Chapter 2: Wash Away My Troubles, Wash Away My Pain

NOVEMBER 4th, 1977

The next day, I was still reeling.

Beth, you see, had leukemia. She was going to die. I'd lived through it once before, and did not handle it well at all. Now I was going to live through it again.

I didn't see any way to change it. I didn't have a cure for leukemia in my back pocket--it still hadn't been cured in my 'time'. There were better treatments--bone marrow transplants and all that--but there were two problems with that. First of all, how would a 12 year old kid get away with suggesting, to an oncologist, a treatment that hadn't been invented yet? And, second of all, Beth had one of the more virulent forms of leukemia. Even in 2007, bone marrow transplants didn't always work.

And I'd started to get excited. I'd started to think I'd been 'sent back' to change things, fix my life, make things better.

Some things can't be changed. No matter what you do. Beth was going to die again, and I was going to have to live through it again.

At that moment, if whoever it was that was responsible for me going back had shown up in my room, I'd have strangled him

Yeah, of course, a glimmer of hope. Maybe this wasn't the same 'universe' or time-track or whatever you call it, yadda yadda--but I didn't think so. Too much had happened that was just predictable. It seemed that I could change things that I was directly involved in--the conversation about female body parts, or my conversation with Cyndi about kissing--but I had no cure for leukemia handy.

I took this day, November 4th, off from school, pleading illness. Since I hardly ever missed school, Mom let me get away with it.

I stayed in my room all day, listening to my new Beatles and Bruce Springsteen albums, thinking. This was one of the things I'd thought about anyhow--trying to figure out the difference between what I could change and what I couldn't. Beth's illness made me more aware of that.

She was going to die. Period. Couldn't be changed. Christ, I even knew the date.

What I could change is how I dealt with it.

One thing you have to understand--Beth knew. She was strong-willed, and smart, and not the type of person who would sit well with platitudes. She knew exactly what was wrong with her. She demanded to be told, and she knew what the prognosis was for this strain of leukemia--95% fatality rate within 5 years. 75% within two years. 50% within one. It was a death sentence, and she knew it.

Which explains how she acted. I saw her off and on in eighth grade. I went to the Prep for ninth, didn't see her as much. But then, we had a Christmas semi-formal dance at the Prep, and I took her. We had a great time. I saw her a couple weeks later, when we went to the mall to do some Christmas shopping.

Then--nothing. I'd call, and she'd hang up with some excuse. I'd leave a message and she wouldn't call back. Look, in adulthood, I realized what had happened. She, knowing the end was coming, was trying to distance herself from me. She was either getting too close, or figured that I was getting too close. She, I think, was trying to save me pain.

It didn't work--because I did not see or talk to her for the last 8 months of her life. That has haunted me forever. I didn't say goodbye. I never told her I loved her. It wasn't her fault--I let it happen. I was a stupid kid. I don't think the true meaning of her prognosis really sunk in to me until she was dead.

Speaking of things I could damn well change--hadn't I just hit on one?

Yes, I had. Damn right I had. No doubt about it.

Knowing that, well--it didn't make everything better. How could it? But it made things clearer to me. I loved Beth. Not romantically--we were both too young when she was diagnosed to even start to think about that--but I loved her. I'd say as a sister, but I loved her more than I loved my sister, horrible as that might be to admit! And it had haunted me for almost 30 years that I never told her that. You can say, "Oh, she knew," but I've never been sure.

Knowing I could change that, at least, helped enormously. But, it was strange--I was looking for other things to change. I guess I wanted to balance the scales.

I found one--well, one I could try, anyhow. That night, after supper, I was sitting with my Dad. He asked me if I was feeling better and I told him I was. Which I was, a little, though it was all mental. Then I gave him a hint.

"Hey, Dad, while I was napping I had this really strange dream."

"Really?" Dad said.

"Yeah, and I'd better tell you about it, just in case I'm clairvoyant."

"OK," he laughed.

"Well, it was kind of murky, but the message I got from it was--eye protection."

"Eye protection?" he asked.

