Epiphany

Eight Years Ago….

He thought the argument was over and she’d gotten it out of her system. Eric was in the shower washing the blood out of his hair, where his wife had struck him with a cast-iron skillet. This time he’d passed out and hadn’t felt the kicks to his abdomen. Not while they were happening, anyway. He’d learned from last time and kept his stomach empty so as not to vomit on her shoes and the floor, which would’ve just pissed her off even more. She hadn’t always been like this. There used to be love in this marriage, and now there was just fear and embarrassment. His friend Tommy had joked the first couple times he saw the bruises on his neck. Thought it was just rough foreplay. Eric couldn’t bring himself to tell his friend that he’d woken up to his wife strangling him with an extension cord. He was raised to never strike a woman under any circumstance. Feeling helpless, he slid to the floor of the shower with his knees tucked into his chest as the hot spray scalded his skin and washed away the blood drawn by his wife. Pounding came from the outside of the bathroom door. He was taking too long to get clean and his wife was demanding that he drive her to the store. She was always doing stuff like that to keep an eye on him. He had to quit his job last year because it was too far away and she forced him to sell his car since they couldn’t afford two on just her income. She worked from home as a marketing consultant. ” Hurry up, you lazy idiot!” She yelled in that nasty tone only she could take. Eric hurriedly finished his shower and got dressed. January was cold this year and last night it rained, leaving a thin sheen of ice over the ground and the cement steps leading from the house to the path connected to the driveway. Eric’s first step was slippery; he turned to offer his hand and warn his wife about the ice but she slapped it away and stepped arrogantly onto the ice-slicked concrete. It happened so fast, she slipped, and they reached for each other. Her nails dug into the skin of his wrist as he tried to break her fall. The sound of a skull cracking wasn’t as loud as you might think. And the sickening sound echoed in Eric’s gut. Immediate panic flooded his system, then adrenaline kicked in and he drug his wife’s limp body into the house. Chaotic emotions sent his gaze reeling around the room until it settled on their sepia toned wedding photo. His heart pounded in his ears as he reached into his pocket to take out his cellphone. He dropped it next to his wife’s body and went back outside. There was minimal blood on the steps, and it had just started to rain… he turned his attention to the car and made his way to it carefully. The car was left at a shopping mall in the next city. Two blocks away was a metro transfer station that still had payphones. He dialed the only number he had memorized. The call picked up after the fifth ring and a tired voice answered. “ Hello?” “ It’s me.. I need you to come get me.” “ Where are you?” “ At the metro station.” “ Do you have money for a ticket?” “ I have $20.” “ Okay, I’ll Venmo you some money.” “ You can’t, I didn’t bring my phone” “ Okay, sit tight, it’ll take me a couple hours to get to you but I’m on my way.”

Present day:

“ Detective Bradford, welcome to your life-track evaluation and check-up!” “ Cut the formalities, Cecil. You and I both know I’m going back.” Cecil lets out a heavy sigh and his formerly cheerful expression turns to disappointment. “ You can’t keep doing this to yourself, John. It’s been eight years. You go back to the same point in time and never come up with anything new.” “ Wrong. Each time I go back, I discover something new. I’m telling you, Cecil, there’s more to the story. It’s not about finding a criminal anymore. I have to find out what really happened.” “ John, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to let this case go. Explore a new career or a new hobby. Here’s a crazy idea, fall in love with someone and start a family.” “ That’s someone else’s’ life track. Mine is to solve this case. And until I do, I’m going to keep going back to the same time.” Cecil shakes his head but doesn’t argue any further. He takes John through the standard checklist of questions to corroborate his mental health and then writes him a referral to the time clinic. John’s been on his own for almost as long as he’s been working on this case. His parents moved into a parallel dimension where they can go back to being twenty-five without inadvertently erasing their only child’s existence. Photographs helped him mourn their loss until resentment kicked in, and then he packed away those keepsakes, stuffing them into a trunk in the attic. That’s around the time he was assigned this cold case. A woman with a head injury was found dead by a delivery driver dropping off a package. There was no sign of struggle and the phone found next to her body, though her face unlocked it, didn’t belong to her. Wedding photos and clothing found in the home said that she was married, but there was no sign of her husband. He was the prime suspect but everyone of the friends and family John interviewed told the story that the dead woman was the aggressive one. It seemed they all were aware that she was abusing her husband, and no one said or did anything about it. Shame lived in their faces when he interviewed them. No one was too broken up about her death, but they all asked if the husband, Eric, was alright. Usually in a case like this, the runaway spouse finds some back alley time clinic to send them into the past right before the event that occurred to make them flee in the first place. They’re easy enough to track down since they tend to keep the same habits. Not this missing husband. And none of his family or friends knew where he was and wouldn’t divulge if they did. “He’s suffered enough… wherever he is, leave him in peace.” One of the neighbors told him. She’d patched him up after his wife had broken his nose. A waitress had complimented his glasses at dinner and she blew up about it when they got home. He was carrying the leftovers into the house when she cracked him across the face with a ceramic flower pot sitting on the front porch. Hearing about the abuse this man endured lit a fire in John. He didn’t want to arrest him. He wasn’t really sure why he had to find him so badly, just knew that he couldn’t let this case go until he found him and asked him what happened. 

