Time is Love

The first time James could remember it happening was when he was six-years-old.

It was several weeks before Christmas and he sat in the living room with his mother as she wrapped presents on the floor. A small record player was the source of Bing Crosby’s soothing voice. The singer was dreaming of a white Christmas and James was dreaming about all the toys he would find under the tree come Christmas morning. The sweet aroma of sugar cookies floated into the room as the treats baked in the kitchen.

James watched as his mom deftly wrapped each present, mesmerized whenever the silver scissors would effortlessly glide across the paper as she cut. These weren’t just any old pair of scissors. These were what his mother affectionately referred to as the “good scissors.” For most of the year they stayed out of sight.

Just as his mother had rolled out a new sheet of festive wrapping paper, the oven began beeping loudly from the kitchen.

“Sounds like our cookies are done,” his mom said, picking herself up off the floor. “I’ll be right back.”

James nodded politely and pretended to be interested in whatever animated movie was playing on the television in front of him. As soon as his mother left the room, however, he quickly turned his head and confirmed that the scissors had been left on the floor. He grabbed them and felt the heavy weight of the metal blades. He slipped his fingers between the holes and mimicked the cutting motion he saw his mom make so many times that evening. The blades of the scissors snapped open and shut like the mouth of a dangerous animal. From the kitchen, James could hear the sound of his mother removing the cookie tray from the oven. He didn’t have long.

He began cutting the wrapping paper timidly. The sharp metal met no resistance—like cutting through cotton candy. He began cutting faster, carving a zig zag pattern into the paper. James grew more emboldened and placed the palm of his hand down on the paper and cut carefully around each finger. He was making great progress, moving up and over his middle digit, when he heard a sudden stern voice.

“Put the scissors down!”

The sound of his mother’s angry voice was enough to cause the scissors to veer wildly off course and slice deep into the soft skin between his fingers. Before his brain could even register the pain, James saw thick droplets of blood cascading onto the wrapping paper. His mother let out a gasp and grabbed her son’s hand, her anger now replaced with concern.

The last thing James remembered before it happened was a feeling of sudden nausea. As his mother held him tightly, James’ stomach turned to knots. He felt bile rise up in his throat and he fought desperately to keep it down.

And then it was over.

Whatever mysterious illness that passed over James in that fleeting moment was quickly gone. James looked down at his wounded hand, expecting to see a gruesome mess of blood.

But there was nothing.

There was no sign of the scissors or the wrapping paper. In fact, there was no sign of Christmas at all.

James looked around the room and saw no stockings hanging from the fireplace, no nutcrackers adorning the shelves, and most notably, no Christmas tree lit up by the window. James glanced at the television set, but no longer saw the children’s movie he and his mother had been watching moments earlier. Instead he saw a lavish parade broadcast from an unknown city. James was still learning to read, but even he could identify the gold words flashing at the bottom of the screen.

HAPPY NEW YEAR.

That was the first time he could remember it happening, but there were plenty more instances after that. The years went on and James experienced the phenomena and subsequent loss of time with every injury—no matter how minor or serious.

There was the time he chipped a tooth playing wiffle ball in gym class—one month gone.

The time he got a bloody nose after taking a basketball to the face—two weeks gone.

And how could he forget the evening when he fell off his bicycle and broke his wrist. He had fallen to the ground during spring and awoke completely healed in the summer.

James was terrified each time it happened—how could he not be? One moment he was firmly in the present, the next he was thrust into the future like some sort of cosmic crash test dummy. He worried there was something wrong with him—with his brain—with his body—perhaps both. He scoured the internet in hopes of finding any information pertaining to what ailed him. He flipped through his biology textbook searching for clues. But he found nothing.

​He considered consulting with a doctor, but feared how crazy he would sound. Hi, doc. Whenever I injure myself, I soar through time and space. Got any meds for that?

The more James “traveled”—that’s what he began calling it—the more comfortable he felt. Other than a little nausea, he didn’t feel ill. He was fairly certain he wasn’t dying. His brain seemed to work just fine. He thought about the comic books his mom would bring home for him to read. These were stories about people with extraordinary abilities. Maybe they were closer to truth than fiction. James couldn’t turn invisible or fly through the air like a bird, but he did have a gift.

