Time Flying

by Dan Garmen

  And now, this guy wants me to get detailed about things I don't want to even talk about.

  Morris seemed to sense my increasing lack of interest in continuing the conversation, and responded by putting the folio down on the table beside his chair. He leaned forward, not standing up, I realized later, so he wouldn't be towering over me. He smiled again, and said, “Rich, I know this is a confusing time. I'll be honest with you, my company's medication, when used in ways we don't recommend…”

  He stopped short and backtracked a little. “NOT that I'm saying the hospital or EMTs did ANYTHING inappropriate, mind you...But our medication can have some profound side effects in some patients. Not dangerous side effects, mind you, but profound. I think you are one of those patients.”

  Dr Morris had my attention again. He glanced toward the door, lowered his voice a bit more and said, “Let me ask you a question, Rich. Do you…” He paused as if to consider whether to ask me the question, then did so, “…believe you have traveled in time?”

  Even though it was precisely what had happened to me, his asking me the question shocked me and for the briefest moments, I considered telling him the truth. I think he was aware I lied when I did my best to look at him as though he joked, and laugh. “No, Dr Morris...I may have had some strange dreams, but don't think I did any time traveling.”

  He looked me in the eyes, the small, ingratiating smile still on his face, not quite fake but not quite a “sharing a joke” smile, either.

  “You're kidding, right?” I asked.

  “Rich, believe it or not, we've had patients who have been given Ketalisine and swore they traveled in time, and possessed what they consider months, or even years worth of memories from their experiences,” he said, shaking his head. “The brain is a complex organ, and there's so much we don't understand. We don't know WHY it happens, and I wouldn't say it’s common for this to happen, but patients exist who believe, and I hope you will keep this conversation between us,” he added conspiratorially, “while in a Ketalisine induced coma, they traveled in time.”

  “Wow, that is amazing,” I replied, my eyes as wide and full of wonder as I could manage without overplaying my hand. Morris stood up, retrieving his leather portfolio, and extracting a business card , placed the card on the wheeled table my pitcher of water rested on.

  “If you have any questions, anything at all, Rich, please don't hesitate to contact me.” He smiled again at me, and zipped up the portfolio, reached out his hand for me to shake and said, “I hope your recovery continues as well as it has gone so far. Best of luck to you.”

  I nodded, thanked him as we shook hands, and watched him leave my hospital room.

  I had lied to the man. Yes, I HAD traveled in time. I had no idea HOW it had happened, but I had no doubt about the reality of my experience. I knew Gene Lawson, too. He was in the same Aviation Officer Candidate School class as Pat and I, graduated second in that class and went on to fly F-14 Tomcats off Nimitz. Gene was East Coast Navy, so I had lost touch with him shortly after graduating from Pensacola. He had returned to Pensacola as an instructor, and must have done so in this timeline as well. Apparently the serial number the Navy had assigned to me had gone to Lawson in the other timeline. AOCS provided the entry point into the service for Naval Aviators, and as such, we acquired the serial numbers that would stay with us throughout our military careers. Without me in the other timeline, someone else had to get my number. As hard as Morris had tried to convince me my time traveling was, in fact, nothing more than a drug-induced dream, the bit about Gene Lawson did nothing but make me more sure about what I had experienced.

  But, as I thought about it...Maybe that was his intention all along.

  FIFTEEN

  Dancing

  The white plaster figure of Jesus faced away from me, looking toward the highway running past Wood Haven Cemetery on the West side of Indianapolis. He appeared as the standard, Western, bearded, WASP-comfortable savior the citizens of Central Indiana are comfortable with. The biting cold made the air extra sharp, as I let my gaze wander around at the vivid green and white of the place. Th headstones remained in good repair, evenly spaced, the grass around them well manicured. The cemetery lay far enough from metropolitan Indianapolis that a quiet serenity always reigned. But as beautiful the setting was, I could understand how easily the place could turn depressing, taking as little as the steel-gray clouds of winter above an open grave, casket sitting by, to make it a starkly bare place that all the flowers in the world couldn’t brighten.

