[2013] Life II Page 28

  Dr. Time swept his gaze over to Max. “The universe can only handle one timeline. Remember, I said Time consists of multiple waves throughout the universe. Each Time wave corresponds to one point in time, and only one. As you’ll recall, cause and effect will mean that the next immediate timeline will be affected, but it shall remain the only timeline.”

  Max paled noticeably. His head was thudding, sending rhythmic pulses deep into his brain. The image of his lost children seemed to slide away from him in broken fragments, littering the floor of his mind like something needing to be swept away.

  Dr. Time tried to say more, but couldn’t. He hugged Max and then escorted them both to the door. As they wandered off down the corridor, Garfield turned to see Max’s eyes staring huge at the floor, obviously hurting.

  “Don’t give up, Max,” Garfield said.

  Max gazed at him hopelessly. “I’m trying,” he said.

  “So I’m not crazy?” Max pressed.

  Garfield waved the piece of paper that had Carol’s number on it. “We’re probably both crazy, but then again, that’s why we’ve always gotten along.”

  That was good enough for Max.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  December 8, 1999 at 6:47 p.m.

  They returned to their neighborhood two days after they’d left to visit Dr. Time. Max was uncomfortable, returning with no hope of ever seeing his long-lost children from Life I. By the end of the summer, though, Max finally wrenched free of his desolation. Though he still wished he’d never found the Book of Time, or left his original life, even in the blackest pits of hating his new life he realized his children Kyle and Peter deserved better than an errant, loser father, so what the hell.

  Four months later, the two best friends chugged down beers and wolfed down a home-cooked dinner of pork chops covered with mushroom sauce, broccoli, and stuffed tomatoes, that Max had made just for Garfield. They sat together afterwards, finishing off another round of beers, until Garfield drained the last drops from his bottle and locked eyes with his buddy.

  “How’s the job hunt going, Max?”

  “Ugh,” sighed Max. He put his heels up on the coffee table. “Promising, I guess. The addiction resource center may need a researcher, and I’m certain I can do it, given my degree in medicine.” He perched his beer on his belly and thought some more. “Oh yeah, and my interview with the Nelson group home said I wasn’t qualified to be supervisor. Go figure. Said I needed more clinical experience in a mental health context.”

  “You have tons of clinical experience.”

  “They say it must specifically relate to the mental health field.”

  “Gee,” Garfield mumbled, belched, then reached for another beer and took a long swig. “They’ll find any excuse not to hire anyone. I had hard times myself.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Say, maybe you should consider being a real estate agent!”

  “A real estate agent?”

  “We could be partners!”

  Max shot Garfield a look that said, Oh yeah, right, forget it. Then he changed the subject. “Hey, is it okay if Kyle and Peter come here for Christmas?”

  “Sure!” Garfield replied. “I love kids, and Carol does, too. It’ll be like we’re all one big happy family.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How are the divorce proceedings going?”

  Max shrugged. “Not bad. It looks like Pamela will agree to let me have summers with the children.”

  Garfield nodded as he drained his beer.

  “Well that’s good,” he said, tipping his bottle in the air. “I’m glad Pam’s being flexible.”

  “Oh yeah. Oh, she’s very easy to work with,” Max groaned with sarcasm.

  “Boy,” Garfield mused, and reclined back on the couch, “I’m still thinking of our past together. Like when we watched the last episode of Family Ties, after you came back into time. Remember? You told me exactly how the episode ended before it was over! I never could figure that out.”

  Max grinned. “I cheated.”

  “And what was even freakier to me was Star Trek—the one with Captain Picard. It had a cliffhanger one summer. The one with the Borg.”

  “Yup,” Max remembered.

  “You visited me that summer and told me exactly how Captain Picard destroyed the Borg. Exactly! It was freakin’ brilliant, I gotta admit. Even you telling me the details didn’t affect my enthusiasm for the next episode where they showed everything, just like you’d said. But I could never figure out how you could guess it all out in so much detail.”

