Time - Wasted or Traveled

The article had been a sensation. Reading it a couple decades later, though, the printed lies burn her pride.

“Dr. Dottie Brooks.” She reads her own name from a list of scientists in the old newspaper.

“This specialized team is bringing our world into utopia through shocking means… time travel! Dr. Jones is confident that he and his people will have a fully operational machine by January 1919.”

Then, a few lines down, “There are even two female scientists on the team, proving our futuristic thinking as a nation.”

First, her name was Dr. Dody Brooke. The “futuristic thinking” was solely from the man who hired her. Nobody else even bothered to spellcheck a woman’s name.

Second, the time machine never worked. Nobody on the team thought it would be done by the said date, they merely needed to convince the investors it was worthwhile.

By 1925, even Jones – bold leader that he was – started doubting the project. When the stock market crashed, so did the team.

Dody takes off her heavy wire glasses to rub her eyes. How many years of holding onto a hopeless project does it take to drive a person mad? She’s probably already past that.

The Machine is a monster in the middle of her office. Taller than her, dressed in a chaos of loose cables, it taunts her with a history of failed experiments.

Failure. If only Dody could accept that concept, her life could be normal again.

“You’re lucky I’m stubborn, Mister,” she grumbles at the Machine. A housefly buzzes around the lightbulb in silence.

She tucks the newspaper back behind the radio in the corner display case. The deep-fried, warped beyond recognition, radio hasn’t croaked a note since the Great Depression. It sure would be a funny story to tell if it hadn’t ended in death.

“Day 1, Hour 1,” Dr. Brooke talks aloud as she writes, “If you want to be boring, call it June 8th. To test my Eardrum Theory, I have a soft copper plate. A crate of plates, actually, in case they break. This is the first real idea I’ve had in… longer than I care to admit. I won’t let it be a waste of time.”

She twists out a few screws.

“Oh! I think Rose is visiting me tomorrow (my niece, for any future readers who don’t know her). The family finally convinced her that my work is an unhealthy obsession. Hopefully she’ll change her mind when she sees me doing real work.”

One last screw falls and the panel pops open.

“I’m attaching a box to the sensitive area of the battery. In the box is the copper drum. Where did this idea come from? I’ll keep that off the record. Out from the box, I attached a singular tunnel, which connects to a noise generator.”

Dody pushes her record player closer to the Machine.

“What I don’t need to write down is that Ella Fitzgerald is an accomplice.”

When Day 1’s page is filled with hours 1-4, Dody lays it face down in her desk drawer. Official measurements and details are taped to the wall on little notes. Everything else she writes is useless until the experiment fails. Only then will she read her hours of journaling and reflect on what went wrong.

That habit of never looking back on notes used to drive her team bonkers. They tried to tell her science needs precise notes, and reviews of those notes. She felt that staying in the moment gave her the most breakthroughs in the lab.

Dody applies the same rule to the rest of her life. If she looks back too far…

“The oil!”

“What about it?”

“There’s been a leak. A spill. Downstairs. Everywhere!”

“Where’s Jones?”

“Dr. Brooke…”

“DODY–”

If she looks back too far, she’ll get stuck.

“Day 1, Hour 9,” Dody squeals like a child, “We have power! Everything is connected for the test. All I have to do now is put on a record and pray my neighbor doesn’t hear the volume. He sure complains a lot for someone who calls it a burden.”

She sets the record in. She prays. Not out loud, for once, but she prays in her head and relishes the quiet for a moment.

To the Machine, she whispers, “Please don’t mess this up for me, Mister.”

The needle drops onto the vinyl. The familiar crackle of music starting vibrates the whole room.

“IT’S GORGEOUS,” Dody scribbles on a fresh page and stuffs it in the drawer just like that.

Dody’s casual white dress has a bit of frill at the bottom. Enough that it fluffs out with her lab coat when she spins. Women her age don’t have much reason to dance, but this must be the perfect occasion.

………

“Day 2, Hour 1. A full 24 hours since the beginning. I’ve only dozed off once for less than the length of a song. Oh well. If sleep is the price to pay for this to work (and I truly believe it will work!), then I’ll never close my eyes again.”

Dody dusts off some of the top cords that have been long untouched. The Machine hums as if it finally appreciates the care. Really, it’s just burning off some extra power from its last burst of sound waves.

“A new, not yet chipped, copper plate is set in the box. This one is 2 centimeters off from the first’s position. We’re ready for another test.”

She pulls out another record.

“Mister, say hello to Frankie Blue Eyes.”

Rose was coming today. What time did she say? What time is it now? Rose’s letter is probably in the bedroom. All Dody would have to do is leave for a couple minutes.

CRACKKKshh. Something snaps. The Machine whirrs in a sickly tone.

“Day 2, Hour 8, Hour 10.”

Her hand hovers over an empty space on the page. It begs for an explanation. She doesn’t have one.

On another note, she could have sworn that she brought a jug of water into the lab yesterday. It’s not there. One night of lost sleep might have affected her more than she feels.

“Day 2, Hour 15. I fixed it. It was an oil leak.”

She sighs, both with relief and melancholy, “That stupid oil. Of course, it had to remind me of the team. What would they say to me now? I suppose I know already. Most of them gave their negative opinions the day I took this monster home with me. What would Jones say, though?”

The same oil that killed him is still causing trouble this many years later. He probably wouldn’t be thrilled.

What about the war? Europe is neck deep. America is dipping its toes. Jones would be more concerned about that than a pesky oil leak. He would want to get the Machine working quickly. Help as many people as possible.

