The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time

by Samuel Ben White

  "Huh?"

  "If you don't got back in time, doesn't that mean George Washington gets run over by that wagon? Without him, doesn't that mean the United States fails and the Soviets take over? Does rescuing time mean giving the whole world back over to communism? I mean, that really doesn't bother me as much as the thought of losing you and Sarah, but I don't really care for it."

  Garison hated his thought, but he said it anyway, "Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. I changed everything, remember? That's the way things used to be. But then I saved George Washington and changed the world. Maybe by sewing up the hole in time I'm not just saving time, maybe I'm returning the world to normal." Waving his hand to encompass the world, he said, "Maybe everything I created is abnormal. Maybe it shouldn't be this way."

  "So maybe I won't just not know about you and Sarah; maybe I won't ever be born, either." It was his turn to give a questioning look, so she said, "Who's to know whether I was ever born in your old world? My father's side of the family, the Dawsons, came to Texas with Stephen F. Austin. My mother was from California. Under your world as you've explained it to me, there's virtually no chance they will ever meet. I and my brothers will never be born because California is controlled by the Japanese and Texas is a sovereign nation."

  Garison chewed his lip for a moment before laughing a mirthless laugh and saying, "It was easy when all I thought I was doing was causing myself to cease to exist. Sarah? That thought hurts me, but I figured, somehow, we'd meet in heaven. But you? I don't know if I can go through with this knowing it might mean the end of you, too."

  "Then don't do it, Garison. Let's just go, move to Australia or something, and leave this all behind."

  "I can't," he replied, shaking his head sadly. "One day, it would catch up with us. Maybe very soon. But what if it didn't? What if it took twenty years to catch up with us? What good have we really done Sarah if we've saved her for a world of chaos?"

  "Oh Garison," she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her, "Just hold me. Please, hold me."

  Garison's Journal

  November 11, 2007

  Well, now I have a theological question I don't think even the apostle Paul probably ever considered: what happens to the soul of someone who never existed?

  On the surface, it seems like a question with the answer built in. A "no brainer" as they say. If someone never existed, then their soul never existed either, right? A soul that never existed doesn't have to be saved. I am suddenly becoming aware, however, that it is a legitimate question.

  I grew up in the Soviet Americas as an only child. After I changed time, though, I not only created the United States of America, I also created some siblings somehow. Ergo, it stands to reason that some people who formerly existed in the world I grew up in ceased to exist when everything was changed.

  So what happened to them? In a metaphysical sense, I mean.

  They were living, breathing individuals who no longer exist. Never did exist, in fact. Though they did, in fact, exist—once upon a time. "Time." There's that word again.

  Heaven or hell? Where are they now? I cannot believe God would have just allowed them to be annihilated and whisked out of existence by my accident.

  The question, of course, has special relevance for me. What if what Heather and I were saying last night is true: that I will cease to exist if our attempt succeeds?

  Again, "cease to exist" is an incorrect phrase. It implies that something existed at one time. But if we succeed in stopping me from traveling through time; and that, in turn, stops me from marrying Sarah; and that, in its turn, prevents my ancestors from ever begetting me. I am a firm believer that life begins at conception, that abortion is murder. I, though, will have never been conceived. Do I go to heaven?

  I like to think I will. I have given my life to Christ. I have been baptized. I have worshipped, prayed, praised, and tried to live my life for Jesus.

  My hope lies in the immensity of God's grace, I guess. The Bible tells us it can cover over a multitude of sins. I hope that wiping yourself and millions of other people completely out of existence is on that list.

  Garison watched the printer spew out the address labels and said, "That should do it. I printed up labels for every house my parents or I lived in since 1985. Fortunately, there weren't many. Also, even if we get a chance to send one to me during my college years, I'm sure my parents will get it to me. So I didn't even bother printing out my addresses at school."

  "I have a question," Jon injected. He was holding Sarah in his arms; the two having become fast friends.

  "Shoot."

  "Do remember getting one of these packages?"

  Garison looked at him questioningly, then nodded and replied, "I see what you mean. You're saying if I got one ten years ago, I should remember it."

  "Right. Do you?"

  Garison shook his head, "No. I'm sure I never got one."

  Heather piped in, "Then is this all just a waste of time?" She sounded almost hopeful. The morning light had made her feel differently than she had before and she knew they had to try and change the past. Still, she didn't like the idea of Sarah and Garison just being "poofed" into non existence. She didn't care that it might mean the same thing to her, she only worried about her family.

  "Not necessarily," Garison answered. He knew what she was thinking and hated to burst her bubble of hope. "If this works, it will change history—again. Either we will cease to exist, or I'll remember getting the package."

  "But if you get the package," Heather pointed out, "Won't that automatically change things?"

  "Not on a big scale. What if I get the package but don't believe it? What if I go through with the experiment anyway? Then, I might suddenly remember the package, but there'll be nothing I could do about it. Except to try and send another one back."

  Day looked at the clock on the wall and said, "'Time's a wasting', as they say—literally. I'll take the first watch. Give me some of those labels."

