Reelin' In the Years

My next client isn’t due for another two hours, so I figure I will spend the free time ‘taking a look at myself.’ This is what I call using my ‘powers’ (I’m still not convinced that’s the right word for whatever the hell is going on inside of my head) to… well, watch parts of my life all over again. It’s like a movie I’ve not only seen before, but lived, except there is usually the whole thing about how quickly life goes and we don’t get to live anything twice. Unless you do.

I sit in the leather armchair and stare straight ahead for a while. When you have your choice of moments to relive from a life that spans fifty-five years and counting, it can be quite a daunting choice. I settle on the first one. The big one. I call it my ‘uncorking.’

I slide my gloves off and put them on the table beside me. I sit forward slightly and bring my hand upwards and behind my head, forming an L with my thumb and the rest of my fingers. As my hand wraps around my neck, it starts.

My whole body stiffens, my eyes roll back and the darkness of my mind explodes into colour. The colours are falling, sliding down the blackness to the place where everything is stored. Soon enough, I see images, though they are moving too quickly to make any sense of. If I wanted to, I could stop them there and experience my first waking moment of that morning again, but that’s not what I’m after. The images speed by, interspersed with darkness, for dreams do not register like memories do - they are far too fleeting and mercurial. Trying to live a dream again would be like trying to walk on a cloud.

The part of my brain that is still aware thinks of the time that I want to go to. The images speed up even more, whole years skipping by in fractions of seconds until I feel everything slow down.

A kindergarten classroom with big open windows that are flooded with September sunshine. By the door, a boy holds onto his mother’s hand and cries. It is his first day. From the classroom, a woman with a soft sweater and softer eyes walks towards them. They speak to each other - the mother smiling weakly, putting on a brave face, the teacher exuding warmth and security. The mother leaves and the boy turns to follow her before the teacher puts her hand on his shoulder. Offers him her hand. He takes it and they both stop. Her eyes roll back in her head and her spine goes ramrod straight. The boy looks at her but isn’t actually looking at her. He sees what is within her, everything from that moment but going backwards, like a spool of film being unwound. Something makes him scream and causes him to let go of her hand. Both of their eyes open.

I skip ahead. I haven’t seen her in a while, either in person or in my mind, so I aim for a good memory. Sometimes, I roll the dice, letting chance decide what kind of a memory I’m going to watch. But for now, I want a nice one. There is always an unsettling lurching feeling when I start winding the spool back in and moving forward. I slow it down when it feels right and let the memory run.

A dorm room. On the bed, a young man and a young woman. She has curly brown hair and an angular face - Cindy Crawford’s little sister, some have said. He has long blonde hair and scruffy clothes - it’s clear that he leans in to the River Phoenix look and it works for him. She looks at his hands:

‘So are you gonna tell me why you wear the gloves?’

He smiles and looks at the floor. Thinks about lying, like he has his entire life, telling her that he is a germaphobe, he is super weird and hopes she doesn’t mind. He looks into her eyes and something honest in them makes him feel differently. He tells her. Waits for her to stand up and walk out. Expects it. Doesn’t expect it when she carefully peels off each finger of his glove. Lifts his hand and puts it on her neck.

I take my hand off my neck and sigh. My heart is racing - seeing her like that is pretty wild. After everything with our daughter, Emma, and our divorce, I don’t get to see my ex-wife much anymore. That’s probably for the best, at least if there are any plates in the room that could be thrown.

I think about Emma. The last time I saw her, she called me out of the blue and told me to meet her at a coffee shop. It had been years since she ran away from home and we had only received the odd letter that only seemed to make her seem farther away. Those letters were like kindling for the insatiable fire that ate away at my marriage, though. Each time a letter came she would ask me to go back through our memories, try to find what it was that drove Emma away. Eventually, there was only pain tying us together.

When we met, she told me precious little about her life. Just that she was happy. And that she could never come home. But couldn’t tell me why. I begged her, told her that whatever it was, it didn’t matter. But she wouldn’t budge. Before she left I gave her a key to my house. Told her that she could come home, any time she wanted. I would always be there for her. I think about going back to that moment to look for any other clues as if I haven’t already done it a hundred times when I stop.

A loud buzzing wakes me from my reverie. My client is early.

