But I never said anything. I suffered in shame, feeling guilty for my participation in these terrible visits. They never lasted long, thank God, but my life was never the same after that long, painful summer.
Uncle Bob never spoke of these things when I would see him in daylight. It was as if they never happened.
Part 5
God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December.
J.M. Barrie
Chapter 18
That’s what 1968 really meant to me.
I thought about these things, flooded by swirling feelings and memories, all touched off by a single shrouded sight of Uncle Bob. Later, I lay down in bed, tears fogging my dreams, and fell into silence.
I woke up back in my own time. Back in the
twenty-first century.
I didn’t even need to open my eyes to know I was back. Beeping sounds bounced around the room from the machines monitoring me in my hospital bed. The clinical smell. The slight itchiness in my right arm I recognized from my last stay here as an IV.
Slowly I opened my eyes, hoping for Jenny.
To no avail. She wasn’t there. I didn’t have a watch on, but the sky was dark. I was alone in mid night.
I missed her terribly, more than I could actually recall ever missing her before. I drew a picture of her in my mind, saw her smile at me, the beautiful smile I had maybe not appreciated as much as I should have.
Several hours passed before the first glimpse of light shone into my room. A nurse came to check on me. “You’re awake,” she said. No smile. Not even a question, just an observation. She picked up the clipboard hanging at the end of my bed and scribbled on it.
“I’d like to see my wife.” My voice was weak and hoarse. My throat ached.
“I’ll get word to her.” She felt my forehead and took my pulse. “You scared us this time,” she said. “You’ve been out quite a while.”
“How long?”
“More than a week.” She looked back to the chart. “Nine days, to be exact.”
“I need to see my wife.”
She put the chart back. “Blood pressure first.” When I didn’t look like I was about to co-operate, she added, “Look, I don’t have time to argue about this. You’ve had a second unidentified episode, and for all we know you might have died. If you had died, I wouldn’t be here arguing with you, but you didn’t. As long as you’re in this room, you are going to do what I tell you to do. You are not allowed to die on my shift.” She had a pair of glasses hanging on a chain around her neck that she now put on. “Left arm. Right now.”
I gave her my arm and she wrapped the cuff of the sphygmomanometer around it and measured me up. “Just fine,” she declared.
“Fine? Is that fine for a normal person or fine considering I’m here being fed with tubes and having been a vegetable for nine days?”
“125 over 80. Fine for anybody.”
“Good,” I said. “Now, will you call my wife?”
She stared at me and then slowly left the room. “The doctor will want to see you.”
Sometime later, the nurse did call Jenny. She showed up at my bedside in about twenty minutes. “Sam!” She rushed to me and gave me an awkward hug, careful not to hurt me. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you woke. It’s just -- ” She struggled and I could see she was about to cry. “They didn’t know if you’d come back.”
I nodded, completely understanding. She had probably sat beside me day and night until the doctors and nurses convinced her to take her own life back.
“I love you,” I said. I couldn’t remember the last time I had told her that.
Jenny reached down to take my hand, and that smile came across her face. I knew then that I was back home. Everything would work out.
Until I was taken away again.
My recovery seemed faster than the first time. I was in the hospital for three days after I awoke, but the time flew by because I had a mission to attend to, and I needed to get out of the hospital to do it.
Doctor Kyzer was at his grumpy best and was very reluctant to release me. “We want to do more tests.” I wasn’t sure who the “we” were, because it sure didn’t include me. He was scratching more notes on the chart and almost seemed to be talking to the notepad instead of me. “MRI for sure. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
“Hold on,” I said. “I want to go home.”
“Home?” He finally lowered the charts and looked at me. “You need to get fixed up.”
“You can’t find anything to fix.”
“That’s why we need to do more tests. It has to be a brain disorder. Maybe we should have you checked into the University. They have a research center devoted to brain disorders.”
I shook my head and started to climb out of bed. “I’m going home.”
“Mr. Ellis -- ”
“Is there any legal way you can keep me here without my consent?” I stared at him as I pulled on my pants. I felt woozy but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“No.”
“Thank you for taking care of me while I was here.”
“You should think about what you’re doing.”
“No,” I repeated. Although I couldn’t explain to him, I knew nothing he could do would make a bit of difference.
Kyzer reluctantly released me after he couldn’t think of any other reason to hold me, and I tasted freedom again. Freedom to walk through my own home, to kiss my wife, to eat Kraft Dinner and listen to old rock and roll music.
Jenny was surprised when I called McLeod Warner and told my boss not to expect me back. Not now, not ever. “But the stock market means so much to you,” she said.
I watched her, ready to answer her when I stopped and looked more closely at her. She had her arms crossed and her feet apart, as if she were expecting me to argue back with her. Expecting it not to be pleasant.
I felt sad, knowing I had seen that stance a thousand times before and just gave her back the argument she had anticipated.
“Come sit beside me,” I said as I patted the couch.
