Surfacing (Spark Saga) (4 page)

-are you asking me to be your date?

-sure, why not?  It’ll be fun.  We can get a bunch of people together…

A bunch of people… Yeah, that sounds like fun—not! 
My mind scrambles for an answer.  On the one hand, it would be nice to feel normal for a few hours.  On the other hand, I have no idea what I’m doing.

-sure, what the hell

-awesome!  I guess you’re going dress shopping then

Yippee.  Shopping.  My favorite thing to do.

-looks lik
e


             
Zach

             
“I have been speculating upon the destinies of our race until I have hatched this fiction.  Treat my assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest.  And taking it as a story, what do you think of it?”  This was circled on page 87 of my father’s copy of
The Time Machine.

             
It is at this moment in the story that the Time Traveler has just finished describing his experience on the machine itself, how he traveled through “futurity” and came to see the strange and frightening “mystery of the earth’s fate.”  Essentially, he had traveled to the end of the earth, and back, and lived to tell about it.

             
But his audience is skeptical.  To them, it may only be a clever story.

             
And he, himself, admits, the incredulous nature of such a story.

             
I paused, imagining a scenario in which I were telling
my
story to a group of my friends.  To be fair, mine isn’t near as dramatic as the Time Traveler’s.  For one thing, there were no celestial scenes or inconceivable creatures.  No dream-like visions of a world spinning to its ultimate death.  My story is rather bland by comparison.  A guy finds the love of his life only to find that—having both inherited the prospect of time travel—great love will be jeopardized to the point of an unattainable ideal…as distant, seemingly, as a star in the furthest galaxy.

             
There were no great revelations about the earth’s civilizations, no physical machine to hurl me through time and space.  After all, these things represented the cliché of time travel.  Time—a place that required a mechanism to traverse.  All I had were some files on a computer and a memory of what happens.  A memory of beautiful, passionate things that began in a dark-haired girl’s eyes…and ended in a storm of confusion. 

             
Or not—

             
Time, I have discovered, is not fixed.  Every action has an impact on the plot.  Every decision, every step taken, or not taken—indeed, every
thought
—has the potential to change the course of events.  How much had changed beyond my limited knowledge of things?  My memory is full of moments with Tess.  Moments that she does not, at the present time, share with me.  Are those moments still there, somewhere in her subconscious?  Or do they only exist as far as they are present on a computer chip? 

             
And does the fact that I see them—so clearly, so beautifully—make them real?

             
I read the entire section in
The Time Machine
again and again, perusing it for something more—anything that might set this straight in my mind.  It dawns on me that the passage itself is an appeal to an audience to consider everything he’s just told as a “fiction,” a story with “an assertion of truth” to “enhance its interest.”  Why would the Time Traveler, having obviously experienced something profound, end his tale by basically negating its validity?  Why bother to tell the most important thing that had ever happened to you and then essentially say, “Oh, well it’s just a good story I made up.  Whaddya think?”

             
Puzzled, I boot up my laptop to send my father a message.

August 14, 2012

TO:
                            E.G.W.

FROM:
              Zach Webb

RE:
                            The passage

Dear Dad:

I’m assuming you remember the passage you had circled in
The Time Machine. 
Just in case, here it is:

I have been speculating upon the destinies of our race until I have hatched this fiction.  Treat my assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest.  And taking it as a story, what do you think of it?

I must admit, I am perplexed…not only by the passage itself, but in the fact that you noted it, and, apparently, found it so important as to save it for me.  What does it mean?  More specifically, what does it mean for me?  Am I to assume that this is all one big made up story?  And if so, then explain to me how it is that I feel it as intently as reality…

Your son,

Zach

P.S.  I now have confirmation and believe (with some degree of fascination) that you are indeed who you say you are, per the hidden pages in this book, as you have indicated.

Not surprisingly, there is an immediate reply:

August 14, 2012

TO:
                            Zach Webb

FROM:
              E.G.W.

RE:
                            The passage

My Dear Son,

I am pleased that you have located the passage, and even more pleased that you are confident in my identity.  If you recall, I mentioned in one of my earlier messages that you would find the information you are seeking on those pages.  And indeed, you have responded as I expected.  A truth as fantastic as this one can only be perceived, in the world as we know it, as a fiction.  It is only a reality to those who have experienced it and know it.  Thus, you have discovered the mystery of time travel.  That said, this is most certainly NOT a fiction.  If it were, how, my dear son, would I be communicating with you at this present moment?

At any rate, I suppose now is a good a time as any to tell you my story—a most intriguing and indubitably real story at that. 

I must warn you to proceed in all endeavors with caution, as the world as we know it does not understand…and people destroy what they do not understand.

I will give you some time to consider this, and when you are ready, I will continue.

Sincerely,

E.G.W.

When I’m ready?  People destroy what they do not understand? 
What is he getting at?
  I feel a chill up my spine.  Something just isn’t right about all this.  I thought back to the Time Traveler, telling his story to a group of skeptics.  To him, it had been all too real, and yet, even his closest confidants do not believe.  Does unbelief equate to lack of understanding?  Possibly.  Maybe this is what my father has in mind.  But then again, why would a group of skeptics want to destroy someone just because he has a fantastic story?  My mind is all jumbled up with confusion, but something tells me that my father wants me to figure this part out on my own.  He had said,
when you’re ready
, and while I want to bombard him with questions, I know that a quick, easy answer is impossible in this situation.

