Dreamcast 2, p.14
Dreamcast 2, page 14
Ruth tucked me in with extra care, unable to do enough for me. I was a hero in her eyes. It pleased me to bask in everyone’s regard. My 5 percent did it all by his lonesome, a success he didn’t have to share with the absent 95 percent. I felt as gratified as a child being praised for the first time. Way to go, Trav!
I was scheduled for an MRI the next day and a follow-up evaluation. I was anxious to do well and regain a little more autonomy over my fate, reclaim it from the medical establishment that lorded over it. Ruth tried to reassure me and calm my worries. But worry was second nature to me.
Not surprisingly after the emotional turmoil of the day, I had trouble falling asleep. I also had the feeling that my mind was slowly waking up, claiming more of my memories, not just the more recent ones. I definitely felt I was expanding into the void. Still I was worried about my missing 95 percent. How was I going to recover that?
At some point it occurred to me that I had tried to contravene nature by jumping time. If nature had so intended, we would all have ESP and the ability to cross time. I was breaching nature’s laws. Had I not seen enough movies, horror and sci-fi, that demonstrated repeatedly the penalties and repercussions that went with coercing nature? How much more proof did I need?
If I could go faster than the speed of light I could take advantage of time distortion. But who could generate such speeds? There had to be a way of creating enough resonance to shake me loose from the shadow of time. From my premonition that saved Ruth from being caught up in that accident, I knew that I had some kind of link with myself that somehow channeled awareness of at least one critical event in the future. But if the connection existed, perhaps I could use that to leverage myself free. I imagined being connected by an elastic band, if I could only... the train of thought died of starvation. “You were always better on the intuitive side,” I reminded myself.
Of course, this could all be wishful thinking anyway. Maybe I would never be able to recover the missing parts. I would have to regenerate myself from the parts left me. The 5 percent in the hand was better than the 95 percent in the bush. Hogwash! I stopped thinking then, and started doing. I tried flying, but found the effort weak, the array flickering in and out uncertainly. I barely achieved focus when the whole thing imploded, landing me in bed.
I tried to work out the new arithmetic. If my 5 percent was going off flying, who or what was taking care of my body in the meantime? Was I leaving only 1 percent to keep me breathing and alive? Was that enough? If I lost my body, then... then... My logic could not take me any farther.
Dissatisfied, I turned toward the wall and took my worries into sleep.
Chapter 8
My parents found me in the common room at cards. I took them into a small side room reserved for private meetings. I stood up from my chair and hugged my mom.
“You’re walking, Trav,” she said in a tear-choked voice. “We came seven times previously, but you were … unavailable.” She squeezed my face with both her hands.
“I know, Mom... I’m sorry.” I tried hard to speak smoothly.
She inspected me critically. “You do look better,” she added approvingly. “But you’ve lost a little weight.”
“A little.”
“Your sister wanted to visit. We told her to hold off until you get better. Are you better?”
“I’m much better.”
Dad was more to the point. “Good, then we can tell her to call you instead of us every day.” I made a note to myself to order a phone for my room now that I could actually speak and make sense.
“We couldn’t tell her anything much ourselves: we didn’t know,” Mom added.
She fretted over me the whole time, and dad was trying to bond with me. It was touching but draining, both physically and emotionally.
They stayed about forty minutes and left reassured by my improved condition. Throughout I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that mom expected me to be even more normal.
“Parents tucked in bed?” Smoky inquired sarcastically when I returned to the table. He had been freshly out and as usual, his clothes smelled strongly of tobacco smoke.
“I wish my parents came to visit me,” Max voiced wistfully.
“They’re in an old folks’ home,” Tessie reminded him mildly.
“That doesn’t stop me from wishing it.”
Midday we went for exercises conducted in the downstairs activity room. An attractive young hard-body led us through the routines. Max was there to ogle her as she flexed and bent in a skimpy halter and gym shorts. I must admit that as I aped her movements in my wheelchair, I could feel a certain stirring of my libido, making me aware of sexual interest. It was good to note another sign of recovery. I worked hard, determined to increase my strength. The fight with White had shown me how shockingly weak I had become from lack of exercise. I walked afterwards, using only a walking stick.
A little later, Amanda arrived. She brought me my own toiletries. I was glad to have my familiar Philishave, tired of the dull disposable blades used in the hospital. She also bought new PJ’s, one made of silk.
“Mr. Phelps called to warn that the college will have to fill your position if you can’t be back for the new semester.” Damn, we needed my salary. It had only been 40 odd days in the middle of summer break. But we’d been planning a cruise and to save for tuition for the kids. This wasn’t welcome news.
“Oh don’t worry about money. The gallery sold two more of your paintings and I gave them two more from the stack in the basement. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Which?”
“One of the girl with a red kerchief, the other of the bird on the windowsill.” I didn’t mind the first but the second I’d planned to give Cindy.
Then we spent about an hour talking about time and my theories about time. I soon got lost in my explanations and had to give it up.
“Well, you’re definitely improving. Walking and talking a lot better.” She left on that hopeful note.
