Double Life

CW: this story contains non-graphic references to child sex abuse; sexual assault; domestic violence; attempted suicide.

What the young ones call technological advances, I call magic. But that’s the way of things, isn’t it?

Still, the truly important questions are: Should I take the risk? Will it be worth the price? Not in a monetary sense, of course, because I have been offered this miracle free of charge. Providing of course, that you believe anything is free of charge – or free of consequences – in this life.

That’s the whole point, though. The sole reason I was approached to be a part of this experiment in the first place was because at the age of ninety-six, I can freely admit that at every crossroads I’ve reached in my long life, I made the wrong decision. So I guess that makes the fact that I’ve survived this long, a minor miracle.

And that’s why, when I reached the age of ninety, feeling I had nothing left to lose – not even my pride – I offered up my autobiography as a cautionary tale to future generations. Although, in my wildest dreams, it had never occurred to me that in my tenth decade on Earth, I’d become a bestselling author. ‘An overnight success’, was what one journalist called me. What an absurd statement! But to be fair, I have winter coats older than that reporter, so I need to be patient with other people’s perceptions of me.

Since the dawn of human society, people have formed their own conclusions, regardless of facts.

But I digress.

I was telling you about the people from Second Chances, who approached me to assist with their research. They believe they have found a way to send a person’s consciousness on a one-way trip into the past; into their younger self to make a different decision at a crucial juncture.

Sounds like science fiction, doesn’t it? 

Welcome to the techno-miracles of 2060 CE.  

Anyway, the most difficult decision – which was arrived at by a committee comprised of psychologists and scientists – was which precise moment I needed to revisit. Looking back on my life, there were so many seemingly inconsequential decisions, which ultimately proved to be life-changing in the worst possible ways. And yet, the very young geniuses at Second Chances maintained their working theory. They believed that my consciousness would return to inhabit my younger self, with all my memories intact, thus allowing me to relive my life from that point onward, while avoiding the pitfalls.

Plus, the ethics committee maintained that if I only changed minor decisions that only affected me, history would not be substantially altered. I hoped they were right, because they were still arguing about conflicting theories on the morning of the experiment. And I felt as though I was eavesdropping, because even though they all knew I was there, sitting alongside them at the table in the luxurious conference room, they chatted among themselves.

No-one made eye contact with me.

Perhaps that’s why my attention was occupied by the largest computer screen I’d ever seen in real life. It covered one entire wall of the room. And for some odd reason, it reminded me of the blackboards from my school days.

Maybe it was because of the neat list the psychologists had documented, using my autobiography as a reference.

How odd to see the pivotal moments of my life sanitized into a series of bullet points:

·       2054 – moved to the retirement home.

·       2016 – blind date which led to first and only marriage.

·       1992 – moved overseas with best friend.

·       1985 – accepted invitation to stay at friend’s holiday home.

·       1977 – shared deepest secret with close friend.

·       1971 – declined opportunity to learn martial art.

Reading that list, all those decisions seemed inconsequential. And yet, with the benefit of hindsight, they had proved to be the most crucial turning points in my life.  

Therefore, after careful consideration, the committee had decided that my consciousness would be regressed to the age of six; the day I tearfully told my mother I was too afraid to begin karate lessons. And even though I was the test subject who would – potentially – be required to relive ninety tumultuous years of life, I was not afforded the deciding vote.

They were not lacking in empathy, though.

Quite the contrary.

One of the psychiatrists had apparently noticed me staring mutely at the list, and with the touch of a button, a beautiful photo-realistic depiction of a lake filled the wall. As I watched the ducks creating ripples across the mirror surface of the water, I wondered if the compassionate young man had ever seen or heard a duck in real life.

It was so long ago; I couldn’t remember what year the last species of water fowl had been declared extinct.

***

As I lay still and waited for the technicians to attach the wires – and other devices – that were required to not only monitor my brain activity but also my heart-rate and blood pressure, I wondered if this moment would prove to be the last in a lifelong series of bad decisions.

I closed my eyes and waited for the pain I fully expected to follow, despite the assurances the procedure would be pain free.

I was the first human participant. The truth was the scientists didn’t know what I would experience. They had made educated guesses; nothing more, nothing less.

So, I dragged my attention back to the present, and the people who were talking to me. And while I was vaguely aware of responding, I have no recollection of the conversation.

There was a tremendous flash of light.

Sudden and excruciating pain.

Whether it lasted for a second or a week, I couldn’t say.

Then I heard my mother’s voice: “Samantha?”

I opened my eyes and found myself looking at the well-worn surface of the dining table in my childhood home.

“Darling?”

