Rewinder (23 page)

“What do you think?” Iffy asks.

The room has two beds but we’re lying next to each other, neither of us wanting to be apart. “About what?”

“Everything we’ve seen today. Life.”

“Your world’s complex.”

“And yours isn’t?”

“It is. It’s just…different.”

“Is that good or bad?”

That’s the big question, isn’t it?

“It just is,” I tell her.

The quiet that follows lasts for some time, and I begin to suspect she has fallen asleep until she whispers, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

It takes all of my will not to say, “I don’t want to leave you.”

I hope she thinks my silence means I’ve drifted off.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Iffy takes me to an amusement park called Disneyland.

I can say without hesitation it’s the most fun I’ve had on any single day of my life.

All I know are Iffy’s laughter and smile. All I feel are her hand in mine and her lips on my lips. All I want is to be a part of…

…her life.

That thought again, sneaking out of its box. I’m in no mood to shove it back, and instead let it run wild while we race down mountains and splash down waterfalls.

__________

W
E SPEND THE
night in the same Motel 6, falling asleep beside each other, still beaming from the day.

When we wake, only about twenty-four hours are left until Lidia’s deadline, and the euphoria of the day before has been replaced by tension.

“You don’t have to come with me any longer,” Iffy says as we head to the car.

“I thought you want to show me things.”

“I
have
shown you things.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” she says. “San Diego. I…want to see my family.”

I slip my hand into hers and squeeze. “Take me with you.”

__________

O
N THE DRIVE
down the coast, I ask her about her family. She tells me her father left when she was young and her mother remarried a few years later.

“It worked out all right,” she says. “My stepfather’s not a bad guy.” She thinks a moment. “Actually, he’s a good guy. I’m lucky I had him.

“And your mom?”

“Mom is Mom. A little clueless, but harmless. I could’ve been better to her. You know, moms and daughters, constantly fighting with each other. I guess it’s not always true, but it was in our case.”

“Any reason why?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just what we always did.”

The closer to San Diego we get, the less she says, and when we pass the city-limits sign, her lips seal tight.

After she exits the freeway and turns down a couple of streets, I begin to recognize the area from my trip into her past. When she turns onto her street, I notice that the knuckles on her hands have turned white from gripping the wheel too hard. I touch her shoulder, hoping to relax her, but she jerks away.

From the sideways glance she gives me, I can see she didn’t mean to do it but couldn’t help herself. I know what’s going on. Her fate is becoming real for her and she’s trying to break away from me, trying to sever a bond already too thick to cut.

She parks near the spot where I saw her tear Ryan Smith’s heart in two. After turning off the ignition, she stares out the front window before finally looking at me.

“I don’t want you coming inside.” Her eyes are watery and her lip trembles slightly.

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“It is.” She pauses. “You’re sure? Tomorrow it all goes away?”

“That’s their plan.”

“And they can really do it?”

“Yes.”

I sense there’s another question she wants to ask, but the moment passes and all she says is, “Remember.”

With a quick pull of the handle, she jumps out of the car and runs to the house.

__________

W
HERE DO I
go? I don’t know. I just walk.

Homes. Busy streets. An ocean breeze. Loud music drifting out the door of a bar. A couple pressed into a corner, kissing long and deep.

As much as I want to push everything away, I hear and see it all, my conscience not letting me ignore any of it. After all, this is the world that soon will never have been, many of its people the pending victims of my second genocide.

I walk from when the sun has yet to reach mid-sky to when it disappears behind the buildings to the west.

As the evening grows darker and I hear the distant sound of waves crashing on a beach, I begin to play the game. At least I tell myself that’s what it is—a child’s game of What If?

What if I get to choose which world should stay, based not on my personal history but my observations of both?

First, I would admit that my knowledge of the world I’m currently in is woefully lacking. A week in a library and a few days wandering are hardly long enough to judge a whole civilization.

And yet, what if that’s what I have to do?

Lists of pros and cons for each world begin writing themselves in my mind, and I compare and contrast. But all this does is confuse me.

Several times I have to remind myself this is just a game, that changing things back is a forgone conclusion.

A bell rings above the door of a tiny food store nearby as a mother and son exit. Heading toward me, the boy, no more than ten years old, opens the small package he’s carrying, revealing a dark brown object. He takes a bite and I see it’s ice cream.

“How is it?” the woman asks.

“Great,” the boy says. “Thanks, Mom.”

My pace falters as a memory of my own mother hits me. My sister and I are in the kitchen, watching our mother make sugar bread. It must be near Christmas, because that’s the only time we would have it. I’m seven, I think, and begging her for a taste of the dough.

It’s a dance we do every year. She tells me no, that it’s better when it’s cooked, and I, unrelentingly, argue that the raw dough is better. Ellie eventually gets into the act, siding sometimes with me and other times with Mom. But like always, as my mother forms the loaves, she pinches off a couple small balls and hands one to each of us.

“Shh,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone.”

__________

I
REACH THE
beach as the city behind me is falling asleep. I drop to my knees in the sand. My game of What If is over, and I need to either accept what’s coming or…

I hear the echo of Marie’s voice. “If you’re not true to yourself, this will kill you.”

Moving down to the water to where the sand is firmer, I walk parallel to the sea.

“Do what you think is right.” Marie’s words again, only this time it’s my mother’s voice.

What does she mean? Put things back the way they were?

“Do what you think is right,” Ellie whispers. 

“Fix it?” I say out loud. “I should fix it—is that what you mean?”

“What you think is right.” My mother again.

I’m running now, hard and fast, my satchel slapping against my back. But I can’t outrun the voices.

“What
do
you think is right?”