"Yeah. Basically, if you even have a glimmer of a thought that you might need eye protection, get some. Don't take a chance. Hey, I told you it was a dream."

"Yeah. Eye protection, huh?"

"Yeah. You lost an eye in the dream. Not sure how, but it was in a situation where you might have shrugged off eye protection."

"OK," he said, "I'll keep that in mind."

Good. There you go. When it came true, he might think I was nuts or something, but I didn't really plan on making a habit of this, so, if it was only one clairvoyant dream...

Of course, it was no dream. What had happened was, he was in Chuck's Bar, one of his favorite taverns, getting a cold one after work. At Chuck's--and he'd taken me in there many times--they had these strange floor mats. They were rubber, but surrounding them on the outside was a thin strip of metal.

On the day in question, one of the metal strips had come loose and was sticking up in the air. Chuck, the owner, a friend of Dad's, said to Dad, "Hey, Jimmy, can you go get your wire cutters and cut that thing? The waitresses keep tripping on it." Dad was a plumber, and had all sorts of those tools in his truck. He got his wire cutters--didn't get his goggles. You can figure the rest. He cut that piece of metal and it sprung straight up.

He had nine operations trying to re-attach his retina. They didn't work. After that, he rushed back to work--and quickly developed degenerative arthritis and had to have both hips replaced. There was no proof that the rushing back to work--and 14 hour days-- after two years of idleness had caused the hip problems, but all the doctors thought so.

Dad was self-employed, and had just decided to do that, so there was no 'business' yet. That series of medical events meant financial disaster for the family. Mom was only working part-time at the time. We even ended up on welfare for a while. Dad was basically out of work for four years.

If I had just prevented that, I'd be a happy camper. I just hope Dad remembered when the time came. I knew it was sometime in eighth grade that this happened, but couldn't remember exactly when.

NOVEMBER 6th, 1977

Another Saturday, and I was running. Besides keeping me in shape, I found running good for thinking. I just wish the Walkman had been invented!

On this particular Saturday I had pushed myself. It was a good day for running, just about 50 degrees--cool, not too hot, but not frigid, either. I'd gone longer than usual and when I wound my way through Morris Park, I was winded.

I came down the hill on Williams Road, basically walking. I'd overdone it a wee bit.

"Hey, it's Running Man! But he's walking!" I looked over, and on Kelly Cullinane's porch sat Kelly and Kara, chatting. Kelly was the one who had called.

"Yeah, hi girls. I over did it a wee bit today."

"Sit," Kara said, grinning, pointing to the steps next to her. "Rest a bit."

"I guess I should," I grinned, and sat next to her.

"Hold on," Kelly said, and ran into her house. She came right back out with a glass of lemonade.

"Kelly, you're a doll," I grinned, and happily accepted it.

"We've been talking, Kelly and I, about you," Kara said.

"Oh, really," I replied with a grin--something I never would've been capable of the first time around.

"Yes, really," Kara grinned back. "You've changed. A lot. In like the last month."

"I'm trying to," I admitted. "I haven't been happy."

"Is it better?" Kelly asked.

"Some. Some things can't be changed, though."

"Yeah," Kara said, somewhat sadly.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask you. I've seen you talking to Beth Trovini, so obviously you know her," Kelly asked. "Is she sick?"

Damn, I'd been feeling better for a minute there. "Yes, she's sick." Beth wasn't keeping it a secret, she'd told me that. "Beth has leukemia."

"Oh," Kelly said. "Is she going to..."

"Most likely," I replied. "The prognosis isn't good at all."

"Oh, damn. I was right that you know her?" Kelly asked.

I took a deep breath. "You girls have known me for a long time. You know the list of people I consider friends is very short. Beth's at the top of it. I've known her since I was born. She's like a sister."

"Oh, damn, Eddie," Kara said, lightly laying a hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

My mind was whirling. Kara was being so nice to me! And that's when I had another revelation--she always had been. For all the years I'd known her, she was one of the nicest, sweetest girls in school, especially to me. She'd never treated me like the outcast that I usually was.