*

There are a few things you should know about me before I proceed. First of all, this isn’t X-Men. I was never sought out by a bald quadriplegic with an academy of ‘gifted youngsters.’ I hid my ‘powers’, even after I met my wife, and we lived a normal life. I wore my gloves and ran an IT solutions company. We had Emma and tried our best to raise her right. And then she ran away.

By the time my marriage ended, I was sick. Sick of helping old ladies with their wi-fi and sick of a life that had not turned out as I had hoped it would. And so, a business idea occurred to me. After all, we are all but orchard keepers. Whatever fruits we have grown, we must use them. Perhaps I haven’t chosen to use my ‘powers’ for the most altruistic purposes, but can you blame me?

I started small, advertising in shady corners of the internet that I could help people relive their memories. I’ll always remember my first client - a man in his 50s who had lost his wife. His grief was enough to push him over the edge, crazy enough to believe that a human, and not some piece of technology might actually be able to do something like this. He just wanted to see her again. I’d already thought of the projector screen and the video camera, so there was a product. And my price was steep. But he didn’t mind. He left with tears in his eyes and a USB in his pocket.

From there, things started to take off. Word of mouth, I suppose. But I had to iron a few things out. I decided that I needed a no-questions-asked way of doing business if I was going to be serious about making any money. If I was going to be going back through people’s minds, I might see some shit. Who was I to go and blab to the cops? If it bothered me so much I could do something else.

So I added a few things to my service description and went from there. If I wanted to, I could have put more than a few people behind bars, or at least ruined their lives. While most of the people that come to see me just want to see a loved one again, some of them come for more nefarious reasons. A hitman had me find a memory of a murder, so that he could see who the witness was. Another woman had me look back to an affair she had because it was the best sex she had ever had.

Whatever it is, I don’t tell. That’s how it was and that’s how it is now. That’s how it needs to be.

*

The man who I walk through my house is around the same age as me, but looks older. He is gaunt with beady, dark eyes and a nervous disposition. He reminds me of a weasel on coke. He sits in the leather chair and his eyes dart around the room.

I sit across from him and clear my throat:

‘Look. I like to keep this very private. Everything confidential. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. When we’re done, I’ll give you the memory you want. Video file on a USB. I used to work in computers, so trust me, there is no way it can be traced back to me. And you’ll just have to take my word that whatever I see… in you, will be forgotten. That’s how this goes.’

The man nods three times and bites a fingernail.

‘So you’re definitely not a cop, right? You have to tell me if you are one, y’know. Otherwise-’

I raise my hand and smile. ‘No. I’m not. Let’s get this started. Time’s-a-wasting.’

He nods again and holds the chair as if it might get up and run away.

‘I’m going to go behind you,’ I say as I press a button and the projector slowly descends, ‘and put my hand on your neck. Once I find what you want me to find, I will slow it down. It will show up on that screen there, which will be recorded by this camera. Capish?’

More nods. ‘How… how does it go from me… to you… to there?’

I chuckle: ‘There are some mysteries that aren’t worth solving. Just trust me, it’ll work.’

I move behind him and take my glove off. The back of his neck is already sweaty and I am already looking forward to washing my hands once he leaves. I turn on the camera, raise my hand to form an L and put it on his neck.

Stiffness, darkness, colour and descent. It’s always the same. In his request form, weasel-man had indicated that he wanted to go back fifteen years. He even gave me a date: November 12th, 2010. It’s quite easy for me to find memories with specific dates - something about the engine in my head does well with signposts. Out goes the spool and back goes time, images and darkness flashing, nothing tangible, just the swirl of a life lived in reverse until something tells me to slow down. So I do.

Semi-darkness in a room that is lit by a tv. A man watches infomercials. Somebody selling something called a ‘Slapchop’. Footsteps pad down the stairs. The faint sound of a fridge opening. The man stands up and walks towards the kitchen. The person by the fridge is obscured by the door but from the slender feet, it looks to be a girl. Young-ish, perhaps preteen. The sound of milk pouring into a cup on a counter and the soft inhale as she drinks it, the faint gulp as she swallows it. She closes the door and gasps when she sees the man standing there.

‘Oh, Mr. Marshall. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

The kitchen is so dark it’s as if the girl isn’t even there.

‘Sorry to scare you like that. Guess you couldn’t sleep, huh?’

She nods.