I tried to listen to my music collection she’d brought but felt strangely disconnected from the songs I’d so valued before. I couldn’t understand my former self. What really motivated him? Did he take that part with him, or was it buried somewhere in my memories? And of course, I felt a longing to be reconnected, to be whole again. I was resentful, as if someone had stolen something valuable from me. But who could I blame if not myself?
The next hour was taken up with the MRI. An earnest young technician very competently walked me through the procedure. She injected me with dye to improve image contrast and slid me inside the doughnut. I listened to the electronic song of the machine, thanking the improvement in medical technology. It was all painless.
Another doctor on a floor higher gave me a quick neurological exam, making me follow instructions to do this and do that: wink, close my eyes, touch my nose, stick my tongue out, smile, tie my shoelaces, copy increasingly complex geometric shapes, and more. A memory test followed, then a balance test. This time I had little difficulty complying with all of the directions—though an intense concentration was needed to do so.
“Well, you’re definitely doing better. The scores are in the low normal range or even. How are your drawing skills?”
“Haven’t tried lately.” He gave me some paper and a pencil and asked me to draw him. Somewhat fearfully I tackled the task; what if I had lost all my abilities? But I hadn’t.
“Not bad,” the doctor praised, “I can actually recognize myself.”
I wasn’t so satisfied. The style and perspective felt strange to me, but it was reassuring to recognize skill in the sketch. He dismissed me, passed me on to transportation, who then wheeled me to the office of Dr. Weatherbee, who was in charge of my case medically. I waited in the much too small waiting room, locked in eye contact with a large lady who was nibbling on a sandwich, shredded vegetables dribbling into her lap.
Finally I was allowed to see Dr. Weatherbee, who then discussed the results with me.
“Medically you appear quite normal. The blood work and body chemistry appear to be where they should be, balanced. There are no signs of stroke or of any other abnormalities. Your reflexes and reactions also appear to be typical for someone your age. In fact, we can’t pin down what is wrong with you. Physically you’re weak, but getting noticeably stronger. A psychological evaluation might be in order to see what emotional stress you’re dealing with. But I would say that medically, you’re recovering.” He scanned my file again, before pronouncing judgment. “I intend to keep you a little longer for physiotherapy and discharge you next week if there are no relapses.” He smiled and snapped my file closed.
What about my other part, the missing 95 percent, what about being stuck on the wrong side of time, doctor, what about that? Of course, I couldn’t ask that and risk being committed indefinitely. I wheeled myself out and heard the doctor yell “Next,” to the receptionist.
I was taken back to my ward and released into their care. I pushed myself down the corridor, feeling dissatisfied with the boredom facing me. I was much too awake and aware to find this other than a frightful waste of time. Yes I was better, but I was still not whole or anywhere near what I was before. Who was going to give me that back?
In the common room I found Max and Tessie huddled together conspiratorially. Tessie looked up and gave me a much too bright smile. Her breath smelled of alcohol and Max winked at me, showing me a brown paper bag they had been nipping from.
“Want some?” Max inquired. I shook my head. “Suit yourself.” He got up to get some coffee to chase the fumes of alcohol.
Tessie grabbed my arm and rubbed up to me like a cat. “Want some?” she mimicked Max’s tone. There was no mistaking the invitation. “We could go to the sitting room upstairs,” she purred, “there is hardly anyone there.”
“That would be nice Tess, but I’m not up to it,” I lied. In truth, I was tempted. Not from some prowling instinct; more that my body was waking up and my urges were starting to assert themselves. I was noticing things again. Very definitely, my 5 percent was growing and maturing. But in which direction? Did I want to become someone new? Was I still satisfied to be an artist, driven to paint, to express? Or did I suddenly want to become an engineer? Was I given a second chance to form and develop a personality? And was the new me someone acceptable to Amanda? And to my kids?
The rest of the day drifted by in inconsequential detail. I ate when food was served, listened when someone spoke, answered when someone asked a question, but I didn’t interact on my own.
In the evening Amanda came. I examined her with new eyes. She looked good, delicious in fact, and I was more than aware that we hadn’t done anything conjugal since before the jump. She sensed the change, blushing and becoming all shy. My God, I thought, she too feels the difference, the new me. I took her upstairs, beset by a guilty sense that I was luring her. Of course, perceptive as she was, she knew the score, but was inhibited by the part of me that was still a stranger to her. Perhaps she didn’t know if she could trust the new me. The corporate me, a fusion of the old remnant and something new. I didn’t know either.
In my room I hung out the do-not-disturb sign and locked the door. We both knew what this was about, undressed and squeezed into the narrow hospital bed. We reached for each other, both of us eager but anxious to test our reactions. We were driven by hunger for the intimacy and lacked patience and tenderness. It was over quickly: sharp and almost painful. I looked at her, wondering if it was what she expected. She was crying.
“Amanda...”
“It’s all right, Travis.” She tried to hide her tears. “It’s just a little strange after all this time.” She rarely called me Travis, I noted with a sinking heart. She wanted the old me back. I guess it was a shock to both of us. Maybe it defined, better than anything else that we were in new, uncharted waters, and would have to get to know each other again.
