Middle Falls Time Travel Series, Books 4-6 (Middle Falls Time Travel Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Shawn Inmon

  Joe gathered up the empty pizza box, the candy and chip wrappers, and walked it out to the garbage can inside the garage. He returned to the living room, wrapped the remaining pizza in aluminum foil and stuck it inside the refrigerator. When he did, his heart sank.

  Containers of yogurt, cottage cheese, and other things his mom had called diet food were stacked inside.

  This is all fresh. She was just here, and I just missed her. She’s been dead for decades, but here, the flowers fed by her ashes are blooming and her food is still in the fridge.

  Joe took two backward steps and felt a kitchen chair hit the back of his legs. He sat down numbly. Damnit, Mom. You should still be here. You started killing yourself, one bottle at a time, when Dad died. It took you eighteen years, but you got the job done. You left me here alone.

  Tears formed, then spilled unnoticed over his cheeks.

  But, did I really do any better? I never did one single damn thing with my life. I watched television, ate junk food and played video games. I was a forty-four year old teenager, and then I woke up again as a real teenager. I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere.

  A sudden thought hit him like a lightning bolt.

  Did I die, too? I don’t remember dying, but I’m not sure I would. Maybe I had a heart attack, brought on by too many bowls of mac ‘n cheese and two-liters of Dr. Pepper.

  Joe looked around his completely real kitchen, still filled with reminders of his mother, and felt a new certainty fill him.

  It doesn’t matter what it is, or how I got here. I’m here. If I’m going to stay here, that gives me a second chance. The first time, I didn’t do anything with my life. Not this time. This time, I’m gonna make my life matter.

  He stood, shut the refrigerator door, and opened the top drawer of a file cabinet stuck in a corner.

  At least some things are the same.

  Stuffed inside was all the financial paperwork for the Hart household. Neatly filed in the front of the drawer were the last two years of bank statements from Oregon State Savings and Loan. He took out the statement in the front, still in its envelope, it was postmarked “May 28, 1978, Middle Falls, Oregon.”

  He opened the statement and ran his finger to the bottom of the second page.

  Current Balance - $32,172.

  “Hmm. Not bad,” he said aloud. “If I remember right, something happened and the royalties increased in the eighties. Can’t remember what it was, because I didn’t care, as long as I had enough to buy the latest video game system.”

  He tapped the envelope against his leg, lost in thought.

  Before I do anything, though, I think I need to get some help. I lived through life completely on my own, and it wasn’t good. So, who can help? Don’t have any relatives. Don’t think JD and Bobby are going to be much help, so who?

  He sat back down at the kitchen table, pulled the phone book to him again and opened it to the Yellow Pages. He flipped through to the C’s, then looked under “Counselors.”

  Even if I’ve got to buy the help, I’m gonna do it.

  There weren’t many people listed—just two men and a woman.

  Who would be better to talk to, a man or a woman?

  He ran his finger down the three names, stopped at the listing for Abigail Green. He dialed the number. He heard the phone ring three times, then the hiss of an answering machine.

  “Hello, this is Abigail Green, LPC, counselor for families and individuals. If you’re hearing this message, I am either with a client or it’s after hours. If this is a mental health care emergency, please dial 9-1-1. If you’d like to leave a message, please do so at the beep.” Another hiss of static was followed by a long beep.

  “Um, yes, this is Joe Hart. I need to talk to a counselor. It’s not an emergency, but I would appreciate it if you would call me back as soon as you can.” Joe recited his number, then hung up.

  He nodded. Well begun is half done. Was that Aristotle, or Mary Poppins? Either way, I’m committed. Or, should be committed. Something like that.

  Joe glanced up at the clock. 11:15.

  He walked back to his bedroom and flipped on the overhead light. Posters covered the walls. One was of the bare torso of a young woman with a beer cap covering her belly button. The caption read Not all beer bellies are created equal. Next to that was a black light poster with the Desiderata written on it. Some of his ink drawings of Conan the Barbarian and Baron Harkonnen from Dune were pinned haphazardly to the wall.

  It’s like stepping into a Joe Museum. Half-naked girls, half-baked philosophy, and my drawings. I think I gave up on drawing not long after I did these.

  He grasped the corner of the drawing of Baron Harkonnen and pulled it toward him. It showed a grossly fat man supported by some technological miracle. His face, covered in scabs and scars, wore a sneer.

  Not too shabby. Why in the world did I give it up?

  He took a deep breath of the stale air, redolent of dirty clothes and old food, and shook his head.

  Just don’t think I can do it.

  He flipped the light off again and shut the door.

  He walked through the house turning other lights out until he was in darkness broken only by the pale light of an almost-full moon coming in through the living room window. He laid down on the couch, punching the pillow and unconsciously emulating the position he had woken up in a few hours before.

  Moments later, he was asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Joe was awakened from the slumber of the dead by the harsh ringing of the telephone. The third ring finally soaked through his sleep. He sat straight up on the couch, bleary-eyed and confused by the swirl of dreams that had haunted him.

  “Okay, okay, I’m up.” Oh, that’s not an alarm, is it? That’s gotta be the phone.