I looked up to meet the gentle eyes of my mother. She looked so young!

She reached out and covered my small hand with her own, and said, “This is your last chance to change your mind, Sammy. Are you sure you don’t want to learn karate? I know you’re scared, but I think you’ll enjoy it – and you’ll make new friends.”

Part of me wanted to yell at my mother: I was so young; too young to be allowed to make that decision for myself. You should have insisted I learn karate.

But that was an unfair judgment.

My mother had no way of knowing the evil my cousin was capable of.

My cousin – who was ten years older and lived with us and therefore had been trusted implicitly – had deliberately filled my mind with fearful lies about being injured while learning a martial art. If only I had understood my cousin was making sure I’d be devoid of the skills and the confidence I would need to protect myself barely a year later…

I made a conscious effort to calm myself. Because now, through this miracle of consciousness transference … or was it time travel? … I had another chance. However, this time I was blessed with a full understanding of the machinations behind my cousin’s lies.

But was this truly my chance to change my past? Only one way to know for sure.

I took a deep breath and replied, “I do want to learn karate, Mom.”

What now? Would I relive the next ninety years of my life in their now altered form?

The room began to spin.

Memories began flashing through my mind like a series of photographs, each one accompanied by a recollection of times and places, emotions and conversations, that had never actually taken place in my real life.

Was I hallucinating – or had the events of my long life been fundamentally altered?

As if in answer to my unspoken question, I experienced a series of flashbacks of the life I had not actually lived, and I learned the consequences of the time-altering experiment.

In my substitute timeline – or was it a parallel universe? – I had been safe from the vicious beatings and other, more heinous forms of abuse, at the hands of my pedophile cousin. However, in later years, another child had been victimized by my cousin.

No! I couldn’t be responsible for someone else suffering in my place.

I tried to call out to my mother, but no words came out as the room continued its wild revolutions into darkness.

What had I done?

Then I heard a whisper in the dark: “Sam, tell me your biggest secret.”

In the space between heartbeats, I relived that fateful night. The sleepover with my friend, Jenny. We were thirteen and I had naively believed we’d be friends forever.

However, our friendship lasted barely a year after the night I shared my shameful admission, because Jenny had weaponized my confession one shocking day, after we had clashed in a childish, pointless argument. And within a day, the gossip had spread through our high school, and I had been bullied and ostracized until the day I abandoned my education.

Without conscious thought, I heard my own whisper in return: “You go first, Jen.”

After a moment’s pause, I heard an exaggerated, obviously fake yawn, then: “Nah. I’m tired Sam. Good night.”

I held my breath…

In my reality, Jenny had eventually learned a lesson from the damage she had inflicted upon me.

When we had bumped into each other, many years after she had graduated from high school, I found out Jenny was happily married and a doting mother to three kids. And even though we never resumed our friendship, Jenny had offered me a tearful apology for her long-past act of revenge.

So I waited, and once again I was shown a dreadful, alternate version history.

Although I had saved myself – at least according to my new memories – Jenny had gone on to a so-called career as a famous gossip columnist and television personality.

It seemed that Jenny’s real life as a suburban wife and mother had been … erased.

I closed my eyes.

Felt sick to my stomach.

Even through closed lids, I sensed the room was growing brighter, the light was flickering.

The cake in front of me was adorned with twenty-one candles. 

It must have been a surprise party, because I was dressed in my karate gi, and all the young, smiling people surrounding me were dressed in the same fashion. We all sported black belts. My sensei shook my hand, and offered me a small, beautifully wrapped gift. As I looked for a way to open it, without tearing the exquisite paper, I abruptly found myself in a noisy, smoke-filled bar with my friends.

That had been my real twenty-first birthday celebration, and like every other weekend, alcohol had flowed like water.

The difference was that in reality, I had been drinking cocktails that night, and yet, as I sipped my drink, I tasted club lemon soda.

Once again, I was at a turning point.

Apparently, all the fork-in-the-road moments had to be revisited so free will could prevail.

So just a I had all those years ago, I happily accepted the invitation to spend a week with my friend Lee, in his family’s holiday home by the ocean. ‘It will be soothing on the soul’, he had promised. Only this time, there were two fundamental differences: rather than working at a dead-end job, I was at medical school, and I had already achieved second dan black belt level in karate.

The holiday was delightful – right up until the unwanted advances came. And Lee’s clumsy attempt at seduction turned to force. So, naturally I defended myself. At that point, my so-called friend showed his true cowardly colors, and threatened to have me arrested for assault.

“Go ahead, Lee,” I laughed, even though I barely recognized the confidence in my own voice. “I dare you to call the police and explain how you were bested by a woman half your size.”