‘Well, come and sit with me for a minute. You can keep me company. I can’t sleep either.’

He holds out his hand - an undulation in front of her - and she reaches out to grab it.

They sit on the couch. The tv is on but it barely gives enough light to see anything, just the edges of her face, her light brown hair and her blue eyes glowing. She sits as far away from him as she can.

‘You girls have a good time tonight?’

‘Yes, Mr. Marshall. And thanks again for having us. I think I-’

‘Do you want to play a game with me? See, I’m old now. Sarah is all grown up and never wants to play with me anymore. And the thing about being a grown-up and working all the time is that I never get any time to make friends and play games!’

She looks at him and sees the edges of his mouth curl downwards.

‘Sure.’

‘Okay. Simon Says. You know it?’

‘Duh.’

He laughs in a whisper. ‘Okay, okay. Keep it down. See, this game has to be a secret between us. Because I only wanted to play it with you. Because,’ he hesitates, ‘well, you are the prettiest of Sarah’s friends. And I don’t want the other ones to be jealous. So you have to keep it between us, okay?’

‘Uhm, okay. If you say so.’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fun. I promise.’ He moves closer to her. ‘Y’know, you wouldn’t want to tell your parents, either. Some grown-ups are kinda weird and don’t get how fun it is playing games like we used to when we were kids. I think it’s just a bit of harmless fun, right?’

He reaches over and pats her on the shoulder.

‘Okay. So. Ready?’

She nods.

‘Simon Says… raise your hands.’

She does.

‘Lift your leg.’

She doesn’t.

‘Well done. Simon Says… give yourself a hug.’

She does and she smiles - it feels nice.

‘Rub your chest.’

She doesn’t.

‘Very good! Okay, Simon Says… lift your shirt.’

She pauses.

‘Don’t be nervous. It’s just part of the game. Like you used to play when you were little, right? It’s just your tummy anyways.’

She does. He watches.

‘Simon Says… sit beside me.’

I’ll spare you the rest. Suffice to say, it is exactly what you are thinking. But I have to watch it. Even though he only paid for the five minute video, it is enough.

But.

I made my thoughts about this very clear. Judgement yes, law enforcement no. Nothing changes.

I start scrubbing the video on my laptop and the man sits there fidgeting. As I’m trimming the beginning of the video, he says: ‘You’re judging me. I know it. Well, just so you know, it’s a sickness. A disease, okay? Would you judge someone with depression? Would you?’

I look up from the laptop with barely concealed hatred: ‘Buddy, just shut up. Part of the deal is that I don’t get the cops on you. But I should. If I was a better person, I would. But this goddamn morality of mine… well, it’s shot. Gone to hell. And I’m here to make money. Just don’t poke the bear, alright?’

He nods three times and stares at the floor.

I trim the end of it so he only gets his god-forsaken five minutes and start rendering it. I add a little brightness, thinking that the sicko will want to actually see the girl and nearly vomit at the thought of it. It’s almost enough to make me stop, but if I stop now, then I’m going against the code that I set out for myself. Sickos exist all around the world… but the fact that this guy might be doing the same thing to more little girls is almost enough to make me call it all off. But I don’t. I watch as the darkness lifts slightly and the girl’s face is revealed and…

It doesn’t take long. No more than a second. It’s a face I know better than my own. The soft lines, the blue eyes, her mother’s eyes, my chin, the birthmark above her eye… It’s Emma.

I look at the man and he looks at me. Slowly, deliberately, I slip my gloves on. No words come as I leap across the table at him, taking him to the floor. Snarls of anguish, perhaps, as I close my hands around his neck. His eyes bulge as he pries my right hand off - I look down and realise I’m still holding the USB. I click it open and jam it into his neck. A spurt of blood jets upward, a sanguine rainbow. I do it again and again and again and all I can think about is her face and I slam his head into the floor and he stops moving.

I breathe in ragged pants and get that weird feeling that someone is watching me. Looking up, I see her there - she is the same as I just saw her but older, worn down by the years but still with that sparkle in her eye that I used to marvel at when she was just a baby.

She holds the key that I gave her and her mouth is hanging open.

I lift my hands slowly in supplication, in prayer, in remorse, in confession, but mostly in penance as blood drips slowly from the USB:

‘I’m… I’m sorry.’