Theory of Relativity

"Don't you remember me?"

The strange old woman turned to me, hair silver, skin wrinkled with age. Her smile was warm, but tentative, and she leaned heavily on a silver cane. Her electric blue eyes were steely, giving her a curious mix of youthful innocence and lasting sorrow.

"C-Camilla? Is that you?" I took a small step towards her, shifting my weight awkwardly, as I kicked up a cloud of red dust, footsteps heavy. The old woman merely smiled, motioning for me to follow with a wave of a hand, veins ghostly against her translucent skin, joints swollen with age, crippled with arthritis.

I turned back to my starship uneasily, glinting silver and green in the harsh, unfamiliar sunlight, wing flaps tight against its sleek frame. I owed it one last glance, before following the old woman. My feet felt heavy, clumsy, the air too thick and suffocating as it pressed down on me. Two years in space had me unused to Earth's stronger gravity. I felt like a fish out of the water, gasping and floundering on this planet worn by the years that left me untouched. Nausea, dizziness and disorientation plagued me every step of the way, along the dusty dirt path lined with a once familiar wire fence, now rotted, the flowers that once bloomed there dead, withered away to a husk years ago.

My feet brushed ever so slightly against the earth, my ears kept popping, my arms heavy as they dangled limply at my sides. All those little things made me want to fly back to space, in that universe that had separated my family and I for two years.

Soon, a dusty cottage came into view, corrugated tin roof patched innumerably, ravaged by rust. The pale beige bricks of sandstone were chipped in places, others worn to dust. This was my home, familiar and yet, unfamiliar. Here, the brick in which Camilla and I had carved our names, now barely legible as it had faded away. There was where the swing set sat, with the creaking joints and silver chains that used to be too big for Camilla’s, now merely two rotting wooden poles that were blackened and on the verge of collapse. And this was the blanket that I had given to Mother for her birthday! I had forgotten…

I ran over to the porch of ash wood, where a rocking chair rested, which wobbled under the weight of my thumping feet. “Mother? Father? Camilla? Are you here? It’s me, Peter! I’m finally home!”

The silence of an empty house greeted me.

I bent down to the blanket embroidered with red roses and llamas–Mother’s favourite. I remember now, how Mother used to weave the flowers into her hair, and then spun around with Father as Camilla clapped her hands to the beat they sang, Father’s clackety shoes clicking against the kitchen floor. And on the side, I’d play the keyboard, albeit clumsily.

The memory of sun-drenched days dissolved, and when my vision cleared, the old woman was waiting. I hastily put the worn blanket down, cheeks reddening. “I’m sorry ma’am. It’s just…the nostalgia. It has been two years since I saw my family.” My tongue tripped over itself as the words stumbled out of my mouth in a poor attempt at an apology. This was what living in isolation in space did to you.

The elderly lady merely smiled that strange smile of hers, mysteriously alluring and familiar. Suddenly, I felt the urge to blurt out, “Where is my family? The Clark family? What did you do to them?” I bit my tongue, shame flooding me. What was I thinking?

The old woman’s eyes crinkled as she patted my arm with that icy cold hand of hers. She tottered forward to the house that had aged beyond its years, pushing open the driftwood door. I hesitated. What if…?

I slammed the thought down before it formed. It had only been two years. I followed the old woman into the house, now a stranger to me. Oak furniture was now replaced with pale ash wood, rich pine flooring now a dusty hue. The old woman disappeared into a side door, and the tinkling of glass could be heard, as I trailed my fingers over the unfamiliar refurbishments.

Soon, she returned, clutching two tall cups of yellow lemonade, a sprig of mint giving it a dash of sophistication. That was how I used to make lemonade for Camilla. I smiled in thanks, grasping the cup. The old woman took a sip, then spoke in a rough, gravelly voice–the first since I met her. “Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned.”

She chuckled lightly at her own joke, yet her eyes remained mirthless. All at once, I felt like she had been mocking me all along. A chill shivered through me. However, before I could speak, she raised a hand. “I’ll tell you what happened to your family…but it’ll cost you.”

I nodded eagerly. Finally, we were getting somewhere! I took a drink of lemonade–a perfect balance of sweet and sour. “Yes, anything. Just tell me!”