One hour after the check-up with Cecil:

Detective Bradford’s appointment at the time clinic was at five O’clock that evening. He arrived at a quarter past four to have a pre-travel physical and memory booster shot. There was a journal where he recorded all the details of this case whenever he time jumped. And he only had one minute to write down everything he knew before he forgot it. The good thing about the journal was it helped him piece things together faster, and the last jump he held onto his memory for just under two minutes. As the time technician was going over the protocols of insertion, John made a request inspired by Cecil’s comment about his repeating patterns. “ Can you send  me back a day before my usual insertion?” The technician smiled a mischievous grin and said, “ Of course.” 

Detective Bradford:

I woke up a block from my insertion point. Not uncommon for this procedure, but it’s the first time it happened to me. The grounding plate was underneath a streetlight and it was nighttime. Usually when I make these trips, it’s the same time of day as when I left. Since we were on daylight savings time, the sun should’ve still been out. My house is up on the right and as I’m crossing the street, a sharp pain behind my right eye causes me to double over. My vision becomes blurry and I dry heave. A side effect of the jump, or maybe it’s the memory booster kicking in? Once I make it to my front door, I’m all sweaty. My keys are slippery in my grasp and I can’t get the lock to cooperate. I take a deep breath and exhale in a slow, controlled manner, “ Get it together, Bradford.” I say out loud to myself. This time, I put the key in the lock and open the door, crossing the threshold and shutting it behind me. The scent of a vacant home fills my nostrils, familiar odors bring me comfort and my mind begins to clear. The journal I keep is hidden in my bedroom wall inside a false heating duct. After retrieving it, I compare the page I traveled with in my pocket to my last page of notes in the journal. That’s when I realize that I’ve been chasing the exact same clues for the past eight years. Somehow, I convinced myself that I was discovering new information. But I was retracing old footsteps and not realizing it! Page after page of the exact same information, all leading to the same dead end. Cecil was right. This wasn’t something that I was going to solve and I should do something different with my life instead. Flabbergasted, I tuck the journal in my inside jacket pocket and go out to have a drink and find some dinner. The night is brisk but I decide to walk. Cold air is refreshing, and it helps me stave off the intrusive thought spiral about the profound waste of time I’ve put myself through. How many lives had I dedicated to solving this wild goose chase? All of Cecil’s suggestions played out before me in this alternate reality as I walk the semi crowded sidewalks down the main drag. Hiring signs in shop windows, groups of friends celebrating new jobs, hand holding couples and families with small children getting in and out of cars and carrying bags of takeout and retail purchases. My heart sank with guilt and shame that I’d passed over all these experiences. I stop in front of the bar I always visit when I come back. Looking at the mid-century brick building with neon signs gives me pause. It was the door I always chose and I know where that would take me. Suddenly, my body jerks as someone bumps into me, pulling my attention from the building. An old man. He apologizes profusely in a kind and gentle voice. There’s a light scar across the bridge of his nose, barely visible. I put a hand on his shoulder and ask if he’s okay. He smiles and pats my hand. I let him go and watch him continue down the sidewalk. Across the street there’s a restaurant with people sitting in booths by the window, looks inviting. The decibel of the conversation at the hostess stand makes me feel a bit curious. Since I was alone, the hostess seats me in the corner back by the bar. Watching people was part of my job, but I’d never watched them without the pretense of an investigation. Were people always this happy? Looking at their expressions and hearing their excited vocalizations makes me realize that I’ve never experienced this kind of contentment; dragging me deeper into the rabbit hole of guilt I’d momentarily forgotten about. My waitress asks for my drink order since the kitchen is backed up and I’m alone. She wants to make up for the wait with a drink on her. I ordered a whiskey