by E W Barnes
“I am glad you’re here.”
“Have you told Scott and his family yet?”
“Scott and his family Gorse are in Albuquerque on their cross-country trek to bigger and better things. They said they would be here in spirit…” she paused as another contraction cascaded through her.
“We’ll call them when the baby is born,” Pete finished and then winced Holly crushed his fingers again.
“We heard about Rose and Kevin’s house,” Pete said, after the next contraction passed. “It is a shame.”
Sharon looked at Holly, sadness on both their faces.
“I am glad you saved the bookcases,” Holly said, before deep breathing again.
“Me too,” said Sharon.
Sharon settled herself in a corner while Holly alternately dozed and breathed. She pulled out the articles and reviewed them again. As the hours passed, Holly’s doctor checked on her progress, saying only “we’re getting there,” and “everything looks good.”
Nurses checked in more frequently, moving efficiently while nodding cheerfully. They were more willing to share details: “Late tonight or early tomorrow,” and “the baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady.”
In between these visits, Sharon made notes on her yellow pad. Once or twice Pete tried to engage her about what she was doing, asking if she was returning to writing and journalism, never getting to hear Sharon’s pre-prepared answer because invariably Holly would have another contraction and pull his attention away.
The first article she pulled from her bag was the one about the fire at her grandfather’s home when he was a child - the only one she had confirmed as published. The article said that after losing his immediate family, her grandfather was placed with distant relatives.
It was a standard piece of news reporting, the tragic story handled with detached dignity and compassion. What struck Sharon as unusual was how two of her grandfather’s homes were destroyed by fire after an earthquake. As she pictured the charred remains, she was glad that no one had gotten hurt this time.
The one from December 8, 1941 was also a well-written piece, outlining the Soviet Union’s entrance into the war after discovering Germany’s secret plans to invade Russia. The article included the political state of affairs in a world falling into war. There were quotes from local citizens on their opinions on the war in Europe, in a man-on-the-street format. Its only flaw was that it was inaccurate to the actual history of the date, with no mention of the attack on Pearl Harbor. It, too, had never been published.
The article about the charity gala in 1962 at a home outside Washington, D.C., focused more on the people that attended, who accompanied who, what they were wearing, and that the event raised $30,000. The article was never published, and Sharon found no evidence that the charity ever existed.
The photo accompanying the article on the Vietnam protest differed from that included with the charity gala article. Gone were the sleek tailored lines and pillbox hats with evening gowns. Now it was tie dye, fringes, and long hair. This article was almost an opinion piece, focusing on an aggressive response of local law enforcement against peaceful, if passionate, protesters.
The last article’s tone was dispassionate and matter of fact as it reported medals won by the Soviet team during the Olympics in Los Angeles in 1984. It was almost like reading a shopping list. Like the others, there was nothing to suggest the article had been published.
There was nothing out of the ordinary in the way the articles had been researched, analyzed, or written. They appeared to be genuine newspaper articles - ones that had never been published.
The stories did not appear to have any consistent themes or commonalities among them; no patterns that could lead her to a better understanding of how all these events connected.
Her head popped up when she heard a whoop from across the room.
“Eight centimeters!” Holly was shouting exultantly. Sharon looked at her watch. It was a little after 4:00 p.m. She guessed the nurses were going to win the baby pool.
◆◆◆
Sharon walked the hospital corridors to work the stiffness out of her back left-over from sleeping on the couch. The hospital was bright with warm white walls and pockets of live plants, giving the space a fresh feeling.
The freshness and warmth also helped her to organize her thoughts. Her mind was swirling with what she knew and did not know, what she knew was true, thought was true, what was not true, and half-guessed theories. She leaned against a wall next to a window overlooking a small park next to the hospital and reviewed her notes on her yellow pad:
She knew the message in the crawlspace was true.
She had verified the article about the fire at her grandfather’s house and, even though he never mentioned it, believed it was true.
She had experienced a conversation with a hologram of her grandmother.
She knew someone had broken into her apartment and did not know if it was related to her grandmother’s time travel or if it was a coincidence.
Being unable to verify them, she believed the other articles besides the one about the fire were not true and were clues to what her grandmother needed her to do.
She did not know who left the message in the crawlspace and though it looked like her grandmother’s handwriting; she knew handwriting could be faked.
She did not know who hid the strongbox in the house though she believed her grandmother had left it for her.
She did not know who had added the article about her death into the strongbox or who had corrected that “error” in the timeline.
She did not know what “Beware the Chestnut Covin” meant.
The last item was the most unnerving, based on Mrs. Bower’s response when she decoded the message. As she reviewed the list, she realized that the most important thing was this:
She believed her grandmother had been a time-traveler.
She would base every decision going forward on that belief.
◆◆◆
There was a lot more activity when she returned to Holly’s room and Pete looked slightly worried.
Holly was no longer shouting, looking pale and drained. The nurses, still efficient and cheerful, looked more serious than before.
