The only other item I would take with me to the past was my grandfather’s gold pocket watch. He’d been my favorite person when I was growing up and he’d loved me unconditionally. On my thirteenth birthday, a few months before he died, he pressed the watch into my hand and said, “Charlotte, keep the watch and remember me. It is my wish and God’s certainty that it will always protect you.” I often wore it to work, and I had done so on the day of the fire. It was one of the few objects from my past that I still owned.
That night, Luke Baker, who had been following my progress with TEMPUS since he first introduced me to the organization months ago, brought a pizza over for a farewell dinner. No beer was allowed. I would need a clear head the next night as I created my intention for time travel.
We sat on the two stools in my empty kitchen, searching for things to say.
“I will miss you, Charlotte.”
I looked at him and saw by his tender expression that he meant it. “What a nice thing to say. You’ve been my only real friend, and a good friend. Hey, I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about that. It is something you truly want, isn’t it, Charlotte?”
I nodded. “Yes… Very much.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yes. Sometimes at night, when I can’t sleep—which is most nights now—I actually find myself praying to a God I’m not sure I even believe in, pleading my case that He or She will allow me to go back so that I can truly change my past and somehow make a difference in this world.”
“You know that you were one of the best analysts the NSA ever had.”
“That’s much ado about nothing, Luke. In what really mattered, I failed. I’ve lived all alone in a narrow little world I created for myself. I tried to move on, but I couldn’t.”
Luke stared at me kindly, taking my hand and squeezing it. “Okay, Charlotte, so now you will have your chance.”
My eyes welled up. “Yes. I hope you’ll say a prayer for me.”
“I’m not much of a praying man, but maybe God will lean my way just this once and hear my special prayer for you and your family.”
At the front door we hugged, and then he was gone. I turned back to my shell of a home and walked the empty rooms, hearing the echo of my footsteps. I was scared. I was scared to death.
CHAPTER 11
On Thursday, May 24, less than twenty-four hours before I was to time travel, Cyrano ushered me into the Launch Room, as it was humorously called. It was an L-shaped room on the first floor with no windows. They’d been bricked up. The room contained glass-topped desks with four desktop computers and six 34 inch curved LED monitors. The blue LED strip lighting that ran along the ceiling was muted, and the eerie glow from the monitors created a futuristic type atmosphere, not a retro one.
There was a single chair placed against an open brick wall—a kind of soft black leather recliner, the same I’d used with Kim during my first meditation training sessions. I was happy to see it—an old friend. But the slender seven-foot-tall obelisk that stood next to the chair was truly captivating. I couldn’t pull my eyes from it, staring into it with a fascinated wonder. Waves of blue and white light shimmered and flashed through a smoky reddish fog.
I pointed at it. “What is that?” I asked Cyrano.
“A kind of cosmic computer.”
Alex, Maggie, Walter, Kim and Dieter were all present, seated or stooped behind the monitors, absorbed and whispering, as if mumbling incantations. The mood was somber, although Cyrano tried for smiles and an upbeat manner. I tried on my 1968 outfit. I’d be wearing a simple light blue dress that was sleek but loose, because I would be carrying $60,000 of hidden cash from 1968. I do not know where they had managed to get cash from 1968, and I didn’t want to know. A light cotton white jacket and black pumps finished the look.
My fashion expert was Wynter Albrecht, a tall willowy blonde of about forty, who was also a physicist. (Wasn’t everybody at TEMPUS?)
Wynter was absorbed in animated thoughts and gestures, speaking glibly, as if she were lecturing a freshmen college class.
“By 1968, the psychedelic style had burst onto the fashion world with all kinds of weird dresses and tunics, bell-bottom jeans, tie-dye shirts and miniskirts. These bold, casual fashion statements were, in themselves, a rebellion and a protest. They stunned and startled a conservative world that had held fast to the suit and tie, the elegant dress, with matching hat and white gloves. This consensus uniform had lasted for generations, but almost overnight, it was discarded, and our culture was completely transformed, to the casual dress of today.”
I gave Wynter a pointed look. “I remember the 1960s well, Wynter. I was there.”