Jenny unfolded her arms, but I could still feel the tension in the room. “I guess I’ve never really treated you very well, have I?”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?” she asked.
I smiled at her. “No more.”
“No more what?”
“No more yelling. No more hitting. No more you waking up in the middle of the night being afraid of the dark. Being afraid of me.”
Jenny didn’t seem to know what to say. Silence hung between us. I think she was fighting the need to believe I was telling her the truth and balancing that to the past where she couldn’t always accept my words at face value.
I went to the fridge and got a two-year-old Pinot Gris, popped the cork, and poured us each a glass. “Here’s to you,” I toasted.
Puzzled, she took a sip.
“I want you to come on a trip with me,” I said. “I have something to show you.”
“Where to?” she asked.
“Nelson. My old hometown. There’s a story I need to tell you and an old coin I need to show you.”
Chapter 19
The day Jenny married me was the best day of my life. Or at least it should have been. It was pretty dammed close in any case. There ended up being a couple of bumps along the way. The first was that she didn’t really want to elope.
“But why?” she asked several times in the days leading up to us tying the knot. “Why wouldn’t you like a nice church wedding with our friends and relatives and a celebration of our new lives together?” When she talked like this, she had big eyes and a bright, wide smile. She had spent much of her life imagining a large wedding, probably had arranged fantasy weddings in her mind over and over. I was taking a dream away from her, although I didn’t really discern that at the time. I wasn’t the kind of person to recognize things like that.
“We don’t need to make a big circus of this,” I said. “I just want to be married to you. I don�
��t need a parade to do that.”
She pursed her lips, and I knew I had hurt her. “Hey,” I said more gently, “it’s going to be great. I’ve got enough money saved up for a nice holiday for us. A honeymoon.” I moved my face close to hers. “Won’t that be the best part of the wedding day anyway?”
She smiled again and gave me a light hug.
By this time, we had been dating for four years. The comment about the honeymoon was an inside joke. In those four years, we had grown from eighteen-year old kids to twenty-two year old adults, and in that time, we had never slept together. That had been my idea.
“Where do you want to go?” she asked.
“I was thinking we could drive aimlessly, camping wherever we happen to stop each night.”
“Oh, Sam, I don’t know. That doesn’t sound
very -- ” She struggled for a word. Finally, she
said, “ -- structured.”
I laughed and kissed her. “That’s the whole point,” I said. “Nobody will know where we are from one day to the next, not even us. It’ll be an adventure.”
She still looked unsure.
“Imagine,” I said. “Waking up in the morning, grabbing a cup of coffee, pulling the car out and finding a fork in the road. Kentucky is to the east, Kansas to the west. We flip a coin and follow wherever our fortunes take us.”
“Can we spend at least our first night together in a hotel instead of camping?”
I gave her a big hug and answered, “Of course. It’s going to be a wonderful night.”
We left three days later. Jenny left a note for her Mom, explaining we had gone off to get married, and I left two months rent for her, to cover until she could find another tenant.
We flipped our first coin as we pulled my old ’52 Chevy out of the drive. The old beater was on its last legs and not long after our honeymoon, I traded it in for my first import. The trunk was stuffed with a tent and other camping necessities.
Tails pointed us south, and we drove down to Renton, where we pulled up to City Hall and arranged for our marriage. Being a small town, it was easy to arrange.
We had made our own vows, nice and simple ones, to love one another, to be true, to always be the other’s best friend. Jenny never strayed from her promises in all the years that followed.
As we drove away (to the east this time), a part of my mind drifted back to my desk at McLeod Warner, wondering aimlessly what the stock market was doing. I was addicted to the market then. The few clients I had managed to pull together were precious to me, and I had a terrible fear they’d like Mark Sieber better than me. Mark was covering for me while I was gone. He had ten years experience, compared to my handful of months. No use dwelling on that, I tried to convince myself. Didn’t help. For the ten days we were gone, I worried myself sick about losing my clients.
But a bigger worry was yet to come.
We stopped for the night at a Motel 6, and Jenny pulled on this absolutely stunning nightgown. It was a cool yellow silk, hung to mid-thigh, low-cut. It showed her off so well, it could have doubled for a fancy evening gown. I had brought a bottle of Dom Perignon, hidden in the cooler in the back of the truck, and we toasted our future, talked about our present, and laughed about our past.
We found ourselves in bed before ten o’clock, soft music playing on the radio, only the bathroom light on.
I adored her. But, when the time came, I was totally bewildered to find I was unable to make love to her. Actually, bewilderment was an understatement. I was shocked and so was Jenny. As much as I wanted her, I couldn’t get an erection.
I knew in my heart that this was nothing to do with her, but I didn’t know what to do, how to react. I rolled over on my side as silent tears fell down my cheeks. Somehow, Uncle Bob was lurking in the wings.
Jenny held on to me, making all the right comments about it not mattering, we’d try again tomorrow, it was a long day. She sounded as flustered as I did, though. All her support did was make me feel worse. I was a failure as a husband on my first day.
