Time Flying

by Dan Garmen

  She accepted my disorientation excuse for the moment, but I would have to figure out how to explain to her everything I had been through. My mind still regarded my memories of the alternate timeline my apparent death in the Iraqi desert had caused me to leave as legitimate, and the memories of being in Cincinnati and San Diego as distant. The more I thought about them, the more real and recent they seemed, but not at the expense of the other memories. My brain seemed to be working to compartmentalize the two sets of memories and let them co-exist. How that worked itself out would be interesting to watch.

  Being with Molly again was wonderful, the memory of watching the news reports of her death in Saudi Arabia still raw, though. She told me Samantha would fly to Cincy from San Diego in a couple days,, which made me even happier, filling the empty part of my soul caused by my losing Aaron and Michael, my songs in the other timeline, and of course, Amanda. I pushed those thoughts away for now, promising myself I would deal with them later. Jesus, I thought. What was I doing flying combat aircraft in the Gulf War? How stupid. That wasn’t me. And Pat...

  Night had fallen, by this time, making the trees outside the hospital window disappear. They were getting greener and budding, but I could still almost taste the grime and dust of the desert though, the shock of waking up so far from there still keeping me unsteady. I'd been back to my life here a few times in my second trip through the seventies, eighties and first part of the 90s decades, usually thrown back when under extreme stress. My trips back, only a few seconds long, never seemed permanent. This time though, I had been back for several hours, with no impression I was going anywhere at all.

  I began to accept that I wouldn't be returning to the other timeline, because I had died, shot in the back by an Iraqi soldier while I tried to get to the evac chopper. I’m guessing the Apaches covering our escape probably chewed up every enemy combatant in a 100 square mile area after they realized they had missed one of them before I decided to make a run for it, bit it was cold comfort. I smiled slightly, however, without any sense of guilt, when I thought of what small pieces those Army Apache drivers probably left of any Iraqi in a uniform. If I had any way to learn the name of the guy who shot me in the back, I thought, I'd find him in this timeline and shoot him. The one here probably escaped being shredded by the Apaches, but he would be the same guy.

  All nonsense, of course. My mind wandered, still trying to reattach itself to the other timeline, the world I had spent the past 15 years in while unconscious in this hospital for three days. The other timeline was gone to me, though. The trip back here I had made through dying was a one-way. Which was fine, I realized as I turned my head to greet Molly as she came back into my little section of the ICU. Her eyes still showing exhaustion, but her smile radiant. She reached out to hold my hand as she said, “They're moving you out of ICU into a private room, hon.” She squeezed my hand. “The doctors say you're doing great,” Molly continued. “No sign of Traumatic Brain Injury, the swelling has gone down, so your concussion isn't a problem anymore. You didn't lose much blood.”

  She smiled again, looking into my eyes. “You're going to be fine.”

  I returned my wife's smile, relieved that the stress she had been under for three days already seemed to be abating a bit. “How's the lady in the Hummer?” I asked.

  “Oh!” she quickly answered. “She's fine! In fact, her attorney already contacted me, asking if there was anything they could do for us, and 'oh, would you mind signing this release form. I mean, these things happen, and we're of course going to take care of any deductibles, plus a couple thousand dollars for your trouble,’” Molly said, playfully acting out the part of the lawyer.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “I told him the same thing you told Dr Bhakram,” she said, her smile broad, eyes bright. “In fact, I used those exact words.”

  I promised myself I would not make the same mistake I'd made with Amanda, by telling Molly about what happened to me during the three days I'd spent in a coma after the crash. Doing so cost me several weeks with my family in my other timeline. If I hadn’t told Amanda the truth about my time traveling, if I hadn’t run into a kid I knew from high school who was serving in the Navy, if I hadn’t let slip a clue about what I was going through…