He was determined to learn as much as possible about his ability. He began carrying a small notebook and pencil with him at all times and jotting down salient information. Whenever he traveled, he would write down the time, how far into the future he went, the injury he sustained, and any physical symptoms he felt afterward. After a few years of diligent notetaking he deduced that the degree of injury determined how far into the future he passed. For instance, a small paper cut would send him only a few hours forward, while a sprained ankle, or God forbid a broken bone, would result in a greater jump through time. James also learned that his ability seemed to have no discernible effect on the people around him. The days and weeks would pass normally for others and no one was the wiser that James was bending the fabric of time and space every time he skinned his knee.

One morning before school, James’ mother sat down at the table with him as he ate breakfast. She had a look of concern on her face and James could tell a serious conversation was imminent.

“Sometimes you don’t seem like yourself,” she began. “I want you to know that if there is anything you want to talk about—anything at all—you can always come to me.”

There had been many times growing up that James nearly went to her in tears about what was happening to him. His father had left them one evening when James was a baby and they had not heard from him since. They only had each other and James knew that his mother worried about him. He sensed that she knew there was something he wanted to tell her, but to her credit, she never pressed him about it. He didn’t like lying to her, but he knew that the truth would only worry her. How could he possibly convince her that he had this ability? He knew how crazy it all sounded.

So, he told her he was fine—like all teenagers do when their moms worry about their sons. He was happy to talk to her about anything going on in his life, but not this.

After high school, James left for college—far enough away that he was on his own and close enough that he could visit his mom every weekend. He learned to use his gift to his advantage. Through trial and error, he discovered that the prick of a small sewing needle would allow him to travel exactly 24 hours forward in time. He skipped through boring lectures at school. He breezed through shifts at his part time job. He even used his ability to fast forward through one particularly awful blind date. He learned how to mitigate risk and avoid situations where he might travel unwillingly. James found safety in numbers and graduated with a degree in accounting. He still didn’t fully understand his gift, but he could understand numbers. Numbers were not mysterious.

The afternoon of his graduation he and his mom went to dinner to celebrate. They were still close, but not nearly as close as they had once been. The daily phone calls turned into weekly occurrences. James went from visiting her every Sunday to once a month. Still, he was happy to see her and to celebrate this milestone in his life with her.

She asked James about his plans for the future—what jobs he would apply for, whether he was willing to relocate for work, if he was seeing anyone romantically. James answered the first two questions and laughed off the third. She told him how proud of him she was. As they waited for the waiter to bring the bill, his mother reached her hand across the table and placed it on top of James’ hand, just like she had done that day years ago when he cut himself with the scissors.

“I know you’re not my little boy anymore, but remember, I’m always here for you if you need me.”

James, who was well-accustomed to these conversations by now, simply smiled and patted his mother’s hand. “I know, mom. Thanks.” They hugged goodbye and made plans to see each other in two weeks.

​The driver who hit his mom that night had run a red light. The police told James it didn’t appear as if the man was under the influence of any drugs or alcohol when it happened. The driver simply tried to beat the light and critically misjudged the timing. The impact to the right side of the vehicle caused James’ mother’s head to smash into the driver side window. When James arrived at the hospital, the nurse at the front desk told him that his mother was in surgery and it would be several hours before there was an update.

James sat in the cold waiting room, his thoughts racing wildly, until finally a man in blue scrubs came to see him. The doctor told James that his mother was alive, but unresponsive. She had sustained critical head injuries and he was unsure if she would survive the night. James fell asleep inside the hospital room—his mother full of tubes like some sort of science fiction monster.

​His mom made it through the night, and the night after that, but there was no change to her condition. Doctors later confirmed to James that she was in a coma. If she woke up—and that was a sizeable “if”—she would never be the same.

​James waited with his mom for weeks, holding her hand, and vigilantly watching for any sign of consciousness. But there were none. The waiting quickly became too much for him. He could not sit in that hospital room day in and day out, waiting for something that would probably never happen. One afternoon, as he parked his car in the hospital lot, he found the old sewing needle tucked away inside his car. He put it in his pocket.

​He developed a routine. He would check on his mother each morning and speak with her doctors. Once he confirmed there was no positive update, he would take out the needle and travel 24 hours.

