Prognosis

Todd Landry believed rollerblading was making a comeback largely because Todd Landry had started rollerblading again. He was 39, six feet tall if he stood correctly, and an oil and gas equipment salesman who had cleared two hundred thousand dollars the previous year and mentioned that fact whenever conversations wandered anywhere near money, careers, taxes, houses, trucks, restaurants, vacations, education, or people he considered lazy. Todd lived outside Abbeville, Louisiana, where August mornings were already hot enough to make breathing feel like work. He nevertheless owned four hundred dollars’ worth of rollerblading clothes because, as he had explained to his wife, Claire, there was no point exercising if you looked like shit doing it.

               Claire had looked at the skin-tight black shorts. “You look like a divorced magician.”

               Todd laughed. “You’re hilarious.”

               “I’m serious.”

               “You know how many guys my age could pull this off?”

               “Hopefully none.”

               Todd put on his sunglasses. “You married up.”

               “Every morning I thank God.”

               He kissed her. That was the irritating thing about Todd. He actually loved his wife. He just believed she should be more impressed by him. Outside, the air smelled like wet grass, mud, and something vaguely agricultural Todd did not want identified. He adjusted his headphones and started down the road. He felt fantastic. A truck passed. Todd raised two fingers. The driver did not wave back.

               “Asshole.”

               He accelerated. His new skates were smooth enough that Todd briefly considered posting about them online. Forty miles old. German bearings. Carbon-fiber boots. He wondered whether anybody else around Abbeville even owned a pair this good. Probably not. Todd smiled. Then he heard an engine behind him. He glanced back. White sedan. Moving fast.

               “Plenty of fucking road.”

               Todd shifted toward the shoulder. The car shifted too. He had enough time to understand that. Nothing more. The bumper struck him from behind. Todd flew. For one impossible second, there was no pain. Just blue Louisiana sky. Then pavement. His helmet cracked. Something inside Todd cracked with it. The white car never stopped.

               Todd woke at his kitchen table. Claire stood at the stove. “Jesus.” She did not turn. “Claire?” Nothing. Todd stood. His kitchen looked exactly right. Same granite counters. Same ridiculous refrigerator Claire had insisted they needed. Same dent near the pantry where Todd had thrown a golf club after LSU lost. “Claire.”

               She carried two plates toward the table. Todd stepped in front of her. She walked through him. He screamed. Claire sat. Someone was already sitting across from her. Todd. His face had been destroyed. The left side of his skull collapsed above the ear. His jaw hung several inches lower than it should. Blood ran steadily from one nostril and disappeared into his shirt. Todd backed away. “No.”

               The broken version of him looked at Claire. “How long?”

               “Eleven days,” she said.

               Todd stared at her. “Claire?” Dead Todd smiled. “Eleven days is a long time.”

               Claire began cutting her food. “It’s better than the others.”

               “What others?” Claire looked directly at Todd. Not the thing at the table. Him. Todd stopped breathing. Then everything disappeared. He woke somewhere else. A girl sat on a bedroom floor. Claire. Younger. Twelve, maybe 13. She was writing in a spiral notebook. Todd stood behind her. “Claire?” She could not hear him.

               A woman entered. “What are you doing?”

               Young Claire covered the notebook. “Nothing.”

               “Homework?”

               “No.”

               The woman smiled. “Then come eat.”

               “Grandma’s going to die Thursday.”

               The woman stopped. “What?”

               “Grandma Evelyn.”

               “Claire.”

               “She dies Thursday morning.”

               “That isn’t funny.”

               “I’m not joking.”

               “How would you know that?”

               Claire looked frightened. “I remember.”

               “Remember what?”

               “Her dying.”

               The woman crouched beside her. “Grandma is alive.”

               “I know.”

               “Then you cannot remember her dying.”

               Claire began crying. “But I do.”

               The room vanished. Todd stood on a rural highway. A pickup was wrapped around a tree. Young Claire screamed beside him. Her father was inside. Dead. Todd turned away. Another scene. Claire at 17, begging the same man not to leave his house. “Dad, please.”

               “I have work.”

               “Not today.”

               “Claire.”

               “Please.”

               Her father kissed her forehead. “I’ll be home for dinner.”

               “No, you won’t.”

               Todd watched him leave. Then the crash again. Different road. Same tree. Then again. A bridge. Again. A tractor trailer. Again. Todd screamed. “Stop!”

               The scenes accelerated. Claire’s father dying. Claire’s mother dying instead. Claire dying. A house burning. A hospital room. A funeral. Todd covered his ears. “STOP!” Everything went black.

               Someone whispered behind him. “You’re loud even when you’re unconscious.”

               Todd turned. Claire stood there. His Claire. Forty-one. Barefoot. Wearing a white nightgown. “What the fuck is happening?”

               She looked tired. “You aren't supposed to be here.”

               “Where am I?”

               “Go back.”

               “Back where?”

               “Your body.”