  Life is full of ifs. They're all branches in the road, mostly inconsequential, but all connected to all the other branches, somehow. Seen from a high altitude, they become a matrix which becomes a life. A time travel movie I saw not long after my accident called The Butterfly Effect, demonstrates how small differences can add up to big ones down the line. As complex as the film was, it didn’t come close to describing truth of our world. Cause and effect are the fabric of our universe, of our existence, and everything is connected.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Molly’s voice, as sweet a sound to hear my third day back as it was on the first. I turned toward the door, breaking the reverie I was in, and saw Gary standing with Molly. He looked anxious, and…worried. If he had been wearing a hat, he would have been standing there with it in his hands, nervously grasping it like a servant waiting to explain to the lord of the manor how his prized horse had gotten loose and ran off. If Gary hadn’t looked so uncomfortable, I would have laughed. Anyone else would have come in joking to ease the worry, especially theirs. That wasn’t Gary, though.

  “How are you, Rich?” He asked, his voice hushed, almost a whisper.

  “I’m surviving, Gar,” I answered. “But not so loud, the doctors say my eardrums are in a very delicate condition and could rupture easily.”

  As always when I screwed with Gary like this, I immediately felt guilty because a horrified expression appeared on his face, and he, not remembering Molly had just filled the room with her announcement of Gary’s arrival, assumed even his hushed, almost inaudible question might have damaged my hearing.

  “Kidding, buddy,” I said, and he was at first confused, then relieved as he entered the room, Molly following.

  “I’ll let you two talk,” Molly said, picking up her shoulder bag from the chair next to my bed, “I’ve got to go pick Samantha up at the hotel.” She bent down to kiss me on the lips, then Gary on the cheek before leaving.

  Gary and I both watched Molly leave, and he said, “You really scared everybody, Rich.”

  “I know, sorry about that. I really appreciate everyone’s help,” I replied. “And, Gar, I’m really sorry you ended up having to come here. I know you needed to keep your distance.”

  “No worries. You had wrapped the work up, so I didn’t need to do anything more than make a phone call,” Gary said, waving off my concern. “It’s all good.”

  I nodded, relieved the accident hadn’t happened two or three weeks earlier, when we would have been in the middle of the work for our customer.

  Gary continued, “Ironically, I was headed this way. There’s an M.I.T. Alumni event in a couple days I was planning on going to, and was going to drive through.”

  “When is it?” I asked. “It hasn’t happened yet, has it?” I was concerned Gary had missed the event.

  “No, it starts tomorrow, but I’m staying here until you get out,” he said.

  “No way, buddy,” I said, insistent. “You need to go. Grab a flight tonight. I’m *fine. *There’s nothing you can do for me here. Go.”

  “You sure?” Gary asked?

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay, then…I’ll leave the Jeep here and fly to Boston tonight or tomorrow,” Gary said, relieved he wouldn’t have to miss the event, even though I knew he would miss it in a heartbeat if he thought he was in any way, needed here.

  “Let me ask you a question,” I said, my mind pulling a nugget of information from deep inside it.

  “Sure,” Gary answered, curious.

  I glanced at the door, making sure we wouldn’t be interrupted, and my voice low, I asked “You really went to M.I.T., right?” I said, looking Gary straight in the eye.

  Mild confusion looked back, but was
limited to the eyes, not extending to a downturned mouth that would have possibly indicated deception on his part.

  “Yes, I did. Of course.” He answered. “Class of ’82. Graduate degree in ’85. Why?”

  “Nothing,” I responded. “I’ll explain later, but remember that conversation we had on the phone when I was on my way back from Belton the other night?”

  Gary nodded, remembering.

  “It involves that. We’ll talk later.”

  I knew I had intrigued Gary, which was important if I were to figure this thing out. He was by far, the smartest guy I knew.

  Gary left for Cambridge and his M.I.T. event that night, and the next morning, four days after waking up from the coma, I was laying in my hospital bed, eyes closed, working on letting some of my memories of my life in the other timeline play in my head, much like I'd done in THAT timeline remembering THIS life. Though it hadn’t ended well, I worked hard to keep the memories of events leading up to my death in the Iraqi desert alive.

