Chapter 7: Piecing Together the Past

June 25, 1980

Diana got over it. Real quick.

Two days later, early in the afternoon, she called me on the phone, acting as if nothing had happened. She invited me over to her house. My adult mind told me that she'd decided that she wanted some more of what she'd gotten, and elected to ignore my alleged "practicing". And of course, that was the truth.

And you know what my answer was? What do you think? I dropped everything I was doing, and began the long trek on foot over to her house. I told myself, it sure would be nice to have a car. I filed that idea away for later.

I was already developing a hard-on as I approached Diana's house. There was no doubt at this point that I had the hormones of a seventeen-year-old, and let me tell you, they have the power to overwhelm all vestiges of good judgment.

Soon, I was seated at the side of Diana's bed, my shorts down around my ankles, with Diana kneeling in front of me, deep-throating me. Having lived through 44 years, and come back to being a teenager, I realized that she was as good at this act as any woman I'd ever met. The first time around, I hadn't been experienced enough to realize that. Her technique and timing were incredible, but even more than that, the sultry eye contact she maintained through the whole thing make me feel that, at that moment, I was the center of her universe. She's only seventeen! Where did she learn to give head like that, I wondered. She'd obviously been "practicing", too ... quite a lot. But I said nothing to her on that particular subject.

She sucked me to completion, taking every drop in her mouth, and ceremoniously swallowing it all. I then returned the favor, orally pleasing her, repeating what I'd done the other day. After that, we just hung out for a little while, before having conventional, missionary-style sex on her bed. The AC in her house was cranked up pretty high, so we crawled under the covers and made out for a while, just playing with each other's naked bodies. She became worried that her mom would come home soon, and put a stop to this afternoon's festivities. I helped her make the bed – see, I can be a gentleman – and after a quick goodbye kiss, was on my merry way.

Permit me to make a brief diversion here, and discuss the issue of time-travel ethics. Being a time traveler is a burden that must be shouldered alone, unless you choose to let someone else in on your secret, something I simply wasn't prepared to do. You can't imagine the ethical and moral dilemmas that occur on a constant, never-ending basis. I had no precedent to fall back on, no ethics committee or advisory board or Ten Commandments of Time Travel to consult in order to help me decide what is right or wrong. It was all on me to make the call, and most of the time I had to make these decisions on the fly.

What am I getting at here? This question ... Should someone with the mind of a 44-year-old be having sex with a 17-year-old girl?

Think about this. I looked like a 17-year-old. I acted like a 17-year-old. Diana saw me as a 17-year-old. The rest of the world viewed me as a 17-year-old. I had a 17-year-old's sex drive. Plus, I had none of the status or the rights in this world that a 44-year old man would have. All I had was a 44-year-old's mind, thoughts, and memories, which I had to keep to myself at all times. And, add in this fact ... I didn't ask to be transformed back into a teenager. In fact, I didn't want it to be like this.

So, what was I supposed to do for romantic or sexual companionship? Pursue a woman in her forties? Even if she was receptive, she'd get thrown in jail. Should I just consider myself a freak, and avoid all romantic pursuits, since I couldn't fit myself into any category that society's behavioral rules are based on?

No thank you. My opinion on this one is clear. In this situation, my pool of potential romantic partners should consist of whom? Teenage girls! Elementary, Watson.

July 2, 1980

In my former life, my mom had loved to create photo albums. She would arrange photos chronologically, writing notes on them and painstakingly listing the location, the names of all people in each shot, and other relevant details. They were well-organized, and in essence, were a chronological history of our family. Even as an adult, I enjoyed paging through Mom's photo albums whenever I dropped by for a visit, looking at the pictures, reliving memories.

And in an incredible stroke of good fortune for me, she had also adopted this practice in the current timeline. Mom had, fact, pointed me towards her photos as a means of combating my amnesia.

"Why don't you look through my photo albums, Pat?" she said to me on this idle Wednesday, which was her day off. "Maybe they'll help you to remember things."

"You know, that's a great idea, Mom," I replied gratefully. Of course, I wasn't your typical teenager; I was willing to credit my parents when they came up with a good suggestion.

So out came the albums, and I spent the entire afternoon perusing them. Mom left to shuttle Eileen and Seamus around to their various activities, leaving me to conduct my exploration unattended. It was immediately apparent that almost all of the photos were different from the ones in her album in the other timeline. I mean, nearly all of them, except for the very oldest. Despite my alleged amnesia, I really do have an exceptional memory, and I'd looked through her "other" album enough times to recognize the different pictures in this one.

The oldest album began with my birth. My infant pictures were exactly the same as in the other timeline; I mean completely, one hundred percent identical. We lived in the same house, the one we were still living in when I left for college in the other life. I turned the pages, in chronological order, and once I arrived at my first birthday party, I began to notice subtle changes. There were a few kids (and parents) at the party who I didn't recognize. When I was two, Eileen arrived, and the pages were dominated by her baby pictures. From that point on, everything was different. When I was five years old, there were a series of photos dealing with a promotion party for Dad. With the exception of me, Dad, Mom (noticeably pregnant with Seamus), and Eileen, I didn't recognize any of the people in those pictures. Immediately following that party, it became apparent that we'd moved into a new house, much nicer than the old one, although not quite the equivalent of the one we were currently in. Then came Seamus' baby pictures. Subsequently, it became obvious that our quality of life had taken a leap forward. We wore better clothes, Mom and Dad looked happier, we attended more social gatherings, and we took better vacations. We'd taken a trip to California when I was eleven, something we'd never have been able to afford in the first life. There were pictures of Disneyland and the Golden Gate Bridge. I learned that we'd moved into our current home four years ago. I saw one photo of myself at fourteen, holding hands with a cute blonde I couldn't recall seeing anywhere. Mom's elaborate script-style handwriting informed me that this was a shot of "Pat with Lucy Green". Who the hell was Lucy Green? I'd never known a girl with that name in the other life, let alone been photographed holding hands with her.