We sat ourselves at the kitchen table, sunlight streaming through the windows as dust motes danced in the air before us, a hazy silver mist separating us at the table. The old woman set down her glass with a tinkle, and fumbled around her neck a moment.

She produced a queer device of polished round bronze, the thickness uniform, a small transparent button, glowing blue, fixed in its centre. The projector–for it was one–was set upon the table, light beams spinning, as she began.

I could then see the events, in my mind, as clear as day, her voice melodious in the background.

Camilla was waving at me, after we had gotten the letter conscripting me for the National Service–space mining division. We were at the starport, my bags packed, as I hugged Camilla tight, love clenching my heart in sorrow as I finally grasped my duties. “I will always come back, soon, and I won’t ever forget you, my dear little sister.”

Then Camilla refusing to go out and play with her friends after school. Running home in her white dress with the pink bow to call her big brother every single day, missing him terribly as he responded with answers that got more and more annoyed, contrary to her excited speech.

I remember, guilt wrenching my heart, how the phone had kept ringing throughout the whole day, but that must have been because of the time changes and differences.

Camilla started calling less often, at first weekly, then monthly, then yearly. Sometimes I wouldn’t pick up the phone, others I was bored-sounding and not all that pleased to hear her.

I pressed my fist into my mouth as pain pierced my heart, tears slipping silently as I bent double in quiet agony. No! Before my eyes, Father and Mother were growing old, wrinkles mapping themselves out across their once fit bodies that were hunching in weariness. Camilla turned into a young woman, kind, sharp angles filling out to soft curves.

Then sickness overtook the region as my parents lay in bed, twitching no more, utterly still as Camilla cried by their bedside, phone in hand, ringing to voicemail over and over again. “Come home, Peter, please. Don’t forget us…”

And my answer, harsh and distorted, “Camilla, quit being so selfish. I’m providing the fuel for all of you, and the electricity is thanks to me!”

The funeral I missed, sleek coffins lowering into rich red earth, cold and dark. The way Camilla held herself like a porcelain vase, audio phone clenched so tight her knuckles were white.

Camilla had children soon, married, now a happy family, a slew of joyous children which earned her a litany of complaints. They grew old, Camilla retaining the last vestiges of great good looks as she, in turn, grew hunched and weary. Soon, the children flocked away, like birds.

James, her husband, breathing his last sigh as they attended the funeral, mourning. Camilla decided to get a micro-chip to record all her memories. And through it all, the audio phone, ringing, ringing to space, to nothing but voicemail. Finally, Camilla’s body grew too weak, auburn locks dull and grey, her clear blue eyes hazy, yet all-seeing.

The children stood by her deathbed, crying, “Mama, Mama, don’t die. Wait until Uncle Peter comes back!”

And Camilla, smiling the smile of the strange old woman, revealed bone-white teeth. “You forgot, Peter. And you promised. I’ll see you soon.”

The old woman stopped her recital as the screen went black, and I knew then, that she was Camilla’s ghost.

I looked to the old woman in denial. I felt numb. Emptiness filled my hollow chest, carving it out to stone. All the while, crinkles appeared by the old woman’s enchanting eyes, suddenly pale and cloudy. Then the stone cracked.

In a stuttering, choked voice, “H-how many years has it been?”

“One thousand, five hundred and forty-nine years” The old woman’s voice was cool, emotionless. “And now, the price—Camilla’s last wish.”

I bowed my head, in grief, in acknowledgement. I had lost my entire family, everything I knew. What more would the price be? Wealth? Power? I had it all now, things I never asked for.

I waited, watching my white spacewear slowly darken as tears, salty gems breaking against the surface, moist as rivulets slid down, uncontrollable.

I felt the cool tip of the old woman’s cane, resting on my neck. The woman was behind me.

And pain, agonising pain from the back of my skull. My last thought: The last perfect lemonade.

Darkness.

I was floating up. I saw the old woman disappearing into mist that turned into Camilla, now a grown woman. She brushed her translucent hand against mine, now icy.

All this time, I thought I was saving them. I guess I just sealed my fate…

We had travelled through space that separated us for years, the distance between us now closed to mere millimetres. And yet, we were still separated by time, by animosity, an invisible barrier between us, unbreachable. But as I lifted my dead, ghostly eyes to meet hers, I smiled, finally at peace, eternally reunited.

“I remember you.”