  The rustle of movement told me someone had come into the room, and I opened my eyes to see a tall, thin doctor walk in, expensive leather portfolio carried under his left arm. He wore his hair short, not much longer than a buzz, and perfectly arranged, his face angular, and substantial eyebrows trimmed, he didn’t have the look of a resident on rounds. A quick appraisal revealed expensive, creased trousers and leather-soled footwear, rather than the tennis shoes favored by doctors who worked 18 hour days, most of the time on their feet. This particular physician appeared to be a figure out of the 1940s, but wore no stethoscope around his neck.

  “Mr Girrard,” he said warmly, introducing himself to me, “I’m Doctor Morris. How is your health, today?” His accent south of England, probably Kent, but a little conversation would be required to determine exactly where his accent was from.

  “Hello,” I replied. “I rely on you guys to tell me that. What can I do for you?”

  Doctor Morris approached the bed, his right hand extended and his eyes meeting mine. “I consulted with Doctor Bhakram during your coma.”

  “Great!” I replied, then shrugging. “Looking forward to getting out of here,” I continued, “I had my first physical therapy session today,” My broken left leg was in a cast, but the doctors wanted me up and moving around as soon as possible after waking up.

  Dr Morris smiled, and said, “I wouldn't be surprised if your release came in the next few days.” He unzipped the leather portfolio, and looking at some papers inside, nodded and continued “It’s wonderful you're so fit, but remember, your injuries in the accident were serious, and 72 hours in an unresponsive state can carry its own long-term effects.”

  “I’ve had a tough time getting details about what my injuries were, Doctor,” I said, struggling a little to sit up straighter. “The broken leg, sure, but my wife said I didn't lose much blood…”

  Dr Morris smiled a bit more and replied, after a few seconds. “Well, Mr Girrard, it appeared from your verbal responses upon regaining consciousness that you were suffering from ICP...Uh, inter-cranial pressure, from hitting your head in the crash, but the CAT scans and MRI showed inconclusive.”

  I nodded. Morris was referring to my defiant attitude toward Dr. Bhakram, who turned out to be a delightful young doctor, and kept politely dismissing any apology for my less than cooperative attitude toward him when I first found myself returned to this timeline. Another example of why you should always remember your training. The English doctor continued to review some paperwork in his folder, then closing, but not zipping it back up, sat down in the chair next to my bed.

  “So what caused my coma?” I asked. I'm no doctor, but I know a coma is a serious thing, and doesn't come along any old time for no reason.

  Morris smiled again, and regarded me for at least five-seconds before saying, “The EMTs did, by injecting you with a drug called 'Ketalisine.’”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Morris shrugged, and said, “Well, at the scene, they were convinced you were in serious danger, had been gravely injured, and since they couldn't get you out of your car quickly enough to reliably diagnose your injuries, administered Ketalisine to slow your brain function down. Certain studies have shown it can help prevent long-term effects of ICP.”

  He paused, giving me the opportunity to signal I accepted this as enough of an answer, but I continued to stare back at him, because I wanted a lot more information.

  “When a patient appears to have serious injury to the head or brain, but can’t be examined straight away, inducing coma is often the safest choice,” he continued. “Apparently, some conflict about your treatment arose, and the ER doctors directing the operation demanded the EMTs bring you out of the coma, so the EMTs injected with another drug called ‘Risperidone,’ which can counteract the effects of Ketalisine.”

  I nodded, a growing sense of discomfort rising.

  “The first dose of Risperidone did not prove sufficient to bring you out of your coma, so they injected you again in the ambulance. Again, the effects were fleeting, and you slipped back into the coma.”

  My eyes narrowed, as I began to see a distinct correlation between what Dr Morris told me, and some hazy memories. Then, without thinking, I said, “Yes, before they cut me out of the car, and in the ambulance. I remember waking up.”

  I swam in the memories events that took place in the distant past, even though less than a week had passed since these things happened.

  “How long had you been in your past when you were first pulled back here?” Dr Morris quietly asked. “A month? A year?”

  “No, it hadn't been that…” I began answering the question, but alarms suddenly began going off in my head and I caught myself. “Wait, what? In my...past?”