It was three days later, with no improvement, that I told her about life in Montana, and the summer from hell nine years earlier. Just generalities. I couldn’t talk about details, but she heard the big picture. After the story, she held me and we both cried, and she told me she loved me all the more. Sharing the pain of my youth turned out to be just the dose of Viagra I needed, and we finally were able to consummate our marriage in a gentle, loving way that night.
Chapter 20
So, let’s skip ahead almost thirty years, and onto another journey Jenny and I were making together. This time, it was in my shiny silver Camry, and we were on our way east again.
Thirty years . . .
It takes less than a second to say those two words, and less than three seconds to type them here into this journal. A second or three doesn’t show the impact of those years.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I’m not even sure I see the same person who married Jenny. My face is a lot harder, etched with years of fighting my clients, years of striving higher and higher up the income scale. Years of always promising Jenny we’d be spending more time together “soon.”
If somebody looked at a photo of me on our wedding day, they’d see a happy young man, eager to live his life to the fullest, with his beautiful young wife. Sometimes I would wake up and wonder where that attitude went, but then the daily scramble to trade stock took control of my mind and pushed all thoughts like that aside.
Jenny would have to wait. She had her bookstore to keep her busy, and if we argued about time and quality of life, well, I figured that’s what all married couples do.
Time never affected Jenny, though. She still had that amazing smile, the fun-loving attitude, the pure love of being alive. She stayed my beautiful young wife.
I didn’t tell her much before we headed to Nelson. When she asked, I’d just repeat, “There’s a story I need to tell you and an old coin I need to show you.”
We were both excited about the trip. I actually couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked forward to getting into the car and driving away. Most of my enthusiasm was simple: I finally felt I could trust Jenny with my secret trips back to 1968. I wouldn’t have to keep it all to myself any more.
Jenny just seemed happy to get away for a short holiday together. She was worried about my health, of course, but I brushed that aside and as soon as I had my strength back, I announced, “Today’s the day. Let’s pack.”
Jenny owns her own bookstore, called Second Stories. She specializes in rare and out of print editions of classic authors, which for the most part runs completely contrary to my tastes. Jane Austen, the Brontes, that kind of thing. She re-reads Wuthering Heights every summer like clockwork. I like her store. It’s friendly, with several cozy armchairs and a pot of fresh coffee always ready. I just don’t enjoy the same kind of books she does.
She has two part-time assistants who were happy to look after things while she was gone for a few days. I told her it wouldn’t be longer than that.
“Remember the first time we went on a trip together?” I asked, as I maneuvered the car out onto I-90, heading east.
“Couldn’t forget it,” she said. “It was the best but also the hardest.”
“This trip will only be the best,” I promised. “Nothing hard.”
I found an oldies station broadcasting from Spokane, and kept it playing softly as we drove.
After a couple of hours, we stopped at a restaurant just north of Yakima. Finding our way to Nelson was dead easy from Seattle. Get on I-90 and drive east. After about eight hours on the road, we’d hit Butte, Montana. That was our signal to go north on I-15, and we’d run into Nelson after about three hours, just about halfway between Conrad and Shelby, smack in the middle of nowhere.
In the restaurant, we each ordered a sandwich. I had a grilled ham and Swiss cheese while Jenny had tuna with lettuce and onions.
“So,” she said between mouthfuls, “when do I get to hear
the big story?”
“Right now. As soon as we get back on the road.”
So, as soon as we left the restaurant and I put the Camry back in cruise control, I asked her to listen to the whole thing before saying anything back to me.
I told her about the first dissolving and finding myself back in Nelson surrounded by sunflowers and cornfields. I told her about the confusion I had felt and how I thought I was going nuts. (I didn’t look over to her when I said this, knowing she’d be thinking the same thing.) I told her about meeting Little Sam and then renting the room at Mrs. Williamson’s place. I started to talk faster and faster, the words fighting to leave my mouth. Seeing my dad, and that shock sending me back home.
I looked over at her, stopping my story temporarily. “I know how this sounds,” I said. I reached across the armrest to hold her hand, gently rubbing her fingers between mine.
She didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, she whispered, “You really believe this?”
I turned back to the road, watching the rolling hills passing us by. I saw a sign announcing that Spokane was only fifty miles away, and I realized I must have been talking for a couple of hours already. There was just so much to tell.
In spite of myself, I felt myself getting angry. Jenny didn’t believe me.
“Just listen to the rest,” I said.
I told her about going back the second time, wandering around and ending up in the Riviera, meeting my parents. I talked slower as we drove through Spokane. “Let’s find a place to stay the night,” I said.
“Okay.”
We checked into The Rainbow Motel, a clean but otherwise unappetizing little place just on the edge of town.
There was a plastic rainbow over the doorway leading to the office, but there were only six stripes. Jenny clicked her teeth, frowning. “Should be seven stripes, not six.”
The Memory Tree Page 8