track time

I want to say that I remember the last thing I said to him or his last words to me, but I don’t. I vaguely remember him saying something like, “I’m off to the track for a run,” but I’m not exactly sure. I was sitting on the couch playing on my DS, so I probably just nodded. It was an exchange that we had dozens of times, so they all sort of blend together. I’m 99 percent certain I didn’t even say good-bye.

I do, however, remember exactly where I was when my mother answered the phone—sitting in my usual chair by the window at the kitchen table. And I’ll never forget the sound of the air going out of her lungs, or how she dropped that ratty blue-checked dishtowel and reached for the counter to steady herself. We were eating chicken parm and spaghetti, with cheesy garlic bread on the side. I was drinking chocolate milk. That, I remember.

I also can recall with surprising clarity my mother’s face at that moment—almost pure white and quivering, her small mouth agape and seemingly incapable of closing all the way. I can still see her collapsing into my grandfather’s arms when he came through the front door, like a marionette with the strings cut.

Most of the wake and funeral were a blur, but there were certain things that stand out: the shiny brass handles of the coffin in the dim light of the funeral home, the velvet drapes behind the wall of flowers, Auntie Kim’s auburn hair against her dark blue dress, how that stupid green-striped tie choked at my throat.

All that, for some reason, I can’t forget.

I also can’t forget that I never told him that I loved him.

My brother was—and still is—better at expressing himself; he never had a problem with a reciprocal response when my father said, “I love you.” When my father expressed his love for me, I’d always sort of nod and mutter something like, “Yeah, okay.”

Often he’d laugh, muss up my hair and say, “That’s okay. I never doubt it for it a second, Double D.”

He’s the only one I’d ever let me call that. He came up with that nickname, and he’d only use it when it was the two of us, when he was patiently playing Pokemon or teaching me to ride a bike or just being my biggest fan ever. It was . . . our thing. You know, like how never being able to express any feelings (other than anger) was my thing. Or how him dying alone at that stupid track would be his thing . . . .

So, I was only 10 (and a seven twelfths—it still mattered at that point) on his last day alive. I never actually saw his dead body—my mother had opted for a closed casket—but over and over and over again in my head I pictured what his last moments must’ve been like . . . running under a cloudless sky, a late August afternoon, another three miles at the old gravel track with almost no shade . . . at first all’s well, he’s crunching along, but he’s sweating more profusely than usual . . . he then feels that first twinge down his left arm, but he pushes himself on, figuring it’s no big deal . . . maybe he stops for a sip of water, towels himself off, takes it a bit slower . . . but it’s too late . . . the massive weight suddenly is pressing in the middle of his chest . . . he stumbles to stop, drops to a knee, unable to deny what’s happening to him and powerless to stop it . . . he looks around and realizes that there’s no one else there . . . his cell phone is on the other side of the track with his water bottle and car keys . . . he’s helpless . . . he collapses onto the freshly cut grass in the infield oval, on the edge of the soccer field . . . the pain is overwhelming, his breath is gone . . . he realizes it’s over, really over . . . he’s really dying and he can’t stop it . . . maybe he gets angry at himself, curses his luck . . . maybe he thinks about my mom, my brother and me, sort of laughs that he never saw the Jets win a Super Bowl in his lifetime, and . . . then he just dies . . . dies . . . alone.

Alone.

According to the EMTs, his heart was stopped for only about five minutes before the coach for the girl’s soccer team found him, called them and started CPR—a total of about 15 minutes before they arrived. I remember the coach at the wake, trying to apologize to my mom for being five minutes too late, wishing he hadn’t stopped for an iced coffee on the way to the field. He was so distraught. “Only five god damn minutes,” he kept saying to her and anyone who’d listen. “I’m so sorry.”

Five god damn minutes.

I won’t bore you with the “challenges” of growing up without someone who unequivocally backed me at every turn, except to say it sucked like a black hole—some days, I thought light would never escape from my soul. I also won’t even try to count the number of times I regretted that day, the way it had ended between us. For years, I couldn’t get his last moments out of my oversized and overly active brain. Like Groundhog Day, over and over and over again, I just kept seeing him dying there . . . on the track . . . alone . . . .