I had wished for my feelings, emotions and my drive back, but now that I had them again, I wasn’t so sure. They brought back the full uncertainty and anxiety. I felt harder, less charitable, less accepting, less… less accommodating. My regeneration was powered by ambition to become more effective, more of a complete person at the expense of my former self, if need be.
Everything after that felt awkward. The words sounded stilted, the questions inhibited. We both retreated into the safety of silence. The sex had been good but not great. Maybe because it was needy and hurried, but maybe because it felt like a one night stand, sex between strangers. We were definitely out of synch with each other.
Amanda left early, leaving me despondent. I was just coming to terms with my new self, trying out the fit, with a more direct, perhaps even selfish focus. I was going to be good at whatever I aimed at, whether as an artist or something else. I was going to be rich, certainly a success, and famous if I could swing it. I would have goals and a single-minded direction. But what if those qualities put my relationship with Amanda at risk? Was it worth that? No! Amanda was and had to be my goal, my prize and reward. And that meant I had to get my former self back.
That night, in my bed, I tossed and turned, agitated by the continuation of these thoughts. How to get myself reintegrated. Was it only my responsibility or could my missing parts help? There were too many things I didn’t know.
I took several runs at the time barrier, but my attempts were tentative, constrained by the fear of losing more of myself. Maybe this time I would completely disappear, deprive Amanda of a husband and my children of a father. Burdened by these fears, I couldn’t generate enough momentum to punch through. I loaded my intent, aimed and fired, accelerating myself through psychic space. I sensed the barrier coming up, like a membrane absorbing the energy of my trajectory. I hesitated just a little and again, rebounded.
It wasn’t going to work, I despaired. I sent a plea, trying to connect with my other self, but sensed no echo. Contact eluded me. I recalled all the tribulations in my life, trying to build up an emotional charge to increase my velocity—without any better results. After each attempt, I felt weaker and even more powerless.
Desperately I sought to hold onto the urgency, trying not to let the opportunity slip away. I had to reconnect. Just had to. I hurled myself at the “skin of time” only to rebound. Over and over I found myself back in bed, panting, my body covered in sweat, my heart pounding. What was I doing to my body with all this? What were the costs? No use reconnecting if I lost the thing that held us together. The physical part was the container, and I couldn’t afford to break it. I was caught in a no-win situation.
Frustrated, I tried to balance the need for being whole and the safekeeping of my body. I ordered my mind to solve this problem, commanded my ESP to sense beyond, and wound my emotions tightly around this task to reinforce my intent. I had to... just had to recover the rest of me.
In time I grew too tired to maintain the concentration. The bow was drawn, the arrow set, the aim was searching to acquire the target. Till then I couldn’t let the shot go. But it was exhausting and I fell asleep in the midst of it, taking my dissatisfaction into my dreams.
At some point in my agitated sleep, I was wrestling with White one time, then with someone I called the time-bandit.
Then I was young, maybe 8 years old, remembering how I wanted a new mountain bike, just like the one Jake had down the street. I didn’t get it either for my birthday or for Christmas. Envy and longing filled me every time I saw Jake on his. Then the scene shifted and I was hungering after Jenny (before we hooked up with each other), itching to hold her, to make love to her. I drifted on this tide of frustration to Amanda, to the time I was first becoming aware of my interest in her, and the desire that was building...
Suddenly something hit me!
Something big! Jolting me, bouncing me out of bed. I was hot and cold, sweat pouring from every pore with shouting in my head. My skin crawled and my heart was going crazy. It was... It was like nothing I had ever felt before. And it was painful.
Something had fallen upon me, and my body... no my mind, was attempting to make room for it. Lights were flashing on my retina, a buzz filled my ears, and my skin itched terribly. Pain radiated through my nerves, flashed along my arms and down my legs. My stomach clenched and unclenched. But the worst was the din in my head. A booming, insistent clamor, a sense of stone grating on stone, metal screeching on metal, chalk scoring the blackboard—all of it filling my head.
I was having a stroke, I thought. NO! I was having an epileptic seizure, and was sure I’d fall thrashing to the floor.
Then everything quieted. No sight, no sound, no more itching. Just a faint smell of menthol.
What had just happened? I tried to come to grips with it. The sudden silence was equally disconcerting.
Hell! I needed answers!
Then I knew. I realized.
I WAS BACK.
All of me was together again.
Relief flooded me. I was 100 percent again.
NO! I was now 130 percent. The old me and the new me elbowing each other for space. It was like a suit several sizes too small. It was so tight that I couldn’t bend or move.
But I was not quite integrated. There was still a new and an old me, out of synch. The old me didn’t come back with memories. There wasn’t even a sense of waiting, as if... as if no time had elapsed. It had all been just a blink of the eye.
Then there was a great upheaval inside like an earthquake, displacing ideas, readjusting memories, feelings, ambitions... and all sorts of other things I had no name for.
