Chapter 9

"AND IN THE END, THE LOVE YOU TAKE, IS EQUAL TO THE LOVE YOU MAKE."

OCTOBER 27th, 1979

October of 1979 was a slow descent into hell.

Kelly breaking up with me? Who cared? That seemed so insignificant all of a sudden. Though I'll admit that it would've been nice for her to be around to help get me through this.

Stan bucked me up. As did some of my other pals. Kara made sure to call me a few times a week, more than we ever had.

I made sure I kept updated. Mom got the news from Lydia and passed it on to me, because I made her. "Anything you hear, let me know," I told her. Though I already knew--still, I couldn't let on to Mom about that.

So, Mom told me, "They're throwing everything they've got at her. So far, she hasn't gone back into remission yet." This went on for a month. On this day, I knew it was time.

Beth had told the world at large that she didn't want any visitors outside of immediate family. I was about to disregard her wishes.

This was a Saturday. I woke up and said to my Mom, "Can I have a ride to the train station?"

"What for?"

"I want to go into Boston."

"OK, what's in Boston?"

I took a breath. "Children's Hospital."

I was sitting at the kitchen table. Mom had been flitting around the kitchen. When I said that, she sighed, and sat down across from me. "Eddie, Beth requested no visitors in the hospital."

"I know she did. I'm ignoring her."

"She doesn't want people to see her like this, Eddie. She's probably got tubes and stuff stuck into her. They've been bombarding her with chemo so I'm sure she's lost her hair. She's probably lost weight and she didn't have much to spare to begin with. She doesn't want anyone to see her that way."

"She should know me better than that. Like I care what she looks like?"

"Yes, but..."

"Mom," I interrupted her, "Let's face facts. Beth isn't ever coming back out of that hospital."

She looked shocked for a moment, then resignation settled onto her face. "Most likely not."

"Right. So I'm getting on a train and going to Boston... so I can say goodbye."

She looked at me for a minute. Then she said, "Get your coat. I'll meet you in the car."

I got into Boston, took a subway to the hospital, then found Beth's room. She had a private room. I stood in the doorway for a minute.

Mom was right. She looked horrible. But I knew that's what she was going to look like. It didn't matter. She was lying in the bed, hooked up to all kinds of tubes and machines. She looked weak and wasted. The buckets of chemo they were pouring into her had actually managed to make her slightly pale--though, amazingly, she hadn't lost her hair. Still, it was heartbreaking.

And it still didn't matter.

I stepped into the room. "Beffy?" She had been reading. She looked over from her book and gasped.

"Eddie? What are you doing here?"

"I had to come see you."

"I told Mom I didn't want any visitors. I didn't want anyone to see me like this."

"I know," I said, and walked over to the bed. "Do you think it really matters to me?"

"It matters to me."

"It shouldn't."

"Eddie. I don't want you to remember me like this."

"I won't," I said with a smile. "Remember that dance we went to last Christmas?"

She smiled a little. "How could I forget it?"

"Well, I've got pictures. That is how I'm going to remember you. Don't worry about that. But I had to come, and you know why."

She looked down. "Eddie, the treatment is not working. They can't stop it."

"I know. That's why I'm here."

"You know?" I nodded. That's when she realized it. "You came to say goodbye."

"Yes," I admitted.

She looked at me. "I have been thinking about this for a while. I've known you your whole life. I always loved you, you know that, but you worried me. You've always worried me. And I didn't think you were going to be able to deal with my illness at all. I thought you'd go to pieces. But you didn't. You've been more mature than anyone. And it started right after I came back to school. It didn't start right after I'd been diagnosed, because I know you had a breakdown at Boy Scout camp right after. Something happened to you, Eddie, right before I came back to school. An epiphany, or something."

"Yes."

"What was it? Was it just me?"

"No."

"Then what?"

I took a breath. "You'd never ever believe me even if I told you."

She mustered up a bit of her spunk, which took some effort. "Eddie Bovilas, you have never lied to me in your life, and I know it. I wouldn't expect you to start lying now."

"It's pretty fantastic."

She snorted. "Eddie. I'm 15 years old and I'm dying. And I believe in a just and merciful God. I'll believe anything at this point."

I thought for a minute. I'd never planned on ever telling anyone. I was afraid I'd be locked up or laughed at or something. I planned to take my secret to the grave.

However... there had been other things in my life that I'd never planned on telling anyone. Other secrets I aimed to keep. However, I always made an exception--and the exception was Beth. I told her everything.

If I was going to tell anyone, it would be her. And, besides which, she was in the hospital, on her deathbed. She'd be taking my secret to the grave by necessity.