               Todd laughed. “Great. That clears it up.”

               Claire walked away. Todd followed. “Am I dead?”

               “No.”

               “Then where am I?”

               She stopped. “Mine.”

               “Your what?”

               Claire looked around the darkness. “The place I know things.”

               The next nightmare was his. Todd stood inside an oilfield supply warehouse in Lafayette. He recognized it immediately. Seven years earlier. A salesman named Jeremy sat across from Todd’s desk. “You took my account.”

               Todd remembered this. “Company account.”

               “I brought them in.”

               “And they wanted somebody better.”

               Jeremy stared at him. “My wife’s pregnant.”

               Todd shrugged. “Congratulations.”

               “If I lose the commission…”

               “Not my problem.”

               Todd watched his younger self smile. He had forgotten the smile. Jeremy left. The scene changed. A funeral. Todd did not recognize the dead man until he saw the photograph. Jeremy. “What happened?”

               Claire stood beside him. “Suicide.”

               Todd stared. “No.”

               “You never asked.”

               “I didn’t know.”

               “You didn't care.”

               Another scene. Todd at a restaurant, humiliating a waitress because his steak was overcooked. Another. Todd calling a warehouse employee an idiot in front of six people. Another. His daughter, Madison, 12 years old, crying after Todd missed her school play for a sales dinner. He had told her there would be other plays. There had not been. Madison lived with her mother in Houston now. She was 19. She had not spoken to Todd in eight months. “Enough.”

               Claire stood behind him. “You wanted to know.”

               “No, I didn’t.”

               “You never do.”

               “Fuck you.”

               Claire smiled sadly. “There he is.”

               Todd woke in a hospital. He could not move. Could not open his eyes. Could not speak. But he could hear. “Severe traumatic brain injury.” A man. Doctor.

               “Diffuse axonal injury?”

               “Likely.”

               Another voice. Claire. “What are his chances?”

               A pause. Todd hated pauses. “Too early.”

               “Give me something.”

               “We don't know.”

               “Bullshit.” Todd almost smiled. That was his girl.

               “I’m sorry.”

               “How long can he stay like this?”

               “Weeks. Months. Sometimes longer.”

               Claire began crying. Todd tried to move. Nothing. Claire touched his hand. “I’m sorry.” Todd heard something in her voice. Not grief. Guilt. Then he was gone again.

               He stood inside their bedroom. Claire sat on the floor surrounded by notebooks. Hundreds of them. Todd approached. Dates. Names. Places. He picked one up. His fingers passed through it. Claire wrote:

               TODD LANDRY

               AUGUST 11

               ROAD

               HE LIVES THE FIRST TIME.

               Todd stared. “What the fuck?”

               Claire stopped writing. She slowly turned. She could see him. “You.”

               Todd pointed at the notebook. “What does that mean?”

               “Leave.”

               “What does it mean?”

               “You shouldn’t remember this.”

               “Remember? This hasn't happened.”

               Claire stood. “Not to you.”

               Todd felt cold. “What happens August 11th?”

               “You already know.”

               “The car.”

               “Yes.”

               “You knew?”

               “Yes.”

               Todd stared at her. “You knew I was going to get hit by a fucking car?”

               “Yes.”

               “And you let me leave?”

               “Yes.”

               Todd slapped her. His hand passed through her face. Claire did not flinch. “You bitch.”

               “I know.”

               “I could be dead.”

               “You aren't.”

               “How do you know?”

               “Because I remember this.”

               Todd pointed toward the notebook. “Then why didn't you stop me?”

               Claire looked at him for a long time. “Because this was the version where you came home.”

               Todd stopped. “What?”

               “I warned you once. You stayed home.”

               “And?”

               “Madison died.”

               Todd's anger disappeared. “What?”

               “You decided to drive to Houston to surprise her. You fell asleep. She was in the passenger seat.”

               “No.”

               “Another time I hid your skates. You took your motorcycle.”

               “I don't own a motorcycle.”

               “You did there.”

               Todd shook his head. “No.”

               “I have watched you die 206 times.”

               Todd stared.

               “I have watched Madison die 31. Me, 19. Your brother, eight. People we have never met. Every time I change something, something else changes with it.”

               Todd looked at the notebook.

               HE LIVES THE FIRST TIME.

               “What are you?”

               Claire's face twisted. “I don't know.”

               “Who hit me?” She said nothing. “Claire.”

               “Go back.”

               “Who hit me?” The darkness began closing around them. Todd grabbed at her. “What happens the second time?” For the first time, Claire looked terrified. Todd screamed. “WHAT HAPPENS THE SECOND TIME?”

               He opened his eyes 12 days after the accident. Claire screamed. Doctors came running. Todd could not speak because a tube was down his throat. He could move two fingers. That was enough. Claire stayed beside him. Three days later the tube came out. Speech was difficult. Writing was easier. Claire handed him a pad. Todd wrote three words.

               I SAW EVERYTHING.

               Claire stared. “What?”

