The Time Travel Chronicles (22 page)

"May I ask you another question?" he said.

"Sure," I replied.

"You know I'll help you in any way I can, right?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"I owe it to your father. But not only that. I think you're a bright kid and... you've been through a lot... with your mom and now your dad. My question is..."

I saw that he was looking for the right words to use. Part of me wished he would stop there and not say anything.

"Forgive me but... what are you building?"

 I didn't answer for a while and Paul didn't say anything either. I think he wasn't sure if he should have asked. When my stepmom asked before, I didn't think about it much. Maybe it was the way he asked. His tone of voice was kind and genuinely concerned. Up until now, I hadn't questioned what I was doing. I’d only questioned my ability, not the fact that I was doing it. I had followed the instructions from the notebook blindly. His question stirred something in me — something I didn't think about before. The last couple of weeks, I was too busy going forward and the task itself had blotted out the purpose of it. What was I doing? Did I truly believe it possible to build a machine that would bring me back to my father? To tell Paul the truth seemed silly all of a sudden. And in saying it out loud to him I would expose the lie and realize that there was nothing on the other end of this, that I had sent myself on a fool's errand. I couldn't stop the tears from coming. Pain suddenly washed over me. My wish to see my father again had made me blind to the reality of it.

Paul sat down next to me and held me. I couldn't control my tears anymore and sobbed into his arm. It was as if the flood gates had opened. I had never felt pain so deeply before. I thought about my father and my mother and each time I thought it was over, I started again. Paul didn't say anything. He knew this was a necessary evil, that I needed to cleanse myself and face my loss head-on. After what seemed like a very long time, I let go of him and he handed me a box of tissues. I told him about the hospital and what my father had said to me. At least what I thought he'd said to me. I told him about the drawer and the notebook and the machine and while I did that, I saw the sadness in Paul's eyes. It occurred to me at that moment that, throughout my own grief, I had never thought about his.

"I don't know what the right answer is," he said after a while. "It's completely up to you whether or not you want to finish it."

"I want to finish it." I was surprised by my answer. As soon as I said it, I knew it was the truth. I wanted to finish what I had started. "Can you order the magnets if I give you the money?"

"Of course," Paul said.

"I don't want to order them before I have all the money."

"Okay. Let me know when and I'll do it."

When I went to the shop that evening, I lit a fire in the stove and filled two of the galvanized pipes with sand. The notes suggested using sand inside the pipes and then sealing them off so they could be bent into a circular shape without breaking. Once that was done, I drilled twelve holes in each one at equal distance to each other and on both sides of the pipe. The magnets would be attached to them. The pipes would then be welded to the back of the chassis.

By the end of the following week, I had finished the controls, battery compartment with connectors, and the seat with head rest and neck stabilizer. I also made another one-hundred and fifty dollars and fifty cents. Paul kept the money and ordered the magnets. They arrived the next day and I mounted them to the outer ring of the centrifugal rotor.

All that was left to do was to install the battery and work the wire fencing into a cone-like shape, not unlike that of a pilot's cabin. It would cover the upper part of the traveler's seat like a cage. I brought the rotor out back. The storage area was freezing. I was wearing fingerless gloves and within ten minutes in there, I couldn't feel my fingertips and had to go back to the shop to stand in front of the stove. The light wasn't great either and I had to wear my head lamp all the time. When I finally set the rotor into the center of the magnetic field, I didn't expect it to hold. The shape I had forged wasn't perfect, rudimentary at best. But when I very slowly let go of it, the rotor held its position in the center of the magnetic circle.

I welded the hinges onto the cabin top and connected them to the chassis. To get into the seat, one had to move one side of the cage up and climb inside. It could then be closed from the inside. But I yet had to climb into the cabin. I had thought about it a few times but I never did.

That Friday after school, I went to the store to work. It was very busy in there. I never realized how many people buy Christmas gifts in a hardware store, but there were a lot of sons and daughters who were there with their mothers buying last minute gifts for their dads. They were buying power drills and wrench sets and multi-function tools.

I don't remember ever having felt sorry for myself up until that day. I was angry at them for buying gifts that were so cheaply made. My dad always told me that the tools one uses should reflect the value of what you're making. I don't think he ever bought a cheap tool in his life. In my mind, they were buying those gifts because they didn't know what else to give. I could have come up with a dozen items to buy for my father that day. He needed a new handkerchief. His old one had holes in it from being washed so many times that the fabric had thinned out. He could use a couple of cans of Worker's Miracle heavy-duty hand cream because the skin on his hands would crack periodically. So much so that he sometimes slept with gloves on, his hands thickly covered with cream. There were those thermal socks he really liked, and he could always use a new pair of leather gloves. He was always wearing his until they would literally fall off his hands during work.

I didn't realize that tears were running down my face until Paul gently put his hand on my shoulder.

"You okay?" he said.

"Yeah." I wiped my face quickly and returned to the shelf I was stacking at the moment. We had gotten a delivery of Christmas lights that day and I was only halfway done moving them onto the display shelf.

When Paul gave me my weekly pay, I went to the car parts store and got the battery. I didn't think of how heavy it would be. I thought about asking Paul to drive me but I felt like I was asking too much of him already. He had helped me more than I could ever pay him back for. It was a two-mile walk home and thick snowflakes had begun to fall onto the quiet street.

