Time Traveler

Martin awoke bolt upright. He felt wide awake despite the nightmare he was having. He looked at the red glowing alarm clock, the digital numbers reading 2:14 A.M. A good two hours before he would wake up for the day. With a sigh, he started to crawl fully out of bed. He wasn’t getting any more sleep tonight, and he knew it. He could always get a few hours grinding on his Orc Hunter though. He hesitated halfway out of the bed and leaned back down to kiss the top of his wife’s head. She murmured in her sleep but didn’t wake.

Martin pulled his pajama pants on but skipped the shirt. The boys never woke up, no matter how loud he was. He wouldn’t need it. He stumbled in the dark, using the red glow to light his way, and entered the hallway. On the opposite side of the cramped hallway was the boys’ room, and he skulked past them. He was halfway down the hall when he noticed the light coming from the kitchen, spilling under the door.

His pulse quickened as he approached the door, his hackles raised. He knew he shouldn’t have sold his guns, but the wife insisted. Now here he was, unarmed and about to have to fight some hobo. Martin put his ear to the door to the kitchen and listened. He heard the soft muttering of a voice, and his heart eased. It sounded like a young boyish voice. That must be Dylan, his younger son. A smile crept on his face as he creaked the door open.

The doorway opened into the kitchen. The table was on the right, against the wall. He took in the scene. His younger son sat at the table, playing cards spread out in front of him. He flipped four cards over and groaned.

“Fuckin a,” Dylan muttered.

Goose flesh spread along Martin’s arms, the hair on his neck stood on end. The casual ease of the words came out like a seasoned cusser. Was 8 too young to be so fluid with the art of naughty words? Possibly. Martin’s heart dropped as Dylan spoke again, this time pointedly.

“You just gonna stand there, Pop, or you gonna join me?”

Pop? Since when was he Pop? A scene from one of his favorite Stephen King movies played clearly in his mind. The boy from Pet Sematary, after returning not himself. ‘I wanna play with you, Daddy,’ the little boy had said.

Martin circled around Dylan so he could face him. “Son? You feeling alright?”

The boy had a snarling look of concentration. Flipping 4 more cards, he cursed again. The cards were arranged in a game Martin had never seen before, and he knew cards. He was in the army, after all.

“No, Pop, I’m not alright. You think I would choose to be up at 2 A.M.?”

The shock was wearing off now, and his patience was running thin. “I don’t care how you’re feeling, you need to not take that tone with me.”

The boy winced, such an adult reflex on his young face. “Damn this body. You’re right, Pop, sorry I’m on edge. Say, how old are you?”

He wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming, but the whiplash of words was hard to parse. Body? Old? He tried to think of the last time he had told his son his age and realized it must have been a while. It had been a while since he’d had a real conversation with him now that he thought about it. With the early morning, the long commute, and the late night, there just wasn’t time.

“I’m 33. Why do you ask?”

The boy still hadn’t looked at him, and he finally did. His eyes had a hard look about them. A look Martin thought with a chill, that he recognized. Who are you? he suddenly wanted to say, but the words were stuck in his throat.

Dylan let out a wry chuckle and began scooping the cards with a deft hand. There was a second deck nearby, and he gestured to it. “Aggravation? I remember that one better than Scoundrel. Damn shame too that was my favorite.”

Aggravation he recognized, obviously. That was the family version of Phase 10, taught to him by his own grandparents. Martin’s mind raced, trying to remember any time Dylan could have learned it. He didn’t recall. He nodded his assent, but his son was already expertly shuffling the two decks together.

In silence, Martin watched. The boy dealt the 12 cards needed to start, then fanned his hand awkwardly in his small hands. Martin pulled his cards up and fanned similarly. He had a good starting hand, but he didn’t move to play. Finally, he had found his voice, but the adrenaline still thrummed through him. “Who are you? Who are you really?”

“Oh, come now, Pop. You don’t recognize your own son?”

“You certainly look like him, yes.”

The boy grunted, then after taking his draw immediately dropped his two books. He had four 7’s and three Kings. No wild cards. A first turn down was pretty lucky.

He discarded an Ace, then said, “I’m Dylan, for real. But… I’m older. I came from the future.”

The shock of it was like a blow to the face, and Martin couldn’t keep back the light laugh. “Is that right?” His hammering heart eased at once. His son was having a go at him.

