[2013] Life II Page 2

  Or so it seemed.

  He started to go up the stairs, but Abby called out to him.

  “Have you filled out your needs analysis?”

  Max turned. “No,” he replied with a hint of impatience, “but I’ll get to it.”

  Abby made a chopping motion with her hand as she spoke. “Yes, you’ve said that before, Max, and yet, somehow, it still isn’t done. You’ve got to stop these delay tactics. I know you work all day, but I asked you to do your sheets a week ago.”

  Worksheets to repair a relationship?

  He paused on the stairs, trying to find the words to keep her at bay a little longer.

  She smiled thinly. “Do you agree with me?”

  Max looked at his wife. She raised one eyebrow in that “I dare you” glare. He had learned to pick his fights, and this wasn’t a battle he could win. He merely nodded his head and plodded up the remainder of the stairs.

  “I’m going to check on the kids,” Max replied from above.

  He poked his head through the open door of his daughter’s bedroom. Angela stood at her dresser, making gestures in front of a video screen on a propped-up tablet computer. She didn’t seem surprised to see her father walk into her room, Angela held her hands and signed to him, “Wait a sec, I’m talking to Courtney.”

  Max moved into the room to see the face of Angela’s friend on the screen. He waved at Courtney, and she wiggled her fingers back at him.

  Angela was born deaf at a very good time, if there ever was one.

  He marveled at the ease in which Angela used no voice at all and signed conversations with Courtney, a hearing classmate. Angela had taught her friend sign language.

  Had she been born during my time, she would have had no Internet... no amazing devices to help her, like the captions on the TV...

  After about two minutes, Angela finished. She shut off the videoconference, and stood to hug her father. Proficient in sign language, Max conversed easily with Angela and her deaf friends.

  “Guess what, Daddy?” Angela said excitedly, “I qualified for the track and field team today!”

  A wide grin spread across Max’s face as he moved his hands to say, “Congratulations! Way to go!”

  After they’d signed for several more minutes, Brandon came in, holding up Abby’s cell phone.

  “Daddy,” he said, “can you take me now?”

  Max knew right away from seeing the phone that Brandon wanted a ride to another part of town to find a geocache, which he had discovered two weeks ago. Geocaching was the digital age equivalent of orienteering.

  To set up a geocache, players from all over town inserted a tiny pencil and a small notebook into a food baggie. Then, they hid this “treasure” in the trunks of trees, piles of rocks, or any other spot on public property. Brandon got the coordinates from a website, and then headed out to find the containers with an app on his phone. Once he found a geocache, Brandon left his mark by inscribing something in the notebook. He usually rode his bicycle, but it was getting dark and he was rapidly running out of nearby geocaches.

  Max started out the door with Brandon, when Abby called out, “Max! It’s too late to go out now. You should have come home earlier to help Brandon.”

  Max scrubbed his hands through his hair and yelled back, “It’s not late at all, Abby. And we’ll just be a few minutes. Right, Brandon?”

  His son looked up at him and nodded his head. Ah, kids, Max though, sighing contentedly. You can count on them to back you up when you’re both excited.

  Max and Brandon found the geocache and returned home in half an hour. They were welcomed by the disapproving expression on Abby’s face.

  “Brandon, you need to get to bed,” she said, scooting the boy toward the stairs.

  Meanwhile, Max settled into his usual evening routine. Wash the dinner dishes. Clean up the kitchen. Watch whatever was on the History Channel.

  He was so distracted by the nightly interchange with his unhappy wife that he totally forgot about the book he’d purchased earlier in the day. Max went upstairs, settled into the bed, and quickly located the book’s English section.

  Abby slid under the covers beside him, bringing the dreaded book with her. She frowned at him and he pretended not to notice.

  She asked, “What’s that book?”

  “It’s just an old book I found that seemed interesting.”

  She peered at the cover, “Account of Time Travel on Earth Using Wave Theory. How old is it?’

  Max didn’t even turn the pages back to the beginning of the book. “1958.”

