Thanks? Or No Thanks? Be Careful What You Wish For!

I am staring at a perfectly browned turkey, about eighteen pounds, sitting on my kitchen counter. Wisps of steam tickle my nose. My hand reaches out all by itself, captures a loose piece of crispy skin, and pops it into my mouth. It is everything I imagined. A perfect prelude to a glorious Thanksgiving feast.
 
There is just one problem. I have no idea where that turkey came from, or why the sound of sociable conversation is drifting from the next room. 
 
I was cooking solitary mac and cheese, feeling sorry for myself because it was my ex's turn to have the kids. I was wishing that we had stayed together, solved our problems, even though they were insurmountable and I was tired of being blamed for everything.
 
Wishing… 
 
Oh shit. 
 
I forgot to be careful what to wish for. 
 
The amulet I am wearing focuses the energy of my wishes, selects a compatible timeline, and transports me there, without asking my permission.
 
I fell in love with it at Mrs. Talleyrand's giant home clearance sale. Her mother had died, leaving behind a five-bedroom house stuffed with treasures she had collected on her world travels. After picking out her favourites, Mrs. T. invited the members of the community to come and make an offer on anything that took their fancy. Cash and carry, no refunds or exchanges. The amulet was just begging to become part of my jewelry collection. I offered ten dollars; Mrs. T. countered at fifty; we settled at thirty. We were both pleased by the bargain. I wonder what she would say if she realized what an incredible opportunity she had allowed to slip away.
 
I wore that amulet all the time, except when I was taking a bath. And my life changed.
 
At first, the transitions were barely noticeable. A brand new green dishcloth replacing the ugly purple one my sister-in-law had crocheted. A bed frame that no longer creaked when I shifted positions. Mysteriously weed-free flower beds. With a little creativity, everything could be explained logically. Until the day my Number One Son Jerry, who had always been dismal at math, got a hundred per cent on the exam.
 
I started serious investigations then. Unfortunately, time line transitions were more common in fictional flights of fantasy than in any current scientific research. In desperation, I sent a private Facebook message to a fledgling scifi author who was not yet being inundated by fan mail. He said he had never heard of an amulet triggering time line transfers, but it was a great premise that he would use in his next novel. He asked me to keep him up to date with my adventures.
 
"If it bothers you so much, who don't you just dispose of it?" he asked. Good question. My first, socially responsible, answer was that I had no idea what the consequences might be. But the truth is, I enjoy the power. When Bob Turner's dog started howling in the middle of the night once too often, I made it disappear. Just like that. Bob disappeared too, and the new neighbours were much nicer.
 
"Are you ready to serve that bird yet, Alli? We're starving!" Stewart is standing at the door, handsome as ever. My heart skips two beats.
 
"It looks so perfect that I'm afraid of messing it up if I try to carve it," I say, playing the helpless woman thing to the hilt. "Would you do the honours?"
 
Stewart smiles, obviously pleased by my ineptitude. "Tell you what. We'll let everybody admire it, and then I'll carve it at the table, like my father used to."  
 
He picks up the platter. "Wow! Heavy brute. Will you bring the carving tools?"
 
"Gladly!" I warble.  Clearly, Stewart 2.0 is an upgrade of Stewart 1.0, who never entered the kitchen except to get a beer from the fridge.
 
I follow him into the dining room that did not exist in my previous home. There are sixteen eager diners at the table, smiling. I recognize four of them. This is the most dramatic jump yet.
 
I take a deep breath and calculate my next move. I will have to be hyperalert to avoid making a complete fool of myself. But it is so worth it. For the first time of my life, I am going to have the Thanksgiving dinner of my dreams, with family, friends, and all the trimmings.
 
Stewart deposits the bird on the table. The diners burst into spontaneous applause.  
 
I bask in their approval, just as if I had actually cooked the bird. I set the carving knife and fork beside the platter and touch my throat to make sure that the amulet hasn't shifted position.
 
It isn't there.
 
Oh shit.
 
It could be in the kitchen somewhere. Or in the bedroom. Or beside the bathtub. It’s all I can do to refrain from starting a frantic search. That will have to wait until after everyone has gone home and Stewart is asleep.  
 
