Rewind

by Carolyn O'Doherty

I escaped into the darkness of my closed lids and concentrated on the strands flowing through me. I eased them out, fast or slow, depending on what Ross asked. Only when I heard his soft oh of comprehension did I peek. The shadowy form of Mrs. Montgomery slept, her body rising and falling in rhythmic exhaustion. A thin bedspread covered most of her body. It must have been a cool night because her exposed arm was dotted with goosebumps. Next to her, baby Rosalind lay packed into a carefully constructed nest of pillows and blankets. Mrs. Montgomery’s outstretched arm curved around the soft pile, the unconscious gesture of a mother protecting her young. Except the arm was not protecting. Its weight had pushed the heap of blankets forward, so that the edges of the nest caved over, pressing down onto the form beneath and covering Rosalind’s head with smothering comfort. As I watched, one chubby hand waved, the tiny fingers unable to coordinate an assault on the warm excess.

  I slammed my eyes shut again, wishing I hadn’t ignored Ross’s directions. Time scraped through my mind like fingernails.

  Ross let out a long sigh. “You can let it go now.”

  I released my hold, suffering the swirling dizziness before opening my eyes. The horrible urine smell exploded in my nostrils. A time headache pounded inside my skull.

  “Come on,” Ross said.

  Mrs. Montgomery still perched on her sofa, staring at the soundless TV. The flashing images cast strange lights on her skin, now red, now green. I imagined Ross telling her the baby’s death was her fault, saw the words falling on her like hammers. I wondered if it were possible for someone to dissolve. Mrs. Montgomery already seemed so frail. This news would surely crush her into multicolored dust.

  “We’re done, ma’am,” Ross said. I held my breath. Despite the heat, my body shivered.

  “The initial assessment was right,” he said. “Your baby died of SIDS. It was nobody’s fault. I’m so sorry.”

  An earthquake could have rocked the building and not stunned me as much as Ross’s words. Not because I’d never heard a cop shade the truth before, but because I’d never seen one do it to protect someone like this: a poor, unimportant woman with nothing to offer in return.

  Mrs. Montgomery raised her head. Her mouth worked, as if she barely remembered how to speak.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “I’m positive.” Ross gestured toward me. “We both saw the rewind.”

  Her eyes went wide. Whole worlds could be lost in the blackness of those pupils. I wondered what she knew. Or suspected. What she was willing to forget.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Ross ushered me out to the car and drove to a fast food restaurant. He ordered three hamburgers, fries, and two chocolate milkshakes. I hoped he’d eat quickly. I wanted to put as much distance between me and that rewind as possible. We parked under a tree. Ross adjusted a vent on the dash so cold air blasted over me.

  “I’m always famished after a rewind,” he said, handing me a burger. “Aren’t you?”

  The unexpected reward filled my hand. I’d never heard of an agent buying a spinner lunch before. Ross slid his seat backward and settled in to eat.

  “Won’t the Center wonder where we are?” I asked, worried Ross’s generosity would get us into trouble.

  Ross shrugged. “They don’t know how long the mission lasted.” He noticed my untasted food. “Unless you want to go back?”

  “No, sir.” I unwrapped the burger and took a bite. Ketchup squirted onto my tongue, the tangy flavor a perfect counterpoint to the chewy meat. I realized I was starving.

  “You were good back there,” Ross said. “Your rewind was really clear, even after almost thirty-six hours. How long can you go?”

  “I rewound two and a half days once,” I said, my words muffled by the food stuffed in my cheek. Ross whistled appreciatively. Spurred by the praise, I added, “And I’ve held time for over two hours.”

  “Impressive,” Ross said. “I might have to keep you around. Think you can handle homicide?”

  I swallowed the entire lump of burger in one painful gulp. He wanted me as his permanent spinner? I wiped the ketchup from my lips.

  “I’ve seen worse, sir,” I said, though I wasn’t sure it was true.

  “Don’t call me sir,” Ross said. “If we’re going to be partners, there’s no need to be so formal.”

  Partners. The word sounded like a promise. The idea that this decent man wanted to work with me was the best present I’d ever gotten. Happiness made me brave.