She glanced up, a bit startled. “Oh, well yes, of course you were. Forgive me, Charlotte. Anyway, at seventy-six years old, you wouldn’t be a part of that rebellious generation, so that’s why I dressed you in the earlier style.”
I was carrying some of the $60,000 in hidden cloth pockets sewn into the dress. The remainder was in my purse and in a sleek money belt concealed under the dress.
Cyrano and Dieter came by, handing me my 1968 driver’s license and passport. My new identity was Charlotte Wilson, born in Chicago, Illinois.
I didn’t have to worry about credit cards. It wasn’t until the 1970s that women could even have credit cards in their own name.
Later, we all sat in the conference room, feeling the strain of the approaching day. Dieter’s eyes were alert and active, as if calculations were going off behind those tired eyes. Alex did not play the pinball machine. He seemed uncharacteristically distracted. Maggie worked constantly on her laptop and Kim, as always, smiled pleasantly. Walter Sieg was not present.
And then came the most emotional moment. The final consent form awaited my signature. Part of it read:
The Purpose of the Experiment
Why I was a Candidate
Other Factors
And then finally:
I understand that the risks involved can be life-threatening, including stroke, brain damage, loss of mental function and death.
Having read (or had read to me) and having understood all the above, I do hereby voluntarily consent to participate in this “physics experiment” and, in no way, hold TEMPUS, or any employees of TEMPUS, responsible for the outcome of said experiment, whether successful or unsuccessful.
I did not hesitate to sign the form. I’d committed myself to the physics experiment weeks ago.
Finally, I signed another form making Cyrano my legal caregiver. If I developed brain damage, or had to be placed on life support, I did not want to be kept alive. I instructed Cyrano to “pull the plug.”
In the event of my death, TEMPUS would secretly take care of my burial. I would be buried at Oak Hill Cemetery with my family, in a plot I’d purchased in 1970.
At the end of a very long day, Cyrano and I were alone in his office. I saw the dark circles around his eyes and noticed that he’d aged noticeably in the last few months. We’d become good friends, if not close ones. Long ago I’d stopped making friends, and I’d forgotten how. Luke had been my last.
From across his desk, Cyrano slipped a typed piece of paper toward me, with six companies’ names and their corresponding stock ticker symbols.
“Charlotte, as you know, the $60,000 you’re taking with you is worth about $400,000 by the standards of 1968. When you arrive, contact a broker and invest $45,000 into those six stocks in equal proportions. Keep $15,000 in a bank account. That’s about $100,000 for that time. If you live to be eighty-two, the investments from those six companies will make you a millionaire.”
He grinned ruefully. “Time travel has its advantages, but it has made me a crook.”
I stared at the paper and tried for a kind of joke. “I always wanted to be a millionaire.”
Cyrano exhaled a soft breath of finality. “Well, Charlotte. Are you ready?”
“Yes… of course.”
“I will miss
you.”
His genuine kindness touched me. “Really?”
“Yes. I will wait anxiously for your return.”
“But it won’t be me. If all this hocus-pocus works, when I return, I will be someone else.”
Cyrano lowered his eyes. “Maybe something wonderful will happen tomorrow. I hope so, and I believe so.”
Our eyes met, and his were misty. “Charlotte, I wish I could go with you.”
I hesitated, a thought rising. “I never thought to ask. Do you have regrets, Cyrano? Do you have things in the past you wish you could change?”
I saw a tender sadness in his eyes. “Oh, yes, Charlotte. Oh yes…”
PART 2
CHAPTER 12
In the Launch Room, I sat in the deep, comfy leather chair, leaned back and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy. My heart was kicking in my chest. I was sure my blood pressure was rocketing up. Not good for a person who was supposed to be in a tranquil state, so her mind could form an intention of returning to 1968. My heart pills were sewn into a pocket, not that I could take one now, and a vintage 1960s suitcase was on my right. No one was sure that the suitcase would travel. “Stop thinking so much,” I told myself.
Kim stood over me, smiling her usual reassuring smile. “Just allow yourself to relax. There’s no rush. You’re about to begin a new adventure, so begin by taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly, just as we practiced.”