  He moved to roll over, but fell off the couch onto all fours. The phone continued to ring. He scrambled to his feet and jogged to the kitchen table. He picked the receiver up.

  “Hello?” There was a pause on the other end and Joe was about to hang up when he heard a woman’s voice.

  “Oh, hello! You caught me unaware. I dialed the number, then my mind wandered, I’m afraid. This is Abigail Green. You left a message on my answering machine, saying it was important that I call you.” The voice was smooth and professional. Deep for a woman’s voice.

  “Right, right.” Joe’s tongue felt like Astroturf, his eyes had boogers in the corners, and he had developed a possibly permanent cowlick. He was not on top of his game.

  After a lengthy pause, Green continued. “Are you all right? If this is an emergency—“

  “No, no, it’s not an emergency,” Joe said, trying to find his mental balance. “I just need to speak to someone.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Do you need an evening appointment due to work? Those tend to get booked out a few weeks.”

  “No, I don’t work. I can come in any time.”

  “I see.” A pause on the other end of the phone. The sound of a page turning. “I had a cancellation, so I have an opening this afternoon at 2:00. Would that work for you?”

  I have no idea what’s going to work for me.

  “Yes, that sounds good.”

  “Do you need directions?”

  “Not if your address is in the book. Middle Falls isn’t that big.”

  “Very good. When you come into my waiting room, I may still be in with another client, but I’ll leave a form attached to a clipboard on one of the chairs. Fill that out while you’re waiting. See you then.”

  Joe dropped the receiver with a clunk and dragged his hands through his hair.

  Okay, I went to sleep and woke up in the same spot, so I seem to really be here. Guess I better make the most of it.

  Joe took a shower, then noticed that the laundry basket was not only overflowing, but also smelling slightly of mildew. He sorted out a load of jeans and t-shirts and threw the
m in the washer, then took a good look around the bathroom.

  Eeesh. Maybe my standards of cleanliness improved a little in my old age.

  He drug a comb through his hair, slipped on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt and set out to clean the house. He did it right, even getting into the window tracks with an old toothbrush and stripping his bed down to throw it into the washer with another load of sheets and towels.

  Before he knew it, it was 1:30. The house was much cleaner, smelling of Lysol and bleach. Joe nodded his approval.

  His stomach growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since he had been woken up by the phone call that morning.

  Have to grab something later, no time.

  He looked up Abigail Green’s address—451 Bell Street—and jotted it down on the palm of his hand.

  He found his ’76 Oldsmobile right where he had parked it in the driveway, either a few days ago or a few decades later, depending on how you wanted to measure time. He had never sold what had been his mother’s car or bought another. There was no reason to, when he only drove a few hundred miles per year at the most. He realized he hadn’t seen any keys as he was cleaning and felt a moment of panic.

  If I have to get there on foot, I’m definitely gonna be late.

  He looked in the passenger window of the Olds, though, and saw the keys dangling in the ignition.

  I was a trusting soul. Did I think there weren’t any kids wanting to take a joyride back in the day? Or maybe I just counted on the fact that they wouldn’t want to get caught dead in a gray, four-door Olds that looked like something their Grandpa drove. Probably that.

  Joe opened the driver’s door and felt a burst of heat hit him in the face. He slid inside anyway and felt the sweat pop out on his face. He turned the key, rolled down the windows, and breathed a small sigh.

  The radio lit up. It was set to KMFR, and the end of Steve Martin’s King Tut played. Immediately, Eddie Money’s Two Tickets to Paradise took its place. Joe adjusted the mirror that didn’t really need adjusting and backed out of the driveway.

  Bell Street. Bell Street. That doesn’t seem like a downtown address. I think it’s over by the high school, isn’t it? If only I had a GPS, I would be sure.

  Joe drove the quiet mid-afternoon streets of Middle Falls. The neighborhoods didn’t look all that different from 2004, to his eye. Older cars, perhaps, and a few more kids playing outside, but it mostly just looked like Middle Falls.

  As he passed Middle Falls High, he saw that he had remembered correctly, and turned left onto Bell Street.

  I guess I expected her to be in an office somewhere downtown, but this is all residential.

  He found the 400 block of Bell Street and pulled up to the curb. He climbed out and noticed a small sign in front of a house that said “Middle Falls Counseling.” It was a two-story house, light green, with a country porch. In the warm afternoon, shaded by a number of large trees, it looked cool and inviting.

  Joe walked up the steps, and there was another sign attached to the door frame—Come in, make yourself comfortable in the waiting room. I’ll be with you as soon as possible. Abigail.

  Joe opened the old-fashioned screen door and let himself in to a large living room. There was a comfortable sofa against one wall and two high-backed upholstered chairs on either side of it. There was a clipboard sitting on one of the chairs.

  He picked it up and looked at it. Mostly, it asked for typical information—insurance, if any, allergies, who to contact in case of an emergency.

  Who to contact in case of emergency? I don’t have anyone. Maybe that’s part of why I’m here. A big part.

  Joe sat in an upholstered chair and quickly filled out the form. At the bottom of the page was a box that said, “What can we help you with?”

  Don’t think you’ve got a box for what you can help me with.

