If Only in My Dreams

by Wendy Markham

  “I’m afraid Hawking thinks he owns the place.” Mr. Kershaw lowers himself into a well-worn armchair opposite the couch. “Well. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this fine afternoon?”

  She decides to cut right to the chase. “I need to ask you a question.”

  He nods, focused on her face with the same intensity with which he used to focus on the formulas and theories he tried so hard to convey to her.

  She finds herself feeling guilty now that she didn’t work harder, do better. At the time, she told herself that physics—like algebra, and chemistry—was not something that would come in handy in the real world. Not her world, anyway.

  Ha.

  “Do you think time travel is possible?”

  He doesn’t even bat an eye. Good old Mr. Kershaw.

  “I do, yes.”

  He does. Yes.

  Her breath catches in her throat.

  The only response she can muster is one word: a strangled-sounding “Why?”

  “My ideas are based on the work of several renowned physicists, Einstein among them. Do you remember his special theory of relativity?”

  She squirms uncomfortably.

  Even if her thoughts weren’t racing in the wake of his unexpected answer, she highly doubts she could recite Einstein’s theory if her life depended on it.

  He grins. “No, hmm?”

  “It’s not really fresh in my mind.”

  Hawking, seemingly disgusted with her, leaps off the couch and pads away in search of more scintillating company.

  “Well, I could offer a refresher,” Mr. Kershaw says, “but I’m sure that can wait for another time, so I’ll simply say that the theory would seem to permit time travel to the future based on the fact that our perception of time is relative to our motion—it can speed up or slow down depending on how fast one thing is moving in relation to something else. Have I lost you?”

  “Yes,” she admits.

  “Let me give you an example. Over thirty years ago, a physicist named Carroll Alley synchronized two atomic clocks, put one on a plane and flew it for several hours, then compared it to the one that stayed earthbound. He found that the one on the plane was behind the one on the ground. Meaning time had slowed down for the clock on the plane. It had thus traveled into the future.”

  Clara can’t seem to find her breath, her voice.

  It’s real, then. It’s possible.

  Rubbing his chin the way he often did as a teacher, only this time sans chalk dust on his fingers, Mr. Kershaw goes on. “You’ve probably heard, if you’re well versed in current events, that there has been considerable discussion about astronauts being able to travel great distances over many years without aging as they do on Earth?”

  She shakes her head, ashamed to discover that she must be woefully ill versed in current events.

  Undeterred, Mr. Kershaw explains, “This would mean that when the astronauts finally arrive at a distant planet they would be much younger than if they had stayed on Earth.”

  “But…” She clears her throat, trying to collect her thoughts. While encouraging, all this talk about outer space seems somewhat off the mark. “What about time travel into the past? Is that possible, too?”

  “Ah, the next big question. Based on Einstein’s theory of gravitation…” He pauses. “Any chance you remember that one?”

  She shakes her head, feeling more unintelligent with every passing moment.

  “I can’t help but feel that I’ve failed you, my dear.”

  It takes her a second to see the twinkle in his eye and realize that he’s joking. Thank goodness.

  “In any case,” he goes on, “based on that theory, we could assume that anything containing energy could warp space-time.”

  Clara nods as though that makes perfect sense.

  “Take light, for example. A physicist named Ronald Mallett believes that two intense beams of light circling in opposite directions could distort time into a linear dimension similar to space.… Am I making any sense to you whatsoever?”

  “Yes,” she lies breathlessly. “Keep going.”

  “In a nutshell, Clara, Mallett’s plan could theoretically work if we had all the technology necessary to implement it. The same goes for wormholes, the old sci-fi standby.”

  “I don’t read much… um, science fiction.”

  “No? Well, briefly, wormholes are a hypothetical space-time gateway, also based on the theory of gravitation, which could allow time travel using relativistic time dilation if sufficient energy were provided.”

  After deciphering his words, she clarifies, “So what you’re saying is that time travel to the past could happen?”

  “With sufficient energy, theoretically, yes. But our current technology is simply incapable of harnessing or producing that level of energy—many times the magnitude of the sun’s cumulative energy.”

  “So it can’t happen?”

  “I repeat… current technology is incapable, Clara.”

  “So… what are you saying, exactly?” she asks slowly. “That it might become possible?”

  He nods emphatically. “Think of this: Around the turn of the last century, a world-renowned mathematical physicist named Lord Kelvin declared that ‘heavier-than-air flying machines are impossible.’ Just a hundred years ago, a respected astronomer named Simon Newcomb announced, and I quote, ‘No possible combination of known substances, known forms of machinery, and known forms of force, can be united in a practical machine by which man shall fly long distances through the air.’”

  “You memorized that word for word?”

  He nods modestly. “I find it absolutely fascinating. Do you think, back then, that anyone in their wildest dreams ever imagined that, in their lifetime, a man could fly across the country in a plane, much less walk on the moon?”

  Flabbergasted, she simply shakes her head.