  “Is it science fiction?” she pressed, taking the book from it and turning it over in her hands.

  “No,” Max replied, “It seems to be theoretical.”

  “It stinks like old gym socks.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Well, I do,” Abby replied, carelessly tossing the book aside. He sighed and picked it up, flipping through the pages to find the start of the English section again.

  “Did something happen at work today?” Abby asked.

  “I already told you. Same old, same old.”

  She inhaled, deeply and loudly. “But something’s wrong. I can tell.”

  Max kept his eyes on the book as he replied, “Nothing is wrong.”

  “You’re miserable at that job, Max. Why don’t you do something about it?”

  Max rolled his eyes. “A. I’m not. And, two, I don’t need to.”

  Abby used to enjoy his joking, but she had tired of his humor. “Honestly, you need a hobby or something to take your mind off your job. You come home all cranky, and it’s not fair to us.”

  Max put the book down and let out a long sigh. “Abby, we’ve discussed this many times. It’s just not worth it for me to start all over again.”

  Crossing her arms across her chest, Abby jutted out her chin. “That’s not what you said last week.”

  Max fisted his hands together and then slowly released them to contain his anger. “I changed my mind, okay? It’s just not worth it.”

  Abby smiled. “Fine. Then let’s focus on working to fix our relationship.”

  She touched him gently on his right arm and it sparked a desire that he hadn’t felt in a while. His body betrayed him, but he was riddled with conflicting emotions over how Abby treated him on a daily basis. Fourteen years of marriage and he didn’t know her any better now than the day they married. Well, he had known her better, but wasn’t sure he liked her better. Wasn’t marriage supposed to be about being with your best friend?

  Nope, his best friend was Garfield. Last week, Garfield told him a dirty joke in Alfie’s Pub, and they’d laughed out loud, drawing smiles or glances from those around them. Max chuckled at the memory. He wished Abby still laughed.

  “Max,” she said, waggling her book at him, “I’m serious.”

  Max knew she was talking about Communication Without Tears, but he didn’t respond. What could he say at this point?

  “Why haven’t you done it yet?” she asked. “I told you—”

  “A week, I know. I know.” Max snapped. Get it over with. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it right now! Okay?”

  “Yes, that would make me happy,” Abby said with no emotion.

  Max crossed his arms. “Fine.”

  Abby got up, went to her dresser, and retrieved a stack of papers. She picked up her book, with pencil in hand, and read one passage with slow, perfect articulation. Max drummed his fingers impatiently on the bed covers.

  “All right,” Abby began, “Make sure you answer everything and that you describe your feelings, in particular.”

  She showed him a long list. Among the words Max identified were scared, lonely, happy, etc. He ticked off some of them. Abby placed her head on Max’s shoulder as he worked his way through the list.

  Number the following in order of priority for you in your relationship:

  Intimacy.

  Security.

  Friendship.

  Honest
y.

  Spirituality.

  Joy.

  Physical attraction.

  Compatible interests.

  Independence.

  Comfort.

  Max started at the list. He started his mental list of write-in votes. Freedom from constant criticism. Affection without ulterior motives. Positive thinking. Encouragement.

  He didn’t realize how long he had drifted off course. Abby nudged his arm. “It’s not rocket science, Max. Just number them according to what’s the most and least important.”

  “Don’t you want me to give it careful consideration first?” he replied, proud of his ability to mask his distraction.

  “Of course. You’re right.”

  Max contemplated the answers that would satisfy his wife, not the ones he would honestly give. He knew immediately that “Spirituality”, “Independence”, and “Comfort” would be at the bottom of her list, but what would she put at the top?

  He put a “1” next to “Friendship” and felt Abby stroke his arm approvingly. “OK, one down.

  #2. Honesty.

  Right again! Max was on a roll.