  There were large windows on both sides of the living room and a huge old oak tree in the front yard cast a shadow across the entire front of the house. A summer breeze blew through the windows, moving the curtains in a hypnotic rhythm.

  His mind began to wander as he watched the leaves rustle in the wind. Without realizing he was even sleepy, Joe drifted off.

  “Hello, you must be Joe.”

  Joe jumped up with a start. The clipboard, which had been perched on his lap, clattered to the hardwood floor.

  Abigail Green smiled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll get this.” She kneeled and picked up the clipboard. As she stood, her eyes swept across Joe’s face. She noted the birthmark, but didn’t react beyond holding her smile steady.

  She appeared to be in her mid-forties, a bit on the heavy side, with brown hair and a single streak of gray down one side. She wore half-glasses and a gentle expression.

  Straight out of Central Casting for a shrink.

  “Please, my office is back through here, if you’ll follow me.”

  They wound through the house to a large room. Inside was a desk, another upholstered chair, and a plush loveseat. A small table sat in front of the loveseat with a tissue box on it.

  Abigail sat in the upholstered chair and gestured toward the loveseat. When Joe sat down, he felt like he sank down to a slightly uncomfortable degree, like a hug from a soft pillow.

  “Let’s get the business aspect of things out of the way first, shall we?” She glanced at the paperwork Joe had filled out. “I see that you left the insurance spot blank, which is just as well. Insurance likes to pay for treating many illnesses, but not for mental health. How do you plan on paying for your visits?”

  “Will you take a check?”

  “Of course. Each visit will be thirty dollars. Is that all right?”

  Joe nodded. “I’ll pay for a month in advance, then if you’ll remind me when that runs out, I’ll do another month.”

  “Good.” She slid the clipboard down and leaned it against the outside of her chair. She picked up a stenographer’s pad, opened a new page, and said, “So, Mr. Hart, why did you want to talk with me?”

  Joe hesitated, pulled at the collar of his t-shirt. Now that I’m here, I kind of regret coming. Nothing for it, I suppose.

  He cleared his throat, looked Abigail green squarely in the eyes and said, “Well, I’m a time traveler.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I see,” Abigail said, nodding and jotting a quick note before meeting Joe’s eyes again. There was no judgement in her gaze.

  “That doesn’t seem to surprise you. Is Middle Falls filled with time travelers, and I just haven’t been let into the secret club yet?”

  “We’re all time travelers in one way or another, aren’t we? Born on a day, then traversing time, one moment after another.”

  “Yeah, that’s not what I mean, though. I mean, I’m from the future. I know it sounds like a hokey movie when I say it like that, but I don’t know how else to put it. I went to sleep in 2004, then woke up back here in 1978.”

  “I see.” Another note on the pad. Another non-judgmental look. “Let’s start here. Tell me about your family. Do you have any brothers or sisters? Are you close to your parents?”

  The therapist’s playbook. Start with the family and work out, looking for issues.

  “No brothers or sisters. My parents are dead.”

  Abigail’s eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry. Recently?”

  “My dad died the day I was born. I never met him. My mom died...” When? A few weeks ago? Is that the best way to put it? Yes. “My mom died recently.”

  “That must be very difficult for you.”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But, that’s what I want to talk to you about. In my memory, my mom died almost twenty-five years ago. She died, life went on, I lived until 2004, then went to sleep one night and woke up back here again.”

  “Let’s table that discussion for the moment. How did your mother die?”

  Joe shrugged. “The medical reason? Renal failure. The actual reason? When my dad died, she started drinking, and s
he never stopped until she killed herself. Not all suicides are quick. Hers took eighteen years.” He glanced up, saw Abigail’s face was still a practiced blank slate. “She was a good mom, though. I loved her.”

  “Of course. I can see that. Situations like yours—losing your father at such an early age, watching your mother drink herself to death—can leave you with a lot of work to do.”

  “Work to do? I don’t understand. There wasn’t much I could do about my father dying in a plane crash. I watched mom and learned from her. I don’t drink at all myself. So, what other work is there?”

  Abigail took a deep breath and held it, looking up at the ceiling, contemplating. “You’re right, of course. The fact that you choose not to drink is admirable. It’s good that you are breaking the cycle. But, there’s more to it than that.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “I see a few immediate issues. Having a parent leave us at such an early age can cause fear of abandonment in future relationships. It can even cause us to avoid having relationships at all. Having an alcoholic parent often results in other issues. We can talk about these things, but let’s save that for later. First, you say that you lived forward quite a few years before you woke up back here. Tell me about that life. What was it like?”

  She’s good. She homes in on whatever I don’t really want to talk about and makes me say it out loud.

  “My life wasn’t much of anything. Other than the fact that the mail and newspapers would pile up, I don’t think anyone would miss me in 2004. Here’s the thing. Mom and I got lucky, I guess. My dad wrote a song called When Christmas Comes Again.”

  Abigail’s eyes lit up. She tilted her head slightly and hummed a little of the melody. “Oh, that’s so nice. I’ve always loved that song.”

  “The thing is, the royalties from that song meant my mom never had to work. The same was true for me. I never worked. I just lived off those royalties.”