Remember Me (54 page)

“Going to school tomorrow and you need help with your

homework?” she quizzed me.

“You could say that. Give me a moment to use the bathroom S 416 S

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and get a glass of water, then I will do my best to explain…not that I really know that much.”

“Know what? Explain? Andrew, what is it? You look extremely pale.” Amy began to sit-up straighter. I saw the worry in her eyes as she stared at me.

Sighing I said, “I ran into someone on Saturday. She gave me the backpack and told me I needed to read the contents inside of it.”

“I’ll bite. Who was this mysterious person?” she asked, her voice sounding more cynical.

“Olivia Jane Harris,” was what I said and tossed the backpack on the bed. “I need to get a drink and put on my pajamas.

I believe we are in for a long night.” I left her with her mouth agape and headed to the bathroom. There are times when

people click, finish each other’s thoughts, and there are times when they know the difference between kidding and the truth.

This was one of those moments. Amy was doing her best to figure out which path I meant and which one she should follow. I spent less than ten minutes in the bathroom, but it might as well have been an eternity. My shoulders ached, and I tried to rub the tension out of them before I made my way back to a waiting Amy.

I would have loved to be sitting on a beach somewhere

with Amy. We would be happy in our bliss and ignorance, unaware of what we were about to face. Instead, I stared at the pale looking face in the mirror. I looked scared. I needed to be strong and brave when I came out of the bathroom to face Amy. I filled two glasses with water, one for each of us. I silently laughed when I had the thought it might be better if they were filled with whiskey instead. I opened the door and walked to my side of the bed. The backpack lay unmoved from where I had placed it. Amy studied me the entire way. It was my show, and she was waiting patiently for it to start.

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I tossed the covers back and puffed up two pillows behind me. I placed the backpack between my knees. “Okay, short answer first, because I don’t really know the long answer. Olivia Jane Harris was really here on Saturday. She left about fifteen minutes before you got home. She was here to stop me from going through a time rift, a wormhole to the past, nineteen eighty-five to be exact. Oh yeah, one other major point to know. Olivia Harris is really you from another past. It’s why she looks so much like you…simple really…it’s because she is you.”

I was afraid to even look Amy in the eyes. I kept my head down. I knew the practical side of her. I had planned out this one moment, because she would need to be persuaded before I could go on. I reached over on the night stand and scooped up my cell phone. Olivia’s number was written on the back of her card. From the backpack, I withdrew the book with the letter and business card inside. I looked Amy in the eyes, I had been right, she was skeptical and on the verge of putting me in a straight jacket. I held the book out to her. She read the cover,

“Remember Me” by Andrew C. Johnson.”

Amy knew better than to believe I was playing some elaborate hoax. My ability to lie for the sake of a joke was nearly impossible. My facial features always gave me away. She took the well-worn book from my hands and studied the cover,

looking from it to me, back and forth. She opened the cover.

It was barely perceptible, but it was there, the slight shaking in her fingers. Opening the cover of the book, she removed the envelope. I reached my hand out for it, and she gave it to me.

I showed her the writing on the outside and pointed out the name Olivia and the phone number. She was now in a, “catch 22.” The penmanship of Olivia was the same as hers, just as the handwriting of the letter to me was the same as mine. Before she said anything, I punched the number from the back of the S 418 S

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card into my cell phone and hit send.

“Olivia Harris,” the voice on the other end answered immediately. I had put the phone on speaker.

“Oh my God,” Amy said. No denying the voice, it might be a little older, tainted by the years of burdens its owner carried, but there was no reason to doubt whose voice it was.

“Hello Olivia,” I said, “Sorry to call you so late, but I’ve started to share what you gave me with Amy. I’ve only read the letter, but I felt she needed to be a part of the rest.”

“I never thought it would be any other way,” the voice replied. “I know you two better than you even know yourselves.

I’m sure wherever Andrew is he’s smiling for once. Amy?”

“Yes,” she said to the phone, her voice was very weak. Her face was now the one with the ghostly pallor and her lower lip had begun to tremble.

“I’m sorry…deeply sorry. You two will work it through

and be better for it, stronger. Don’t feel bad for me, or for the first Andrew. I know I can’t stop you from empathizing with the story, because it is about the two of you…kind of. This time around, I did better than I hoped I could, or believed I could. I know it wasn’t perfect, but enough so that I feel I could let it rest now. My future is now my own as well, just like yours is. I am like a baby taking its first steps, uncertain of the direction and relying on pure faith alone. It’s a weight lifted from my shoulders, but I’ll always know, and unfortunately so will you. I nearly burned that book several times, but I couldn’t. The story needs an ending. It’s not mine to write, I’m only a character. It needs your ending. If you need me for anything don’t hesitate to call. I’ll pray for you.”

“You really are me…I mean I’m you…aren’t I?”

“I’m afraid so. Read the story, it lays it out better than I can explain. We’ll have time to talk later. Andrew?”

“Here,” I responded.

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“Here…funny the way words can have so many meanings.

I’m sure Freud and Socrates are turning over in their graves, let alone Einstein. Sorry, you start being philosophical in your old age, and it doesn’t help any when you have lived the same twenty-five years twice. Anyway, enlightenment doesn’t come without a price. I’m asking you to promise me that you will turn Andrew’s story into one with a happy ending.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. You two take care and call me when you are ready

to meet. Good night Andrew. Good night Amy.”

Amy and I said, “Good night,” in unison. An instant later we heard the click of a dead connection.

I slid next to Amy after putting my phone back on the

nightstand. Her light was brighter than mine. I started out holding the book between us. We read it together. The first page was a dedication to someone named Stebben and a personal notation to Emily. “You were never forgotten.”

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Quite a story.