Smile. Sit down. Enjoy the food. 
 
I try to reassure myself that everything will work out, but my gut tells me that I have jumped to a timeline where the amulet does not exist. I am stuck.
 
Will Stewart 2.0 be a kinder, gentler spouse? One that doesn't snore or play country and western music at three o'clock in the morning? One that doesn't torture me with devastating diatribes? One that doesn't hit?
 
This might be the best of times, or the worst of times.  
 
I decide to seize the moment and focus on the perfect turkey.

The meal is even better than I imagined. Between bites, I smile at Stewart’s parents, my sister Grace, and our neighbour Jim, who mows my lawn in my previous life. I scan the mystery guests, trying to figure out who the twelve strangers are. Stew is doing a great job of carrying the conversation, so all I have to do is smile and nod. I figure out that two of the couples are associates and spouses from Stew’s workplace (a legal firm! Stewart 1.0 is the manager of a paint shop). Edgar, Anne and Marie are distant relatives of Stew’s, on a cross-Canada road trip. Bernie and Rose are allegedly friends of mine from book club. They know more about me than is comfortable. The other five guests remain unidentified. Thankfully, none of them have tried to start a conversation with me.
 
I am clearing plates and stacking them on the tea cart in preparation for dessert when I realize that something is terribly wrong. This is, traditionally, the moment during Thanksgiving dinner when my daughter Emma announces that she is allergic to pumpkin pie (she isn’t, but it’s better than describing it as gross and inedible). To keep the peace, I have learned to have apple pie and ice cream in reserve for her and any other guests who might prefer an alternative to pumpkin.
 
But Emma isn’t at the table. Neither is Jerry.
 
I wheel the cart into the kitchen, pile the plates on the counter, and replace them with the pies – two pumpkin, two apple, and two pecan. Stewart is busy preparing the whipped cream.
 
When he shuts off the beaters and starts adding sugar, I ask him where the children are.

He stares at me with doleful eyes. “Sweetheart, we agreed not to talk about the children this week-end.”

He goes back to work, sweetening the cream with painstaking precision. Crafting perfect whipped cream appears to be one of his superpowers.

I start scraping plates and loading them into the dishwasher. I know I should return to our guests, but I just can’t. I have to know the truth.

I wait while Stew finishes spooning the cream into my grandmother’s antique crystal bowl, the I have never dared to use because I am convinced that it will shatter and I will never live down the shame of destroying a precious heirloom. He picks it up and places it gently on the cart. By this time, I am shaking uncontrollably.

He clears his throat and whispers, “I am so sorry, Alli.  You were doing so much better … I thought this could be a new beginning. A sign of hope.”

“What happened to our kids?” I hardly recognize my own voice. “I’m sorry – I just can’t remember.”

Tears well from Stewart’s eyes. 

“Please,” I say. “Just tell me.”

“They’re dead.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. He wipes his eyes. 

“There was an accident. Three months ago.”

I want to scream. There must be some mistake. They texted me when their father picked them up after school on Friday. They were fine.

With a heroic effort, Stewart pulls himself together, wipes his eyes, and curls his fingers around the handle of the cart. “Go and lie down. Take some of your pills. I’ll tell them you have a migraine.”

I stumble out of the kitchen, into the hallway, up the stairs. I locate the bathroom just in time to disgorge my perfect turkey dinner.

The drawer of my bedside table contains three different medications: anti-anxiety, anti-depressant, and sleep. I take two of each and wait to pass out, hoping against hope that I will find myself back in my familiar hell. The one with children.  

I leave the light beside my bed on.

When I wake up at 4 AM, I am seriously hung over from my medication cocktail.  My light is still on. Stew is sleeping beside me, snoring gently, smelling of brandy. Stewart 1.0 was a whiskey drinker. 

After a trip to the bathroom, I feel too hungry to go back to sleep. I go downstairs and have a piece of pumpkin pie. The last of the left-over whipped cream has liquefied. I pour it over the pie like a sauce.

After climbing back into bed, I sit with my back against the headboard and watch my husband who is not really my husband. I start feeling deep sympathy for him.  He doesn’t have the same perspective I have. I saw my children on Friday, and they will probably be very much alive when they are delivered back home. Even without the amulet, I still have hope of finding them again. Stewart 2.0 is trapped in a single vision of reality. I wonder if there is a way I can help him.