My thoughts were all over the place and I noticed a sting of fear creeping up inside me. As the moment of truth approached, I didn't have much left to hide behind. Eventually I would have to climb into that seat and turn on the switch. I tried to avoid thinking any further than that. There was no backup plan. It would either work or it wouldn't. I couldn't imagine just going on with my life if it didn't work. I had no idea what I would do. Everything else aside, working on the machine for the last two months had given me a purpose, had prolonged my father's life somehow. I didn't want this to end, didn't want to face the possibility that turning on that rusty old switch I had installed, as per his instructions, would do absolutely nothing.

As disheartened as I was that evening, I installed the battery and connected it via the 50 Amp wire to the capacitor. There were only a few pages left in the notebook. They mostly had to do with safety, like not touching the cage surrounding the traveler's cabin when turning on the switch, or bracing for impact when the charge hit the cage. The last chapter was called The Traveler. I'm not sure why I hadn't read that one yet. I felt I needed to wait until I’d completed the assembly of the machine.

The machine. As it stood there in the dark, illuminated only by the light of my head lamp, it felt dead. Like a randomly assembled collage of lifeless pieces. Usually whenever I built something, I felt pride and a sense of accomplishment. Not this time. I felt empty. I left the shop at 10:30 PM. My stepmother was still watching TV in the living room. I put hot water on the stove for tea and sat down next to her. She moved the bowl of chips between us and I ate a few.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you more."

I saw that she was crying. It wasn't loud or anything. She didn't even make a sound.

"I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I forgot yours."

I didn't tell her that I’d had thought the same about her a few days ago.

"You've known your dad much longer than I did. Well, not much longer, but a few years at least. And I know you loved him. Loved him so very much."

I didn't say anything in return. I don't know why. I wanted to, but the words wouldn't come out. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry too, that I knew it wasn't easy for her and that, even though I had known him longer, she’d been married to him for eight years. That had to count for something. I went to bed and cried for a while.

Then I opened the notebook and began to read the last chapter.

The Traveler

The Traveler is an essential part of the machine. Without it, the machine will not function properly. Assembling the machine is one thing. Bringing it to life is another. The Traveler must know at all times where she wants to end up if she ever hopes to set it in motion. She must have a clear understanding of the consequences of her travels. To that effect, when travelling to the past, she should choose a destination time and date that is most likely not visited by her own self at the same moment. Much thought has been given to the paradox of meeting one's self within the same moment in time. To avoid complication, it is suggested that the Traveler journey to a point of least impact for herself and others.

One single moment can change a person's life and stir it onto a different path altogether. The Traveler must exercise the greatest caution to not set off a chain of events she cannot foresee. The gentle traveler, kind in thought and treading lightly on the path she is on, yields the biggest chance of a favorable outcome.

It is at the Traveler's discretion to bring her affairs in order before the outset of the journey and all I ask for myself is for her to burn this notebook to cancel out the possibility of someone other than herself recreating the machine.

It is my sincere hope that I have taught her enough to prepare her for whatever is to come. She should always remember that however far she travels, she is always at home.

Once I finished reading, I started again from the beginning.
The Traveler is an essential part of the machine. I had no idea what that meant.
I closed the notebook and placed it on my nightstand. Then I shut off the light. I thought about going to the store in the morning to say goodbye to Paul. But I didn't know how he would react, so I decided not to. I also didn't want to say anything to my stepmom. "Remember that time machine I had told you about? I'm about to use it and I won't be coming back."

I fell into a deep sleep. In my dream, I forged a mask of iron that resembled my father's face. I tried to make it speak to me but it stayed motionless. He's gone, was the first thought I had when I woke up the next morning. He's gone and you'll never see him again.

*  *  *

The snow lay heavy on the tall pines, their lower branches almost touching the ground from the weight. I had to shovel a path to the shop. I saw my sister's husband cleaning off the front stoop and clearing a walkway to the garage. We nodded at each other. I never spoke to him much. My sister and he lived in a completely different world. For them it was all about Christmas decorations and holiday cards and filling stocking stuffers. They wanted to make this year special to keep my dad's spirit alive through the holidays. I found myself thinking that was a nice sentiment but I couldn't bring myself to admit it to them.

I made a small fire in the woodstove, if for nothing else than to burn the notebook. I didn't really want to burn it. It was filled with memories and seemed the last remaining document involving my dad that meant something. I sat in front of the stove for a while, at one point thinking that I should have made copies and hid them somewhere. Just in case. Eventually I opened the fire door and tossed the notebook into the flames. I’d never thought of myself as brave. I think that moment was the first time. Brave or stupid. It couldn't be helped. Some things you can postpone only for so long.

I opened the door to the storage area. The light came through a few gaps in the siding and illuminated the machine enough to see its contours. I walked around it, inspecting the chassis like a pilot checking her airplane before take-off. Then I climbed into the seat. It was cold but surprisingly comfortable. I had never thought about where to travel other than into the past. According to the notebook, the machine did not travel automatically to a predetermined point in time. After activating it, I needed to use the pedals to move. Left for the past, right for the future. The display of the old alarm clock was supposed to give me an idea where I was at any given point in time. So far so good. I closed the cabin top over my head. The metal fencing allowed me to see out with almost no interruption in my visual field. Just don't touch it, I thought to myself.

I had mounted the on/off switch to the right side of the alarm clock display. It was a basic one-way toggle switch. It seemed too simple, too rudimentary a device to control my travel through time. As I sat there, I became aware of my sweaty palms, despite the cold. I didn't want to think about the notion that the switch would do nothing; that it wouldn’t jumpstart the machine, and me, into a different time. I felt a wave of nausea creep up inside me. All this time, I had held on to the hope of this moment and now that it was here, I was paralyzed and unable to move my arm and flip it.