  I remember such a morning, 26 years before when I stood, not too far from this spot, looking at the statue of Jesus beckoning the cars driving by. The statue had creeped the 19 year old me out, the Jesus depicted there seeming to be the Angel of Death, looking for new residents for his little community here. This time though, thanks to either the wisdom that comes with age, or a more mature, religious outlook on life, the same Jesus seemed more reassuring, telling the drivers speeding by all who rested here were safe in his arms. I think that was the sculptor's intended message, anyway. In the end, it was a statue of a guy who while he almost certainly lived, and may well have been the only son of the creator of this universe, probably physically resembled a rock-throwing Palestinian whose house was being bulldozed by the Israeli Army, more than he did the white bread, midwest rock star Jesus so popular in Middle America.

  At my feet, lay an ornate, headstone that read:

  Amanda Laurel Tully

  November 14th, 1959 - April 12, 1978

  Beloved daughter, who left us too soon and eternally dances with the Angels in Heaven

  I'd never seen this headstone before, since it hadn’t been in place yet, the last time I was here. The thought of Amanda eternally dancing in heaven made me smile, though, because it sounded exhausting. Maybe the thought occurred to me because I'd seen her so often sweating and breathing hard, hands on knees, dancing being hard work. One of the special things about Amanda was when she was young and dancing in a ballet production, she made the incredibly hard work appear easy. Who knows? Maybe in Heaven dancing IS effortless. I have to believe Amanda wouldn't appreciate the words, though. She'd worked too hard here, and effortless wasn’t her style.

  As I gazed at the headstone, in my mind, rewriting the inscription to say, “Beloved daughter, wife and mother…” But the Amanda who lay in this cold ground wasn’t my Amanda, but the Amanda I had let down, the one I hadn’t saved by telling her I loved her and wanted to be with her every day of my life. They had been the same girl, until the summer of 1976, when they split into two, the one I kissed at a pizza restaurant 2 miles from here, and the one who I never revealed my love for her to, and who continued on as Steve Collins' girlfriend until a night in 1978 when his car left the road half an hour north of here, rolled over several times and hit a tree. The Amanda Tully I never said, “I love you” to died after being ejected from the car. The accident left Steve with a broken back and a shattered pelvis, but alive. Given the times, the late 70s, his physical injuries were deemed by officials to be sufficient punishment for his causing the accident, even though his blood-alcohol level had been measured almost twice the legal limit. His father being a respected attorney, and a close friend of the Marion County Sheriff, hadn’t hurt, either.

  Apparently, Steve's brother Nicky hadn't been the only Collins son with a drinking problem.

  “Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” I said to the headstone. I'd cancelled my rehab for the week and flown to Indianapolis the night before to come here, on this day to determine if the reality of this timeline might help push the thoughts of the other one a little further out of my mind. So far, the attempt wasn’t helping.

  “I can see her in my mind as clearly as that statue,” a voice from behind said, startling me. I spun around as gracefully as my still-unbalanced body allowed, leaning on the walnut cane I held in my right hand. Amanda's mother, Jeanette Tully stood there, frailer than I remembered, thinner too, with something different about her eyes.
But, she was Jeanette. My own frailty, a result of my own more recent car accident, kept me from reaching out to her, as I realized even though from my perspective, I had seen Jeanette just a few months ago, when we visited Indianapolis to say goodbye to Thelma, before the woman who had been one of my mentors, in addition to a fellow time traveler had died. The woman who stood before me lost her only daughter almost 30 years ago, and had no grandchildren. This Jeanette hadn't seen me in almost 30 years, either, not since the day she and her husband buried Amanda at this spot. Even then, I was nothing more than another childhood friend, another mourner, sorry for their loss. I had believed Mrs. Tully knew I loved Amanda, and in her own, non-interfering way, encouraged me to tell her daughter about those feelings.

