by L. E. DeLano
She pushed past him, out the doorway, wiping her cheeks as she went.
I suck in a breath and Finn’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
“What?’
“I just had a … a memory, I think. Something I dreamed once. We were in a house with blue shutters. I think it had been robbed or something. There was broken glass … and the door was kicked in.”
“We were only there for six days,” he says quietly. “But it was home while it lasted.”
I slowly lay my pen on the page, then close the journal over it.
“That was your world?”
He nods. “You and me and a handful of others, trying to find a safe place, scavenging for food. They got everyone else. Then it was just us.”
“Who are they?”
His mouth turns down. “The bad guys. They’re kind of the same everywhere you go—good versus evil. They were the evil, at least there, anyway.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if evil stayed in one reality?”
He reaches for my hand. “It doesn’t work that way. That’s why I’m here.”
And I know he’s here because I’m no longer there.
20
No Rest for the Weary
That night, I take a pain pill and drift off to sleep with my calculus homework still undone on my lap, and I find myself back in the classroom, staring at that red door.
“How are you feeling?” Mario asks, stepping forward to greet me.
“I feel great in here,” I answer. “At home, not so much.”
“Improving, though?”
“Yeah. Slowly but surely. I’m bored more than anything.”
“Well, I can certainly take care of that,” he says, gesturing to me to take a seat.
He leans back against his desk. “Tonight, we’ll be laying some ground rules. I’m sure Finn has covered most of the basics, but I just want to reiterate.”
“Do I need to take notes?” I realize how stupid that sounds the minute it comes out of my mouth. It’s not like I’m going to wake up with a magical notebook in my hand.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Forgot where I was.”
“It’s okay,” he reassures me. “And you can take notes if you think it’ll help reinforce anything. Or if you’re just more comfortable having a notebook in your hand.” He smiles at me kindly.
“I’m okay. Sorry I interrupted.”
He waves me off again like it’s no big deal and turns to gesture to the whiteboard behind him.
“Rule number one,” he says, and it appears in writing on the board, glowing a vibrant red. “Don’t tell anybody what you are.”
“Who’d believe me?”
“Exactly. It’s just common sense. It’s hard to travel when you’re locked up in a padded room, and I can’t exactly send someone to influence anything in your reality if you’re in lockdown.”
“No problem. I have a hard time believing it myself.”
“Rule number two: Do the job you’re assigned, do it quickly and simply, and then get out. Try to limit undue influence.”
“Right.”
“Rule number three is related,” he says. “Be careful.” The word careful is illuminated behind him, in letters much larger and bolder than the others.
“I don’t mind you traveling recreationally because you need the practice, and so far you’ve kept everything nice and even,” he explains. “Just be careful. You don’t want to create a major ripple event that might take a lot of effort to undo.”
I wince a little. “You know about my other traveling?”
Mario gives me a very knowing look. “I know everything about you, Jessa. And I know everything about every Jessa.”
“You’re not mad?”
He shrugs. “It’s expected. Just be smart about it. Now … on to the next lesson,” he says, walking over to the red door. “Come along.”
He opens the door, and I get up from the desk to walk over.
“Where are we going this time? I ask.
“Back to the dreamscape,” he says, opening the red door. “To the stadium. I set up a scenario for training purposes earlier today. We’re going to watch a replay.”
“What?”
“You’ll see,” he says. “Let’s wait over here.”
This time, Mario is a young, very attractive Latino with biceps to die for. He’s wearing a tight muscle shirt and sunglasses, and women are glancing at him as they shuffle past.
“Nice look,” I say.
“A favorite of mine,” he replies, with a nod at an attractive redhead who stares a little too long.
Suddenly, the redhead plows into the man in front of her, because he plowed into the couple in front of him, and they stopped short because a middle-aged man with a ponytail and a team jersey has come to a dead halt, trying to scrape some gum off his shoe.
He doesn’t seem to notice the furor he’s caused, and a few of the people give him dirty looks as they make their way around him. He finally cleans his shoe off and everyone’s moving smoothly again.
“For a minute there I thought she was stopping because of you,” I said to Mario.
“She was—inadvertently.”
Realization begins to dawn. “You set the guy up with the gum.”
“That’s right. See?” he says. “Simple. A piece of gum and wheels are set in motion. In and out and it’s done.”
He motions me over to the door, and we step back through, into the classroom.
“What was the point of that?” I ask. “How did it massively alter anybody’s reality to be mildly inconvenienced for a couple of seconds?”
“It was long enough for the man in front of the redhead to reach into the purse of the woman in front of him,” Mario says. “He stole her wallet.”
My eyes widen. “You helped him steal a wallet?”
“I did,” he says without remorse. “And if that were reality, it would set off an entire chain of events that would curb several dozen other events that would have splintered and formed over seventy new reality streams.”
“So these … corrections keep things in check?”
“That’s what most of our work is about. The realities keep expanding, and adjustments are a necessity.”
