:34 p.m.
Day Three of Life III. The third day of the savage biorhythm thrashing that Max was receiving from his ill-fated embrace of his twisted timelines. His eyes felt bloodshot and his head pounded like hell. But damn, it was worth it to save the life of my mom. He’d do it again five more times if he had to.
He’d made plans for the weekend to visit his mom, and “try again” with that talk they needed to have to make things right for Jenny. He’d make sure she didn’t go for a drive around the block that night.
For now, he was sitting opposite the table from Pamela, relaxing with a glass of red wine after dinner. Actually, the wine probably wasn’t helping, triggering an imaginary hammer banging away at his forehead.
“Finally, an evening when you’re home at a decent hour!” Pamela crooned at Max, knowing nothing of Max’s acute emotional state.
“Agreed,” said Max. He peeked over to see Kyle sleeping soundly in his bassinet.
Pamela leaned in closer. “Hmmm,” she purred. “Max, today while I was out walking with my friend Sue,” she recalled, her fingers seductively stroking Max’s neck, “she told me great news.”
“Right, I know already,” replied Max. “Danielle’s pregnant.”
Pamela was dumbstruck. She leaned back, and twisted an eyebrow at Max. “How did you know?”
“You told me last week.”
Pamela’s eyes got huge. “No, Max,” she said, slipping her arms off of Max’s shoulders. “That’s not possible. Danielle just did a pregnancy test last night.”
Suddenly Max felt his heart beating hard in his chest. “Oh,” he said, and he remembered that he’d been told that information just “last week,” and was now re-living it. Okay, he thought. Great. Just great, Max. He felt the worry flooding up to his temples. He ran his tongue over his lips, and said, “Well, what does it matter? Danielle’s pregnant! Awesome! Whoop-de-dooo!”
Pamela bolted up. “What’s wrong with you, Max? We’re sharing time together, and I thought you deserve it.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Max conceded. “My residency only lasts until April, so it’s just one more year. Then I can do whatever I want. We’ll have more time to ourselves.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Pamela snapped. “We can’t even save up for Kyle’s daycare so I can go back to work.” She looked at him with pleading eyes. “Max, I miss the gym! I need to have an adult conversation every once in awhile. I need to work out—really work out!”
Max put his hand on Pamela’s shoulder. Patience, patience, he mentally urged his wife. We’ll be all set with a doctor’s income pretty soon. And once that’s going, all our problems will be over, babe. Why couldn’t she see that?
“The baby is coming in September,” Pamela said. “And then what? How long do I have to wait until I go back to work?”
“April, hon. I promise.”
At that moment, Kyle twisted and cried out in his sleep and woke in his bassinet. Pamela sighed.
“I’ve had it up to here,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. It was a cry for mercy. For a moment she listened to the baby cry out to her. And then Pamela’s eyes began to bulge. Her mouth pulled back. And staring into her husband’s blank eyes, she began to scream.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
September 13, 1997 at 8:27 a.m.
Max left the respiratory clinic after completing a patient consultation, his mind drifting. He clicked on his pager, checking for messages.
“Hello, Dr. Thorning. I tried calling you for the last half hour. Your wife’s in the delivery ward—”
“Dammit!” Max slammed the pager into his back pocket, and began to run. It would be the second ti
me he’d been late to witness the birth of his own son. He sprinted to the delivery room, tore around corners, plowed into two surgeons and sent them sprawling for cover, and, just like what happened nearly a year ago, stumbled inside and found Pamela cradling a newborn boy.
Pamela beamed a smile at him. Thank God, thank God, thank God! Max thought. He could breathe again.
“How’s Peter?” he smiled as he hugged her.
“Fine, hon. Looks like he has your nose.”
The baby made a gargling, cooing sound, and grinned up at Max. Max tilted backward, almost rocked off his feet. His whole life and everything around him seemed to be rising suddenly, coming unanchored. He desperately wanted to talk to Pamela.
“Pamela, you know, uh…I’ve been thinking about our future. And my medical career.”
“Oh! Look, Max! Peter just smiled!” Pamela gushed.
Max grinned. Come on, Max, he thought. Give ‘em everything you’ve got. Now. Don’t hold back this time. Give ‘em all. All of you. What do you say? He found his heart racing to beat the devil. Young Peter was looking at both of them, his proud parents, his eyes opening for the very first time in his life.
“Look! Did you see that?” Pamela said excitedly.
“I saw it,” Max said, awestruck by the continued miracle of life.
He closed his eyes and held on to Pamela’s hand. Sounds in the room faded in and out. The color washed out of the world. Things in his head seemed dim, unimportant suddenly. Talk of his career could wait.
Chapter Sixty
January 18, 1998 at 1:46 p.m.
The sky was bright vivid blue and the bitter cold of the day was warmed only slightly by the winter sunshine. Although it had snowed again last night, all the paths in the park were plowed. Aside from the cleared streets and walkways, three feet of snow stood everywhere. Max and Pamela walked with their two children in the park. Pamela carried little Peter on a sling underneath her jacket, leaving her zipper at the top open just enough for Peter to breathe easily. Max tugged Kyle along on a plastic sled.
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