“What’s up?” Sharon asked Pete when he stepped aside to allow the nurse to rearrange Holly’s pillows.
“Oh, they are worried about her blood pressure… and the baby is showing signs of stress. They're going to do a c-section.”
Sharon moved to the bed when the nurse left the room.
“You’re doing great,” she said as she took Holly’s hand. Holly smiled tiredly and squeezed back. Her hand felt like ice. She pulled it away as she had another contraction.
As Sharon stepped back so that Pete could take Holly’s hand again, her phone vibrated. It was Caelen messaging to see how she was doing. She messaged back that she was at the hospital with her sister and would touch base with him tomorrow.
She caught herself smiling as she put her phone away. Just a friend, like she had told Mrs. Bower.
Sharon retreated to her chair in the corner and pulled out the articles again. Something caught her eye. The article about the Olympics had a photo of very serious looking athletes standing on an award podium, each with “CCCP” emblazoned across their uniforms. There was a man in the background, a man who looked familiar.
It was the man she had seen at the coffee shop, and again in her grandparent’s neighborhood.
Barely breathing, she picked up the article about the Vietnam protest. He was standing behind a man waving a sign with a peace symbol on it, looking the same though it was 15 years earlier. He was in a tuxedo in the gala photo, dancing with a brunette whose back was to the camera. He was the man-on-the-street being interviewed in 1941.
There was no sign of him in the article about the fire at her grandfather’s childhood home.
The man was a time traveler, like her grandmother, he had to be. Was it the TPC agent her grandmother thought had correc
ted the “error” regarding her death? Was he there to help with the other “errors” Grandmother had noticed? Should she look for him, show him the articles, and then he could go back in time instead of her?
A metallic clattering interrupted her thoughts, along with the voices of several people entering the room. Holly’s doctor was leaning over the bed quietly recommending an immediate c-section.
Pete was standing next to the bed, looking scared but trying to be positive for Holly. Holly nodded, and the group prepared to wheel the bed out.
In a moment all was quiet, the crowd flowing out of the room around the bed like a raft going downstream. Pete glanced back at her.
“Will you call your brother for us?”
◆◆◆
Scott and his family were asleep in their hotel in Albuquerque when she reached them. They were concerned by the need for the c-section, but not worried. She promised she would call again when she knew more.
Fifteen minutes after Holly’s entourage left, a nurse came in and invited her to watch from a family viewing area. It seemed only moments later her niece was lifted into the light, squalling at the cold air and brightness in her eyes. Holly smiled for the first time in hours, and Pete looked astonished. Sharon glanced at the clock. The nurses had known what they were talking about.
The baby was weighed and measured, blood taken for testing, and then she was laid on Holly’s chest. Holly kissed her daughter’s head and closed her eyes to sleep. Sharon called Scott with the good news.
◆◆◆
It was 11:30 p.m. when Sharon left the hospital after saying her goodbyes to Pete, Holly, and little Olive. As she opened her apartment door, she was relieved to see the books still propped up against the windows. She put them back into the bookcase and looked out the window at the darkened park. It was empty.
She closed the curtains and then stared at the place where her grandmother’s image had appeared 24 hours ago. She laid down on the couch again, falling asleep listening to old movies.
She woke in the morning with an idea fully formed. After dressing and tying her hair back into a short ponytail, she grabbed her laptop bag and phone. She rested the books against the windows again, she slid the articles in their plastic sleeves under the bookcases and turned off the magnetic levitation device. The bookcases became immovable with the articles protected beneath them. Then she went to the coffee shop.
Her coworkers smiled as she ordered her coffee, asking how her vacation was going. “Fine,” she answered, because the truth was too complicated to share.
She took her coffee and a pastry outside, sitting at a sidewalk table in the sun with her back to the wall of the shop. From here she had a 180-degree view of the sidewalk and street.
With her laptop open so she looked busy, she waited.
It was a quiet morning. She could hear the low conversation of the workers in the coffee shop, and now and then a dog barked in the distance. A few people entered the coffee shop, leaving soon after with their orders. None sat at the empty tables near her.
She glanced at her watch. She had been sitting for 45 minutes. While she had followed her brainstorm feeling like a secret agent, now she was feeling a little foolish. She bent her head to her laptop, thinking she should go home so that the morning wasn’t a total loss.
There was a light breeze that now and then lifted the small hairs around her face and when she heard a soft brushing sound off to her left, she first dismissed it as the wind. Then there was the sound of a step close to her. She turned to face the man who was now standing a few feet away from her.
It was the familiar man, who had stared at her that morning in the coffee shop, in her grandparents’ neighborhood, and who had been watching her apartment the night before, she was certain now.
The man from the photos in the articles. He looked the same has he did in the photos from 1941, 1962, 1968, and 1984.