  “I know,” Max laughed. “Sometimes, I just couldn’t help blabbing out the future.”

  “So what’s your next prediction, Mr. Future Man?”

  “Promise me you won’t tell.”

  “I promise. Cross my heart,” Garfield said, making an X on his chest.

  Max leaned back on the couch, sucking his brew down. He thought ahead, then rolled his eyes in Garfield’s direction. “Okay, it involves the American presidential election next year.”

  “Cool,” Garfield said. “That sounds intriguing. So far, everyone thinks Al Gore’s going to win.”

  “He doesn’t win. It’s George Bush.”

  “Huh?” Garfield asked, confused. “He’s running again?”

  “No. Not the former President Bush. It’s his son, George W. Bush.”

  Garfield looked at Max incredulously. Then it dawned on him. “Oh man!” he said, slapping his head. “How do people keep track of which George Bush it is?” He listened to Max’s chuckle rise from the other end of the couch, and frowned. “Whoa. That’s really weird.”

  “It is weird,” Max agreed. “People eventually got used to it.” He exhibited a wicked grin, as if sharing a conspiracy. He wiggled his fingers on his left hand up and down in front of Garfield to dramatize his next statement. “Hey, but here’s the best part. You won’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “The election’s going to be very close.”

  “How close?”

  “Like I said, you won’t believe me.”

  “The elections are always close.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Max insisted. “It’s so close they won’t even be able to pick a president for two months.”

  Garfield leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Max. Then he sat back, with his mouth wide open. “Okay, now you’re joking. That’s never happened before. That’s impossible.”

  “I know.”

  “There are millions and millions of voters.”

  “Yeah, but it’s true. In the end, the state of Florida decides the election.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “They’ll have to re-count the ballots two or three times. Well, actually, the U.S. Supreme Court will finally step in and stop the re-count in one particular county that might have put Al Gore over the top. And then, voila, George W. Bush will be declared the winner! And without winning a majority of the popular vote, too.”

  Garfield gave another snort. “That’s so messed up.”

  “It comes down to about five hundred votes.”

  “Five hundred?”

  “Yup.”

  “Dude, I could probably buy five hundred guys a beer in Miami and help pick the next President.”

  Max laughed out loud, and Garfield joined in. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

  “Yeah, right, Max. Enough of these time travel jokes. Now you’re making shit up.”

  “And get this.” Max laughed hard, and turned to Garfield, a dreamy smile on his face. “Jeb Bush, the President’s brother, is the governor of Florida.”

  “His brother is the governor?”

  “And the Bush campaign director is the Secretary of State who oversees the Florida election. Can you say ‘fixed’?”

  Garfield slid off the couch and sat down on the floor. Then he stood and dizzily shook his head. “Need another beer?”

  “Always.”

  Garfield brought back two more cold one
s from the kitchen. He handed one to Max and twisted the top off. Max raised it high and clinked it against the neck of Garfield’s bottle.

  “Here’s to the future!”

  “Here’s to America’s messed up political system!”

  The thunder of their laughter exploded into the air.

  “I’m glad I’m Canadian,” Garfield said, his lips widening around the bottle. “I can’t wait to see this shit unfold for myself.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  February 11, 2000 at 11:36 a.m.

  “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” Uncle Selwyn said to Max. They sat in a café staring into fancy brewed coffees.

  “No problem, Uncle Selwyn,” Max said.

  “Just call me Selwyn.” He leaned forward, a very serious look on his face. “How’s your job hunt going?”

  Max toyed with his coffee cup. “It’s coming.”

  “So you’re free and available?”

  “Yeah, I’m still looking hard, though.” What, am I gonna get another lecture? Max frowned. He felt his jaw buzzing with dread, and attempted to change the topic. “Uncle Selwyn, I hope this isn’t about your cancer.” He watched the older man take a breath in, and braced for the worst. “You doing okay?”