  My mind flashed back to a day, in the fall of our senior year, when Amanda and I traveled east by train to visit a small college in North Carolina we were both considering attending. The school had been known for its outstanding musical theatre department, which held interest for both of us. I had been turned off by a couple upperclassmen students who served as our tour guides, and showed an extraordinary interest in Amanda. I later realized their attention was as much PR and a welcoming attitude as anything else, but it had soured me on the school, and so even though Amanda had enrolled, I chose Purdue. Coming back from North Carolina, Amanda seemed distant, and somewhat irritated with me.Talking with Jeanette the next day, she kindly introduced me to the world of PMS. Relieved, and contented I had nothing to do with her mood, I forgot about it, but would learn years later that in fact, it had a LOT to do with me, and what I hadn't said and/or done on a two day trip with her out of town.

  “Me, too,” I said to my unexpected visitor, promising myself I wouldn't go any further.

  “I heard about your accident, Richard,” Jeannette said, her voice even, but the sympathy in her eyes apparent. My mind reeled a bit. Even though this woman was my mother-in-law in another timeline, she shouldn't remember me this easily. Then, the memory my aunt being a good friend of Jeanette's sister appeared in explanation, and the tension created by the moment drained out of me. She stepped toward me, reaching out with her arms to gently hug me, being careful not to cause me to lose my balance.

  I nodded as she stepped back, I gestured at Amanda's headstone. “It’s a beautiful sentiment, Mrs. Tully,” feeling strange addressing her so formally, after being her son-in-law for so long.

  She flashed a quick smile, glancing down for a couple seconds. When her gaze rose up again, her eyes were a little unfocused, and she stared off to my left, away from the statue of Jesus. “I’ve dreamed about her constantly since she died…” Jeanette said, softly, as if to herself. This woman was so different from the Jeanette who had been my mother-in-law, full of humor and positive encouragement about everything. I then realized what was different about her eyes. They were smooth and unwrinkled. The Jeanette I knew had, over the years, developed a network of lines around her eyes betraying her constant state of amusement and frequent laughter. These eyes looked inward, not outward, not finding nearly as much to laugh, or even smile about. The slow-motion equivalent of Botox, appears to be not laughing or smiling much.

  I nodded my understanding, listening, understanding this wasn't a conversation she had ever had before. I could almost see the gears of her mind working behind those eyes. She reminded me so much of Amanda at that moment, I felt a lump rising in my throat.

  'The funny thing is, the dreams aren't normal dreams,” she continued, still looking away. “Where you can fly, or your car turns into a horse and buggy and then a spaceship and it seems the most natural thing in the world.” Her gaze shifted toward me. “You understand what I mean, Rich?”

  I nodded, intrigued by this conversation, but saying nothing.

  “Dreams I can never remember, but in them, Amanda is getting older, as if she'd never died,” Jeanette added, and the sensation of cold, colder than the air we stood in, shot through me, but at the same time, a sense of amazement began to grow.

  Neither of us spoke, but continued to regard each other for no more than five or six-seconds, but what seemed like an hour.

  “And now, standing here,” Jeanette continued as I wondered if I imagined she had grown a bit stronger, “I realize you were in those dreams, too.” She paused, looking at me, not in an accusing or uncomfortable way, but seeming to ask a question, which after a few seconds, she gave voice to.

  “What does that mean?”

  I closed my eyes for a few seconds, made a decision, and looked at Jeanette, replying “Let's go get a cup of coffee.”

  I hadn’t been in a Starbucks since the accident. We sat at a table in the corner opposite the cash register, out of the main traffic flow, but a little too close to an overhead speaker. The noise didn’t keep us from talking, though.

  Jeanette's mood lightened a bit, the more we talked and I realized after all these years, she must have had a lot of practice, moving in and out of episodes of grief, learning to compartmentalize things pretty well. The alternative, I imagined, would be complete mental exhaustion, if not insanity. She fussed over pictures I showed her of Molly and Samantha, not sure if her response to seeing photos of my wife and daughter was sincere, or acting. How hard it must be for Jeanette to experience delight about something she had been cheated out of. Jeanette Tully had always been a genuine and warm person, who never hesitated to speak her mind. She always made sure her interactions with other people were appropriate, but she didn't hide her feelings, good or bad.