He stormed off.

I packed my small overnight bag.

While I waited for the taxi that would take me to the train station, the now familiar whirling sensation started.

I steeled myself for the next traumatic memory: the return to my tiny, shared apartment, and my very nearly successful suicide attempt.

Suddenly, when that memory declined to unfold, I realized that I had truly changed my own history.

No rape meant no almost-lethal consequences for me.

But enough of that; it’s all in my autobiography anyway if you’re truly curios.

The vortex gathered me up from the roadside and gently placed me down in the café my best friend Sasha and I used to frequent.

We had planned to go overseas together in 1994, but Sasha – always the impatient one – had pushed me into leaving in 1992 instead.

Although my memories were growing foggy, I had a vague recollection that I had once believed I had nothing left to lose. But in this version of reality, I was wearing scrubs and I had a lot to lose.

“Sasha, it’s not that I don’t want to go with you. I just can’t go yet,” I explained gently. “You know I’ll be finished my post-grad studies in 1994. We can go together then. It’s only two more years…”

Unsurprisingly, the memories that swept me away showed me that Sasha had gone overseas without me.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the shocking memory of attending Sasha’s funeral. And the unspoken accusation from her parents – that that if I’d only been there, with their only child, the accident would never have happened.

I collapsed on the ground.

Broken.

I didn’t want to continue with this experiment. I wanted to be at home with my cat and my extensive collection of books.

And yet I still found myself in 2016.

“But I swear Samantha, the two of you would make a perfect couple. He’s handsome. He’s funny. He’s–”

“And I’m still very happily married,” I interjected with a laugh, as I pointed to my platinum wedding band. “Despite what you apparently heard; we’re not getting a divorce. He’s only away on an extended work trip.”

Once again, I was in shock. Married? When had that happened? And yet, there were echoes of great love flowing through my heart. We were happy.

In my real past, I had married Mr Wrong after a blind date – and the mutual, fierce attraction – had led to a whirlwind romance. I also felt the echoes of the years of abuse and his lengthy affair – but this time, it felt more akin to remembering scenes from a sad movie. I was no longer the same woman who had made a mistake that had almost destroyed her.

Even so, I was grateful when the tides of time carried me away from that moment, before I had to see him again…

I suddenly found myself deep in the middle of a conversation with the pushy real estate agent, the one who had convinced me moving into the retirement home was the only sensible solution.

“You’ll love it here Samantha! I can call you Samantha?”

“Actually, I prefer to be called–”

“Anyhow, Samantha, have you heard about our state-of-the-art AI medical team? They will keep you safe and comfortable … for the rest of your days.”

Ah, yes. The robotic carer.

We’d had personality clashes every single day. Which was all my fault, apparently; at least according to the retirement home administrators, who claimed all the other residents simply adored their AI carers.

What would happen if I rejected the move? After all, I had reached the end of the timeline…

I reached out to the pushy young agent. We shook hands. And I said, “As much as I appreciate your time and this wonderful tour, I’ve decided to stay in my own home.”

As I turned away from the shocked and annoyed bluster, I felt dizzy.

Lying down. I was lying on a bed that smelled like clean linen…

I opened my eyes to see several concerned and disappointed faces gazing down at me.

The eldest person in the group – who to me, appeared to be about twelve – looked apologetic.

“Doctor Anderson, I’m so sorry it didn’t work,” she said, with sincerity.

“Doctor Anderson?”, I repeated. Oh wait. Yes. That was me. “So what do you mean, ‘it didn’t work’…?”

“Well … Samantha … you were unconscious for less than a minute…”

“And,” another twelve-year-old chimed in, “We were all so hopeful after reading your memoir. You described the events in such exceptional detail…”

I tried to sit up but felt weak and woozy.

The baby-faced chief scientist reached out a hand and patted my shoulder. “Just rest for now, Doctor Anderson … uh, Samantha. Your family is anxious to see you.”

“Family…?” What family? When I laid down, I was childless and divorced. Now I was confused. Memories were battering me from all directions, like scenes from a dream. But which events were real? The horrible marriage which had ended in a bitter divorce, or the long and loving partnership which only ended last year, when my beloved husband had passed away in his sleep.

“Everyone is here,” the kind young woman insisted. “Your daughter, Emma. Your three grandchildren – and your two great grandchildren. Even your AI carer has come to escort you home.”

A lovely woman in her sixties pushed her way through the white-coated crowd, followed by three boys who looked around the same age as the medical team, and finally, my AI carer – holding hands with a young boy and girl.

My family.

Obviously, I had a lot of memories to catch up on.