May 28th, 2010

Amy and I
had to take two personal days off work. Neither of us was in any shape to work. Reading, “Remember Me,”

had been one of the most emotional and draining experiences either of us had ever been through. I prayed several times that I was dreaming. What I learned from Andrew’s book was that hard to accept, let alone read. Even the most dreaded stories have some moments of lightness. “Remember Me” was like a tragic Shakespeare story to its very core. It was surreal to read a story about yourself, one which couldn’t possibly have happened, but did. The Andrew who wrote the book had tried to be factual and make it read more like a biographical account rather than a journal. At times his writing was full of the emotion he felt, and many times one of us or both had to stop reading. It’s hard to read when you can’t see through your tears.

The story was emotional enough on its own, but knowing it was personal tore at my heart and Amy’s.

For the most part it was me whom Amy had to comfort. She felt my pain and shared my tears. Reading the notation to Emily, I already expected the worse. When the truth came out in the story, I lost it. I buried my head in her lap and cried for the Andrew in the story. We cried for Stacy and Stebben, for Linda and Neil, for the victims of 9/11 and the loss of the Challenger astronauts. There was a brief moment as we neared the end of the book when Amy and I shared a thankful prayer together. We now understood that the S 421 S

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older Amy, whom we now referred to as Olivia, had averted the immense number of casualties of 9/11 in which Andrew wrote about happening during his original time. Olivia did much the same as Andrew and Stacy had done to lessen the impact. There were other things I could tell that older Amy had done to make this world a little more tolerable. She was right, it wasn’t perfect, but compared to what we read it was acceptable.

My turn to hold on to Amy came at the loss of all her children in the story. It would be nearly three hours before either of us was strong enough to read any more. Emotionally exhausted we tried to rest before going on. We slept in our personal nightmares, and both of us would take turns holding the other one when the pain of dreams became too great. When the morning light crested the window, we’d finished most of the story. We put on our game faces and made the kids breakfast. Amy walked them down the lane to the bus. She rarely did that and the kids were a little concerned with all the hugs and “I love yous” she bestowed upon them. We finished the book in the early morning, sitting together on the couch and holding hands. I held the book, she turned the pages. It was somewhat easier to take as we read the book in the morning daylight.

Amy had read the letter that Andrew had written me. Everything I felt for her and wanted to say was in it. He touched her with the love he held for his Amy, and she knew it was in me as well. One thing that we clung to was the knowledge it was now over—for better or worse. It seemed to be for the better, but we would never truly know; only the other Andrew and Amy could say for certain.

Olivia’s diary was her personal observation of what she had tried to accomplish, and her thoughts on what she was doing and why. It wasn’t nearly as tough to digest as Andrew’s story had been. I felt the urge to call my sister and thank her. I called her at work. I told her secretary it was extremely important. I’m sure she thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care. She’d played a big part in what had happened to old Andrew. Without her, I wondered if I would even be S 422 S

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here. She didn’t know it had been her counterpart from another universe, or that we were living in a rewritten past. When she finally came on the phone, I thanked her and told how much I loved her. I promised to come and see her soon.

On the twenty-eighth, we met with Olivia. It would be our only meeting. I couldn’t blame her. I know what Andrew had said about making her a part of our lives, but I understood her need to finish her life in her own way. Olivia was battle tested, but when Amy raced to hug her she broke down. It was strange to know they were one and the same, only separated by time. We talked and asked questions of her for nearly three hours at a coffee shop. None of us were hungry, but we ate to counter the effects of too much caffeine in our system. She did her best to spin the story with hope, not sadness. She was an angel in her own right. In this time, her Children’s Hope foundation had been the heart and soul behind taking care of needy children worldwide. What she once lost in her time she gained by the thousands in this time.

When the time came to say goodbye, she asked the question I expected would be coming, “What are you going to do with your story?” She had said “my story,” and even though it wasn’t, I was beginning to see the possibilities in finishing it.

I answered her truthfully, “I’m going to rewrite a little of it and publish it. I believe I have an idea for the ending it lacks.” I think Andrew deserves to be remembered, even if we are the only ones who will ever know the real truth.” I won’t change much about the story, other than some editing and to clarify a few passages we both had trouble relating to. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be able to call you as I work through it. It will have to wait a little while until I get my insides back.”

Olivia smiled and hugged me close, whispering in my ear, “In our own personal ways we loved each other, the other Andrew and me. It makes you believe there are some things worth fighting for.

He fought for me, and I love him for that. I understand everything, S 423 S

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and why he did what he did. The greatest part of my life, the last twenty-five years, has been watching you and Amy live your lives and then come together. I was in Younker’s the day you two met. I was in disguise the day of your wedding. I couldn’t share my life with Andrew, not like he once had, or like you two do, but I wanted to experience that love, even if it was from afar. Always fight Andrew, and never stop believing in your ability to change the world. I look forward to reading the story when you finish it. I will be glad to help you in any way I can.”

She let me go, and after tenderly saying goodbye to Amy, strode to her car and left us to our lives. Over the next year, I read and reread Andrew’s version of, “Remember Me.” I studied his notations and research. I absorbed all that he had made a point of document-ing. Olivia’s journal would be another few chapters of the final book.

I struggled with the ending, how to bring it full circle and leave the reader hopeful. What I never anticipated was that my ending would someday mirror our current life. In June of two thousand-twelve, my version of “Remember Me” was released. It had taken a long time to find an agent to represent me, but I eventually did, and she was good. I also knew she had worked with Olivia. So putting two and two together…I didn’t ask—I was just thankful for her help.

“Remember Me,” started out as a local buzz and then grew into a small following nationwide. The story resonated with, and crossed multi-genres and personality types. I soon became recognized as an author and was booked to do several television spots. One question always was asked of me, “How did you write a science-fiction story with so much emotion.” I always answered truthfully, “Because it’s really a love story.”