               Todd wrote:

               YOUR NOTEBOOKS.

               The color left her face. He continued.

               AUGUST 11. ROAD.

               Claire stood. “No.”

               Todd underlined it.

               HE LIVES THE FIRST TIME.

               “Todd, stop.”

               WHO HIT ME?

               Claire looked toward the hospital door. Todd grabbed her wrist. “Who?”

               She began crying. “I did.”

               Todd released her. “What?”

               “I was driving.”

               “You hit me?”

               “I had to.”

               “You left me in the fucking road.”

               “I called 911 from another phone.”

               “You hit me.”

               “In every version where someone else hits you, you die.” Todd stared at her. “I tried everything.”

               “You could've killed me.”

               “I knew the speed.”

               Todd laughed. It hurt. “My wife ran me over because she knew the correct fucking speed?”

               “Yes.”

               He should have hated her. Part of him did. Another part remembered 206 deaths. Todd reached for the pad.

               SECOND TIME?

               Claire stared at the words. Footsteps approached outside. She kissed his forehead. “This is where it always changes.”

               A police officer appeared at the door. “Mrs. Landry?”

               Claire closed her eyes. “We need to speak with you about your husband's accident.”

               She squeezed Todd’s hand. Then followed the officer into the hallway. The door closed. Todd lay alone.

               Beep.

               Beep.

               Beep.

               Then another sound. Soft. Rolling. Todd looked toward the bathroom. The sound came again. Wheels. Rollerblade wheels. “No.”

               A man emerged from the darkness. Todd. Still wearing the black compression shorts. Helmet split open. One side of his face flattened. His left leg bent backward below the knee, but the rollerblade still rolled. Todd tried to reach the call button. His double smiled. “She lied.” Todd stopped. The thing rolled closer. “She always lies about this part.”

               “What?” His own voice barely worked.

               The dead Todd leaned over the bed. “You think you're the first?” Todd stared at him. The thing's broken jaw moved. “You aren't.”

               “What are you?”

               “You.”

               “No.”

               “Yeah.” It laughed. Todd could smell blood and hot pavement. “She doesn't see the future.”

               Todd looked toward the closed door. “Then what does she see?”

               “Memories.”

               “Of what?”

               “All the times she tried.”

               Todd shook his head. “No.”

               “She remembers every version because she keeps bringing us back.”

               “Back from where?”

               The dead Todd smiled. “Now you're asking the right question.” Something moved beneath the hospital bed. Todd froze. Another hand appeared. Then another. Broken fingers curled around the mattress. Faces emerged from beneath the bed. His face. Dozens. One burned. One bloated. One missing both eyes. One with a steering column through its chest. One with a bullet wound beneath its chin. Todd screamed. The monitor alarmed. His double leaned close. “She told you she watched you die 206 times.”

               Todd could barely breathe. “Yeah.”

               “She didn't watch.” The dead Todds began pulling themselves from beneath the bed. “She remembers.”

               Todd looked toward the door. “What's the difference?”

               His double grinned through shattered teeth. “She was there.”

               The door opened. Claire stood in the hallway. No police officer. No nurses. Nobody. Just Claire. Todd looked at her. She looked at the dead versions surrounding his bed. She could see them. “Claire?”

               She began crying. The first dead Todd rolled toward her. “You promised.”

               Claire backed away. Todd stared. “Promised what?”

               She shook her head. “Nothing.”

               The dead Todd laughed. “Tell him.”

               “Shut up.”

               “Tell me what?”

               Claire looked at her living husband. “I didn't wish to see the future.”

               Todd's mouth went dry. “What?”

               “I wished you wouldn't die.”

               The room became silent. “When?”

               “The first time.”

               Todd looked at the bodies. Claire whispered, “I didn't understand what I was asking for.”

               One of the dead Todds began laughing. Then another. Soon all of them were laughing. Todd looked at Claire. “How many times?” She covered her mouth. “How many?”

               The rollerblading corpse leaned beside Todd's ear. “117.”

               Todd stared at Claire. “But you said 206.”

               Claire shook her head. “I've seen 206.”

               The corpse smiled. Todd understood. “How many times have I come back?”

               Claire did not answer. The dead Todd did. “117.”

               The hospital monitor stopped. A solid tone filled the room. Claire rushed toward him. “No. No, no, no.” Todd felt himself falling. Claire grabbed his face. “Stay with me.” Darkness closed around him. The last thing Todd heard was his wife screaming. Then nothing.

               Todd Landry opened his eyes. He was standing on a rural road outside Abbeville, Louisiana. Morning sun. Wet grass. Heat already rising from the pavement. He looked down. Black compression shorts. Rollerblades. Behind him, an engine approached. Todd began screaming. The white sedan came around the curve. Claire was driving. She was crying. Todd tried to move. His legs would not respond. As the car accelerated toward him, he finally understood why every nightmare had felt like a memory. It was. And somewhere far away, Claire whispered:

               “118.”