  Eventually, the discussion drifted around to the dreams, though talking about them here, she seemed less etherial, more matter-of-fact.

  “At first, they were just flashes and memories of Amanda…” Jeanette began, interrupting herself by taking a sip of her coffee. “But after a while, it was like she’d never died, and I’d have these dreams where she was happy, and living her life.”

  Jeanette's eyes, locked with mine in the beginning of the story, soon lost their focus and she looked off to the right, remembering. “They got so REAL. I usually couldn't remember them, but would wake up knowing I had been dreaming about Amanda, and after a bit, I began to realize she was older at times and unhappy in some of the dreams.” At this point, Jeannette again appeared distracted, remembering an intense emotion. “A few times I've woken up crying, but about what, I can't remember.”

  “Was the progression steady?” I asked, as casually possible, seeming to be interested in the concept. “Did it seem like her life in your dreams moved parallel with your life?”

  “No,” Jeanette replied, shaking her head. “In one dream, she would be very young, then in another, she would have children, living somewhere far away from us. I somehow knew it wasn’t here, but where Amanda lived was beautiful, green, with lots of trees, and rain.”

  Whidbey Island.

  She paused for a few seconds, took a drink of her tea, and said. “I had a dream a couple months ago where she was old.” The corners of Jeanette's mouth turned up just the slightest bit, almost a smile and she said, “Even older than me. She was a grandmother.”

  “How many kids?” I asked, taking a sip of coffee to cover my curiosity and growing uneasiness. She dreamed about Amanda living in Washington State, and as my mind scrambled for an explanation other than Jeannette somehow observed the life Amanda and I lived in Bellingham, I became concerned. The Tullys had never been to the Pacific northwest before Amanda I moved there for the Navy.

  “Always two,” Jeanette answered. “Two boys.” Her eyes came back to mine, and though more than a hint of carefully hidden, quiet hysteria existed in her, assurance did, too.

  “They were your sons, too. And you know that, don't you, Rich?”

  I couldn't help but close my eyes and turn my head, the lump again rising in my chest, moving toward my throat.

  “I’m not sure about anything, Jeanette,” I replied, after several seconds. Then, looking into her eyes, I said, “I’m sorry.”

  We parted company a few minutes lat
er, after retreating to safer, more mundane ground, talking about family and updating each other about people important to both of us. Talking about her family, in that other life my in-laws, people I knew well because of our connections through Amanda, but who in this life, I barely had been acquainted with, proved difficult. Amanda's father, Jeanette's husband Frank in the other timeline, had been one of my father's best friends. Here, I'm not sure they'd ever met. Jeanette told me about Gene's bout with cancer in the mid 1980s, which I had helped the family deal with in the other timeline. But here, I could express concern and happiness he had survived, but not much more.

  As I walked Jeanette to her car, she smiled at me, saying how good it had been to talk with me, but stressing “we're not done with this, Richard.”

  “I'll be in touch,” I replied. “Let me figure out what I can figure out, and we'll talk.”

  She nodded, got into her car, and rolled the window down, calling to me as I walked toward my rented car, parked a few yards away. “Rich, please don't say anything to Gene about this. We don't talk about it, anymore.”

  I turned, seeing a look on her face that told of considerable conflict over this situation, and I nodded, making a mental note to respect her wishes. Gene had to be, in many ways, the same man who had been my father-in-law, and though I had enormous respect for him, he could be stubborn and unyielding to everyone but Jeanette, so if she had failed to come to terms with him about something, it was truly a lost cause for anyone else to try.

  “Goodbye, Jeanette,” I said.

  She smiled at me and said nothing. Jeanette's way of reinforcing her statement “this isn't over.”