I stumble to a stop and rest my hands on my knees as I suck in air. I know the voices aren’t Marie’s or my mother’s or my sister’s.

They’re all only one voice.

Mine.

And there’s only one reason they haven’t stopped.

As my breath begins to even out, I know what to do. The only question is—

How?

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

I
DON’T KNOW
what room Iffy is in. I assume she’s still at her parents’ house because the Prius hasn’t moved from where she left it.

Seeing no other choice, I approach the front door and knock. Several moments pass before a light flicks on inside and I hear footsteps heading my way.

The door is opened by an older version of the man I saw in Iffy’s past—her stepfather. He’s wearing a wrinkled white T-shirt and short pants and doesn’t look happy.

“Who the hell are you?” he grumbles.

“Denny. I’m, um, looking for Iffy.”

“You mean Pamela?” I take it he’s not particularly fond of Iffy’s nickname.

“Yes.”

“It’s a little late, don’t you think?”

It is late, though not for the reasons he thinks. I just hope it’s not too late. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have disturbed you if it weren’t important.”

“You’re a friend of hers?”

“Yes. I’m the one who rode down with her from Los Angeles.”

His already narrow eyes close some more. “She didn’t mention traveling with anyone.”

“Oh, well, uh…”

“Wait here.”

The door closes and the lock reengages. When I hear someone approaching again, the steps are lighter and hurried.

“It’s okay,” Iffy says from the other side of the door. “He’s a friend.”

I hear her stepfather say something from farther back in the house.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “It’s fine.”

She opens the door wide enough for her to slip outside, and then closes it behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I just…I…” Suddenly all I was going to say to her seems self-serving. I have a plan now, but I’m scared I’ll be stopped before I can pull it off. In a way, it doesn’t matter if I give her hope. She’ll either see later I’m telling the truth, or wink out of existence without ever knowing otherwise. The problem is,
I’ll
know.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I…wanted to see you one more time.”

She hesitates before pulling me into her arms. “I’m glad you came back.”

We kiss, soft and tender, and hold each other, the world—all worlds—disappearing around us.

Finally I say, “When I travel back, you’re going to feel pain again.”

“I know. But then it’ll all go away.”

Again, I’m tempted to reveal what I’m planning, but I resist. I tilt her face toward mine and kiss her again. “I’m glad you were chosen as my companion.”

“So am I.”

__________

N
INE A.M. IS
the deadline, so if I stay a second after that and one of the other Rewinders has figured out when the break occurred, I’ll cease to exist like everyone else. I could leave at any time, but I must go as close to nine as possible to give my plan the best chance of working.

I make it to 8:57 before my patience runs out. When I pull out my Chaser, I don’t set it to May 12, 1702, like Lidia instructed, but to several decades later.

More precisely, to 1775.

As I hit the
GO
button, I feel Iffy through the mist. I try to send her a message.

Everything will be fine.
Don’t worry. I’ll make this right.

I can’t tell if she hears me, but there is a peacefulness in our connection that wasn’t there before. Four hops later, I’m standing in the field behind the Three Swans Tavern. According to the Chaser, it’s 8:10 p.m. and 9 seconds.

I move over to the wagon farthest from the building, hunker down, and scan the area. If one of the other stranded Rewinders has discovered when the break in history occurred, then one or more of them would be around, trying to make things right. The road and grounds around the tavern appear exactly the same as on my last visits, so I’m pretty sure I’m safe.

As I wait, I keep looking over my shoulder in anticipation, but I remain alone. A check of the local time again shows it’s 8:13 and 30 seconds, almost time. I turn my attention to a point only ten feet from my position. For several moments, there’s nothing but the field and the silhouette of the forest behind it. Then I see me, the me destined to create a twelve-second gap that will bring Iffy’s world into existence. Or I should say, would have brought, if not for—

“Denny,” I whisper. While I have seen myself before—in fact, this very version of me—I’ve never spoken to myself.

Other Me turns in surprise, his eyes widening even more when he realizes who called his name.

I wave him over and move to the side so he can crouch next to me. From here, no one can see us, which is especially important given that the scout version of me is still in front of the tavern and must never know what’s going on.

Other Me eyes my shoes as he joins me. I’ve changed back into the same costume he’s wearing, but my 1775-era shoes were misplaced somewhere in Iffy’s 2015. I’m wearing the black sneakers I picked up while I was there.

“What are, uh, you doing here?” he asks. Here’s a fact most people never think about: Pronouns are tricky when talking to oneself.

“You can’t go in the building,” I tell him.

“Why not? It’s an observation mission.”

“I know. I’ve done this before. You can’t go in there. Something…happens.”

“What?”

“Everything will be fine if you stay out here. It’s better if you don’t know.”

He looks toward the tavern and then back at me. “Did Johnston send you?”

“No. I…
we
figured it out ourselves. You can’t talk about this to anyone. Not even Marie. No one must ever know. Trust me.”

“Trust you.”

We look at each other for a second and then smile the exact same smile.

“All right,” he says. “If you’re telling me I shouldn’t, then I won’t. But what about my mission? How am I supposed to verify if Cahill—”

“He’s the one,” I say. “In a few minutes, he’s going to meet with a couple of British agents and receive orders to observe a rebel meeting, and then he’ll report what he learns to the British.” I pull the wooden box that caused all the problems out of my satchel and hold it out. “Here. Their conversation’s recorded on this. You can use it as proof.”

He takes it. “You’re sure?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Probably.”

“True. But he’s the one, all right. No lie.”

“Okay. I’d feel better if I can at least re-verify his arrival,” he says.

“All right. Sure. We can do that. But give me your box. You don’t want to show up back home with two.”