neat and thanked her. The journal is a nagging weight in my pocket. So I take it out and set it on the table and just stare at it. “ Everything okay?” The waitress  asks, returning with my drink. “What would you do if you suddenly realized you’d been making the same mistake for the past eight years?” She eyes the journal and says. “ Even if you write the same story over and over, there’ll be nuances. On the surface, it all looks the same. But if you comb through the pages, that one difference will show itself.” I thank her and she takes my food order, leaving me to ponder my situation. I sat there with my hand on the cover of the journal, working up the courage to read through eight years of mistakes and wasted time. I was still in that state when she came back with my food. She gives me a friendly closed-mouth smile and squeezes my shoulder. The food smells great, and it’s the perfect temporary distraction. As I’m eating, I can’t recall the last time I fed myself. That makes me laugh for some reason and then I look up absently. My gaze sweeps the room because suddenly I feel like I’m sharing the same social energy as everyone else. Then, I thought of the old man who’d bumped into me I drop my fork and reach for my journal, furiously flipping through the pages. The neighbor that told me about the flower pot incident. The husband, Eric, had a scar across the bridge of his nose afterward. Grabbing my journal from the table, I stand up and see the old man at the hostess station. He says something to her and they both turn in my direction, locking eyes with me. I wave them over to my table and a few moments later, the old man and I are face to face again. “ Hello Detective Bradford, my name is Eric Nichols.” My heart is still racing against the journal held against my chest. “Please, sit down. Can I buy you a drink?” I offer. “ I’ll take a whiskey, neat.” He says. We sit down at the table and just stare at one another for a few moments. Our beverages arrive, and he holds his glass up for a toast. “ To solving, mysteries.” He says before we clink glasses and sip our drinks. “ I have been waiting for the day when I could tell my story without shame.” His gaze is thoughtful as it slides to my journal and then back to my eyes. “ I’m listening.” I say. “ I was a hostage in my marriage. Trapped by abuse and love, too embarrassed and afraid to leave. Then one day after my wife bashed my head in with a cast-iron skillet; the Universe saw fit to give her a taste of her own temper. She slipped on the front porch steps and cracked her head open. I left her there without calling the police because to me, that was the end. I lived through the abuse once, and talking about it would make me live through it again. You people run us through the ringer with your questions, and I wasn’t going to put myself through that. My wife was dead because she wouldn’t listen to my warning about the ice. All I wanted was a quiet and easy life. So I traded my youth to a black-market time-technician. I was thirty-one at the time and he wanted forty years. I made the deal on one condition; that he give me a key so that when I was ready to tell my story, I could find you.” His statement was calm and even. Like he’d had a long time to think about this conversation, to form his statements without tripping over his words. Not rehearsed, just thoughtful, and I believed him. “ What have you been doing all this time?” I asked. “ Appreciating each day by; learning a new skill or picking up a new hobby. Time is precious, no matter how much you jump from the present to the past. How are you going to spend this life, Detective, now that you’ve solved an eight-year-old mystery?” I couldn’t answer his question immediately, both, because I didn’t know what to say and our waitress had returned to check on us. Eric and I talk until the restaurant closes and then I wait with him until his Uber comes to take him home. 

At work the next day, I closed the case file. My boss was surprised that I gave up and had plenty of questions and jokes. For two weeks, I took a page out of Eric’s book and lived my life. The waitress from the restaurant, I went back and asked her out. I thought about Eric every single day, telling myself that he was okay and that our meeting was enough closure. I felt attached to him and thought that if we’d met in another time that we could’ve been friends. After receiving the news of his passing, a crazy idea formed in my brain, and I went to visit a time clinic for the first time in nine months.