  “Why did you do it?” I asked. “Why did you lie to Mrs. Montgomery?”

  Ross handed me one of the milkshakes and unwrapped his second burger. “Let me ask you a question. Why do you do rewinds?”

  “Because I have to.”

  “Fair enough. Does the job ever make you feel good?”

  “Sometimes.” I considered the question. “I rewound a case for Agent Marquez once that proved the guy the police had arrested was innocent. The real culprit had framed him. That felt pretty good.”

  “It felt good because the truth led to justice. Truth isn’t always that straightforward, though. In Mrs. Montgomery’s case, the truth would have destroyed an already devastated woman, and for what? The truth wouldn’t bring back baby Rosalind. The truth would only have made things worse.”

  I swirled some chocolate shake around in my mouth. It tasted sweet and deliciously cool.

  “What will you write in your report?”

  “That the baby died of SIDS.” Ross turned toward me. “What do you think about letting what happened in that rewind be our secret, known to nobody in the world but us two.”

  I smiled at him so widely I probably looked like a demented jack-o-lantern.

  “I’d like that,” I said, and took another bite of burger to staunch the ridiculous grin.

  Thoughts sprouted in my brain like shoots after a spring shower, fragile and teeming with possibility. For as long as I could remember, people had told me that my abilities made me different. Ross was the first person to say they made me special.

  03

  “I SHOULDN’T HAVE LET YOU HOLD THE FREEZE SO LONG,” Ross says as we pull away from City Hall. “Not with you bringing two people with you.”

  “Freezing doesn’t cause the sickness. When it’s your time, it just happens.”

  I lower the visor on the windshield to block out the sun’s glare. I’m trying really hard not to cry. After spinners get sick, staff pull us off time work until our chronotin levels stabilize. Some spinners’ time skills are so weakened by the sickness they never go back. My hand closes around the door handle. The idea of not going on another mission with Ross, of spending the rest of my life doing mindless chores inside the Sick, makes me want to throw myself from the moving car and just end it all now.

  Ross and I drive through the city without speaking. The Crime Investigation Center is in Portland’s Old Town, languishing among single room occupancy hotels, soup kitchens, and a cluster of the city’s grittier businesses, which makes the drive from the glossy City Hall area feel like a lesson in urban decline. I massage my churning stomach. Ross turns the police radio’s chatter down low and chooses a roundabout route so I’ll have time to calm down. Sometimes, after a mission, Ross will park somewhere so we can hash over the case or speculate on Sikes’s identity. Sometimes we talk about time work, and he tells me how vital rewinds are to successful police investigations. He says no one likes to acknowledge how much our work helps because most people are uncomfortable having their public safety depend on a bunch of institutionalized orphans. Guilt, he says, is a great silencer.

  With the press conference a little less than two hours away, the only stop Ross makes is at a mini-mart to buy me a soda. Caffeine helps relieve time headaches. I watch him paying the clerk through the store window and consider all the ways my life is basically over. It’s not just the missions. Kids who get sick, they’re not pariahs, exactly, but other spinners tend to start avoiding them. I know. I’ve done it. It’s like, if you’ve already c
ut someone off, then you won’t miss them when they die.

  The scene in front of me blurs. Of course I’ve always known this day would come, but I didn’t think I had to worry about it for at least another year. My best friend, KJ, is eighteen and he’s never gotten sick.

  KJ.

  My stomach flips, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from throwing up all over Ross’s squad car. KJ has been down ever since Calvin, his former roommate, got sick. KJ’s such a good friend he doesn’t ignore Calvin. Instead he hovers over him, carrying his lunch tray and bringing him books. Whenever KJ talks about him, his spine wilts a little, like the world is too heavy for him to bear. How will he stand it if I tell him I’m dying, too?

  “Are you sure this is time sickness?” Ross asks a minute later, as we ease back into traffic. “Maybe it’s just nerves. The bomb, all those people.”

