There was no doubt that this was the young Garison Fitch. His hair was black as coal, his face was just the same, his—almost. The older Garison peered closer, trying to decipher the difference for a moment, then smiled. He realized the young Garison didn't have a mustache. He had said it was cheesy, hadn't he? Garison laughed. "Well," he muttered, "That at least makes me think we really did meet all those years ago. Why don't I remember it, though?"
It suddenly occurred to Garison why: he didn't have those memories because that young man did. The part of his psyche Garison had once thought of as "Heather's Garison" was no longer in him because now it was in this young man. When Garison had given himself the video tape, he reasoned, that must have made the separation complete.
It was a great relief to Garison to suddenly be assured that he hadn't lost those memories because of insanity on his own part. He hadn't lost those memories at all. He had just handed them back to the person they belonged to. He smiled broadly at the thought, then wondered why he had never thought of that before.
The smile quickly turned into a frown as he realized he was still there. He had changed history eighteen years before. He had separated the two Garisons. Yet there he sat. Did that mean he really was stuck there forever?
He realized he couldn't know for sure until the next day. Screwing the lid back on his thermos and making sure he had picked up the wrappers from his candy bars, he stood up and slipped softly back into the forest. Once well away from the house, he set out for the truck.
Back in Mancos, he showered to warm up (though the bib and jacket had done quite well), then changed into blue jeans and a pull over shirt. Donning his ski jacket, he headed over to Cortez and a Mexican restaurant he remembered. The food was as good as he remembered. Maybe even better, but he acknowledged that that thought may have been because just the act of eating in the restaurant was a bit of a homecoming. In fact, it looked almost exactly as it had the last time he had eaten there (though the calendar read 2005, rather than 2007).
Over all, his anxiety over the coming day had lessened just a bit with his discovery that he really had changed time. In fact, he was almost upbeat as he looked forward to the prospect of finally being able to live a life—beginning tomorrow afternoon. He finished the meal with a relish, ordered a dessert, then headed for the motel. Maybe it wasn't the life he had wanted, but at least he could live one.
He watched television all afternoon as he waited for evening. He had brought a book along to read, but found he couldn't concentrate. TV proved to be just the ticket he needed for it required neither concentration nor a functioning brain.
When darkness fell, it found him back out on the highway to La Plata Canyon. Having made his recon run that morning, he was ready to put himself in place for part two of his plan—if it became necessary. He still wasn't sure how he might stop himself from making the trip through time, but he planned to be on hand in case he had to.
He got out of the truck this time wearing black ski bibs and a dark blue jacket. His toboggan cap was a dark blue one this time, sporting the logo of the Houston Astros. He chuckled as he mused to himself that it was just the sort of cap Bat Garrett usually wore on his stake outs. Holding the lap top and making sure he had the disks, he set out along the road wondering if he'd ever see his truck again.
He took the road all the way to his front gate this time, not wanting to attempt the woods in the dark. The gate was never locked—or even shut—so he had no trouble slipping into the yard. Keeping to the trees that skirted the yard, he crept closer to the house—glad this younger Garison was apparently allergic to dogs, too, as none were around.
He knew the chances of anyone seeing him were slim, but he took great care, anyway. He also knew it was foolhardy of him to try and get a peek at himself and/or Heather, but he felt like he had to. It had been too long since he had seen his wife and he wasn't about to pass up on the opportunity.
Of course, he told himself, this Heather wouldn't be his wife. This Heather would be married to the young Garison. Still, he had to see her.
He slipped up onto the porch, thankful he had built it so well that the boards didn't creak. There was a light coming from the living room, so that was his target.
He scanned the room slowly, realizing the subtle differences. It was his home, yet it wasn't. For one, it hadn't yet been "baby proofed" for Sarah. He wondered momentarily whether this young couple of Fitchs would decide to have children or not. He remembered Heather telling him once that "her Garison" had never been too keen on the idea. He wondered if this one were the same, then was briefly saddened by the idea that Sarah might never be born. On the other hand, Heather was already pregnant with Sarah when he traveled in time, so maybe she was pregnant now.
Then he saw Heather. She was sitting on the couch, looking radiant in her warm ups. She had on ugly pink slippers and the warm ups showed off her figure like a tow sack, but Garison could not remember ever seeing anything or anyone as pretty. He wanted so badly to walk into the house, take her in his arms, and—
Then another form came into the room. Garison turned to see his younger self entering, wearing the shorts and T shirt he often wore in the evenings. The young Garison said something to Heather, and she turned and replied with a coy look on her face. Even without hearing the words, Garison knew his younger self had just suggested Heather come upstairs. Upstairs, he knew, was the bedroom. In the the bedroom, they would—
Garison couldn't complete the thought. Even though the young man he was seeing was him twenty seven years before, and even though the young man was married to the young woman, Garison couldn't bare the thought of anyone else sleeping with Heather.
Heather set down the book she was reading—which Garison recognized as being by her favorite author, Dalton Riley—and stood up. She stepped gracefully into the arms of the young Garison and kissed him passionately. Taking his hand, she led him to the stairs, and out of sight.