Until I made the mistake of falling for her, and acting like a complete brain-dead lovesick idiot around her.

Only, now, I wasn't. And she was back to being her sweet self. "Thanks," I said, "to both of you. It means a lot." I stood up, and forced a smile. "Back to running. Thanks for the lemonade, Kelly, it really hit the spot."

"Anytime," she grinned. I took off.

DECEMBER 12th, 1977

I was adjusting, more and more, to my situation. I'd been back for over two months, and, except for the Beth dilemma, I found myself able to adjust to things better and better.

However, one of the 'events' I had been waiting for happened last week.

Roger Herren, the guy from the 'cunt' discussion, was involved. It was in metal shop. He was sitting behind me. He thought it would be fun to take a strip of metal, heat it up with his lighter, and then grab my hand and slap the hot metal on my hand.

Giving me second-degree burns on my hand. This was just the way I was treated the first time around.

And it had happened again this time. Roger Herren's an asshole in any timeline I guess. What had happened next, in both times, is that, juiced with adrenaline from the pain, I had gotten out of my seat and wailed on him. First fight I ever won in my life.

The last time around I'd talked about it too much. People would ask and I'd say, "Yeah, I kicked the shit out of him." Of course, that got back to Roger and he got his revenge. Without that shot of adrenaline, I was no match for him--he was bigger than I was. I'd evened the scales some with the weightlifting, but he was still bigger than I was. I was hoping to avoid the revenge beating this time around.

And no, nothing happened to him--no suspensions, no nothing. The administration of Cabot East were a bunch of spineless assholes, in either timeline.

This time, I didn't talk. Anyone asked me about it, I just waved it off. But that didn't seem to change things. Roger, I had heard, still wanted his revenge. He got his opportunity, just like last time, in gym--we were all waiting in a 'side gym', I forget what for. So, there were no teachers and an audience, just what Roger wanted.

Anyhow, I'd been warned this was the time and place. Now, I knew I still wasn't much of a fighter. But all that running and weightlifting over the past two months had definitely made a change--I was stronger, and in better shape. I thought I could hold my own. Plus, one thing I'd learned, was that assholes like Roger smelled fear. As I said, first time around, I was a walking bundle of fear. This time I wasn't.

I didn't wait for him. I walked right over to him. "Hey, Roger, I hear you want another go-round." He looked at me. "I hear you plan to beat the shit out of me today, for 'revenge.' You know, I think fucking second-degree burns on my hand would be enough for you, but if you want to go again, we can go again."

He stood up--reluctantly, it seemed to me. "I have to keep my rep," he said.

"As what? The school asshole?" I snorted.

"Better than being the school wimp," he spat at me.

I glared at him. "If you think I'm still the school wimp, then this might be a very interesting exercise." I glared right into his eyes. No fucking fear, not this time. I could take him, I convinced myself.

Well, as it turned out--not quite. But I held my own. It was, more or less, a draw. He got a few good licks in, but I did too, until a couple of the gym teachers came in and broke it up.

Of course, I got sent to the unit director--in my case, Mr. Legerre, a complete asshole who blamed me for getting beat up. He started in on me for this one, and I said, "So, tell me--why don't students that give other students second-degree burns get suspended? Maybe if you'd clamp down on some of this shit, I wouldn't have to keep constantly defending myself." Legerre sputtered and fumed--but, hell, I hadn't been scared of that slimeball the first time around.

DECEMBER 17th, 1977

It was a Saturday, and I was spending it with Cyndi. We were at her house. Her mother was home, but we were allowed to be in her bedroom. Her mother trusted us. Of course, her mother wasn't more than 20 feet away either, even if she was in another room! Cyndi's mom also liked me, a lot.

We'd been getting along just fine. I hadn't really pushed the kissing issue. I had, however, made jokes about it. I had another one planned. It was a week before Christmas, right? So, I had a good one planned.

We were sitting side-by-side on her bed--really, the only place to sit in that room were her and Dina's beds--just chatting. During a lull in the conversation, I reached into my pocket.