“I don’t even want to know how you manage to keep track of all this stuff.” My mind is boggling at the thought of endless realities and endless possibilities. “Do you ever get any downtime? Ever?”
“Now you know why I try on new looks for entertainment,” he remarks drily. “It’s not like I can book a cruise.”
“You need a spa day.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighs. “But I’ll settle for getting you into a nice, mundane reality where no one’s trying to kill you. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
Well, the not-getting-killed part. I’m starting to get really tired of being mundane.
I’m beginning to think this traveling stuff might be the answer to my prayers—once it stops being such a curse.
Not long after I wake on Thursday, Finn is at the door with a scone and coffee from Mugsy’s, hoping to cheer me up.
“Thank God you’re here,” I gripe. “Mom and Danny are out and I swear to God, there is nothing to watch on daytime TV.”
“You’re looking great,” he remarks, setting my goodies down. “You look better rested, at least.”
“No thanks to Mario. He started my classes last night.”
“How’d it go?”
I shrug. “Fine, I guess. I was just getting rules and observing. He knows about my unauthorized travel, by the way.”
“Of course he does,” Finn says. “And as long as you’re careful, it’s not a big deal.”
My eyes light up with a sudden idea. “Hey, can we … go somewhere?”
He considers a moment. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”
“It’s too early for glitter mousse.”
Finn raises his eyebrows. “It’s never too early for glitter mousse.”
“Somewhere new,” I say. “Surprise me.” I hold up a hand. “But in a good way.”
“I have a few places in mind,” he says. “Let’s put in a call.”
He tugs me to my feet by my good arm, and we head up to my bedroom. It takes a little longer this time—nearly ten minutes—before we get a response, and then we are through.
I am standing next to Finn, looking at myself in the side mirror of a van. Before us is a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean, and there are people about, but not many. We are both wearing wet suits.
“Looks like we might have another couple of hours at most before it rains,” comes a voice from behind me. I look over my shoulder at my father, who is carrying equipment.
“Maisie had better be in a talkative mood today,” he goes on. “Last time I didn’t get anything I could use. It’s like she’s playing mind games with us, I swear.”
“Do you need some help?” I ask.
My dad smiles. “You and Finn get the rest of the stuff,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads back to the van.
“My father is a scientist,” I murmur. That doesn’t seem right, and yet I know it is. He doesn’t work at a wastewater treatment facility. Here, he is a marine biologist and part of an ongoing dolphin study that maps their language and actually communicates with them.
“Yes, he is,” says Finn. “And I’m interning with him. It’s how we met.”
We carry the equipment over to the edge of a short cliff that hangs out over the water, and Finn tells me he has to get the boat ready. I get the digital video camera out of the bag, setting it on the tripod as Dad puts on his headphones and tests out the sonar equipment. Then I reach for the sound sensors—these are attached to floating buoys. The dolphins are able to recognize them, and even approach to communicate on their own.
We’ve been talking to them for nearly eight years now, and what we’ve learned has helped us in so many ways—environmentally, scientifically … no one really thought it could be done, but my father was an important part of that breakthrough. He studied marine biology on a full scholarship, instead of dropping out for two years and marrying my mom, then finishing an entirely different degree in night school after Danny was born.
I get the last sensor affixed to the buoy just as Finn pulls up in the boat. He’s waiting just below where we stand on the top of the cliff face, about a half dozen feet above him.
“Drop the buoys!” he calls. I pick up a buoy each, and one at a time, we lower them down into Finn’s hands so he can place them carefully in the boat. Then I give my dad a wave and leap into the water. Once I hit, I swim over to the boat, and Finn pulls me in.
“You ready?” he asks.
I give him a thumbs-up while I reach for a towel to dry off my face, and he starts up the motor and steers us back out into open water. I sit at the bow, holding the buoys steady until we reach the drop point. Once they’re in place, I give Finn another thumbs-up and he takes the boat parallel to the coast, heading down toward the marina.
We pull up next to the dock, and he maneuvers us close enough for me to hop up and secure our mooring line to the post. He joins me on the dock a moment later, and we stand there, just looking at each other.
“So,” he says.
“So … this is cool.”
“I thought you might like it. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I walk with him down the dock toward a row of shops set back off the marina.
“We can really travel anytime we want?” I ask. “I mean, every day if we wanted to? Dreamers don’t get upset about it?”
“Think of it like a big football game,” Finn replies. “Your Dreamer is your coach, and when it’s game time, he pulls you onto the field. He tells you the play that’s going to go down, and he tells you the part you’re going to take in it, and you play the game. You may put your own variation on the play, adjusting for events on the field, but when the game is over—when you wake up—the coach doesn’t follow you home to live with you.”
He stops us both in front of the door to a small shop. The weathered plank sign announces the name: GRACIE’S CAFÉ.
“You have a life outside the game,” he continues. “The coach might call to see how you’re doing or even come by to drop something off every now and then, but your life is still yours. And if you want to play a friendly game of football at the park with a bunch of friends or a group of strangers, all your coach—your Dreamer—asks is that you be careful and not do anything that could wreck you for your next game.”