“Day 2, Hour 24. I just remembered that I haven’t eaten. I’m tired.”

………

“Day 3, Hour 1,” Dody yawns, “I passed out for about 10 minutes at my desk. The ink on the paper was still wet and printed the words ‘eaten, I’m tired’ on my cheek. Now I’m ready for the next round of testing.”

“Hey, Mister!” she pats the open panel, “Hope you’re nice and cooled off. I have another idea for your little Eardrum...”

Rose never came. She never sent a message of why not. Maybe the girl has finally grown tired of her “deranged” aunt.

………

“Day 4, Hour 6. I forgot for a few hours that I had spilled oil on my legs. I took a shower. Some of the water got in my mouth and I realized I haven’t purposefully drank water in…”

It doesn’t matter how long. She’ll set reminders for herself around the room. The Machine is close. So close. Too close to take a break from now.

The crate of copper plates should be half empty, but it looks about as full as when she got it. She never counted how many plates came in, there must have been extras. At least she doesn’t have to worry about running out of parts. Everything else, however, keeps her mind busy.

Louis Armstrong sounds like good company for the next test. The Machine seems to like him too. Dody hums along and constantly checks the cord connections and power lights. Everything else can be shut out when she works on one experiment at a time.

………

“Nooo!” Dody laughed.

Dr. Smith, the youngest and most creative on their team, leaned over the rail of the mezzanine as his radio fell into a vat of boiling oil.

“Idiot,” Dr. Volkova rebuked with her thick Russian accent, though she seemed to be holding back a laugh of her own.

“An idiot for wanting to set the mood?” Dr. Smith squeaked.

“For bringing a radio into the testing area!” Dody clarified, still giggling at the absurdity.

“No harm done,” Dr. Jones entered behind them, “Smith is right. The vats are working. The Machine could be ready tonight! We should be celebrating.”

“Day 5, Hour 1. Again, I only slept for a few minutes. It was long enough to dream about Jones and the others. I don’t think I can fall back asleep today. I know dreams don’t always pick up where they left off… I know they’re not usually perfect replays of the past… but I don’t want to chance living through that again.”

Staying awake doesn’t prevent memories, though. The Machine, the sun that Dody revolves around, is reminder enough.

Yet again, a water jug Dody remembers bringing in has disappeared without her taking a sip. Perhaps her subconscious wants to be dehydrated.

Ten out of the twelve team members were drinking in the kitchen. Dody felt at home with the others. At peace. They were all positive that their years of labor were coming to a happy end.

Then Smith ran in, screaming illegibly.

“The oil!” he managed to spit out.

“What about it?” “Is something wrong?” “What happened?” “Where?” Volkova and the others interrogated him all at once.

They were so loud.

Smith panted and couldn’t catch his breath, “There’s been a leak. A spill. Downstairs. Everywhere!”

Some people ran out instantly. Some stayed. The ones who stayed were still loud.

“Where’s Jones?” Dody’s voice felt like a whisper compared to the screams of confusion.

Smith still heard her. He bowed his head, “Dr. Brooke…”

She wasn’t ready to hear the answer. Smith was cut off by a voice that Dody recognized instantly.

“DODY–” Jones screamed. An agonizing screech.

She ran into the hallway and caught a glimpse of her friends carrying a flailing body. She screamed. What can make a moment like that better? Pretending it isn’t real? She knew it was. Run to help? She wasn’t that kind of doctor; she would only be in the way. All she could do was scream his name and hope he heard it.

It was the last time she saw half of her team. The other half never had a reason to meet again after the funerals. The project was over.

It was over for everyone aside from Dr. Brooke. Jones used up his precious last words screaming her name, her first name. He might have been the best friend she’s ever had. She can’t let him die for nothing.

“Day 5, Hour 23.”

She has nothing to write. Six days straight of work have added up to nothing.

“I failed,” she writes, “My Eardrum Theory was obviously wrong. There are no more reasonable adjustments I could make to such a simple box. I have to stop.”

This paper doesn’t get shoved in the drawer. Instead, she pulls out the other papers to finally review them.

Where are they?

A mostly empty paper with the happy phrase “IT’S GORGEOUS” was the last one to be stuffed in. Day 1 pages are the only survivors. She had to have written dozens of other pages, both personal and professional. She never put them anywhere other than the drawer. This is her system, how could they simply disappear?

Did they never exist?

The crate of copper plates didn’t just have a few extras. Except for the plate currently in the Machine, the box is full.

She was so caught up in the project that she never ate or drank. Why isn’t she starving? She should be dying of thirst.

Dody nervously walks to the telephone in the hall. She dials. She waits. She hangs up and dials again. Again. Again.

“Goodness, who is this?!” Rose finally answers.

“Your Auntie Dody,” she says. Adrenaline rushes through her body and pours out in her trembling hands.

“Are you alright? Why so urgent?”

Dody stutters, “I was… worried. You never came to see me the other day.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie, I said I would come tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Dody repeats the word, “Then what day is today?”

“Why – it’s Monday. The 8th of June, if you didn’t know,” Rose’s voice drips with worry.

“It worked,” Dody mumbles and hangs up the phone in shock. Rose can worry if she wants to, it doesn’t matter now.

Dody stands in the lab doorway to take in the beauty of it: the Time Machine.

“You created a time loop, Mister!” she says with the pride of a mother whose son won 1st place, “A torturous, depressing, BEAUTIFUL time loop of the day I built your Eardrum.”

On a new piece of paper, she scribbles with excitement, “Day 1… the 6th? Dr. Jones will be happy to know this. IT WORKS.”