Like any (slightly) obsessed kid with an IQ in the Lex Luthor/Wile E. Coyote range, I turned the pain and hurt into a mission, throwing myself headlong into school, and into science. I went full Jimmy Neutron—at various stops along the way, I held ranks in the math, physics and robotics clubs, and pocketed more than a few science fair ribbons. When my senior project on quantum spacetime went viral, it helped to earn me a full ride to M.I.T. It was after I started my postgrad work in experimental physics at Adams with Dr. Donald Hammer, however, that I took my efforts to the next level.

Or the next dimension, really.

Rather than numb you with all the techno mumbo jumbo, let’s just say that Donnie and I were a dream team when it came to groundbreaking research in temporal displacement. We truly put our egos aside and brought in some of the most unorthodox-yet-brilliant physicists—like a dream “Big Bang Theory” team of geeks. In a few short years, working pretty much around the clock (so to speak), our uber “nerd herd” made more breakthroughs in the field than Einstein had bad hair days. Before anyone knew it, we had conquered the quantum gravitational, singularity and power issues; a few years later, we were able to solve inter-dimensional causality and time-space irregularities. It was breathtaking how quickly it came together once the initial few hurdles were cleared.

The first time we were able to generate a nanowormhole in the time-space continuum, I truly thought I might die. I’ve never been so terrified in all my life. We did all the math, envisioned all the probabilities, took all the precautions, but just before it actually happened, I had a stomach-churning, nearly heart-stopping flash of the old Harrison Ford “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” meme. Here we were, a dozen or so quasi-mad scientists—truly tiny, insignificant entities in the grand scheme of cosmos—literally tampering with the very fabric of the universe. I’ll never forget Donnie turning to me as final sequences initiated, shrugging and saying, “What could possibly go wrong?”

Fortunately, nothing did. We were even smarter than we gave ourselves credit for, and proceeded cautiously from that point. We began with simply observing key events in the past without leaving this era—and before you ask: Atlantis was a story made up by Plato; Jesus did not actually rise from the dead, although he was married and had three children; Leonardo da Vinci fashioned the Shroud of Turin; Stonehenge was created over centuries by various indigenous English peoples while Egyptians built the pyramids (no extraterrestrial help in either case); Jack the Ripper was an Irish sailor named William James; Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone; O.J. did it; and Barack Obama was, in fact, born in Hawaii. Of course, there were other great discoveries, but you’ll have to be patient until our full research is presented next year. I promise it’ll be well worth the wait.

Anyway, once we were able to consistently stabilize the wormholes—and after months of debate—we finally agreed to only send nanobots back in time for fear of the consequences. No need to inadvertently launch a butterfly effect and destroy reality as we know it, right?

So we programmed the first ‘bots with self-destruct fuses, which must’ve worked out because we lost about a dozen before we were able to retrieve one, and our universe didn’t collapse in upon itself (as best we can tell) in the process. When the first one came back unscathed, however, we partied like it was 1999 . . . literally, because that’s the time to which we had sent it. (Who says astrophysicists have no sense of humor?) We’ve enjoyed many, many other successes, as you will discover in our reports.

Now I know that the official public relations line out of the project has been that we’ve never sent anything larger—or alive—back through time for fear of the aforementioned butterfly effect. And right here, I want to state that’s the truth.

I want to state that.

Truth is, bolstered and emboldened by our successes, we sort of went rogue and secretly moved from nanobots to larger ‘bots (apparently we were responsible for a UFO sighting or two—who knew?). Again, I won’t get into all the details but eventually, we were able to fashion a “time pod” of sorts (we never did get around to giving that thing a better name), and finally were able to displace—and more importantly, retrieve—a living entity through time!

Funny, I was there when it all happened, know all the mind-bending physics and staggering math and seemingly endless work behind it, but when I re-read that last sentence, it just sounds like utter science fiction to me. I still get goose bumps thinking about it.