Wasn’t he?

“I overshot, you see. I wanted to go back 12 years, instead I hit 28. I mean, it’s not like I had a manual.” He paused, noticing Martin was still arranging his hand. “Christ, what are you waiting for, Christmas? Take your turn, man.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to grunt, and he drew a card. He pulled a 2, a wild card, and he decided to drop down as well. These first hands were always a slogfest, and his young son clearly knew that. He dropped two 4’s alongside his 2, and three Jacks. Then he dropped a King and a 7 of his own onto Dylan’s books. He also discarded an Ace.

Dylan nodded approvingly. “It could have been worse, I guess. Could’ve ended up in the womb.” The boy visibly shivered as he drew another card.

“That certainly sounds worse,” Martin agreed. “So, what happens in 16 years?”

“Shit,” Dylan said. “What are you, a mathematician?” His son took a shuddering breath. “Something bad happens in 16 years. I wanted to stop it.”

Martin studied his son, and yes, he did know that hard look. He’d seen it himself, in the mirror.

Dylan collapsed the fan of his cards and began idly sorting them, front to back. Martin realized he recognized his grandfather in the movements.

“What happens?”

“No, no, don’t you see? I’ve been here a week already, man. I’m too early. I’m too fucking early, man. If I change things now, how many butterflies do I trample over?”

Martin nodded slowly. Yes, he did see.

“When a thing happens, you’d give anything to go back and change it. You know?”

“Of course,” Martin said. And he found that he did know. His mind wandered to a jungle, in a faraway country. Yes, there are always things you wish you could go back and do differently.

Dylan nodded, a knowing look in his eye. “Shit, right, I’m sorry Pop of course you know. Well, I’m here. I’m too far back, sure, but I’m here.” His voice was hoarse, intense.

“What’s stopping you, son? From doing something?”

“The growing up lesson. The one only someone like you or I would know.” His voice was choked up, now, and Martin couldn’t help it. He was overcome by an inexplicable, overwhelming sorrow.

“Which one of us is it?”

Dylan recoiled from the question. The boy was physically fighting back tears. He managed to point over his shoulder. The angle was clear. It was to his older brother, Charlie. Oh hell.

Martin let out a shuddering breath, one he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And what’s the lesson?” he whispered.

“That we heal,” the boy said, his quiet sob breaking.

Martin maneuvered around the chair, and he grasped his son. The man trapped in the child’s body. The boy clung to his father, his grip tight as he sobbed. Martin didn’t know how long he cried like that, but he held his boy and patted his back, his own tears lightly running down his cheek.

“I met my wife after… Would I meet her again, if I change things? I’m so far back, dad. How many beautiful butterflies would I squash in my selfishness?”

“I don’t know, son. But each man must himself decide what is right—”

“—and what is wrong…” Dylan finished. He pulled his head back, a sly mischievous smile playing on his face. With bright tears in his eyes, he looked again like a little boy of 8. Like his boy. He hugged him tightly again.

“Guess you’ve heard that one before,” Martin said with a chuckle.

“Sometimes… it’s so clear. I’m back in that doorway. I’m running down the hall, and I just can’t stop. I want so badly… so badly…”

Martin patted the boy’s back, nodding. Yes, he had a doorway of his own, one he knew well. “We do heal. It’s terribly unfair, isn’t it?”

“Terribly unfair,” the boy agreed. Martin still carried him, and he found himself lightly rocking. His son cradled his head into the crook of his shoulder, and his breath picked up pace. He was fading fast, he realized, but he kept his slow steady rock.

Eventually the boy’s breath was even in sleep. With careful steps Martin carried him back to bed and tucked him into the blanket. He pushed the hair away from his forehead, and Martin realized the boy, the man, had made his choice.

The man’s voice rang in his skull. ‘How many butterflies will I squash?’ How could he continue with this terrible knowledge? He would lose one of his sons young, so horribly young. It was an uncomfortable, sinking sorrow that swept over him. His mind protested loudly, he should’ve convinced him to stay! To change things!

‘How many beautiful butterflies.’

Martin headed for the bathroom. He needed to shower, and he’d do the only thing he knew. He’d go one day at a time. He’d feel that pain anew one day, and he knew in time he’d learn that lesson once again.