"It did start before you came back to school in eighth grade, yes. It happened on October 3rd, 1977. I woke up that morning in my room with my mother calling me to get up for school. However, when I had gone to bed the previous night--it had been October 2nd, 2007--and I was 42 years old. I went to bed that night thinking I was having a heart attack. I thought I might be dying. I hadn't taken good care of myself. But, instead of dying, somehow I got pushed back in time 30 years."

She just gaped at me. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."

"I just said you'd never lie to me. I know that. But how is this possible?"

"You got me."

"So you're really, what, 44 years old, not 14?"

"Somewhat. It's kind of a mixture. I have both sets of memories. I react more often like a teenager, but there's the other set of memories that sort of act as something like a restraining device."

"Did you welcome this?" she asked softly.

"Not at first. Eight grade, the first time around, was a nightmare. Eventually I figured out I could change some things, so I've come to see it as a blessing. Nobody else knows, by the way."

"I can see why," she said with a little laugh. She was becoming more alert now; she'd sat up in the bed, obviously interested. "What's changed?"

"Well, the first time, there was no Kara, no Kelly. I was a complete washout with girls. I got beat up a lot more. That's one thing I resolved when I got sent back, to get in shape. I actually did go to the Prep the first time around."

"Why not this time?"

"Because it stunted me socially, especially with girls."

"That makes sense," she said, "but wasn't it better academically?"

"It didn't help in the long run. I never made it out of college. I was working in retail when I got sent back."

"YOU?"

"I fucked up a lot of things," I admitted. "Then, there was you."

"Me?"

"We went to a dance then, too, it was just at the Prep and not Cabot East. Then you started pushing me away. Because I was a confused, self-absorbed, 14-year-old kid, I let you." I took a breath. "I didn't see you for the last 8 months of your life."

"Oh, Eddie," she sighed. "And that haunted you, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"That's why you're here."

"Yes. And that's why I confronted you about pushing me away."

"Good. Then I'm glad I gave in on both of those. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt you. On the contrary."

"I know that," I told her. "I never blamed you, I blamed myself."

"Well, you shouldn't have done that, either. I'm actually glad you're here today, and was even before you told me this. I could use the company. My parents had something to do today." Her voice got very small. "I'm not in the mood to be alone."

"Good."

Just then, she got a stricken look on her face. "Oh, jeez, Eddie--you already lived through my death? And now you have to do it again? Damn."

"Hey, at least I'm handling it better. Unfortunately, leukemia, especially your strain of it, hasn't been cured in 2007. If it had, I would've thought of something, even if it got me locked up in the loony bin. But it hasn't, so there wasn't anything I could do."

"You know, that's depressing. That they still aren't going to cure this miserable thing in thirty years."

"Well, they've made progress. They can cure some of the less virulent strains more easily. There are more treatments. But people still die from it. I'm no doctor, so this is a layman speaking. I'm guessing you might have been able to squeeze out another six months or a year. Maybe. But they don't have a cure for it."

"That really does suck."

"It's not a sexy disease."

"A sexy disease?"

"Yeah. In a couple of years there will be this thing called AIDS." I explained to her what AIDS was. "And that gets a lot of attention. First it gets negative attention because it's a 'gay disease'. Then the scientists figure straight people can get it, too. The chances of that, they find out years and years later, are way overblown--but that starts the panic. AIDS gets a lot of attention--and a lot of attention paid to it by the researchers. It's not cured when I came back in 2007, but the lifespan of people who get it are a lot longer. But it's a 'sexy' disease. Probably partially because it's sexually transmitted. Tell people that something as fun as sex can kill them, and they react."

"Yeah, but other diseases languish in research," she said sadly.

"Yeah. Breast cancer is another one that gets a lot of attention--because the women's groups push it. Now, I'm grateful for that, actually. My mother will get breast cancer about ten years from now, and survive it."

"Wow. That's right, you know the future!" she laughed.

"Well, what of it I can remember. It has come in handy when laying down a wager on the Super Bowl."

"You brat," she laughed. Then she gave me a wicked little grin. "So, you got sent back thirty years in time. And you have no idea how it happened. Doesn't this give you a little bit of a doubt about that atheism of yours?"

"Sure does," I agreed. "I've been thinking a lot about that. But it also sheds doubt on the traditional Biblical God-concept, too."

"How so?"

"Well, why aren't I in heaven? Or hell? I mean, there's nothing in the Bible about time travel, is there?"

"Hmmm. Good point."

