Chapter Seventy-Five
September 17, 2004 at 7:16 p.m.
In Room H33, at Kirkland House at Harvard University, Max shook hands with a young student by the name of Mark Zuckerberg, and handed him a check for $25,000 to buy thousands of shares of his newly incorporated company. As Max stood in the cramped university dorm, he spotted piles of paper on the desk and stacks of empty pizza boxes strewn about the corner of the room. Such humble beginnings, he thought.
“I’ve heard good things about Facebook,” Max told the young man, standing in awe in front of the future cybertechnology legend. Boy, have I ever.
The socially awkward technie geek averted his eyes as he accepted the check from Max. “Thanks,” Mark said. “I’ll send you the paperwork in the mail.”
“You have my address.”
“Yeah,” Mark said, managing a lopsided grin. “Somewhere… in there.” He shrugged and he shook his head as he gestured at his own homebrewed chaos. Seeking greatness in disorder.
You better follow up with me, Max mentally implored the student. Any screw-up will put millions of dollars out of my reach.
Feeling he would pass out due to holding his breath longer than he’d liked, Max knew he had to leave now, before Mark changed his mind and reneged on a deal that was potentially worth millions to Max. Sure, in this guy’s eyes, Max thought, it’s a small investment. But he doesn’t know.
Or does he?
“Bye, Mark. I wish you every success,” Max said as he shook hands one more time.
Grunting, the founder of Facebook returned an uneasy smile and limply wiggled his fingers above his shoulder rather than wave a crisp goodbye.
This is for you, Brandon and Angela, Max thought as he exited the dorm, finally expelling a long, deep breath.
Chapter Seventy-Six
July 8, 2006 at 10:13 a.m.
Abby scolded him even as she hugged him in front of her inner city home in Toronto. “Why did you take so long to see me, Max?”
“Busy,” Max simply said as he stepped back after the hug. He glanced with kind eyes at a six-year-old girl standing beside Abby, looking up at Max with curiosity. Her name, Max knew, was Becky—short for Rebecca. “Your daughter sure is precious,” Max said, feeling an onrush of the deadening hurt as he thought of Angela.
“Isn’t she?” affirmed Abby. She looked at Max and sighed. “I miss our letter writing, Max.”
“Yeah,” Max reflected. “I’m sorry about that. Life got in the way. And I guess we didn’t seem so far apart anymore once I moved to Ontario.”
“No, it’s made us lazy,” Abby agreed. “It’s funny. We’re one hour from each other, but we didn’t make plans to visit.”
“Well, here I am.” Max grinned. “You look wonderful, Abby.”
“Thank you, Max. Now get your boys to come here. I want to see them.”
“Kyle! Peter! Come on over here,” Max yelled at them.
Nine-year-old Kyle and eight-year-old Peter ignored Max were madly playing basketball with Abby’s outdoors basketball set-up. Max, knowing his limits, chatted with Abby for a few more minutes, as he shouted out warnings at certain intervals. Finally, the boys quickly dropped the basketball on the driveway and came up running.
Max used sign language to fingerspell the names of his sons to Becky. Then he turned to them and said, “This is Becky. She’s deaf, but she loves to play. She’ll show you some games in the house.”
Becky grinned, and said, “Okay, come in.” The three children disappeared.
Abby looked at Max in amazement. “You didn’t tell me you knew sign language.”
Max grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well...”
“How?”
“From my days as a doctor. I had to make sure I could treat deaf patients.”
Abby easily believed the lie. “That’s great. I haven’t learned it yet.”
“I know, but you should.” Abby looked at him in a strange way, but quickly corrected herself. “I mean, does John know it?”
“No, not yet. Becky learns it from all her deaf friends. She speaks very well, though. She has both deaf friends and hearing friends.”
“I haven’t listened to Becky enough yet, but yes, she does seem to speak very well.”
A car pulled into the driveway at that moment and out stepped a man carrying a couple of paper grocery bags. He made his way up the steps and stopped in front of them. He was an inch taller than Max, but his body type was more heavyset than his, with a rounded belly. His straw colored hair was brushed back in a conservative style that revealed his timid nature. His face, a little on the pudgy side, was framed by moon-shaped glasses.
Abby turned to Max. “This is my husband, John.”
“Nice meeting you.” John shifted the groceries to free up one arm and then shook Max’s hand. “I hear you met Abby at university.”
“Yes.”
John spoke to Abby. “By the way, hon. I forgot to get your stuff from the tailor on my way back.”
Abby slumped in disappointment. “Can you go back out?”
“I will if I need to,” John sighed, clearly not wanting to go.
Abby continued, “Please do. Oh, and double-check the hem on my dress. If it’s not done right, tell them to redo it.”
John looked flustered. “I don’t remember taking in your dress. Was it the brown one?”
Abby frowned. “John! It was on the front hall table.”
John hung his head. “Sorry, dear.”
“Now, be back as soon as possible.”
“Yes, dear.” Abby opened the front door to let John through, and he returned after dropping off the groceries.
John casually waved as he headed back out. “Nice meeting you, Max.”