  “Forgive me, Mr Girrard. I meant to ask if it seemed like much time had passed before these episodes,” Morris answered.

  I shook my head, saying nothing, my instincts warning me to be careful around this guy.

  Morris continued. “When the scans were done here at the hospital, they showed no ICP, no Traumatic Brain Injury, and not much blood loss, nor any significant internal bleeding. Easing you off the Ketalisine and bringing you back to the world became the priority.” Dr. Morris smiled again, indicating he had reached the end of his story.

  After a few seconds, I nodded. “So, are you a neurologist, Dr Morris?” I asked.

  “Not precisely,” he answered, the small smile on his face.

  I continued to return his gaze, patiently waiting for an answer. Something was going on here, causing me to want to know exactly what. Morris waited a few seconds, and seeing I had no intention of giving up, continued.

  “I’m a research team leader for the company that produces the medication used to induce your coma,” he said.

  “Ketalisine,” I said.

  He nodded, but didn't say anything right away.

  “Okay,” I said, “so...you're trying to sell me more?”

  Morris smiled at my joke, which seemed to make him more comfortable. “Not at all, Mr Girrard. Ketalisine is an extremely potent drug, and so we, as its manufacturers, want to learn as much as we can about its beneficial uses and...side effects.”

  Another pause.

  “So we can continue to improve the medication, and refine its clinical use.”

  At my nod, he seemed to relax a bit and continued. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure,” I replied, figuring I’d learn more from the questions he asked than I would from stonewalling him. “Shoot.”

  Morris put his closed, but not zipped up, folio on the table next to him, and leaned forward, sitting on the chair's edge. “Do you have any recollection of time passing while you were in the comatose state? Do you remember anything at all?”

  I could tell my feigned relaxed attitude had drawn him in, so I put on a bit of a show, shrugging and grimacing a little. “Not really,” I lied. “I mean, I remember bits and pieces. Sounds. But, I can’t say I remember time pa
ssing. Why?”

  Morris shook his head dismissively. “Sometimes, patients in drug-induced comas have vivid dreams they later believe were real.”

  I tried to appear interested, but not overly so.

  “They aren't, of course,” he continued, “but they can seem quite real.”

  “Patients on Ketalisine, you mean?” I asked. “Do they sometimes have these...dreams?”

  “Yes, occasionally,” he replied “But again, as real as they seem, they're not.”

  I nodded, tying to appear to accept his explanation, as he reached down for his folio on the table. He opened it again and flipped through the sheets of paper. “Apparently, when you awoke, you claimed you to be…” he continued, looking again at the paperwork, “…a ‘Commander’ Richard Girrard, with a serial number than indicated you served in the United States Navy.”

  He raised his eyes to look at me, and I glanced away. You got me there, Doc, I thought.

  After a few seconds, I spoke. “Yeah...I...was a bit,” I shrugged, looking for the right word, “confused.” I turned my eyes back to Dr Morris, no longer in control of the conversation. He smiled slightly, but not in a condescending way.

  “The serial number you gave belonged to a Naval Officer who served from the early 80s until the late 90s,” Morris continued. “His name is Eugene Lawson, and he lives in Pensacola, Florida. Do you know him?”

  I shook my head. “Never heard of him,” I said, again lying, the sensation of warmth entering my cheeks.

  Morris nodded, but didn't say anything, and glanced down at his paperwork again. I started to become uncomfortable with this conversation, but couldn't put my finger on why. What I had experienced had been real. It was simply far too complete and detailed to be...I don't know...Hallucination? Fantasy? Dream? But I wasn't ready to talk about it yet, not until some time had passed. Christ, I had been ripped from my life, family and children…twice. The first time, I had found myself almost 30 years in the past, but the second, a few days ago, I woke up 14 years older, in a hospital bed. The body I returned to, in addition to being banged up pretty good in the car accident, wasn’t close to being in the kind of shape the one I'd left back in 1991 was, either. I was happy to be alive and back with Molly and Samantha, but also had to admit to feeling my 47 years of less than wholesome living.