"Another thing. Let's assume that there was some being called 'God' that did this to me. Which is probably what you're thinking." She nodded. "Well, remember that talk we had a while ago, after my first time with Kara, where I told you that I didn't think God, if he existed, cared who we screwed?" She nodded again. "Well, now I know I'm right."

"What makes you think that?"

"If it's God, he's omniscient, right? Well, he had to know that one of the biggest things I'd want to correct after being sent back in time is being a virgin until I was 22. He had to know that. He knew I'd be looking for sex."

She cracked up. "Well, I guess I can't argue with that, can I? But, wow, Eddie--from 22 to 13? I think I'm impressed!"

"I was stunned."

"I'll bet!"

I realized something, with a shock. "You believe me, don't you?"

"I don't have any choice. Like I said, you've never lied to me. I'm willing to consider that maybe it was a dream or something, the 30 years you say you lived, but you clearly don't think so. Neither, quite honestly, do I."

"I have a lot of memories from those 30 years. It would be one hell of an elaborate dream. And a lot of it has already happened again. Sometimes the circumstances changed, but all the circumstances that change happen because of changes I've made. And I can see where the paths diverge. So, if it was all a dream--it was very elaborate and clairvoyant."

"Yeah. Well, I have to tell you," she said, "you telling me this now probably makes me more open to it. Let's face it. Whatever's out there--whatever happens after death--I'm about to find out. And faith is wonderful. Faith helps me out. But, at this point? I wouldn't mind a bit of certainty, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Look, here's a story. This is pretty horrific, but I'm telling it to make a point. In 22 years, Islamic fundamentalist terrorists from the Middle East are going to highjack four passenger planes leaving American airports. They're going to fly two of those planes into the World Trade Center, and one into the Pentagon. The fourth, the passengers take it over and crash it into a field in Pennsylvania. Thousands of innocent people died."

"My GOD," she hissed.

"I know. But, like I said, I'm telling you this to make a point. Those hijackers left behind writings; and, of course, the mullahs that trained and led them were still alive to talk about them. Evidently, these guys truly believed that Allah told them to fly planes into buildings, and that they would be rewarded by going to heaven where 70 virgins were waiting for them."

Beth snorted. "70 virgins. That figures."

"Right. But, think about this--is that any more ludicrous than some of the other heaven-concepts out there?"

"No, it's why they thought they were going to go there. It's that God would want them to kill innocent people. Doesn't a loving God make more sense?"

"Not necessarily. I mean, didn't God spend half of the Old Testament wiping out half the enemies of the Israelites? Half the OT is smiting. God smote these guys, then he smote these guys, and so on."

"True. But Jesus did preach love," she pointed out.

"Yes, he did, but the OT is still part of the Christian canon. And all the adherents of this stuff claim it's all divinely inspired."

"OK. So what's your point?"

"My point is, if there is a God and a heaven and all that--we have absolutely no clue as to the nature of it."

"And your experiences do bear that out," she mused. "Of course, I have just always believed that Christianity was right and all the rest of the religions were wrong."

"I know. But I would think an all-powerful omniscient God would've cleared some of this shit up at some point."

"I see your point. Oh, well, I'll find out soon enough. I just hope there's something."

"I do, too," I agreed.

"Though I'm not sure I'd want to be one of the 70 virgins."

"Might be fun," I said with a wicked grin.

"Too much competition," she giggled.

Just then, the nurse came in to check her over. They also brought her lunch. The chemo made her nauseous but she was able to eat a little. I went to find something for myself to eat. "Are you coming back?" she asked.

"You betcha."

When I came back, she was sitting up in the bed. They'd taken out her tubes and stuff. "I don't have to have them in the whole time," she told me.

She was staring out into space. "Eddie, I'm scared."

"Of course you are. You wouldn't be normal if you weren't."

"I'm not allowed to be scared," she snorted.

"What do you mean?"

"All I hear is how I'm facing this with so much 'dignity' and 'courage.' Sometimes they don't realize I'm listening, but I hear it. So, I feel like I'll let them down if I show how scared I am."

"I see. I still think you shouldn't be held to such a high standard."

"Eddie--my mother is falling apart. Dad's decently OK, and he does know how scared I am, but my mother's a basket case. My brothers aren't much better. Especially Mark." Mark was her youngest brother. He was only 8, and had learning disabilities--dyslexia, plus what in my time would've been called ADHD. Beth absolutely doted on him. And now she was leaving and poor Mark at his age could barely understand why. "I feel like I constantly have to be the strong one. I mean, my mother's the one that's going to have to pick up the pieces after I'm gone."