  Garison nodded and tore off a sheet. There were really only four periods of time they needed to be aware of. From 1985 to 1992 his parents had live in the same house in Durango. From 1992 until the present they had owned a condo in Tamarron that Garison watched over for them. From 1993 until 2003, he had lived in Durango; then he and Heather had moved to their present address in 2004. A package to any of those addresses in the right year should get to him with no problem.

  As Garison handed Jon the sheet of labels and a wrapped video tape, he said, "We're better off guessing late than early. Durango's a small enough town that, if you send it to me in town even a year after we moved to the Canyon they'd still get it to me. Everyone at the post office knows me—and most everyone else in town. Because I was Justice of the Peace."

  "Because you're a kook," Heather corrected. She said it with a smile but Garison could tell by the look in her eyes that she was still angry with the whole plan.

  "Gotcha," Jon nodded, having missed the unspoken interchange. He went out into the front yard to play with Sarah and watch for a hole in time.

  As soon as he was out of the door, Garison said, "I'm going to go stir crazy if I just sit in here. I think I'll go out and play soccer with Sarah."

  "All right. Make sure she's bundled up well." He nodded and she added, "And made sure she keeps that hood on. You know how she likes to pull it off. And take care of your shoulder."

  "Yes, mother," Garison nodded and opened the door. "What are you going to do?"

  She shrugged and said, "I noticed you've taken up your journal again. I might write in mine, too. Mind if I use the lap top?"

  "Go ahead."

  Outside, Garison and Sarah played soccer while Jon raked up the few remaining leaves. Fall had hit all of a sudden that year and there weren't many leaves left on the trees. He knew, though, that when it reached this point he could well be raking a little bit every day as the leaves fell one at a time for weeks. He still refused to get one of those annoying leaf blowers, though. He hoped the ci
ty passed the proposed ordinance to restrict their hours of usage.

  It was a slightly overcast day and there could be no doubt in anyone's mind what time of year it was. Though the industrialization of the city tried to mask it, it even smelled a little like fall. It would soon be winter and there was a slight hint of that on the air as well.

  As a truck pulled up into Jon's driveway, Garison asked, "Know him?"

  Day look and was surprised at what he saw. He replied, "That's ol' Jerry Coslet. He used to help his father do yard work and prune my trees every year. I haven't seen him since he went off to college back in '87."

  "'87?" Garison asked. "Jon, that boy's not over sixteen."

  "You're right," Day nodded with recognition. "You go get a tape and I'll talk to him for a minute."

  Garison nodded and took off toward the house. Sarah took the opportunity to kick the ball between the two trees her father had been guarding. While still not completely sure why you were supposed to do this, she raised her stubby little hands into the air and shouted, "Goal!" It had been the first phrase her father had taught her.

  Garison grabbed one of the tapes off the porch and quickly put the correct label on it. He said a silent prayer and ran it back over to Mister Day. "This could be it," he whispered.

  Day nodded and said, "Jerry, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine named Gar—Gary Fitch."

  Garison shook the bony hand of the skinny teen ager and they both said how pleased they were to meet each other. Day held out the tape and asked, "Could you do me a favor when you leave, Jerry?"

  "Sure, Mister Day."

  Jon handed him the tape and said, "Could you run this by the post office later? I would, but Gary and I need to go over a few things inside. He's, uh, an electrician."

  "OK, sure," Jerry half nodded, half shrugged. He put the package in the cab of his father's work truck and asked, "You want the usual for the trees?"

  Day hesitated, looked at his watch, and said, "Yeah. But could you run that package over there now? If you took it to the post office now it might make it out on tonight's run. If I can get it there early it'll help and all. You know?"

  "Whatever you say."

  Jon handed him a couple dollars and said, "This is for postage—and gas. Keep the change."

  Jerry nodded and got into the truck. As he backed it down the driveway, he was thinking how much older Mister Day had looked. Almost as if he had aged twenty years since last spring. Jerry shrugged the thought off and backed into the street. When he looked up to wave to Mister Day and his friend, they were both gone. He figured they had gone inside and set out for the post office.

  Garison pointed out, "That money you gave him could get him arrested."

  Jon Day watched the truck fade into nothingness—as the burning shed had. Then he turned to Garison and said, "I take it by the fact that we're still here that it didn't work."

  "It kind of did," Garison replied with something akin to embarrassment.

  "What do you mean, 'kind of'? We're still here and the world doesn't seem to have re written itself. The package didn't go back, did it?"

  Garison looked a little embarrassed as he replied, "Yeah, it did. It went back just like we wanted it to."

  "Huh?"

  Garison turned and put his head against a tree (with an audible "thump") as he related, "I got a package in the mail when I was about ten years old or so. It came on the same day as one of my sports magazines and I sat out on my parents' front porch as I read the magazine. The package was right there beside me. Figured I'd open it up after I had read the magazine.

  "After a while, my mother called and I went in for supper. I went off and left the magazine and the package on the porch and forgot about them." He looked at Day and, with sad eyes completed, "It rained during supper and I forgot all about the stuff on the porch. By the next day, when I remembered, the magazine was a soggy mess. So was the package. I opened it and there was water in the tape. I didn't know anything about video tapes back then, but I knew an audio tape that had been soaked was ruined. I wondered what was on the tape, but I just chunked it. Thought it was probably some piece of junk mail."