I did so, but my pulse was high, and my mind was a tangled mess.
I ran through my instructions again—for the thousandth time. I heard Cyrano’s instructions in my head.
“Charlotte, in 1968, this building was a school textbook distribution warehouse, not unlike the Texas school book repository warehouse that was involved in the assassination of President Kennedy. We have sorted through all the blueprints of this building and have positioned you to land in 1968, on the first floor, just before dawn on May 25th. No one will be in the building at that time. We did our historical research. The first shift begins at 8a.m. You will stand and walk out of the room and turn right. Down the hallway and to your right you’ll see a side exit door. We are positive it is not alarmed. Push the door open and enter the world of 1968.”
Kim’s voice startled me back to the present. “Close your eyes and allow your thoughts to settle, Charlotte. Breathe easy and begin counting your breaths… Breathe in, breathe out, one. Breathe in, breathe out, two.”
My thoughts continued to race. “I bet they regret having chosen me for this,” I thought. “Am I too old? Why did they think a woman my age could do this? Why did I agree to this? I’m seventy-six years old, for God’s sake! I was a terrible choice. The wrong choice.”
As I fought for calm, I caught sight of Alex staring at me intensely. He stood near the obelisk of blue light, and he was bathed in it, little sparks of light circling his body. I’d never seen that before.
More thoughts cut in. “Will I be dead soon? What if I wind up in another time—the 1800s or even before that? Stone age? What if I wind up in the future and the world has been blown to bits? What will I do then? What if I’m the last person alive on the Earth? What the hell good would that suitcase do me?”
Again, Kim drew me back to the present. “Relax, Charlotte, and imagine the little house by the sea we created. It’s quiet, there are flowering gardens and you can hear the soft hiss of the waves as they roll up on the beach. Just relax now. Relax and breathe easy.”
I kept breathing.
“Feel the energy slowly build in your hands and feet,” Kim said soothingly, nearly at a whisper. “Feel your heartbeat soften and relax.”
I don’t know how much time passed before the agitation of my mind slowly dissipated, but Kim was gone, and the room seemed to be on the periphery of my mind. I heard a soft electric buzzing sound. Gradually, I began to drift down into a quiet pool of darkness, sinking beneath the surface static of my thoughts, down and down, into the depths of scintillating blue light. Here, now, I was to form my intention, in this soft blue light. First, I repeated my intention to myself several times. “Return to May 25, 1968 in safety and peace.”
Next came the visual image of Paul and my daughters—the three of them before me—as they’d appeared in that winter photograph. They were smiling and calling, willing me to return to them with wiggling fingers.
I held the image, firmly, as I had been trained. It had taken weeks of practice to hold this image steady, with no mental movement, no intruding thoughts, no chaotic emotions or extraneous images. Only Paul, Lacey and Lyn were fixed on the screen of my mind. In time, I saw them waving at me, calling for me to come to them, their voices sounding like distant echoes.
Time must have passed, but I had a sense of pulsing timelessness. And then, I was startled by distant voices, mumbling. I felt a cold draft of wind wash over my face; the sound of the sea, its waves thundering toward the beach, crashing, thudding onto shore.
I mentally held onto my image—even when my heart felt a stabbing pain that nearly snatched the precious faces of my little girls from my mental grasp. No… No, I held on, feeling my body vibrate and shake. Still I held on, not with the force of strength, but with the firm authority of intention, anchored deep in that peaceful, endless ocean. Fear charged and attacked. My body felt as though it were breaking into pieces—arms reaching, legs wide, head spinning. Was I going to be pulled apart?
I heard bells—distant church bells—Christmas bells? A choir singing. More agitated voices. I heard shouting, and a rumbling explosion somewhere off in the distance. Running water. Wind chimes. Laughter. I heard shouting crowds, and the growl of airplane motors roaring over my head.
Suddenly, I was flung into a sharp cold wind—sailing, whirling helplessly over mountains and moonlit lakes, geese racing by, clouds whipping past my face.