Garison started to turn away from the window, then noticed movement. He was almost glad to see Heather descend the stairs, then saw that it was only to turn off the lights. He caught a last glimpse of her ascending into the light at the top of the stairs before she disappeared.
He slid to a seat and wept. For eighteen years he had never really grieved over his loss of Heather because he had always known she was alive, somewhere in Highland Park or here in Colorado. But sitting out there on the porch, knowing she was married to another man and sharing his bed, Garison finally cried about losing Heather. He had only cried twice before in his life: at his parents' funeral when he was fifteen, and at the grave of his first wife, Sarah.
Eventually, Garison got off the porch and walked over to the laboratory. Pulling out a twenty five year old key, he stuck it in a two year old lock. The key turned easily and let him in. Garison punched the security code into the burglar alarm and stepped inside.
Garison knew the lab like the back of his hand and didn't have to turn on a light to find his old/new couch. Taking off his jacket and making sure the lap top was close at hand, he lay down on the couch to sleep. It was a long time before he slept, however, as all he could think about was Heather.
Chapter Thirty-One
Garison's Journal
March 16, 2005
As I look at that date, I can't help but have a feeling of deja vu. This makes, after all, three times in my life that I have lived this one day. Let's hope this one goes better than the last one. Although, in all fairness, even though the second time I saw March 16, 2005, may have been the end of the world, it was the day I met Heather.
Last night, seeing Heather had to have been the worst moment of my entire life.
For eighteen years now, I have tried to write Heather out of my mind. I used several different excuses. I told myself she was as good as dead to me and I might as well get on with my life. That one never worked well because I knew she was still alive, just young. I tried to re enforce the rationale by saying she would never be interested in someone as o
ld as I was, but that didn't work, either because I remembered how much she loved me.
I tried to tell myself that we had only been married two years. The thought behind that argument was, I guess, that we hadn't bonded. Not like a couple that's been married fifty years, anyway. But then, I was only married to Sarah for just over five years. There has never been any doubt in my mind as to the bond Sarah and I shared. Sarah was different, though; I knew she was dead. I also knew two years was plenty of time for Heather and I to bond fast—and I knew we had.
I even tried to convince myself that my two plus years of marriage to Heather were a fluke. She had, after all, really married the other Garison, not me. That's why I have always thought of him as Heather's Garison, as if I could also separate myself from Heather with the thought. I tried to tell myself she had only married me because I had asked her to, but I knew that was right but not for the reasons I wanted it to be. She really did marry me for me.
None of those lies to myself worked at all. I knew she wasn't dead—but I couldn't see her. I knew I had only been married to her for two years—but they were two of the best years of my life. And yes, she had been married to the other Garison and that's why she so readily married me.
Still and all, I truly loved Heather. And I know she truly loved me. While it might be argued that she and Sarah would tie for this title: Heather was the best friend I have ever had. It doesn't always take a lot of time to realize that.
For eighteen years, though, the lies had almost worked. Never completely, but they had given me something to say to myself to try and deal with the pain. Mostly, though, I ignored my pain by involving myself in some project or another.
When I saw Heather last night, though, all the lies failed. The funny thing was, though, I didn't necessarily even notice her beauty. That's the first thing red blooded men always noticed about Heather. Luscious hair; incredible body; a face that wouldn't just launch a thousand ships, it would make even the most devoted sailor abandon the sea all together just to look at her. Heather was unreasonably beautiful, and I think I can say that not just because I was her husband.
When I looked through that window, all I saw was Heather, though. I didn't see the outward beauty, or even frumpy clothes. I saw my wife, my best friend, my lover. I saw the times we laughed together, cried together, played together and prayed together.
I saw all those moments that started on March 16, 2005—twenty years ago. Here it is, March 16, 2005, again, and Heather has never met me. She's married to someone who looks a lot like me, has my name, and even my parents, and maybe some of my chromosomes—but he's not me.
I saw them walk up the stairs in our house and I know what they were going to do. And while it didn't exactly make me happy to see Heather going to bed with someone other than me, I was more jealous just that he got to spend time with her.
That's really all I'd like to do. Any male who had seen Heather might find this hard to believe, but I really had no interest in going to bed with her. But I would have given my right arm to just sit and talk with her again. To hear her laugh. To look into her eyes. To hear her voice even in boredom.
Today, though, I am thankful because time finally gets to move forward. For the world, for humanity, and for me.
Garison had barely heard the alarm on his watch go off, then it had taken him a moment to remember where he was. He hadn't drifted off to sleep until just a couple hours before, so he was considerably groggy. He was also hungry, but there was nothing he could do about that, now. The last two Dr Peppers were still in his motel room and he had finished off all the candy bars. "Oh well," he mumbled as he got up and stretched, "It won't be long and I probably won't be worried about food every again."