The whole process was as fascinating and as gratifying as you would hope, in addition to being mind-numbingly cool. All the answers to all the mysterious questions that for centuries have plagued Mankind, were right there for the taking, and we took plenty. Knowledge is power and we became intoxicated on the truths we learned.

Of course, early on in the observation phase of our experiments, I surreptitiously sent a ‘bot back to record that fateful August day at the track. I watched the events unfold—completely different from my fevered imagining, yet remarkably the same, and always with the same result: Dad dies.

The first 20 or 30 times, it was excruciating; the next 40 or so, it was just painful. After the 100^th viewing, however, the scientist in me kicked in and I started dissecting it like any theoretical problem. Over the next twenty-four months, I watched and re-watched it, analyzing every second, every detail, every event, right down to the bugs zipping through the air, until I had completely mapped out the entire sequence as if I was plotting a surgical military strike. It was right around this time that we were enjoying success with the larger bots and time pod.

And then a bad idea came to me. A Very Bad and Incredibly Dangerous Idea.

Okay, remember earlier I mentioned how “we” displaced a living entity through time? Maybe it wasn’t “we” as much as “I.” And maybe “I” did it with no one else’s knowledge because it was such a jaw-droppingly perilous and selfish act.

It was even more remarkable that it was successful and I didn’t destroy Everything. But I hadn’t come this far to be denied by a simple thing like the safety of Life As We Know It!

Okay, that was a bit of a joke there, which is only funny now because I didn’t cause the known universe to fold in upon itself and contract back down to pre-Big Bang state. But I was a man obsessed and possessed.

I started my covert living displacement experiments with tardigrades, the microscopic “water bears” that are among the heartiest creatures known to man—the can survive in the vacuum of space, endure temperatures of absolute zero and withstand 1,000 times more radiation than any other living entity. I quickly moved up in size and complexity; suffice to say a few eggs were broken in the making of my temporal omelet. But I persevered, probed and planned. Soon, I was ready to “make it so,” to coin a Star Trek phrase. It was literally warp speed ahead!

Like any crucial experiment (or stealth operation), I had targeted the optimum date for maximum likelihood of success, and before I could reasonably talk myself out of it, the day arrived. Now I know you’re thinking that if I had access to a time machine, why should I care when I use it—all that matters is the date you’re going to, not that date from which you’re displacing. Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as picking a date and then shooting 1.21 gigawatts through the ol’ flux capacitor; since space-time isn’t purely linear, staggeringly complex calculations are involved to find the ideal connection dates to not only make sure that you can get there, but also return. And this event definitely involved returning.

When I got to the lab that morning, I remember it seemed colder than usual—I felt like I was shaking all day long. Then again, it could’ve been my nerves. I mean, it’s not every day you go back 26 years in time to the day your father dies, right?

Yes, it was stupid and crazy and hazardous to myself (and everyone else), but by now, I had half-convinced myself that the worst-case scenario was that I would cease to exist, which would probably come in the form of some sort of painless disintegration. At this point of my mania, it seemed a small price to pay. It was one small temporal step for man, one giant temporal leap for mankind, right?

Sure.

Now, before you get your hopes up, this story doesn’t exactly have a happy ending. As a matter of fact, it pretty much has the same ending—it has to, otherwise I wouldn’t be here transcribing this, and you wouldn’t be reading it. But I think that makes it happy on some level. You know, other than Dad dying. Again.

So what can I say about temporal displacement? Imagine being put in the bubbliest bottle of champagne and shaken to point that you think every molecule in your body is going to explode off in every direction imaginable, and just as it seems as though your consciousness is on the edge of oblivion, the cork on the bottle is popped and you rush out through an explosion of light, sound and space unlike anything else you’ve ever experienced. If you put yourself on the world’s wildest rollercoaster in the middle of a tornado during Mardi Gras while tumbling down Mt. Everest during an avalanche—on fire—and then multiply it by 1 billion to the 14^th power, then you might start to get the idea.

It was intense.