  "You threw it away?" Day asked incredulously.

  "It was 1986 or '87. I was eleven or twelve years old." Garison forced a laugh and said, "I remember it because I was home from college that summer. I may have been a genius, but I never could keep up with things as a boy. Cost me a fortune for all the college textbooks I lost."

  Day sighed and looked at where the truck had last been seen before disappearing. He finally said, "Well, at least we know this scheme has a possibility of working."

  "If we can keep me from losing the tape."

  "Oh well," Day comforted, putting a hand on Garison's good shoulder, "It could happen to anyone. We just lick our wounds and try again."

  "I guess."

  "My question," Day offered, "Is this: fifteen minutes ago did you have that memory, or did we just change history?"

  Chapter Twenty

  Heather's Journal

  November 11, 2007

  "If I had it all to do over again . . . "

  How many times have I asked myself that question? Is there anyone alive who has never asked themselves that? I rather doubt it. Most of us can say that about more than one event in our lives.

  I remember my last game of college volleyball for Southern Methodist. We lost in the conference playoffs to the University of Texas, in the final game of the entire tournament. I lost, you might say.

  Down by one point, with the Lady Longhorns having served, they set the ball for a spike. I've seen this over and over in my mind—in slow motion, no less—so it's no trouble to retell it here. I went up just as their spiker did and got my hands in place. It wasn't a clean block, though. What I did was block the ball into our side of the net. My teammates couldn't get to it in time and we lost.

  How would I do that over again? Hands together? Maybe my hands should have been further apart. Maybe I should have jumped one one thousanth of a second later—or sooner. Maybe if I had spent one more hour working out that week, I would have jumped higher—or better. That night after the tournament, all I dreamed about was seeing that ball fall to the floor as we lost. I saw it over and over again, finally getting up at 2 a.m., refusing to try and sleep more. My teammates found me in the hotel lobby that morning, still morose about the outcome of the game. They didn't blame me. I had, they pointed out, made the all conference team, the all tournament team, and had a shot at making All American. Not only that, but fourteen other points had been given up by our team before my gaffe. To me, though, all the mattered was that I had given up the LAST point. And somehow I knew even then that it would be the last point of my volleyball "career".

  If I had the chance, would I do it differently somehow? If I could, would I go back and take an extra hour of practice, jump higher, or jump later? Would I? Would I? Would I?

  What about those other times? If I had the chance, would I go back and change things so that Bat Garrett marries me instead of Jody? All I'd have to do it keep him out of Houston that day he "re met" her. But Jody's my best friend now; I couldn't do that to her. And if I married Bat, I wouldn't be married to Garison, and I wouldn't have Sarah, and . . . on and on and on.

  Maybe it's a good thing that we can't change the past. We'd never know where to stop—and we'd probably never do it right. It would be a like a painter continually correcting a painting until he's hopelessly screwed it up. Sometimes, it's better to just top and leave things as they lay.

  Even the good things we'd probably mess up. Not just wonderful things like Sarah. Two and a half years ago Garison and I spent our (second) honeymoon in Winterpark. What if I could somehow go back and change that so it would last longer? Would that really be a good thing—or would it somehow mess things up now? Maybe I would stop us from getting caught in that rain storm. But no, that turned into one of the most romantic nights of my life.

  I guess I feel we should just let the
past be the past. For most people, that proposition is a given. How many times have I heard someone say, "You can't change the past." But I married Garison Fitch (thank God), so a lot of things are no longer "givens".

  Do I really want Garison to go back and change things? Even though it may mean saving the world, do I really want him to go back and keep himself from traveling through time?

  I think about him holding my hand in the hospital as I gave birth to our daughter. I can still see him as clearly as if it were this morning as he held Sarah for the first time. I remember seeing him look up at me from her with such pride. I knew then, as I know now, that I loved Garison Fitch and always would.

  I know all the arguments. I know if he ceases to have ever existed, I will never know. I know the obvious: that if I cease to have ever existed, I won't know about that, either.

  But the me, the me that's here, right now, sitting up late at night in Jonathan Day's study, typing on a lap top computer. This me knows what could happen and doesn't want it to.

  More than at any other time in my life, I can identify with what the apostle Paul meant when he said, "I know what I should do and don't do it." Maybe he was talking about the struggle with sin, but I still understand the sentiment.

  For two days they didn't get another chance. They saw two verifiable holes in time, and one maybe, but none would help. The two verifiable holes were from the eighteen hundreds. One was a man in the garb of a Union Army officer who asked for directions before noticing Heather's odd attire and beating a hasty retreat. The other hole involved an ice wagon that all but ran Garison over. As Heather helped to his feet from where he had jumped aside, she quipped, "Indians, ice wagons, maybe time doesn't like you, Garison."

  "I'm not too thrilled with it, either," he nodded as he stood up. His shoulder ached a bit, but not as bad as he had thought it might.