When is Your Destination?

My great uncle walked this earth for ninety-five years. Well … he walked this earth for a couple of years. He sat around for the rest. And that’s my point exactly.

That’s how we remember him, my siblings and I. If he’d known we’d remember him like that, maybe he’d have done things a little differently. It seems to me that no matter where you go when you clock off, memories are what you leave behind. They’re your physical legacy—your this-world immortality. They’re what linger, for better or worse—for walking or sitting, in my great uncle’s case.

I feel a weightiness in my chest when I think about how I’ll be remembered, a little moistness in my eyes. Not usually a tear. But isn’t that subtle wetness often more profound? 

Yes … yes, I think that’s the word.

I have a profound desire to be remembered with fondness—a profound desire. And that’s not a crime. Surely.

So, with bated breath, I enter Vortex Travel Agency. I’ve wanted to do this for months, and finally I’ve found a spare morning. Apparently, they do superb Mediterranean Cruises, but that’s not why I’m here. No, I approach the counter and await the question I’ve heard so many times at the end of their advertisements. 

“When is your destination, madam?” the sales assistant asks.

When indeed? It needs to be shortly after my death. It’s 2039 now, and I’m thirty-eight. I’ll be optimistic, why not? I’ll live a hundred years. That takes me to 2101.

“I’ll go for 2102, please.”

After completing the payment—a serious investment, to be sure—the sales assistant leads me to a door at the back of the shop. Beyond lies a small room, plain, white, and furnished with a single red chair.

“Settle in, and before you can say, ‘hello’, you’ll be talking to a colleague of mine from the future.”

“It’s that fast?”

“Instant. Have a good trip.”

I nod and take my seat. “I sincerely hope I will.”

He shuts the door, and just as he said, the door opens barely a second later.

I shout out, “Hello.”

And a new face appears, smiling and extending a ceremonial hand. “Welcome to the future,” she says. 

The moment I look into the shop, a grin decorates my face. How wrong could my husband have been? “Holograms are silly,” Fred said. “Holograms are little, blue, fuzzy things.”

If only he could see me now, walking straight through the middle of a holographic sign. Wait till I get home and tell him. Well no actually, he needs to think I’m at the beach sunning myself. To be remembered as the vain woman who needed to check her legacy would defeat the purpose, now wouldn’t it?

The sales assistant that welcomed me to the future reappears, holding a wristband.

“Slip this on and return before the end of the day.”

“Can’t let ancient artefacts roam freely, eh?”

“No, indeed not! But enjoy exploring.”

Thanking her for those words, I stride out into the street. The bookshop’s still there, across the street. They still have books? Really? And … one has a face just like mine, but older, on the cover. I look closer. It isn’t me, though, not even older me. But it is familiar. Then I notice what it is. It’s an autobiography cover. I look for the author’s name: Flora Philips. I look at the face again, and it makes sense. That’s my daughter when she’s older. 

My ears catch something—my name.

“Samantha Philips.” Two ladies walk out the bookshop, shaking their heads. “Foolish.”

Hearing that word, I spin toward them.

“Yeah,” one lady muttered, “tragic.”

“Foolish unfortunately.”

I dash over to them, no doubt looking shocked. They’ve got a copy of the autobiography. “Can I see your book?” I ask, abruptly.

The lady looks confused, but she hands it over anyway. I flick it open. “What page were you talking about?”

“Oh, it was on the tele when they were talking about the book. Try chapter four. Why?”

I rifle through the pages and find what must be the line. My daughter’s words: The most important moment of my childhood would have to be that first stage play at my drama club. … It’s just a shame Mum wasn’t there. She was at the beach. She’d simply forgotten—nothing worse. Dad tried to call. He called again and again. But she’d left her phone at home.

I instinctively feel for my pocket. I’ve left my phone at home now, and I told them I was going to the beach. But I’m actually in the future. And I’m missing her first performance right now. The story’s been on national news, and I’ve been called a fool. 

I whirl around and sprint back to the travel agent. “Take me home, now!” I head straight toward the sales assistant who welcomed me. “Get me home the moment I left, please.”

She extricates herself from another customer and opens the door to the small travel room. “You didn’t like what your found?”

“I’m Samantha Philips.”