  Selwyn shook his head. “I tested last year, and I’m still clean. But Max, this is about something else. You’re so smart and you went to medical school. Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted.”

  “Look, Uncle Selwyn, I’m confident…”

  Selwyn interrupted, “I want to offer you a job.”

  Max’s eyes popped open wide and he stared at his uncle. It took a few seconds to organize his thoughts and let the words sink in. He’d felt like his life had been dangling on a string, since Pamela left him due to the change in his career. Christ on a crutch, Max thought, things had been hard. But what kind of job could his uncle offer him? Nothing that he was qualified for, that’s for sure. And that meant another crappy job where he’d be grinding it out to make even a little money, or a decent paycheck, he figured. “I’m very flattered. But I don’t know what I can do for you. I’m not an engineer.”

  “I don’t want an engineer. I have plenty of them,” his uncle said, waving his hand in the air. “Let me explain more,” he said, taking his eyes off Max as sipped on his coffee. “I’m quitting my job.”

  Max was confused. “You’re what?”

  “I’m starting up a new business. There’s an opportunity to buy a company that does injection molding for the auto industry. They need an upgrade in their technology, and I have the expertise to introduce new processes to their manufacturing. I’ve got serious investors on board, and I want your help.”

  Max raised his eyes to meet his uncle’s. He could feel the tenderest of aches in the look his uncle gave him back. “That’s great, Uncle Selwyn,” he said, “but I don’t know what I can do for you.”

  “I’m going to become the Chief Executive Officer. And I need a Chief Operating Officer.” His uncle picked up his coffee cup and smiled. “I want you to become my Chief Operating Officer.”

  Max leaned back, cocked his head. He stared at his uncle, his eyes spinning. The words couldn’t quite sink in. “But I don’t have that kind of experience,” he said.

  Selwyn gulped more coffee and sighed. “Look, Max, I owe you my life. For that reason alone, I’m willing to take you on and train you. I remember from high school you had business smarts. I’m sure you still have that spark.”

  “But wouldn’t your employees hate me when they find out I’m your nephew?”

  Selwyn shot Max a wicked grin. “We don’t have to tell them.”

  Max thought it over. You do need the job. Everything around him was ready to crumble, from lack of income. And the business of being an entrepreneur did sound very appealing. This could be just the break you need in this life, he thought. A total win-win. A win for my kids. A win for me. A win for my uncle.

  Win. Win. Win

  “I’ll take it, Selwyn,” Max said, thrilled that he’d finally use his business acumen. This time, he would be leading enterprise, not watching passively from an auditor’s office. He felt emboldened. Adrenalin—the kind he hadn’t felt in years—surged throughout his veins. It clicked. He was a quick study in all things business—he knew that; he just never gave himself the chance in his former life.

  “Good! Then we’ve got a deal.”

  They shook hands to make it official.

  “Selwyn,” Max uttered sincerely, “from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much. I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “No, thank you,” Selwyn said gratefully. “This is only a job—although a very good one, granted. What you gave me was my life.” He chuckled and winked at Max. “And your mother would be very pleased to hear the news.”

  Max snickered. “I suppose she will be.”

  “There are two things you should know, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have three months’ probation. If for any reason I feel you’re not a good fit for the business, I can fire you at will.”

  “That’s fair. What’s the second thing?”

  “The factory is north of Toronto. So we’ll both have to move.”

  Max gulped down hard at the news. For a moment he stared blank-faced at his uncle. Not in a bad way, though. His new future would be across the country. Inside, he was delighted. It was a new chance to get away from Vancouver again.

  To march onward with Life II.

  Max took his uncle’s hand and shook it.

  “Deal,” he said.

  Words were suddenly wasted. They were moving faster than his brain could keep up with them. He hugged his uncle as both men stood. Life II is turning out to be far more unpredictable than I thought, Max realized. I love my uncle and my uncle loves me back, and all of this will somehow work out. Time to take charge and to re-build, from the ashes up.

