Saving Her

I had to stop her from getting on that bus. Every day for the last twelve years, I had played the events of that morning over and over in my head, analyzing in great detail what I could have done, and what I should've done that would have prevented my wife's accident.

The one memory that tore me apart was the pleading look in her eyes, and that ever adorable pout after she'd ask me to stay. She'd wanted us to shower together, and as she put it, "See where the day takes us." I declined and she'd given me that look. The only thing on my mind was work, and I didn't want to be late. If I had just taken that shower, things would be different today.

Instead, she had taken a bus downtown for some shopping. The 9:15 bus to be exact. It had taken a routine and predictable route. The unpredictable thing was the failed brakes on the semi. I didn't receive a call until 10:30. When I got to the hospital, I was immediately given dire news. It was news I didn't want to believe.

In the first few weeks following the accident, I had remained hopeful despite the doctors' warnings. I had hoped and prayed that something, anything would work, but nothing did. She was alive, but completely unresponsive; catatonic.

After two months and lost hope for some miracle cure, I moved her to a long term care facility. I visited her every day, but her condition, the doctors stated repeatedly, was permanent. I just couldn't accept that.

I quit my job, cashed in every cent I had and called in more than a few favors to start my own lab with the sole and laughable purpose of going back in time. On the surface, it was a ridiculous notion. I knew that, of course, and the few close colleagues I had discussed the idea with tried their best to discourage me.

They all told me that, while theoretically possible, science was decades or longer from possessing the technology or understanding necessary to even test a workable hypothesis.

So, stubbornly fixated and alone, I stopped talking to them about it and began my labor in solitude. From the outside, my lab produced a rather benign but lucrative product. I used the proceeds to fund my wife's care and my research. Isolated in my private, sub-level basement, I had only one goal.

For the first two years, I did nothing but immerse myself in the theory of relativity, time dilation, and the math behind carving space-time. Then there was the time paradox. There would be consequences, altered destinies, and any number of other potential after-effects, all uncharted and all but impossible to predict. If I actually succeeded in building a machine, I'd just have to risk it.

Satisfied I had done all I could with theory, I moved on to the biggest problem, which was actually developing an engine capable of generating the warp required to create the necessary curvature of time-space. And not just any random curvature, but one precisely driven to an exact point in the past. For the next ten years, I did nothing but work on that engine.

Failure after failure nearly drove me mad, but almost twelve years to the day of her accident, I stood in front my Space-time-acceleration-and-curvature-engine, or S.T.A.C.E, for short; named unapologetically after my beautiful wife. Countless hours had led me to this point, and for the first time in a dozen years, I actually felt peace. I'd ran hundreds of calculations and simulation algorithms, with the last 29 showing a repeatable 97% chance of success. It was time for the first non-simulated test, and I prayed that it worked.

In spite of all the complexity of my machine, the designed test was very simple. If my calculations and simulated data proved correct, the machine would travel from one point in space to the exact same point in space, only in the past. I just needed proof.

I loaded S.T.A.C.E into a trailer and drove to the local park. It had remained largely unchanged, and the digital sign at the entrance always displayed the time and date. I unloaded S.T.A.C.E in front of the sign, and made sure the camera inside had a clear view. If the trip proved successful, the images would show would August 16, 2012, at 12:00am; the date of her accident nine hours and fifteen minutes before her bus. I checked and rechecked the settings, said a prayer, activated the auto-pilot, and and clicked my stopwatch. In ten seconds, I would know.

S.T.A.C.E disappeared, seemingly vanishing into nothing, and I held my breath while the clock ticked. After ten seconds had elapsed, there was a flash of light, and S.T.A.C.E reappeared. I stood there stunned and frozen to my spot, not actually believing my eyes for a minute, but then came to my senses and checked the camera. Tears fell when the images showed August 16, 2012, at 12:00 am. I drove back to my lab in a mixture of elation and shock. I had just achieved the impossible.

Sleep was out of the question, so I worked through the night and into the next making a plan. Picking a time that my younger self wouldn't be home wasn't a problem. The problem was going to be how my wife would react to seeing my older self at the door, and her reaction to my story. Twelve years ago, time travel was nothing more than a sci-fi notion existing only in comic books, and movies. I would have to work quickly to convince her with conclusive proof.

I pulled the suit she had seen me wear that day from the closet. Then I loaded my briefcase with a copy of her diagnosis, a printed article of the accident, and a few photos I had taken of us together from the last twelve years. Then I moved S.T.A.C.E to a spot directly facing the front door of our home. To be sure it worked, I had tacked a sign to the door with the current date and time. Then I stepped inside my machine and set the travel computer for five minutes after my younger self left for work that morning, took a deep breath, and pressed the start sequence.

The engine hummed to life, and for a few seconds, there was only darkness and the sense that I had entered into a vast emptiness, then after a flash of light, I was again staring at my front door. There was no sign. The startling realization that I was sitting in the past on the morning of the worst day of my life overwhelmed me with emotion. I knew I had to stay focused, though, so I pulled myself together, exited the time machine, and knocked on the door.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of her opening that door, and unable to restrain my tears, I fell to my knees. She knew it was me, but she hadn't yet grasped that it was an older me. She knelt in front of me repeating, "Eric, Eric, what's wrong?" When I finally looked up at her, realization hit and shock ran briefly across her face before she fainted.

I carried her to the couch, placed a cold cloth on her forehead, and waited. In a few minutes she began to slowly stir, then sat straight up. "Eric! What the hell is going on!? You just left and now your back...and OLDER!?"

She started to stand but I placed my hand on hers and called her by a name only we shared. "Baby girl."

Hearing her pet name in my voice calmed her and she sat back down.

"I need to tell you a rather unbelievable story."

I opened my briefcase, then from start to finish, I detailed the events of the last twelve years. When I finished, she held up a picture, "When and where was this taken?"

"Two days ago at the care facility."

"If all of this is true, take me there. I want to see."

I had planned for this possibility, but there were risks, and I explained them to her, but she didn't care.

I checked the time so that we could come back exactly when we left, then I took her to my time and her future. With her wearing a loose disguise, we entered her room. "You can't touch her," I warned. "I don't know what will happen." She held my hand and stared at her future self while tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Take me home please."

Sitting on the couch once again she asked, "What happens now?"

"You don't get on that bus."

"Then what?"

I explained the time paradox as best as I could and said that, ultimately, I didn't know. Changing that one action would forever alter our destinies, but to what to what extent, I could only guess until I went back.

"What will you remember when you get back?"

I explained that since I was the one time traveling, I would remember the last twelve years as I lived them. I further explained that I would have no memory or knowledge of the new sequence of events whatsoever.

"What about the time machine? Since I don't get on that bus, you won't be motivated to build it."

"It's the time paradox. Since I built it in the time I lived, I always will have had it."

I knew she didn't fully understand, but then again, I wasn't sure I did either. I told her that I had to go. The longer I stayed, the more I could change, and that was just dangerous. She asked for one picture, the last one I had taken of us.

I left it in her hands, loaded everything else in my briefcase, and headed for the door. "Thank you", she said. "You're my hero." With that, she kissed me on the lips and I walked away while I still could.

I set the travel sequence in the computer and waved goodbye.

Five seconds later, I was again staring at my front door. The sign I had placed was still there, but I had no idea what waited for me on the other side.