  “Just a few years after Kelvin and Newcomb made their statements, the Wright brothers came along and figured out how to harness energy and make the seemingly impossible, possible. An everyday miracle, if you will.”

  “So you’re saying that scientifically, time travel isn’t impossible, either.”

  “Theoretically, it isn’t impossible. Scientifically, it may not be possible yet.”

  May not be, Clara notes. Not isn’t.

  “All we would need to do, then,” she says slowly, “is figure out how to harness the energy. Like the Wright brothers did. Is that right?”

  “I wouldn’t say all, but…” He shrugs. “Look, Clara, I taught physics all my adult life. I consider myself a scientist, and scientists never claim absolute knowledge. The most fundamental scientific theory can be disproved if new evidence is presented. That’s what makes it such a fascinating field.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” she murmurs.

  “As fascinating?”

  “Exactly. I thought it was pretty much the opposite.”

  “You mean boring.”

  She smiles faintly. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’re not the first.”

  “I can’t believe what you’re telling me. It seems so… simple.”

  “Occam’s razor.” He tilts his palms as though that explains everything.

  “Naturally, I have no idea what you’re talking about… but I’ll assume you covered it in class.”

  He nods. “Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate.”

  She blinks. “Pardon?”

  “It’s Latin.”

  “No fair! I never even took Latin.”

  With a grin, he translates, “Entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily. Or, to restate the rule by complying to its own form: kiss!”

  “Kiss?”

  “K-I-S-S. Keep it simple, stupid!”

  She can’t help but laugh. “I figured sooner or later you’d come right out and call me stupid.”

  He laughs, too. “Hardly. In fact, you were one of my brightest students—you just chose to apply yourself in areas
other than physics. And look at you now.”

  “Still clueless about physics,” she says wryly. “So where, exactly, does Occam’s razor come in?”

  “For your frame of reference, in science, we apply it to uncertainty in metaphysical concepts. Basically, it says that when you have competing theories, the least complicated is the most likely to be correct.”

  “Time travel isn’t all that uncomplicated… is it?”

  He shrugs. “Could be. It all depends on the evidence.”

  “You make it sound like anything, even what a person would logically believe is impossible, might be possible.”

  “Could be,” he says again. “The thing is, Clara, I’m not just a scientist. I’m a parent. And thirty years ago, I was told that my daughter’s chances of survival, based on scientific evidence, were basically nonexistent. But I prayed for a miracle.” He leans over to pick up the framed photo and waves it in the air. “This is my miracle.”

  “Your daughter.”

  “Maybe Bianca just somehow managed to beat the incredible odds. The nonexistent odds. Or maybe something we can’t understand or comprehend in this lifetime—some kind of energy—intervened to make this happen. Another everyday miracle. Who’s to say? I just know that nothing is impossible. Nothing.” His voice is hoarse.

  Clara nods slowly, her eyes swimming in tears, moved not just because of his daughter’s inspiring story, but because she can’t help thinking of Jed Landry. Jed, and all the other Glenhaven Park men who had no idea they were marching off to their deaths in the war.

  “So it is possible,” she tells Mr. Kershaw, “to go back in time and, maybe, change something that was supposed to happen? You know… save somebody’s life?”

  “Ah, the classic paradox.” He’s already shaking his head, setting the picture of his family on the tray again and leaning back in his chair, arms folded. “That scenario would seemingly violate the law of quantum mechanics that says that what you do in the present is an inevitable product of the past.”

  Her heart sinks. “So you can’t change the past.”

  “There are different theories—some involving alternate universes—but my personal conclusion based on the hypothetical research that’s been done at this time is that no, you can’t.”

  “But you said yourself that nothing is impossible because science isn’t absolute.”

  “I did. And you were paying attention. Very good.”

  “I don’t know if it’s very good, considering that I’m completely confused.”

  “There is very little about the possibility of time travel that isn’t completely confusing, even for somebody like me.”

  “Which means there’s absolutely no hope for somebody like me.”

  And no hope of going back in time to save Jed Landry.

  “I wouldn’t say that. You’re here, aren’t you? Which leads me to ask… why are you here? Why are you asking me about time travel? Researching a new movie role?”

  She doesn’t hesitate before responding with a concise “Yes.”

  Better to lie than attempt the truth. Even now. Even with him.

  “Mr. Kershaw,” she says, remembering one last thing. “I have another question you can probably answer. If a person is in a moving vehicle that suddenly brakes, are they always thrown forward?”

  “Of course. You’re referring to the inertia of direction, which goes back to Newton’s laws of motion.”

  At this point, she notices, he doesn’t bother to ask her if she remembers Newton’s laws of motion.

  “So there is no way a person can be thrown backward.”

  “You would be thrown backward if a car suddenly accelerated.”

  She closes her eyes, trying to recall if there was any possible way she misinterpreted what happened on the train.

  No. She distinctly recalls the screeching of the brakes as it slowed before the curve.

  “Would you like me to show you a textbook that illustrates Newton’s laws?” Mr. Kershaw offers.