“Likewise, John.”
As soon as he drove off, Abby rolled her eyes. “John would be totally lost if I wasn’t here to steer him. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Boy, don’t I. Max laughed at the memories of another time… another life. “I do.”
Abby glanced at him for a few seconds. Then she broke into a broad smile. “Well, come on in. Tell me everything you’ve been up to.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
July 9, 2006 at 6:26 p.m.
The phone rang. Max picked it up.
“Hi, Max. It’s good to hear your voice again. I just wanted to thank you for visiting yesterday. And thank you for bringing Kyle and Peter. They’re very good boys.”
“Thank you, Abby. I had a good time with Becky, too.”
“Yes, she became quite devoted to you yesterday. She loved seeing your sign language. She told me she wants me to invite you over again soon.”
“No problem.”
“Bring your boys over. They’re with you until the end of summer?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Oh, you’re so lucky, Max. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Max felt trepidation. “Yes?”
“John and I discussed last night about asking you to do a special favor.”
“Oh?”
“I want you to be Becky’s godfather.”
Max grinned. The answer just popped out of his mouth without him realizing it.
“I’d be delighted to, Abby.”
Chapter Seventy-Eight
November 15, 2010 at 8:39 p.m.
Max slipped silently through the next few years, like slipping into a warm dreamy sleep, and was, for the most part, content. He loved his job. Uncle Selwyn was a no-nonsense but highly effective boss. They tried their best not to show their special relationship, but it was clear Selwyn had placed great faith and admiration in his nephew.
On the home front, Margaret had been his partner and lover for nine years now. Max felt his relationship with her was stronger than any he’d had in any of his past lives. They weren’t ready to get married yet—even after nine years—but that would come in time. They were secure, happy, in love, and equals in every way. She didn’t nag him and he didn’t disappoint
her.
However, Max still felt manhandled by one thing in his new life.
He still obsessed over the concepts of time travel.
Every few months, his obsession would grow overwhelming, to the point where he’d check—over and over again—to see if there was any unexpected development on time travel on this new invention called the Internet, or in any of the newspapers.
This was one such night.
Max sat at his desk after dinner, sipping from a glass of white wine. With an air of resignation he clicked into the on-line search engine on his computer, and typed in two words.
Time weaver.
In the past, his searches had turned up nothing of importance. But the webpage of the top results returned one source that was of great interest to him tonight. It was a link to a website operated by “Time Travelers International.”
Max looked back over his shoulder, as if somebody might be watching him. He stared at the link, gulping air.
Fascinated, he clicked the link.
The website was crudely designed, but its content made his heart race. In a large, dark blue, archaic font, on a blinding-bright orange background, lay the words, “Do you have an encounter with Dr. Time and the Time Weaver to report? If so, Time Travelers International wants to hear from you.”
Max started to feel woozy. Dr. Time? The Time Weaver? An oversize blinking red arrow flashed on the screen, inviting him to enter the webpage to leave personal information.
Max clicked. It now asked him for his name, address, phone number, and his comments concerning the Time Weaver.
Max could see his own face—lit by the bright shining light of the computer—reflecting on the screen. He swallowed several times, and put his hand on the mouse, ready to type in his name, when—
“Hi, Max, want to go for a walk?” That was Margaret’s voice, behind him.
Startled, Max turned around to glance at her. “Uh. No, hon, it’s not a good time now.”
She nodded from the doorway, and walked out of his line of sight.
Max returned his attention to the computer, his pulse still high. He hesitated to enter any information. But he was too curious, and he knew he’d go ahead regardless, whether it took a second or a week of tortured procrastination.
First he entered his correct name, but gave a fake address. He also entered his mobile phone number. In the comments section, he typed, “I know Dr. Time and have used the Time Weaver.”
Click!
There. That was it. He thought for a few more seconds, waiting to see what would happen next.
The data entry webpage closed down automatically upon Max’s submission, and the gaudy website appeared once again. Max looked at the screen very slowly, frowning. A moment later he felt an intense surge of relief.
He decided to close down the homepage as well.
What was that all about?
The rest of the night he felt that antsy, itchy need to go back to the webpage. To do something desperate. Something he knew was nutty. He felt the need take root in him, but he didn’t act on it.
The next day, he got a phone call in his office, on his mobile phone. “Max Thorning speaking,” he answered.
“Hello, Mr. Thorning,” replied the female voice on the other end. It had a strong accent. Max wasn’t sure which it was, but it sounded like Spanish. The voice said, “I’m very pleased you have come forward with this vital information.”
Max held the receiver away from his ear and looked at it. He brought it back to his face. “Who’s this?”
“This is Lucinda Cedrera, from Time Travelers International.”
“Oh!” Max replied with growing excitement. “Jesus, uh, thank you for calling me back! I entered the information on your website last night.” His brain buzzed and his eyes went wide. He heard the alarm go off in his head, the beeping from all the years of waiting to ask this question, his brain repeating Now’s your chance. Now’s your chance. Now’s your chance. “What do you know about Dr. Time and the Time Weaver?” he finally asked.