  Chapter Seventy

  November 8, 2000 at 7:31 a.m.

  Outside his new home in Allison, Ontario, Max in his bathrobe bent over to pick up the national newspaper from the walkway. When he turned it over to look at the headline, he was astonished.

  In black, bold type, it read, Al Gore Wins, with a grainy photo of the presidential candidate raising his hands in victory.

  What?!

  Max jerked his head back. Then he tilted his head up the street. He watched the little kids in the neighborhood pedaling their bikes up the sidewalk. Bullshit. This is bullshit, Max thought, his mind racing. He stepped back and looked at his house, trying to rationalize how this had happened. Maybe it was a mistaken first edition, subject to correction. Hadn’t the race bounced back and forth between the two candidates before the news media decided to hold off calling the election, back in Life I? And yet that microbe of hope that he was wrong faded as quickly as it appeared.

  Back inside, he flipped on the TV. The news announcer was mid-report: “...electoral votes. President-elect Al Gore is scheduled to stop by the White House with his transition team to discuss the handover of power. Let’s go live to American voters for their reactions to his election victory...”

  Max stared at the TV, confused. He couldn’t believe his own eyes. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. It’s not the way it happened, period! He looked at the newspaper again, staring so hard he thought his eyes would crack. It has to be a mistake. But it wasn’t. Every channel he flipped to reported the same thing. Al Gore had been elected President.

  What the hell’s going on? Max asked himself.

  He went to the TV and bent down. He listened carefully for news of the Florida re-count—surely somebody will be mentioning that!—or news of the problems with the voting cards, the uncertainty that plagued America for weeks after the election.

  None of it was there.

  “Holy shit,” he finally said to himself. George W. Bush wasn’t President. Even though he had been in power for eight years, in Life I. Max knew he was remembering it correctly. S
ure, he had no proof, nothing except his own memories. But it had been thirteen years since he left Life I. Perhaps his memories were faulty? But he couldn’t screw up his memory of one man serving eight years as President.

  Could he?

  Impossible.

  But it was possible.

  And suddenly Max felt like God was staring down at him, just shaking his head, irked and exasperated at the mess Max had made of not just his life now, but of everybody’s life.

  Max leaned against the wall, and took a few long breaths, letting them out slow as the morning newspaper fluttered down from his hands to the carpet. There was only one thing to conclude.

  “The future has changed,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I couldn’t have done that.”

  Could I?

  Chapter Seventy-One

  January 21, 2001 at 2:23 a.m.

  Max yawned and popped two aspirin while he looked at ten-year-old Angela as she clumsily pressed the glue gun onto felt pieces cut into the shape of a flower. Agh! Angela said in sign language. It’s so hard to get the glue out!

  Max swallowed the aspirin and rubbed his blurry eyes. Maybe the glue needs to be hotter, he signed back to her. It seems okay. Can I do one for you, hon?

  Sure, go ahead, Angela gestured. But I’ve got dibs on doing the beads after.

  Deal. Max flashed her a thumbs-up and a weary smile. They watched each other’s hands as they took turns assembling the crafts.

  Finally, a nice brooch! Angela said proudly. She clipped it to her shirt.

  Max gazed at his only daughter. She turned her face toward him and smiled, and Max’s heart melted. You look terrific, Angela.

  Angela beamed back at him. Thank you, Daddy.

  They gave each other an affectionate hug. Max released his little girl and stepped back, tripping over his own feet, losing his balance and crashing clumsily into the wall with a great thud.

  And then it all broke up and disappeared into a mist.

  And Max awoke with a start. As usual.

  He groaned, heaved a deep sigh, and squinted over at his bedside clock. 2:35 a.m. Crap. This was the day that Angela was born. In Life I, she would have come alive in just a few hours. He’d have been very proud of his first child, holding the newborn in his arms. Once he held her, he knew he wouldn’t take his eyes off her until someone told him to. He could only gaze at her for hours, at the miracle called life.