  She thanks him, but tells him that she has to get going. Her brain is too overwhelmed at this point to absorb much of anything.

  “Well, anytime you need an expert on the set, you know where to find me,” he says with a wink as he leads her to the door. “Except, of course, over the holidays, because I’m planning on spending every second with my daughter and her family while they’re here. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that nothing is more precious than spending time with people you love. And if you’ve learned nothing else from me, I hope you’ll learn that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kershaw.” Clara stands and hugs him, this time without a hint of awkwardness. “That’s one lesson that I swear I won’t forget.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Now what? Clara wonders, rising from the park bench, tossing the wrapper from her second hot dog into a trash can, and brushing the crumbs off her jeans.

  Now she should probably go home before it starts to rain, that’s what.

  Above the tree line and skyscrapers at the southern edge of Central Park, she can see that the blue sky has given way to an ominous bank of clouds.

  She entered the park from the West Side on a whim, needing to walk and process everything Mr. Kershaw told her. She meandered quite a considerable distance before she came across the hot dog vendor and realized she was still famished. She decided to take a break to eat and watch the skaters on Wollman Rink.

  Now she heads slowly down the path leading to the southeast, leaving behind the white rink crowded with skaters.

  It was a welcome diversion, and as much fun to see the professionals executing perfect twirls and jumps as it was to watch the beginners: stiff-legged preteen girls in cute outfits, wobbly husbands clinging sheepishly to their wives’ hands.

  Then there was the little girl who teetered over to the edge of the ice, entranced by the skilled skaters gliding by. Clara could see the longing in her eyes even from where she sat, yards away, on the bench.

  “Wait, Brittany! Wait for me!” her mother shouted as she hurried to lace her own skates, but the little girl diligently ignored her.

  Brittany had obviously never been on skates before, but she stepped out gamely and pushed right off, gliding across the ice, arms outstretched in elated imitation of the magnificent solo skaters…

  Until she fell.

  And put her hand to her injured mouth, took one look at the crimson smear that covered her fingers, and started screaming.

  Clara watched her mother comfort her, dry her tears, blot her bloody lip.

  She found herself filled with renewed longing for that kind of maternal nurturing… and reminded herself, again, that her mother probably can’t provide it. Not in the way Clara needs, anyway—without looking at Clara with that same desolate expression she always gets whenever anybody even just mentions the word cancer.

  Clara couldn’t help but wish her mother were more like Brittany’s, who coaxed the shell-shocked child right back onto the ice again with a firm but patient smile. She encouraged her daughter to start slowly this time, to stick to the edge of the rink until she found her footing, to keep her balance.

  For Clara, spying on Brittany and her mother was more than a melancholy reminder of her relationship with her own mother. It was also a welcome diversion from…

  Well, from pure panic.

  Which has subsided at last, a good hour after having left Mr. Kershaw’s apartment.

  If everything he said is true, then she’s convinced that what happened to her on Friday morning was no dream.

  She really was back in 1941.

  She knows that now, not just intellectually, but spiritually. She slipped through some kind of warp or wormhole or whatever a physicist or science fiction writer would choose to call it, and she was instantaneously thrown sixty-five years into the past.

  Meaning the Jed Landry she encountered was the war hero himself, not a figment of her vibrant imagination.

  And Glenhaven Park seemed authentically vintage not
because of a set designer’s magic… but because it was the real deal.

  Real magic.

  Or, to quote Mr. Kershaw…

  An everyday miracle.

  I believe in miracles, she thinks, taking her red knit mittens from her pocket and tucking her icy hands into them again. I believe in miracles.

  That’s her new mantra.

  Funny how all it takes is something so simple—validation from a trusted friend, and a willingness to suspend disbelief—to make everything fall into place.

  Not everything.

  She still has cancer. She’s still facing it alone, along with a dismal holiday season.

  But at least I know now that I’m not crazy.

  At least there’s a reasonable explanation for what happened.

  Reasonable from a physicist’s point of view—and from the viewpoint of someone who chooses to believe in everyday miracles.

  Now I know that it really did happen, but I still don’t know why.

  If she wasn’t meant to go back in time to make a difference—to save Jed, and Walter, and the others…

  Well, then, why was she there at all?

  Maybe she was never meant to understand that.

  Or maybe, she was meant to understand, and she left before she could.

  Maybe she could still find a way to understand it… if she just had another chance.

  If I could just go back.

  To 1941.

  Just one more time… one last time.

  But why? Why would she even consider doing that? It was scary enough the first time—

  Only because you didn’t know for sure that you could come back home.

  If she were able to somehow get back to 1941 again, she would still be powerless to change anything.

  Yet…

  Mr. Kershaw himself said that science isn’t absolute.

  He could be wrong about the ability to change things.

  What if I could save Jed Landry? What if that’s the reason I was there in the first place—to warn him?

  What if I had my chance to do that…

  And I ran away.

  She shivers, arms folded, head bent as she walks, huddled as much against the chill from within as from the wind that rustles the dry leaves clinging to a low branch.