When light starts creeping through the curtains, I doze off again. When I wake up, Stew is gone. There is a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen and a note on the fridge.

Alli darling,
I wish I didn’t have to go to work today. Please text me and let me know how you are.
Love,
Stew

I almost burst into tears when I read the note. If it wasn’t for the death of the children, I would be more than happy to stay here and explore the world with this new version of my husband.

I compose a text slowly and carefully, with multiple revisions. I want him to know everything, but that would only worry him more.

Thank you for making the coffee. I’m not feeling great, but I’ll be okay. I think having the Thanksgiving dinner was a good idea. Maybe we should make some plans for Christmas.

I want to tell him I love him, but it’s too soon.

I spend the day exploring the house, looking for clues about my new life. I discover that we had three children. The third one, Drew, was born on July 3, 2016, four months after my miscarriage. It seems terribly cruel that he survived, only to die eight years later. I would give anything to hug him and tell him how much I have missed him.

I discover that I am the patient of Dr. Christopher Perkins, a trauma specialist with multiple academic degrees. My next appointment is on Thursday. I call the office and leave a voice message, asking them to call me back if they have a cancellation.

Stew arrives home at 4:50. I have made vol au vent with left-over turkey and am putting together a Waldorf salad when he comes in the door. Stew is very appreciative and a little surprised. I wonder what he is thinking about me – whether he is noticing changes, trying to interpret what is happening. I want to tell him everything, but I’m afraid that will upset him even more. I don’t ask him about the accident, although I am bursting with curiosity.

He doesn’t try to initiate sex (which I appreciate, because I’m just not ready}, but we end up cuddling in bed, and it feels good.

First thing the next morning, I get a call from the psych office, offering me a 10 AM appointment. I’m glad to accept. I browse the walk-in closet, looking for something appropriate to wear. I have never visited a psychiatrist before, let alone a trauma specialist. I decide on a navy suit with a white lace blouse. I’m probably overdressed for a psych patient, but I want to feel good about myself. I spend half an hour layering eyeshadow colours.

When I arrive, a nurse who introduces herself as Patricia takes me to Encounter Room #3. The walls are light pink, with impressionist paintings. Two chairs, a love seat, and a power recliner encircle a round coffee table. Nurse Patricia settles me in the recliner and turns on a soothing background sound. She tells me that she will be back with Doctor Chris in about ten minutes. I expect to be impatient and restless, but the sound effects nudge me into mellow relaxation. When Dr. Chris arrives, I transfer to one of the regular chairs so I can make eye contact, and I tell him everything that has happened in the last two days.

He listens patiently while Nurse Patricia noiselessly taps notes into her tablet. Then explains to me that the shock of my loss has caused me to retreat into a more hospitable version of reality. “Give it time,” he says kindly. “Your loss is not easy to accept.” He tells me that I have made encouraging progress and should start making an effort to re-connect with friends and family.

I want to tell him it’s all bullshit. He thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not. I wonder whether there is any use coming back, but I make an appointment for the following week. Stew would be alarmed if I terminated therapy.

That evening, I ask Stew to tell me about the accident. He looks at me in surprise. “You really can’t remember?”

I shake my head. “Dr. Chris says I have traumatic amnesia, and I should talk to people and look at photos and mementos.”

Stew tells me about the championship soccer game, the school bus crammed with kids, the excitement of winning. We celebrated with pizza at Domingo’s on the way home. We asked our kids of they wanted to ride home with us, but they wanted to stay on the bus with their friends. 
We were about 500 metres behind the bus when an approaching 16-wheeler crossed the centre line, grazed the bus, and pushed it over an embankment. It rolled and rolled and rolled and exploded. The two children who survived are still in the burn unit.

“Why didn’t I just say no?” Stew moans, shaking his head. “I killed them.”

I take his hand. “No,” I say firmly, soothingly. “We made a good decision. There was no way we could have known what was going to happen. If the truck had hit us instead, that decision would have saved our kids’ lives. Life is a crap shoot, Stew, and we lost.”