He watched her without expression for a few moments then took a few more steps forward and held out his hand. Hesitantly, she stood and then shook his hand. Now he was there, she felt ridiculous. A time traveler? An agent from the future? He would think she was insane.
“Are you the TPC agent?”
She spoke quietly, partially not to be overheard by anyone else, though the street was empty, and partially so that if she was wrong, he might not hear the question. She could pretend she didn’t ask it and make a hasty retreat.
He did not blink or look confused. He studied her once more and then smiled and nodded.
“Yes, I am the TPC agent. My name is Kevin Bower. I am going to be your grandfather.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
As soon as he said his name, she could see her grandfather in the man’s youthful face. His hair was no longer steel gray, but a rich brown black. Gone were the laugh lines and silver white brows that had framed his warm brown eyes. No longer slightly stooped and thin, he was taller and more muscular than she remembered.
No wonder he had looked familiar to her. She felt a little dizzy and sat down.
“I will get you water,” he said kindly, going into the coffee shop.
A few moments later he was back with water for her and coffee for himself, a double shot of espresso she noted as she sipped the water. The coolness helped her focus. A million questions needed answering. He smiled when he saw her tense up.
“Take your time,” he said. “We are in no rush.”
She exhaled and took another sip of water. He was right; she needed to take this slowly, if to just be able to process it all.
“You said you are a TPC agent - are you from the future?” The question seemed the logical place to start.
He shook his head. “No, I am from the 20th century. The TPC recruited me to help correct errors in the timeline in this century.”
“Did you work with Grandmother?”
“Well, from my perspective, I haven’t met your grandmother yet. Is she going to be a TPC agent, too?”
“No, she is, or was, or will be… a historian,” Sharon shook her head. “The tenses are confusing.”
He laughed at that.
“I would like to learn more about her, and our family.”
“Is that allowed?” Sharon asked. “Won’t foreknowledge mess up the timeline or something?”
“Well, we TPC agents have to know a lot about the times they send us to. I was trained to know how to avoid impacting the future. Learning about my future wife, children, and grandchildren won’t do any harm, and will give me something to look forward to.”
Sharon described Grandmother Rose, how beautiful, funny, and smart she was. He nodded encouragingly and did not say much as he listened.
“We had children?”
“Yes, a girl and a boy - my mother Willow and my uncle Pierce. Uncle Pierce lives in Scotland. I’ve only met him once or twice and he never married or had children, that I know of. I have a brother Scott, and a sister Holly. Scott is married to Bradley, and they adopted two children. Oh, and my sister just had a baby - you have a brand-new great-granddaughter, Olive.”
“Tell me about your mother.”
“My father takes care of my mother - she has a mental illness, and the doctors can’t figure out what it is. It’s like dementia, but it isn’t.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, puzzled.
“Sometimes she can’t remember things and talks about things that never happened, or people we’ve never known. Sometimes it seems as if she is experiencing hallucinations and paranoia. Other times she remembers people and events but remembers them with details no one else can remember. The doctors can find no sign of illness or disease, or any kind of head injury. They think it must be an inherited defect.”
His eyes widened. “That sounds like it is hard for everyone,” he said.
“Yes, it is. When I was a teen I moved in with Grandmother and Grandfather… uh, you… because it was too hard not knowing who my mother would be from one day to the next.”
“How often do you see her n
ow?”
“Um, well, I don’t, not often, anyway. It’s… it’s just too hard.”
“What does your dad think of that?”
“He wishes I visited more. We don’t talk about it, really.”
“Hm,” he looked at her thoughtfully and then changed the subject.
“Why did you ask if I was a TPC agent?”
“Grandmother said there were errors in the timeline and that I had to go back and fix them because she couldn’t contact the Temporal Protection Corps. If you’re an agent, you can do it and then I don’t have to.”
“Tell me about these errors.”
“Grandmother left me a series of articles from different times as guides to the errors… and you’re in each one! That must mean you go back and correct them, right?”
He looked alarmed. “What do you mean I am in each one?”
“You are in the background of the photos for each article.”
He nodded, thinking hard.
“You may be right, but my being in the pictures is not proof that I will correct the errors or that it has already happened. I need to consider this carefully.”
“Grandmother also told me to ‘Beware the Chestnut Covin.’ What does that mean?”
A cloud passed over the sun and for a millisecond he looked like a different man, menacing, his eyes cold.
Then it was as if she had imagined it, and he was warm again, with a laugh in his voice.
“The Chestnut Covin is a philosophical group. Its members believe the policies of the Temporal Protection Corps are too restrictive. They think time travelers should have more leeway in how they might impact timelines.”
At her look of concern, he added: “It is all a matter of degree. It is universally agreed that all time travel has the potential of impacting the timeline, even in small amounts. The Temporal Protection Corps recognizes this, and its policies limit impacts to the least possible. The Chestnut Covin thinks they should relax impact rules to make time travel less stringent. The question is not if time travelers can impact the timelines, but how much.