As the time pod quietly displaced into 26 years ago, any feelings of being thrilled to still be alive were quickly muted by suddenly existing (again) in an era gone by. I had watched the events that were about to unfold so many times that I thought I would be nonplussed upon my arrival, but viewing it and experiencing it first hand were completely different. It was a lot hotter and much more humid than I expected, and I don’t remember the air being so heavy. Weird.

It would’ve been great to really stay and explore, but I had cut the corners on both sides extraordinarily short. I had exactly one minute to exit the pod and get over the hill to the track.

I got out quickly and made it up the hill in a blink. As I reached the apex, I stopped and looked down at the scene before. Just as I had seen dozens of times, there was Dad on the track, glistening in the August sun. He looked small all alone on the big track, crunching dutifully along the gravel.

Before it really sunk in to my brain that there I was actually sharing the same existence with my father again, he started to stagger. I caught myself and started running down the hill. He was already on one knee by the time I reached him.

He looked me up and down for a second, blinked repeatedly and then shook his head. “I don’t feel so good,” he said, and I was startled at how clear yet weak his voice sounded. It was always stronger in my mind. He was always stronger . . . .

He fell over, almost in slow motion, landing in a heap in the grass. He rolled over. “Craaaaappppp,” he moaned, and swallowed. “I think I’m . . . having a heart attack.”

“You are,” I said, stunned at how calm my voice said despite how my insides were churning.

Suddenly, the sheer folly of my plan—to just be there and try to be a comfort to him so he wouldn’t have to die alone—was appallingly apparent. Despite how many times I had watched him die, this time it was real. Like really, actually happening right here and now real. Even though I had rehearsed what I was going to say and how I was going to act, I hadn’t factored in how the actuality of the situation would affect me. I was suddenly paralyzed with fear and horror by what I was witnessing. My father was dying right in front of me, and I couldn’t touch him or save him for fear of destroying Everything.

For a freaking genius, I was a complete idiot.

Dad had shaded his eyes with one hand and was staring intently at me, struggling to breathe. “Can you go . . . get some help?” he grunted while biting down on his lip.

“No!” I said before I could stop myself.

He did that one-eyed squint of his as he studied me long and hard, like after I had confessed to having taken apart the Blu-Ray player—his face was mixed with a sort of shock and anger tinged with amusement and amazement.

“I’m sorry . . . I  . . . I . . .” I stammered, tears suddenly slipping from my eyes.

He tried to take a deep breath. “It’s okay . . . I understand . . . Double D.”

I staggered back. It was like a hammer hitting me, buckling my knees and sucking the air from my lungs. “H-h-how?”

“You’re . . . my son,” he said, almost looking as though he had correctly called a bluff for a second before gritting his teeth and convulsing. “I’ll . . . always know . . . you.”

A warm flush came over me, but I threw the coldest of water on it. “I . . . can’t save you,” I said.

“Understood,” he tried to nod. “Probably just . . . my imagination anyway . . .”

“Okay,” I nodded, as if that might fix it all.

“How did—“ He convulsed and shivered for a second, and clenched his fists. “AWW FUCK! This  . . . SUCKS!” he moaned. “How . . . did . . .”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I, uh, invent time travel, Dad.”

Considering the gravity of the situation and my access to history, I can absolutely guarantee you that stupider words have never been spoken.

Nonetheless, he nodded. Even in his last moments, his mind was able to process the enormity of my words, what was happening to him and what I was telling him. I could see that he understood it all, maybe all too well.

“Not . . . surprised,” he whispered, all the color draining from his face. “I always knew you—”

He grimaced as his head rolled back. He struggled to turn to me, and his pained brown eyes—those sweet, loving eyes that still haunt me to this day—eventually found mine.

It was over.

“Love you,” he winced through his tears.

“I love you, too,” I whispered.

“I . . .” he swallowed hard. “Never doubted it . . . for a second.”

With that, he exhaled and died.

Not alone.

Fighting every fiber in my being (“You can still save him!”), I stepped back. Knowing I only had a few seconds left, I took a long look at him laying peacefully in the green summer grass.

I shook away the tears, turned and ran.