"Look what I've got!" I said, dangling it over my head. "Mistletoe! You know what you're supposed to do under the mistletoe, right?" I grinned at her.

She cracked up laughing. "You are such a brat," she said.

"Ah, come on, you're no fun," I said, still grinning, as I dangled the mistletoe over her head.

"No," she said, though she was still laughing.

"How about a compromise?" I said. She looked at me. "Your cheek. Let me kiss your cheek."

"Well, I suppose that would be OK," she said, and turned her head, giving me access to her cheek.

OK, so I'm a devious blankety-blank. I kissed her cheek, very softly, very slowly. But I didn't stop there. "Hmmm. Would this be considered close enough to a cheek?" I asked--and then, very lightly, kissed her neck. She hissed out a breath, but didn't say anything. "And this is part of the cheek, isn't it?" I said, and then gave one little soft nibble on her earlobe. That was accompanied by a loud gasp on her part. After that, I backed away.

We chatted for a while after that, but she was distracted. The look in her eyes was unfathomable. However, the chat was interesting--I did remember this from the first time. It was the 'fag' thing.

That was the rumor in eighth grade--that I was gay. I got called 'fag' more often than I care to remember. I'd gotten picked on less this time than the first time--but it hadn't disappeared completely, and the 'Ed's gay' thing was still around. Now, yeah, I know the Seinfeld line: "Not that there's anything wrong with that." And in theory, I agree. In practice? Well, I don't care what anybody says, being thought of as gay? In eighth grade? In 1977? It sucked. I do have empathy for people who really are gay who had to go through this crap. But it was not a whole lot of fucking fun. It got me beat up, and it got me taunted. Tolerance is a wonderful thing--but when the rest of the world doesn't have any, it's hard to find. And, I'm sorry, but the fact that I wasn't gay didn't help. Being called 'gay' shouldn't be a slander, something to be ashamed of, I know that--but tell that to my eighth grade classmates.

One of the more painful incidents was the one I was reliving--Cyndi, my freakin' girlfriend, asking me, "Ed--are you gay?"

I replied pretty much as I had the last time. "Oh, yes, Cyndi, that must be it. Sure. Last time I checked, you were a girl--and I'm doing my damndest to get you to let me kiss you. Yup, I must be gay."

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I hear it so often..."

I'll admit, I was more upset about it than I was the first time. "You believe everything you hear? Cyndi, I'm a fucking punching bag. This is just one more weapon for those assholes to get me. And my girlfriend is asking me if it's true!"

"I really am sorry," she said in a small voice.

"OK, you're forgiven."

I wonder if that's what prompted what happened next. It might have been part of it, but I think the neck-and-earlobe nibbling was most of it. Anyway, when it was time to go, she walked me out her front door. She lived on the second floor, and there was a landing there. We walked out onto the landing, and, before I could head down the stairs, she said, "Where's that mistletoe?"

"Right here," I dug it out of my pocket and, grinning, placed it over my head.

She grabbed my shoulders, leaned in, and kissed me. On the lips, I mean. My very first kiss--well, in this body, anyhow. It was closed-mouth--but it wasn't quick. It, frankly, had me reeling--and I could see in her eyes that she was too. She pulled away, her eyes hooded, and whispered, "Merry Christmas." Then she disappeared through the door.

Hot damn!

JANUARY 13th, 1978

It's funny. A week that ended with the dreaded Friday the Thirteenth ended up being the week that changed my life. Even I didn't know the extent of it until later, but this week set it all up.

The other funny thing is that it didn't start out that way. On that Monday, Cyndi dumped me. This was right around the time I had dumped her the first time around. I didn't really have any intentions of dumping her this time--but she did it for me.

We'd kissed a few times since that first one. And, frankly, I really was happy with that, for the time being. I figured we had plenty of time for anything else--and, having gotten past the kissing barrier was satisfying to me. Unfortunately, it spooked Cyndi. We were "moving too fast" so she wanted to "cool things down."

I was disappointed, but not devastated.

Especially since, on Tuesday, things really started looking up.