This entire exercise, while very informative and interesting, nonetheless raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Seeing visual evidence of a life I'd lived, but yet hadn't lived, was downright creepy. Even so, I went through the entire album collection a few times, committing as much of it to memory as possible. A few hours later, I had a pretty good view of our family history etched into my mind, as well as actual mental images. Though these certainly were not true memories, they were nonetheless visual representations of the past that could be faked as memories during casual conversation.

Despite the productive afternoon, I'd gained precious little insight into what had happened to place me into this new life. But from looking at the photos, something became glaringly obvious. The two timelines were identical at my birth, but began to veer apart before my first birthday. What had happened? If I could figure that out, I might get a firmer understanding of my situation.

Also, and this was borne out through other observations, as well as conversations with others ... the changes between timelines appeared to originate only from my immediate family, and no one else. Diana, for example, seemed to have exactly the same life as before, except for the minor changes the new me had brought into it. Same went for Dave. The world at large, on a macro scale, was also exactly the same. There were the same news headlines, the same political events, and the same sports results that had occurred in 1980 in the other timeline. The changes were confined to the O'Malley family, affecting others only indirectly as they interacted with us. Interesting. Very interesting.

By now, it was almost dinner time. Mom arrived home, along with my brother and sister, and started up the stove. Dad arrived a short time later. As he did every single workday, he grabbed the newspaper, sat down in his favorite chair, and began to read, waiting for Mom to finish preparing dinner.

I put aside the photo albums. My eyes, absent-mindedly scanning the living room, fell upon the grand piano. It truly was magnificent; I wondered how my parents had happened upon it. As a master of the piano and its high-tech cousin, the electronic keyboard, I wished I'd had the chance to cut my teeth on a specimen as amazing as this one, as my sister Eileen had...

Wait a minute. I had cut my teeth on this piano, in this life. I'd seen evidence of it in Mom's photos. Unfortunately, I had no memory of it. But ... I had access to this piano now, didn't I?

In the previous life, I'd started piano lessons at six. By the time I was eight, I was winning talent shows and recitals. It just seemed to come naturally to me; my piano instructor had told my parents, "He's a rare talent." Later, my emerging love of rock and roll encouraged me to transfer my talents to the electronic keyboard. However, immediately preceding that, there was a two-year period where I wouldn't go near a piano. I'd quit piano lessons during tenth grade, despite Mom and Dad's pleadings to the contrary. I considered myself too cool to play the piano; it wasn't manly enough. My parents had bombarded me with phrases like "What a waste of talent" and "You'll regret this when you're older", but I wouldn't budge from my stance. And I knew that at present, I was right in the middle of that phase.

Time to put a stop to that right now, I told myself. Impulsively, I walked over to the piano, sat down on the bench, and began pounding out melodies. Very basic melodies, to be sure - I was rusty – the kind of classical tunes that a first- or second-year student might have in their limited repertoire. But I just wanted to establish to all in the household that the Piano Man, with apologies to Billy Joel, was back in business.

I could see Dad, still reading the paper, out of the corner of my eye. I saw him lower the paper until I was in his sight line.

"Ruth!" he called out in Mom's direction, a sense of urgency in his voice, implying that this was something she didn't want to miss. Mom emerged from the kitchen, a dish towel in one hand, and a potato masher in the other. A look passed between them that was half jubilant, half incredulous. To their credit, they didn't gloat or start up with the I-told-you-so's; they just let the show continue in silence.

However, I was about to lay another surprise on them. Eileen came bouncing down the stairs. But she was oblivious to the music; her mind was on something else.

"Eileen?" I called out to her. "Come over here."

She came over, cautiously, sporting a confused look. I slid over on the piano bench, and patted the area next to me, directing her to sit down. The confusion in her eyes turned to suspicious disbelief. But she immediately sat down beside me, without hesitation. Interesting.

"Do you know "Heart and Soul"?" I asked her, referring to an elementary duet piece that most piano students are familiar with.

"A little," she replied. "Sometimes I play it with Chrissy when she comes over." I knew that Chrissy Hannigan was one of her best friends.

"Okay, then." I began to play. "Pick it up."

And she did. I quickly realized something. She was raw – she'd only been taking piano lessons for two years, since voice lessons were number one with her – but she had potential. She was a natural musician with a fantastic ear and a keen sense of rhythm. It definitely ran in the family. We finished our duet, then I suggested that she play something else that she knew. She nodded, and began to pound out a tune of her own. I listened carefully, offered a few suggestions for improvement, but mostly just let her play.

"Okay. Your turn," she finally said. I began to play. Rusty or not, I was better than she was, and soon, she was asking me for advice and tips. Every so often, I caught a glimpse of Mom and Dad watching us, with smiles on their faces. They said nothing. But I knew that a talk with them was forthcoming, probably later that evening. That was okay. It was long overdue, and I was actually looking forward to it.

"Dinner time," Mom finally cut in. "You can continue your little recital later. By the way, Pat, it was great to see you in front of the piano again." I just grinned sheepishly in response. Seamus wandered into the kitchen, and we all sat down to eat.

Shortly after dinner, once the kitchen had been cleaned, and Seamus and Eileen had headed off to other pursuits, Mom and Dad, together, cornered me in the kitchen as I was putting away a bowl of ice cream. Just as I expected.

"You know, Pat ... we're happy to see you playing the piano again. But what made us extra happy was the way you took your sister aside and spent some quality time with her. She really needs that."