  I take a long swallow of soda, forcing the carbonated bubbles to push down the acid rising to meet them.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  We stop at a light. In the car next to us, a little boy sits in a booster seat, sucking his thumb with an enthusiasm usually saved for lollipops. The boy stares at me. He’s a normal boy, with a mom in the front seat, and a sister beside him. A normal boy with a normal life. I doubt he’ll ever appreciate how lucky he is.

  “You kids are so special.” Ross slams a hand against the steering wheel. “Letting you die is a complete waste.”

  I shrug. I’ve never had a real home. The ability to freeze time comes from a rare gene mutation that makes the body produce an enzyme called chronotin. All babies have their blood tested for it at birth. I assume my parents cried when the nurses took away their newborn, but I sometimes wonder if they were also relieved to rid themselves of a mutant. Not that they had a choice. By law all spinners are raised in a Children’s Home. Once we can start to control our time skills, usually around ten, we get assigned to a Center for training. Lots of us die in infancy and even the healthiest of us are unstable without medication. Violent. Paranoid. Who would want to raise a child like that?

  Ross is still talking. “The hardest part about being an agent is seeing how tough it is on you kids. It’s been especially hard since I started working with you.”

  The light changes. Ross pulls away from the little family.

  “You’re a really great kid, Alex. Not just a good spinner—which you are. The best. Most spinners don’t really care about the work. But a good person. And right when we’re this close to catching Sikes.” He slams the steering wheel again. “You’ve been such a help on this case. You deserve to see it through.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  Any other day, Ross’s speech would have lit me up like a torch. Ross, though generally kind, has never said he cares about me so explicitly. Today, his words just sink into the pain wrapping my body. They are a gift I can never open. Not when I can count the weeks I have left. Not when I might never see him again.

  “Look, Alex.” Ross clears his throat. “What if there was a way I could help you? Keep you from getting another attack of the sickness?”

  “You can’t.” I look out the window. “Everyone gets sick.”

  “I’ve been emailing with a scientist,” Ross says, “a researcher in Germany named Dr. Kroger. He’s been developing a new medicine for treating time sickness. In his trials he’s been able to postpone a second bout for a year—sometimes even longer.”

  A year. The words hover in the air between us, a spark of hope in a world gone dark. I keep staring out the window. I know about fires. People can get burned.

  “Will Dr. Barnard prescribe it?” I ask.

  “Probably not.”

  We turn a corner. The Center rises up at the end of the block, a hulking stone building on a small hill that raises it a full ten feet above street level. It’s not a friendly looking place: A low wall and a narrow strip of thorny shrubs discourages passersby from getting too close. Arched windows set at even intervals along the ground floor offer the blank stare of opaque glass. Small cameras tucked in the eaves warn of the constant surveillance around the building. All the windows are barred.

  Ross slows the car.

  “This new treatment hasn’t been approved yet by the FDA, but I could ask Dr. Kroger if he’ll let you be part of his clinical trial. The problem is, if he agrees, you’ll have to take it without Dr. Barnard’s knowledge. In fact, you can’t even tell him you got sick today, or he’ll start monitoring you so closely he’ll figure out you changed your meds.”

  I drink the last of my soda.

  “If I don’t tell Dr. Barnard,” I say, “he won’t increase my Aclisote dosage and my chronotin levels will really go nuts.”

  “If there’s too much Aclisote in your system the new medicine won’t work.”

  I roll the soda can between my hands, hope and caution battling it out inside my head. Dr. Barnard is an international expert on Aclisote. He has decades of experience keeping chronotin levels in check. What if these untested meds just bring on a second attack sooner? Or have some horrible side effect?

  “Won’t Dr. Barnard notice anyway?” I ask. “Amy checks our blood every month whether we’re sick or not.”

  “True.” Ross pulls the car into one of the reserved parking spots in front of the Center and cuts the engine. “When is your next blood test scheduled for?”

  “Two weeks. Dr. Barnard just raised my Aclisote dosage, too.”

  “He did?” Ross frowns. “What was your last chronotin reading?”

  I shake my head, afraid if I talk my voice will crack. I have no idea what my chronotin reading was but I do know that if I got sick so close to an increase, my chronotin must have totally spiked.