I realize, suddenly, that I need to talk to Tess.  This is a story that can go no further without her.  She will not believe, but then, she didn’t the first time around either, as I recall.  She was resistant, to put it mildly—downright cynical at times—that is, until she made the connection to herself.  Once that space of unbelief was filled with recognition—of herself, her thoughts, her experience—she began to understand.  Once she saw herself—
really saw herself—
in the story, it became real.

             
Tess

             
Have you ever been in the middle of a story you’re reading and you just want to skip the middle and jump to the last few pages to see what happens?  That’s how I feel right now.  I’ve been through two weekly therapy sessions with Dr. Miller and I have four more to go.  My parents keep pressing me to remember stuff.  And on top of everything, today is my first day back at school after being in the hospital.  I’m paranoid.  What if I don’t remember anything?  What if they put me back in the ninth grade?  If I could only skip all these details, my life would be so much easier. 

             
Somehow, I manage to get myself out of bed and into the shower, still anxious about school.  Thankfully, Dani is picking me up, so I don’t have to endure the pep talk from my mom on the way.  She means well, but she just doesn’t get it.  I feel like I’m walking around with a hole right in the middle of my stomach.  Something’s missing.  I know mostly it’s because I can’t remember some things, but I have a feeling there’s more to it than that.  Something way bigger.  I wish I knew what.  I’m not exactly thrilled about the process of finding out. 

             
In the car on the way to school, I cautiously eye Dani.  I think I’m expecting her to start asking me all kinds of questions I can’t answer, but she’s actually pretty quiet.  Instead, I get the urge to start asking
her
some things, especially when I notice a small snapshot of Zach taped to the dashboard.  “So how long have you two been together?”  I ask, pointing at the photo.

             
Dani glances at me, a nervous giggle escaping her mouth.  “Don’t you remember?”  She asks cautiously.

             
“No, actually.  I don’t,” I admit.  I reluctantly tell her about the amnesia.

             
“Like, forever—since we were thirteen anyway—since… your accident.”

             
“Oh,” my voice and mind trail off with this new information.  I want to ask more, but it doesn’t really matter. 

             
Dani looks at me again.  “I’m sorry about your memory.  That must suck.”

             
“Yeah,” I agree.  “It kinda does.”

             
Graciously, Dani decides not to bombard me with questions, and instead proceeds to give me a rundown of all the people at school—who the best teachers are, who to avoid, etc.  I listen with interest, though I’m suspecting it won’t help me in the awkwardness department.  Not only have I been out for several weeks, but people know that I was running around the park in a thunderstorm.  And the way people talk, who knows what kind of weirdo they’ve painted me as. 

             
“Don’t worry,” Dani says, patting my leg.  “You’ll be fine.”

             
I smile gratuitously.  “Gee, thanks….I was hoping you’d say spectacular.”

             
“That too, of course!”  Dani grins.

             
I am relieved to find Cricket in my homeroom.  She waves me over and I take a seat next to her.  I can feel the stares already. 
Great. 

             
“Hey stranger,” she says.  “How are you feeling?”

             
“Ok,” I shrug.  I look around.  “A little nervous,” I admit. 

             
Cricket smiles at me knowingly.  “Don’t worry about them.  I’m just glad you’re here.”

             
The words
me too
form in my head and then dissipate immediately.  I wasn’t, actually, too glad to be here.  I suppose I should be grateful Cricket is here, though, so I nod at her.  “Thanks.”

             
When the teacher comes in, I find out that Cricket has been given permission to take me around school for a re-orientation after my absence—and, given the uncertain extent of my memory loss, the school administration thought I might need some extra adjustment.

             
“Well,” Cricket says, standing up.  “Let’s go.”

             
The hallways are gloriously deserted.  I have my schedule in hand, as Cricket strolls importantly toward the office.  She holds up her pass on the way by, smiling and waving.  The ladies in the office smile back warmly. 

             
“Ok, that’s the office,” she says sarcastically.  “Like you didn’t know that.”  She shuffled past the door.  “Ok, your first class is 203-B.  That’s Mr. Watkins, earth science, right?”

             
I nod, already feeling anxious because I have no idea who Mr. Watkins is or what earth science might be.  “Ok.”

             
“You remember?”  Cricket stands outside the door of 203-B.  There is a class in session, so we can’t go in. 

             
“No,” I gulp.  “Not exactly.”

             
Ever-positive, Cricket shrugs.  “No worries.  You’ll figure it out.  And besides, he’s the easiest teacher in the whole school, so you got lucky.”

             
I smile.  Cricket is one of a kind.

             
We wander around the school for as long we can without getting in trouble—in other words, we take our sweet time getting back to homeroom.  On the way there, Cricket shows me where my locker is and while she’s going over the combination with me, Zach Webb walks by.  He slows down.  I am busy with my combination, so Cricket says hi, but he doesn’t stop.  I feel strange, like he’s staring at me, so I look up at him and he is staring right at me.  I flush. 
Why is he looking at me?