  #3. He paused. Abby wasn’t one who talked much about “Joy”, and they had never really had compatible interests, so he figured that wasn’t high on her priority list. “Physical attraction”? If he checked that off as #3, was he telling her he was attracted to her or the other way around—that he needed more of that? Could the next priority be “Intimacy” or “Security”?

  Max took a deep breath and went for it.

  #3. Security.

  #4. Intimacy

  #5. Physical attraction.

  #6. Joy.

  #7. Compatible interests.

  #8. Comfort.

  #9. Spirituality.

  #10. Independence

  “Hmmm…interesting,” Abby said, as she took the paper from him. Max knew she was mentally grading his answers. “Thank you. That makes me feel a lot better.”

  Abby tucked the paper inside the dreaded book and put it on her nightstand. She picked up a new book, this one was about a British family starting a farm in Africa in the early 1960s. As she read, Abby ran her fingers along Max’s thigh. He felt the stirring in his loins, a visceral reaction to her touch.

  Should I give in to her? No, he resolved, she’s just manipulating you. Don’t give in. Don’t give in.

  He patted her hand dismissively, but she persisted, moving her hand up his thigh and tugging at the hem of his knit boxers.

  Don’t give in, he commanded his body, clenching his jaw.

  Seven minutes later, he rolled over on his back. Abby turned away, satisfied that she had given and received exactly what she wanted. Max had to admit to himself that the physical release was worth succumbing to her control.

  As Abby dozed off, Max reached for his time travel book. He scanned it once more, puzzled. Why did someone write about time travel in the 1950s? And why in different languages?

  There was just something about the book. He couldn’t quite explain, but “Account of Time Travel on Earth Using Wave Theory” called to him specifically.

  Maybe he should Google the title and see what he could find on the Web.

  He got out of bed and walked downstairs to his office where he kept his computer. The chair creaked as he lowered his weight and typed in the book’s title. Oddly, none of the online booksellers had any reference to this book, not new or used. Max typed the words “account time travel wave theory.” The search engine turned up thousands of results, but nothing with the specific title.

  He put in the author, Medicus Tempus, and again, the search engine didn’t reveal any books by that author. Strangely, references to Latin popped up. Was the author’s name Latin? He clicked over to the online translator to see what he could find. He input the information and was surprised by the result: Physician Time.

  Hmm… “physician” was another word for “doctor”.

  Doctor.

  Time.

  Doctor…

  No, it couldn’t be that easy. Or was it?

  Of course! Doctor Time!

  Max sat spellbound. What was this? His mind ran wild, conjuring up an exciting storyline around the author. Maybe Dr. Time was some wealthy eccentric who had more money and assets than he knew what to do with. And during his reclusive life, he wrote a book containing clues to the treasure.

  Max thought it through and, suddenly, it didn’t seem so fictional to him. What if there were indeed a hidden treasure? He could see himself being interviewed about the treasure. He’d get Brandon that expensive dirt bike he wanted. Afford that expensive student exchange to Japan that Angela had excitedly brought up at dinner. And take them both to Legoland in Denmark.

  When Max slid back into bed, Abby was sound asleep, still holding her book. He pried it out of her fingers and set it on her nightstand.

  He climbed back into bed next to her and settled into the pillows. His heart beat rapidly from his exciting find. The what ifs danced in his head like teasing questions, preventing him from going to sleep. He couldn’t respond to their temptation. Not tonight.

  He had responsibilities.

  Chapter Two

  October 23, 2013 at 12:07 p.m.

  Finally the client left, and Max scrambled about as he glanced at his electronic calendar. “Lunch with Garfield” was highlighted, alerting Max as to his next task.

  Max let out a weary but content sigh, knowing he had five minutes left before he had to leave his office. He glanced around his spacious windowed office, knowing that the fourteenth floor view afforded him a great aerial view of Vancouver Harbour. Unable to resist, he swiveled around in his plush black leather chair and gazed at the sailboats threading their way up the sun-drenched ripples. For a moment, he imagined himself as a captain commanding a small yacht, setting off from the very same harbor, never to return.