  “Don’t worry about your next test,” Ross says. “I’ll deal with it. The question is whether you’re willing to try the new medicine.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Ross.” I squeeze the empty soda can so hard the sides crush together. “It sounds risky.”

  Ross runs a finger along the steering wheel.

  “Dr. Kroger is a well-respected guy, and the early results he’s getting have been amazing. I’m sure FDA approval is only a matter of time. The problem is you don’t have time.” He twists in his seat so he’s facing me. “I know there’s some risk, but sometimes a chance is all you ever get. After that, life is what you make of it.”

  I study the crumpled metal in my hand, the edges sharp against my palm.

  “It’s not your risk, though, is it?”

  Ross’s face softens.

  “It’s absolutely my risk,” he says. “I don’t want my partner to die.”

  I can’t stop the tears anymore. The salty wetness blurs everything: Ross, the car, the street outside. Ross rummages in the console for a tissue. I hear something banging and it takes me a second to realize that Charlie, one of the Center’s front-desk guards, is knocking on the window of Ross’s car. I keep my head down as Ross unrolls the window.

  “You guys get locked out?” Charlie asks. “Sorry. Dr. Barnard said I could run out for some coffee. Slow day.”

  Ross climbs from the car, distracting Charlie with chatter about last night’s football game while I mop my face with a tissue. The caffeine from the soda has finally kicked in and bright things don’t hurt my eyes anymore. I barely notice. All I can think about is Ross’s offer.

  Charlie waves his key card across the sensor that lets us into the cramped Center lobby. I inhale the familiar scents of burnt coffee and bleach, letting my vision adjust to the dim light. A framed black-and-white photograph hanging near the entrance shows what the Center looked like a hundred years ago when it was a newly built hotel. Back then, the lobby was an elegant space, open and airy, with sofas scattered among potted palms. Now the lobby is chopped up into offices. Brick has replaced the glass windows, choking out any source of natural light, and the front door bristles with electronic locks and security cameras. Only a pair of curving staircases leading to the second floor hints at the space�
�s former glory, and even these potentially graceful lines are ruined by the guard station plunked down at their base.

  Ross walks me over to the glassed-in station. Charlie goes inside and slides open the window partition, letting loose a waft of air tinged with the smell of unwashed socks. Charlie spreads out a page of the logbook. Ross signs me in while I hold out my arm for Charlie to unlock the leash. Its release lightens my lingering headache.

  “I’ll see you soon?” Ross asks, turning over the leash key to Charlie. I know he’s really asking what I’ve decided, but he can’t say anything more explicit in front of an audience.

  “Mr. Ross, I …”

  My stomach gives another lurch. Four months ago, when Calvin got sick for the second time, KJ and I visited him in the clinic. He looked awful. Sweat dotted his forehead, making slick diamonds that nestled in the roots of his kinky hair. KJ and I were sitting together, watching him sleep, when suddenly, Calvin’s eyes popped open. Did they get you, too? KJ leaned forward and Calvin grabbed his shirt front. Don’t let them hurt me, he begged. They want to send me to the Central Office. I won’t go with them. I won’t! Amy came running, and Yolly, the Center’s manager and resident den mother, bustled us out of the room. Don’t worry, Yolly soothed us, it’s just the chronotin talking. The real Calvin will be back once he stabilizes. He isn’t, though. Calvin’s body is healthy, but his mind dwells on wild conspiracy theories and a deep conviction that someone is trying to hurt him. He isn’t the first spinner to go crazy at the end, just the first one I knew well.

  Did the studies Ross read track quality of life or just quantity? What if I live longer but I also lose my mind?

  The main office door swings open, and Dr. Jeffrey Barnard steps out into the lobby. Everything about the Center’s director is crisp, from his neatly pressed lab coat to the knife-edged crease running down his pant leg. Even his hair is perfectly contained, the gray strands clipped into a tidy circle around his receding hairline.

  I tilt my head down, aware of my red-rimmed eyes and puffy nose. A lock of hair has gotten loose from my ponytail and I let it dangle over my face.