He looks at me as if he wants to argue the point. Then he melts into my arms and weeps and weeps. I hope that he is getting therapy too.

After we go to bed, I surprise myself by initiating sex. It seems to be the only thing I have to offer him to distract him from his pain and help him sleep. He dozes off in my arms and I lie awake, wondering what our future holds. I’m 43 years old. If I can’t get back to my timeline, will we be able to start another family? Will we want to? Would it be a good idea? Should we consider adoption? I know it’s too early to think about these things, but I want to believe that there is some way to help our lives make sense again.

The next morning, after Stew has left for work, I look at the business card Nurse Patricia handed me as I was leaving the psych clinic.
Joel McIntyre, Ph. D. and Aline Blake, D.Sc, RN
Time Displacement Adjustment Therapy
We can help you find your way home. Free initial consultation.

“You didn’t get this from me,” Patricia murmured in my ear, sotto voce. “Mainline medicine has been very slow to accept time displacement, but your experience sounds like a classic case.”

I make the call. Joel and Aline are happy to see me within the hour.

They have a little storefront on a strip mall. The sign says TDAT, Inc. They stock a variety of mysterious electronics, including sleek-looking helmets with opaque face plates.

Joel and Aline leave the front desk in charge of their assistant Trey, and take me to a back room. I tell my story. They listen. Finally, someone believes me. I feel liberated and hopeful.

They are particularly interested in the amulet which didn’t transition with me. They are trying to develop timeline transfer technology, and are thrilled to discover that it exists on another time line. Three hours later, we are still sharing discoveries and speculations. I finally call a halt.

“Let’s cut to the chase. Can you help me, or can’t you?”

Aline tells me that they are having a twenty-four per cent success rate with a deep hypnosis program delivered by one of their specialized helmets. 

“Your brain is coaxed into a state of openness and receptivity. If anyone is looking to jump, you will be a prioritized target.”

“You think,” I say sardonically, wondering if I am dealing with bona fide scientists or snake oil hawkers.

“We think,” Aline echoes. “We can’t promise. We offer free consultations so that we can make our limitations absolutely clear. This field of science is in its infancy. If you work with us, you will be contributing to our research.”

“So – what’s the bottom line? How much do I have to pay for the privilege of being your guinea pig?”

Six thousand dollars. If it doesn’t work, the helmet can be used to generate deep relaxation to facilitate adaptation to the new timeline.

I examine the contents of my wallet. There are three credit cards. I pull one out. “See if this one maxes out.”

The charge is accepted. Aline makes some adjustments to my new helmet, and sets up the hypnotic transition program. All I have to do is make myself comfortable and turn it on. It will turn itself off automatically after four hours.

“If nothing else, you will have the best nap ever,” Aline tells me. “If you jump, try to find us and report. If you don’t, please keep coming back. We are making more discoveries every day.”

I can’t wait to get home. I know it’s a long shot, even if Joel and Aline are not con artists. But my need to see my children is overriding my common sense.

I go to the bathroom, change into sweats, and settle in a nest of cushions on the bed. As Aline promised, I have the best sleep ever.

I wake up and pull off the helmet. I touch my throat. The amulet is in its usual place.

I check the time. Five o’clock. I jump up and go to the bathroom, trying to re-organize my brain. I peer out of the living room picture window to see if Stew’s black Cadillac is in the driveway.

It isn’t, but there is a beige station wagon on the street. The doors burst open and my children pile out. Jerry. Emma. And a third one, just the right size to be Drew.

I scream with excitement.

I rush to the door, pull it open. The kids troop in, loaded down with their backpacks and shopping bags. Drew hugs me fiercely. 

I hug back, taking care not to crush him with my enthusiasm. I have won the cosmic lottery.

Stewart is standing beside his car, smiling. He waves at me. I wave back. 

The next day, I stuff the helmet in the back of the top shelf of my closet and put the amulet in my safety deposit box at the bank. Maybe I would be wiser if I destroyed them, but I don’t want to burn my bridges yet.

Stewart 3.0 is much mellower than the original. He wants to reconcile, but I’m putting the brakes on for now. There is so much to explore. He would only hold me back.