Darkness and light. Darkness and light. Bitter cold. Icy, bitter cold. Still my tenacious mind held fast to my daughters’ faces, to Paul’s sparkling blue eyes; to the sound of his smooth baritone voice. Intention: Return to May 1968 in safety and peace.
Then something slapped at me—wind? I felt a punch in the gut. Air exploded from my mouth. My heart drummed, ached, pounded. I couldn’t hold consciousness. I began to slip away into a tunnel of darkness—an endless tunnel—tossed and hurled into cavernous depths, arms flailing, heart feeling as if it would explode.
This is it, I thought. It’s over. I’m dying.
CHAPTER 13
A slow pulsing. Pain in my chest. Head pounding. Can’t move. Can’t be dead. Too much pain. Darkness. Distant siren. Where?
Floor… hard. Cold. On my side, I think. Moved my foot. Pain. Moved right hand. Am I in shock? More pain. Heart hurts. God how it drums in my ears. Mind is numb. Thoughts seem frozen, like glaciers. Can’t think. Can’t reason. Cold. Where am I?
My entire body was a throbbing bruise and I couldn’t move it. A slow creeping panic began to rise. I felt helpless, vulnerable and, as my consciousness slowly began to awaken, I struggled to open my eyes. Darkness. Heaviness.
It was the pain in my heart that prodded me to roll over on my back, like some helpless turtle. I grimaced in pain and reached, with a straining effort, for the pocket that held my heart medication. Had to get it. I walked my stiff fingers to the spot, worked to peel back the Velcro, and probe the pocket for the flat case that held the pills. No! No… Paste. The pills were just a paste. The case was a mass of goo. Again, I fought panic. Stay calm, Charlotte. Stay calm.
I touched the paste with the tip of a finger and brought it to my mouth. I did this several times, each time taking easy, careful breaths, until my heartbeat settled and the shock of impact subsided.
It was imperative I find out where I was, so I could make some decisions. With all my strength, I rolled over onto my stomach and, with my hands, strained to push up to my knees. My entire body was shaking, and my pulse was much too high. “Can’t die, Charlotte,” I whispered. “Not now. Can’t die here.”
Minutes later
I was on my feet, leaning precariously against something. A box? I crabbed my way along what felt to be a row of boxes until, high above, I saw the dim glow of light streaming through a grimy upper window. I squinted, feeling like a prisoner in a dungeon, desperate for freedom. Yes, it was light! Daylight. Hope added needed strength. I stayed put, letting the strength build as the light brightened. Dawn?
As darkness gave way to gray shapes and sizes, I glanced at rows of cardboard boxes stacked against the walls. I searched for my suitcase. Nothing. It wasn’t there. It didn’t make it. My nervous eyes darted about, looking for my purse. I saw it on the floor and felt a flood of relief.
My thoughts began to thaw and flow. Okay. Good. Next. Had I landed in the right place at the right time, Saturday, May 25, 1968 at around dawn? I reached for my grandfather’s gold stop watch, which I had tucked securely in another sewn pocket. I felt for it. It was there. I opened the pocket and carefully drew it out into the murky light.
My shoulders sank. The face was cracked, the hands frozen at 4:12 a.m. I held it to my ear. No sound. I heaved out a sigh and returned the watch to my pocket. The broken watch blunted my morale. Was it a sign that I’d fail my mission? I recalled my grandfather’s words as he lay dying. “Charlotte, keep the watch and remember me. It is my wish and God’s certainty that it will always protect you.”
With great effort, I managed to retrieve my purse and then stand for a time to gather much needed strength and balance. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw a closed door. My heart fluttered, pains shooting through it. I doubled over in agony and had to wait until the pain subsided.
Standing stoically erect, inhaling deep breaths, I didn’t stir, afraid I might shatter into pieces. Minutes later, I finally mustered the courage to make a move. I wobbled over to the door, praying it wouldn’t be locked. If it was locked, I’d be caught by some warehouse employee and no doubt held until the police arrived to question me. Cyrano and I had gone over just such a scenario and I was ready with my answers, but I was in no physical shape to go through any kind of interview. I had to get out in the air, so I could breathe. I was terrified that I would have a heart attack and die right there.
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