  He gazed at the stack of papers in his inbox, dreading the volume of the envelopes—strategically cut at the top by a letter opener by his secretary but unopened—awaiting his attention. His eyes drifted to the familiar faint gold hue of his monthly alumni newsletter, UBC Chat. No matter how often he moved, his alma mater—the University of British Columbia—always managed to track him down. He grinned. His graduation class of 1993—now twenty years anniversary—was sure to be in this month’s issue, so he snapped it up.

  The front page startled him. It was a professional color photo of someone who seemed familiar to him. That square-shaped, rugged face, still boyish even in middle age. That blond curly hair. The stare of the man captivated him, as the subject in the photo conveyed an assured glare that spoke I’m important. Don’t you forget it.

  I know him, Max thought. Who is this? He was a star athlete, wasn’t he…

  The headline answered his question.

  Dr. Nathan Symes, August 28, 1971—September 30, 2013.

  Max started reading the article, which started off with, “Nathan Symes M.D. ’98 Head of Cardiology at Vancouver General, and dedicated UBC fundraiser, passed away…”

  Wow, Max thought. One of the guys from Confederation High—his old high school—had bitten the dust. So soon. Forty-two, just like Max, and he was already at one with his Maker. Same birth year. Same span of life.

  Max’s heart skipped a beat as he read the article further.

  “Suicide?” Max muttered to himself, aghast.

  What could possibly drive a guy to suicide? A successful doctor, too. With pieces of his frayed memories now drifting into place, Max remembered—Nathan was one of the fellows from his high school voted “most likely to succeed.”

  In a daze, Max glanced once more at the digital time displayed on his computer screen, momentarily forgetting about his upcoming lunch. He folded up the newsletter and slid it into his inside suit jacket pocket. He exited the steel-and-glass towering skyscraper, in search of that tiny parkette that afforded him a soothing oasis from the grimy concrete metropolis.

  “Yo, Max!”

  “Hey, G
arfield! Yo dude!”

  Garfield Yates, Max’s lumbering, chrome-domed writer buddy, waddled over to Max’s park bench. It was a beautiful, sunny day, so Max and Garfield agreed to meet up for lunch. Garfield pulled a thick ham and egg sandwich out of a brown paper bag and offered a bite to Max.

  “Thanks, but I brought lunch. If you could call it lunch, that is. Cold sushi, a bottle of organic strawberry juice, and a granola cookie. All part of Abby’s new ‘diet’ she’s got me on.” He started opening his paper bag, staring into it with a wistful expression.

  “Duuude,” Garfield said tragically, and then bit into his sandwich, ignoring the clump of lettuce that fell on his lap.

  Max shook his head and thought about it for a moment. She’s got my manly assertiveness all screwed up. I can’t even pick what I have for lunch anymore. And that new diet she has me on is the worst. He thought of Abby watching him now, with an icy scowl on her face, spying on him suspiciously like he was a little boy. Then he took a bite of his granola cookie, and asked, “How’s the job hunt going?”

  Garfield grimaced. “Not well. This morning, I just lay in bed, chowing down potato chips and listening to some old tunes. Remember the Bee Gees?”

  “Oh God,” Max laughed uproariously. “You still have them?”

  “Yeah,” Garfield chuckled. “Dude, I still have that old record player, too. It was actually in a box in my parents’ house. They’d never bothered to throw it out.”

  Max shook his head, watching Garfield squat lower and lower to pluck globs of mayo off the lawn, his great white buttocks flashing in Max’s face. Garfield, sadly, was living with his parents again. It was “temporary,” he’d insisted, until he could get back on his feet.

  Garfield wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then patted Max on the shoulder. “Sure’d be nice to have your job!”

  “You know what, man? You can have it,” Max griped, tossing Garfield’s hand off his shoulder. “Working with piles of papers. Telling the young brown-nosers that they have to work overtime on Friday. Checking a client’s accounts even though they’ve never made a mistake in years. Not really contributing anything to anybody.”