“Sir, it is best if I come to see you in person.”
What? Max thought it over. His brain was beeping, faster and faster. “Where are you calling from?”
“This doesn’t matter. What’s important is that I see you as soon as possible. Could we arrange to meet tomorrow?”
Max frowned. This could be a crank call, but he had to find out. “Uh, sure, tomorrow’s fine. Can we meet at the Street Café, in Alliston, Ontario?”
“Where is Ontario?”
“Canada.”
There was a pause. Max felt the panic rising in him. In his mind he saw little Brandon and Angela, suspended like snapshots being hurled through the black winds of time. Then the voice resumed, “That is much farther than I thought. Can we meet in two days, instead of tomorrow?”
“Two days?”
“Yes.”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Twelve noon?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“I will be there, sir. Goodbye.”
Click! Max stared at the receiver, his head cocked slightly as if he’d just snapped out of a daydream. What a weird phone call! He felt his brain searching for flaws in the conversation, a whiff of bullshit, secretly hoping he wouldn’t find any. Finally his fears and doubts rolled away, dissolved into the depths of his subconscious, until they were gone from him, slipping out of his head and into the blurry distance, where they belonged.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
November 17, 2010 at 11:55 a.m.
As if he’d been yanked into a dream Max sat uneasily at the Street Café, tapping his foot and staring up and down the boulevard as he waited. The morning sky hovered gray and damp outside, as Max watched an old man shuffle across the avenue toward the café, and then into the local bar. He wasn’t sure he should be meeting this Lucinda person. What if she turned out to be a psychopath? A sociopath? What if she were dangerous? As Alliston was a small town, she could easily stake him out by patrolling the streets, and then she’d follow him home, without him suspecting.
This wasn’t good.
Just as Max was about to leave, he spotted her.
About freakin’ time, he thought. A short woman, with dark skin, short jet-black hair, and gray sports jacket and slacks appeared at the front door wearing sunglasses. From the way she was looking around, Max knew she must be Lucinda, so he waved her over.
“Max Thorning?” she asked.
Max nodded. “You must be Lucinda.”
“That’s me.” She sat down and took off her backpack. “Hmm.” She looked around, “Very quaint town. Very British style.” She looked at him with a serious expression on her face. “Very clean, like the Swiss.”
Oh, brother, Max thought. First she says British. Then Swiss. He said, “Your English is excellent.”
“Thank you.”
She grinned, then stayed silent. Max drummed his fingers on the table. He drew in a deep breath. He grew panicky the longer she kept everything under wraps. “So, uh, what can I do for you?”
“You went through the Time Weaver?”
“Yes.”
“Dates?”
“Well,” Max looked around, to make sure nobody was listening, “I left the past—well, the future, rather—on October 27, 2013. I went back to September 16, 1987.”
“Interesting,” she said. “That’s a very long time period.” She stared writing everything down in a small notebook.
“Tell me about it! I also went back in time again, but only for a week.”
“Why? Did you have a fight with Dr. Time?”
Max was puzzled. “No. For personal reasons.”
“Oh,” Lucinda sounded disappointed. She continued scribbling in her notebook. “I have the dates you already mentioned. Now. Dates of the return back to time, please.”
“Left on May 1, 1997.”
“Got it.
“Returned on April 26, 1997.”
“Thank you.” She continued writing.
“Just once. I was on Earth, living like anyone else, on September 15, 2015. I entered the Earth again on September 15, 2005.”
Max whistled, impressed.
“How did you find out about the Time Weaver?” Lucinda asked.
“Through solving a puzzle in Account of Time Travel on Earth Using Wave Theory.”
“This one?” Lucinda rummaged through her backpack and took out a book. It had a tattered light green cover.
“Yes! What edition is it?”
“1974. The year I was born.”
“How the heck did you bring it back into Time?”
“I didn’t. I got this one from Dr. Time—when I was back in 2005. I asked her for the same edition.”
Max recalled how embarrassed he felt before, a few years after he had first arrived in Time, when he realized he could’ve easily gotten a copy of the book from Dr. Time. Instead, he had wasted several moments in his first few years of Life II, tormenting himself upon how to find a copy. Why didn’t I think of simply asking Dr. Time for a copy of the book! he grumbled, bewildered at himself. Luckily Lucinda had thought of it right away when she arrived in Time. Clever of her.
“How did you find it the first time around?” Max asked.
“I found it at a rummage sale. We have hundreds of them in Manila, where I come from. I found it very interesting. It had Filipino passages, which is very unusual. I’d never seen a book with so many languages.”
“Neither had I.”
“I have a plan I must now execute. You need to gain my trust. First, tell me how the Time Weaver works. I will listen.”
Max thought it over. He sat, trying to get a read on this woman. The worries in his brain went rat-a-tat-tat, until finally he’d made up his mind. “Okay, but I have to make sure you’re not stealing my story and pretending you knew it all along. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll start with one detail and then you add another. We’ll go back and forth until we know for sure.”
[2013] Life II Page 30