“Believe me, I’m sticking to nice places like this if I can help it,” I reply.
“You hungry?” Finn asks. “Gracie makes the best clam chowder around.”
I make a face. “Ugh. I hate clam chowder.”
He looks surprised. “Really? It’s usually one of your favorites.” He opens the door and I walk through.
“I got sick on it once when we were on vacation. I haven’t been able to eat it since.”
“Ah. Causality.”
He nods his head as the hostess seats us. “It happens. One of the millions of little things that can alter a person in ways that can’t always be immediately determined. Which explains the need for Travelers.”
“Because of my aversion to clam chowder?” I ask skeptically.
“You never know. Maybe someday, some scientist in a lab will create a supervirus that wipes out most life on earth. Strangely enough, the cure resides in the chemical and organic combination of clams, potatoes, and cow’s milk. Clam chowder is the salvation of mankind—all except for you.”
He pauses a moment as the waitress hands us menus and takes our drink order. Once she’s out of the way, he continues.
“And when you pass away due to your aversion to the cure, we will have also lost any contributions your descendants would have given us as well, including a new fusion drive that would have enabled space travel at far greater speeds than we travel at now. So that peaceful alien culture we could have discovered is ignored all because you got sick on clam chowder once.”
The waitress takes our order as I mull all this over. I sip my Coke, trying to gather my thoughts.
“And Mario keeps track of all those repercussions?” I ask, finally.
“That’s what Dreamers do.”
I look around as the waitress puts our plates down in front of us. The other people in the restaurant seemed to be normal enough. Then I glanced down at my plate, and the bread on my sandwich is green.
“Yech!” I nudge the bread with my finger, almost afraid to touch it. “My bread is moldy.”
“No, it’s not,” he says. “Think about it. You know it’s fine.”
He’s right. It is fine. Bread is almost always this shade of green. They use a type of algae in it that’s supposed to be really healthy, and it gained popularity a decade before my birth, when a huge blight wiped out most of the wheat in the country.
But I still don’t want to eat it.
“Oh, go on,” he prods.
“What if I get sick on it and we never go to Mars and discover fat-melting chocolate?”
He raises a brow and toasts me with his soda. “Here’s to living dangerously,” he says.
21
Recovery
I’m getting really tired of being an invalid. By Saturday, I’ve finished all my homework and I’m rewriting one of my stories for the fifth time as Finn shows up, bearing my morning coffee from Mugsy’s. “I’m so bored,” I whine as he sits next to me on the couch.
He looks over his shoulder to make sure we’re not overheard. “We could travel again,” he says.
As much as I’d love to get out of the house, I shake my head no.
“I’d feel bad about it. When the other me got here, she really wasn’t expecting me to be injured. There wasn’t much she could do for fun. She ended up rearranging my room, remember?”
“We could watch a movie,” he suggests. “Anything you want.”
“Donnie Darko?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know that one.”
“Strangely enough, it’s about a guy who can see shifts in reality and time. Everyone thinks he’s crazy till the end, when you find out he’s not.”
“I can see the appeal.” He grins.
“I feel so useless,” I huff as I reach for the remote.
“I like you right here where you’re safe.”
His hand reaches out, and he twines his fingers with mine just as Danny’s voice calls out from the front room.
“Jessa! Ben!”
“What about him?” I call back.
“His truck is here. I see his truck.”
I pull my hand from Finn’s, and a second later, the doorbell rings and Danny lets Ben in. He walks into the family room and does a subtle double take when he sees me on the couch with Finn.
“Oh. Sorry,” he says uncomfortably. “I ran into your mom at the gas station and she said you could have visitors now. I can come back later.”
“No!” I reassure him. “It’s fine. Stay.” I gesture to the empty chair across from the couch. “This is Finn. He’s a friend. Finn, this is—”
“Ben,” Finn finishes. “Jessa talks about you all the time.”
I do? Since when? At least, not to Finn I don’t.
“You’re the guy who fished her out of the creek?” Ben asks.
“He’s the one,” I answer for Finn. “You want a soda or something?”
Ben takes his eyes off Finn long enough to roll them at me. “How many times do I have to tell you Yankees?” He asks as he roots through the fridge for his drink. “It’s a Coke. Even if it’s Dr Pepper, it’s a Coke. I don’t drink soda.”
I give him a smirk. “Since when was New Mexico part of the south? It wasn’t much more than a territory during the Civil War, and as I recall, both sides claimed it.”
“That true enough,” Ben says, finally taking a seat and popping the tab on the soda. “But they divided it, North and South. Under the terms of the Mesilla Convention, the southern half of the state joined the Arizona Territory as part of the Confederacy. I’m from Alamogordo, which would have been part of that agreement. That makes me technically southern.”
“Southwestern,” I correct. My eyes slide over to Finn, who’s looking at both of us like we’re talking Greek.