“Oh …”

“See! Even you know! Get me home, please.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Good idea! What!” I pull the door closed myself. “Send me home. Now, please.”

A second later, the face that saw me off into the future appears. “Welcome back.” His smile is wildly misplaced.

I run like a bullet to my car and drive like a Mario Kart bullet to the theatre where Flora’s drama club meets. At last, it comes into view, old and stately. Only when I’m inside do I slow down and tiptoe into the auditorium, edging my way toward the empty seat beside Fred, my husband. Clearly, he expected me to turn up, and I’m only a few minutes late.

“Has she been on yet?” I whisper.

“No, you’ll see her first scene in a minute.”

I settle myself, calmed, knowing that those lines in Flora’s autobiography soon won’t exist. I have just prevented my legacy as a fool. Flora emerges from the wings, and I detect a glance from her. She knows that I’m here after all.

~~~

I step into the Vortex Travel Agency, something I’ve thought about for months. Finally, I’m here.

“When is your destination, madam?”

That’s just the question I want to hear. Doesn’t it sound marvellous?

After settling the details, I’m ushered to a red chair in a small time-travel room, ready to inspect my legacy.

“Have a good trip.” The sales assistant bids me farewell with a gentle wave.

“I sincerely hope I will.”

Into the future I go. I find some gratification immediately, knowing I was always right about holograms. Take that, Fred! I navigate my way out of the travel agency, deliberately walking through the middle of a hologram.

Suddenly, however, my eyes are arrested by a strangely familiar face. It’s on a book cover—an autobiography cover. It looks like an older version of me, but not quite. Ah! I look at the name on the cover: Flora Philips. That’s what she looks like when she’s older. Wow! Her autobiography. She must have done well. Of course she did. She’s a Philips.

“Samantha Philips.”

What! That’s my name.

“Foolish.”

“Yeah, foolish unfortunately.”

I dash to the speaker, flustered. “Can I see your book?”

She frowns, but slowly hands it over.

“What page were you talking about?”

“Oh, it was on the tele when they were talking about the book. Try chapter four. Why?”

I find the page, and my mind spins: The most important moment of my childhood would have to be that first stage play at my drama club. … It’s just a shame Mum wasn’t there. She was at the beach. She’d simply forgotten—nothing worse. Dad tried to call. He called again and again. But she’d left her phone at home.

Aaahhh! I dash back to the travel agent.

“Get me home the moment I left, please.”

“You didn’t like what you found?” the sales assistant asks.

“I’m Samantha Philips.”

“Oh …”

“See! Even you know! Get me home, please.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Good idea! What!” I shut myself into the time travel room. “Send me home. Now, please.”

She pulls the door back open. “You want to fix your legacy?”

“Get me home!”

She doesn’t move, except to make her eyes seem more caring and insistent.

“I … I … they …” I gather myself. “It seems everyone remembers me for a moment of foolishness. And it’s fair. But send me home, and I’ll do it right.”

“I’m just not sure it’ll work.”

“Oh! Get me home.” I slam the door shut myself. “I paid for the ticket!”

When the door opens on the present day, I race to the theatre, and I sprint all the way to the door of the auditorium before slowing. My husband has kept my seat. When Flora emerges, I know she sees me. I can see the appreciation in her eyes. It’s a precious thing for a mother to see. Truly precious.

~~~

I approach the Vortex Travel Agency counter, after months of looking for a suitable morning, and await that brilliant question.

“When is your destination, madam?”

Don’t you just love the novelty of it?

Soon enough, I step out into the future, welcomed by the most gratifying holograms I’ve ever seen. Ha, Fred! Across the street, I meet a familiar face. It must be Flora’s. Wow, she’s got an autobiography. She must have done well. She deserves to have done well, my girl. She deserves the best.

“Samantha Philips. Foolish.”

I track the sound. Two ladies walk out a bookshop. I fly toward them. “Can I see your book?”

She tentatively hands it over.

The most important moment of my childhood would have to be that first stage play at my drama club. … It’s just a shame Mum wasn’t there. She was at the beach. She’d simply forgotten—nothing worse. Dad tried to call. He called again and again. But she’d left her phone at home.

I dash back toward the sales assistant. “Get me home the moment I left, please.”

“You didn’t like what your found?” 