After using the restroom in the lab building and trying to remove all signs of his presence, Garison sat down and wrote in his journal. He hoped that, one way or another, it would be the last journal entry he would ever write. At least, he hoped it would be the last one dated March 16, 2005. If he survived to the 17th, he intended to wrap up the whole journal idea and stick it in a time capsule to be opened and read as fiction after his death—and the death of the younger Garison Fitch.
After removing all signs of his presence from the couch, he sat down in a chair in the lab and waited for the young Garison Fitch to come out to perform the greatest experiment of all time. Garison didn't figure he would have to wait too long. Ever since he was a little kid, he had had a hard time sleeping on the night before a big event. Assuming the young Garison Fitch was anything the same, and early indications were that he was, he should be out to the lab not too long after the break of dawn.
Garison had completed his journal entry and drifted off to sleep in the chair when he heard the door to the house open. He snapped awake and darted for the closet. There were three closets and several cabinets in the room so he took the one he knew his younger self would be least likely to look in that morning. He had originally built it as a storage place for as yet unthought of inventions.
He was about to shut the door on himself when he realized he wasn't holding the lap top computer. He ran out of the closet, grabbed the PC, checked for any other signs of his occupancy, then retreated to the confines of the closet. It was a little warm in the closet, even with his coat at his feet, but he left the door open just a crack. It was open just enough that he could see and hear what went on in the room, but hopefully not so much as to be noticed. It also provided a little fresh air.
The door to the lab opened and, as the sound of shuffling feet came into the building, Garison's heart began to race. It beat even faster as he first heard Heather's voice saying, "Why now? Why do we have to watch a video now?"
Garison clutched the lap top tightly, trying to will himself not to leap out and take Heather in his arms. He told himself to just relax and listen to the beautiful sound of her voice after eighteen years.
Young Garison explained to her, "Because eighteen years ago a man who looked a lot like I do now—except with a mustache—came to me claiming to be me from the future. He gave me a video tape and said I was supposed to watch it today."
"At six forty five in the morning?" she objected with a yawn. She was obviously not fully awake. That was Heather. She was never a late sleeper, but she had never been one to wake up quickly.
Garison peeked through the crack and had to swallow a sigh. He didn't care what his younger self looked like, but it was hard being that close to Heather—and so far away. Her hair was disheveled from sleep, she was wearing a heavy jacket and those ugly, worn out warm ups, but she looked like an angel to Garison. He wanted so bad to say something to her, but knew he couldn't. Just seeing her that close, his heart was beating so loud he was afraid they would hear it.
Young Garison nodded and told her, "He was very specific about that. He said before I took a shower, ate breakfast or did anything else, I was supposed to watch this tape. He even said I wasn't supposed to kiss my wife until after watching this tape." He smiled at her and remembered, "He mentioned something about how pleased I'd be when I met the girl I'd marry."
"Well, I guess he got something right," she mumbled in return. Young Garison looked up with a chuckle but couldn't tell if she were kidding or not. The Garison in the closet was stifling a laugh himself.
Heather watched as her husband pulled an old, wooden, blue box from one of the cabinets. She had seen the blue box before, but had never known what was in it. Young Garison opened it and pulled out a video tape, still wrapped in brown paper. He held it up and showed her, "See, there's where I wrote today's date."
"Did people have those eighteen years ago?"
"Yeah. But there was still a war on between these and Betas. How'd he know which one would win?"
"How come you never told me about this?"
He quipped, "You thought I was strange enough without me telling you I had been visited by a person from the future. Correction, a me from the future. Besides, he made it clear I was never to tell anyone about this until the day
you and I watched this tape together. He even made it clear I shouldn't tell you."
"Strange," Heather mumbled.
Young Garison pulled off the wrapper and they both looked in awe at the tape. It was a standard VHS tape, but it was eighteen years old. Just what was going on? they both wondered.
Heather turned on the TV while her husband put the tape in the VCR. Garison watched nervously from the closet, hoping that—after so long—maybe his plan was finally working. As he watched Heather sitting there, though, momentary questions popped into his mind as to whether it had been worth it. Should he really have left her behind, or should he thought of some way to bring Heather and Sarah with him. There certainly had been many times over the eighteen years when he wished he had.
Heather was happy, though. He could tell that. He could tell she loved the man she was married to. Garison knew her well enough to be able to see it in her movements, and in her eyes. He decided that, selfish desire for her aside, if his actions could bring her a lifetime of happiness, maybe it had been worth it. He just hated that that happiness linked her with someone else.
Young Garison started the tape and sat down on the couch with his wife. It momentarily occurred to him that the couch was warmer than it usually was on such mornings, but he was quickly distracted by the video.
At the stared with rapt attention, Heather whispered in awe, "That's you." Not even aware she said it ouloud, she mumbled, "You look good with a mustache."
Young Garison nodded, swallowing hard in something between awe and shock. Over the past eighteen years he had come to dismiss the guy with the tape as some sort of a crank. But ten seconds of the tape had convinced him the man had been telling the truth. That man really had been him. Even if he were to consider the possibility of it being a fake, how could someone have known eighteen years ago what he would look like as a young adult? And what his lab and Heather and . . .
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 27