He repeated that process—over and over.

The days were short and the ensuing weeks and months were a blur. Most days he would eat nothing more than a bag of chips from the hospital cafeteria. Some days he would eat nothing at all. His body, once healthy and strong, began to wither away like his mother in the bed beside him. The hospital staff worried about James and recommended that he spend more time outside of the building. They told him that they would call him immediately if there were any updates about his mother.

But James continued to wait, his needle in his pocket.

A year came and went. James was mentally and physically weak. He had traveled so often that he had difficulty remembering what day—or even what month—it was. He felt perpetually sick to his stomach, a side effect from the time travel. He wanted to break the cycle, but feared the monotony of each day without his gift. He wasn’t sure he could sit by idly and watch the minutes tick away on the clock.

One morning, as James was preparing to travel, a young nurse walked into the room holding a tray. On the tray was breakfast and a cup of juice. The woman dropped the tray on the table, startling James.

“Eat,” she said stiffly.

James looked up at the nurse and tried his best to smile politely. “I’m not hungry.”

“You can eat or you can leave,” she responded. “Your choice.”

James was taken aback by the woman’s directness. He was not used to any conversations that weren’t germane to his mother’s condition. The nurse checked his mom’s vitals and James picked up the fork on the tray. He took a small bite of scrambled eggs and was surprised by how delicious it was.

“The cafeteria starts serving dinner at five,” said the nurse. “I’ll see you there.” Before James could offer up a protest, the woman left the room.

At five o’clock precisely, James stepped into the sparsely populated cafeteria. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he also wasn’t willing to cross this intense nurse he had just met. He grabbed a chicken salad and found the woman sitting alone in the back of the room.

“Two meals in one day,” she said with a smile. “Look at you go.”

James offered a sheepish grin in return and began picking at his salad.

“I’ll be looking after your mom from now on,” she said, opening a can of soda. “I hope I don’t need to look after you too. I’m busy enough as it is.”

James, unsure if this was a joke, remained quiet. He held out his hand to her.

“James.”

“Jenna.”

The two met inside the cafeteria nearly every evening. It turned out that they graduated from the same college and even had a class together. James had little memory of this, of course, as he skipped class via traveling whenever possible. The two talked about everything—her job, his lack of job, her family, his lack of family outside his mother, movies, music, the last book they read, the best burger in town—they covered it all. Jenna’s energy and passion for everyday life was infectious. Soon, James was spending more time outside of the hospital. He exercised, he looked for a job, and he ate meals that weren’t served inside a cafeteria.

It wasn’t lost on James that he had a crush on Jenna. Her curly brown hair bounced over her eyes when she laughed. When she smiled at him, he couldn’t resist smiling back at her. His time spent with her was the highlight of his day.

“Give me your phone,” she said to him one evening inside the cafeteria. As usual, he did as he was instructed. When she handed the phone back to him he saw that her number was now saved as a contact. “You’re taking me out tomorrow.” A statement, not a question.

And that was that.

​Six months later they moved in together. James had been over her apartment so much they agreed that there wasn’t much of a point having separate places. He found a low level job at an accounting firm and Jenna transferred from second shift to first so they could be together more. They ate dinner together on the floor, plates crowding the small coffee table they had purchased one Saturday at a yard sale. On days when James couldn’t visit his mother, Jenna texted the doctors, asking for an update.

​James didn’t travel anymore—there was no need to. There were no moments, with Jenna or without, that he was willing to miss. He had forgotten about his needle until the day it fell out of an old pair of jeans while he did laundry. He considered the object for a moment and then threw it in the garbage.

​James proposed to Jenna at the park. The location had been a favorite of theirs, as they often took long circuitous walks around the wooded paths. James had made enough money to afford a decent-sized diamond and he presented it to her one warm evening as summer gave way to fall.

​‘Marry me,” he said, pleased to finally be the one making demands.

​Jenna accepted immediately and they laughed while James nervously fumbled with the ring.

On the inside of the gold band was a small engraving. James had paid extra for it at the jewelry shop. As he slid the ring onto the finger of his future wife, the fading sunlight reflected off the gold letters and Jenna read the words out loud.

“Time is love”