“I’m Samantha Philips.”

“Oh …”

“See! Even you know! Get me home, please.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Good idea! What!” I pull the door of the time-travel room closed myself. “Send me home. Now, please.”

She opens the door again. “You want to fix your legacy?”

“I … I … they … It seems everyone remembers me for a moment of foolishness. And it’s fair. But send me home, and I’ll do it right.”

“I’m just not sure it’ll work.”

“Oh! Get me home.” I close the door. “I paid for the ticket!”

But she pushes the door open yet again.

“Look,” I say, “that’s what lingers—a legacy, I mean—for better or worse. In my case, for good parenting or sun bathing—for an absurd mistake. I never even was sunbathing! That’s what they think I’m doing now … and that’s what they remember. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to be remembered as a good parent. Imagine knowing that the whole nation remembers you as a fool? Could you stand it?”

The sales assistant hangs her head and leans against the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’ll go and do it right this time.”

“No, no, that’s what I mean. I’m sorry that you can’t.”

“Why not?” 

“They explained it to us as trainee staff. If you correct your mistake in the past, you won’t be remembered for doing it wrong. But it’s your legacy of doing it wrong that’s shown you that you need to go do it right. So, you can’t go and change what showed you that you needed to change it.” She pauses for a moment, then steps closer. 

I try to process her words. 

“This is how they explained it: See, you’ve got a time machine in a room. You use the time machine to go back in time and lock the door to the room, stopping yourself from using the time machine. How then could you have used the time machine to lock the door? You couldn’t. So, the door is open after all. So, you use the time machine to go back and lock it. So, the door is locked. So, you couldn’t have used the time machine to lock it. So, it’s open. So, you use the time machine. And so on forever. It’s called a paradox. If your legacy inspires you to change your legacy, and you go change it, the legacy that inspired you won’t exist anymore. How then could you have been inspired to change it? I’m sorry. It’s … well … You can’t change it.”

I can tell she’s sorry. She fingers her name badge and watches me with small, sad eyes. In this moment, I can honestly say that I feel it again, the weightiness in my chest and the moistness in my eyes. “Couldn’t I try anyway?”

“Who knows how many times you’ve tried already.”

“Sorry?”

“Paradoxes are just like that story of the time machine in a room. There’s no end to them. Yet you’d never remember you’d done it before. If you locked the door to the time machine room, you could never have used the time machine, and you can’t remember something that never happened.” 

She speaks so apologetically, so hesitantly, as if she hopes to see a way around her own words. It’s comforting. But what good is that? 

If she’s right, I can’t do anything. 

“I’m sorry again,” she says. 

“Maybe I should go to the beach.” I force a chuckle. “At least then my legacy’ll be true.” I think that’s my humour reflex. I suppose I’m just realising exactly what she means, realising I can’t do anything. “You’re sure?”

“Yep, I’m sorry.”

“I can’t even go see her performance now, can I? I’ll just trigger this paradox thing.”

“It’s tragic, I know.” She closes her eyes and leans back against the doorframe. “I guess you could … no …” She shakes her head. “Well … you could go to her play. But …”

I stand up and move close to her. “Go ahead, tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“You’d have to tell your daughter to write her autobiography the way it is now, even though you were actually there.”

I retreat to my chair. Ruin my own legacy?

“I can’t think of another way,” she says. “I know it’s the last thing you came here for.”

Again she sounds so sorry and so right. I’m just— Flora needs it— But—

“I’ll remember you,” she whispers.

“What?”

“I’ll remember you. I know I’m just one person.” She shrugs. 

“I guess I’ve no real choice. I’ve got to do it. Yep, send me back.” 

“You sure?”

“Do it.”

She closes the door, and from the other side I hear her voice one last time. “At least I’ll remember.”

“Thank you!”

When the door opens on the present day, I make my way to the theatre and take my seat only a couple of minutes late. We all remember my great uncle sitting around, doing nothing. No one will remember what I do here today. How can that be, Uncle? Should we think twice about you, too?

Flora walks out onto the stage, glamorous and poised. I think I detect a momentary glance in my direction. And if anything, I treasure that glance a little more now.

The play begins, I get to do it right, and soon I’ll ruin my legacy anyway. But let’s not think about that for now.