It started right in the morning. I got up and Dad was there. "Hey, Ed, you'll never believe what happened."

"What, Dad?"

He told me--the Eye. It happened exactly as it had happened the first time, except--when he went out to get his wire cutters, he remembered my 'dream' and grabbed his goggles.

"I couldn't believe it," he told me, "that wire came right up into my face. If I hadn't had the goggles on, it would've gone right through my eye."

"Wow," I said, in mock-surprise. "Maybe my dreams are clairvoyant," I kidded.

"Good. If you have any dreams about the Super Bowl, let me know," he laughed.

"Dallas and Denver," I said, having had watched the championship games. I combed my memory. "Bet on the Cowboys."

"OK," he laughed.

I got to school, and heard some scuttlebutt--evidently, I wasn't the only person who got dumped. Kara had broken up with Don Nixon. Well, hmmmm--wasn't that interesting!

I got through the morning, then went to English. English was the class right after lunch.

I hadn't really thought about it, but that English class was stocked with talent. Cabot East JHS didn't track--except in math, I was taking algebra because I had passed a test to do so--but somehow, our English class had the kids ranked one through four in the eighth grade class. My erstwhile first girlfriend Christine Seneca was first. Kara was fourth. I was second. Third was a girl named Michelle Pepper.

Michelle was probably the 'catch' of the eighth grade class. Not only was she brilliant, she was gorgeous, including being one of those girls that 'sprouted' early--you know what I mean. She might be in 8th grade, but she had 12th grade tits, no doubt about it. However, because of all this, Michelle was sort of aloof. Plus, with those tits and those brains, not to mention her stunning face, she intimidated guys like you wouldn't believe. The first time around, she certainly had intimidated me, I'll tell you that. And I wasn't even interested in her that way--not when she sat behind Kara!

My Beatles-loving pal Stan Murvetsin--an outgoing, chummy sort who didn't like to let anyone get away with aloofness--teased her mercilessly. Of course he did--look at what her last name was! He'd nicknamed her "Sarge" almost immediately. Michelle Pepper, Sergeant Pepper, Sarge--get it? Michelle was alternately bemused and annoyed by Stan's teasing. She mostly took it with good grace. I think, deep down, she appreciated that a boy was teasing and joking with her, instead of stammering and looking at her tits.

On this day, some of us had gotten into class. Class itself hadn't really started yet, but some of us were there early from lunch. Mrs. Sinclair was also there.

Stan started in on "Sarge". She, laughing, told him to knock it off. That's when I butted in.

"You'd better watch out, Michelle. He's been sticking to your last name. He hasn't glommed on to your first name, yet. Lucky you, named after two Beatles songs."

"I was waiting to deal with the first name," Stan said, "until I had the opportunity to serenade her with it."

"Oh, please, do not sing!" I told him. Stan and I had been friends on the first go-round, but were even better friends this time, and I could tease him. "I've heard you sing. It sounds like cats being strangled." Michelle--and Kara, who was there--giggled at this.

"Not true!" Stan protested.

"You'll scare away all the girls if you start singing."

This is when Mrs. Sinclair, the bitch, decided to butt in. I swear, that woman just hated me. "Mr. Bovilas, you shouldn't say nasty things about your classmates."

"Ah, Stan's my friend, he knows I'm just giving him a hard time." Stan wasn't upset, this was banter. "And he knows he can't sing."

"I suppose you can do better?" Mrs. Sinclair spat.

"Yup. I can sing."

"Put your money where your mouth is," Mrs. Sinclair said nastily. "Get up in front of class, favor us all with a tune."

"Need my guitar," I said.

"Then bring it in tomorrow, Mr. Bovilas. I'm sure we'd all like to see how good you are, considering how you disparage other people."

"Fine, you're on," I said, "as long as I can come up here before first period and drop my guitar off with you--I don't want to lug it around."

"Fine," she said, clearly expecting me not to show up on Wednesday with my guitar.

After class, Kara caught up to me. "Are you really going to do it?"

"You bet your ass," I told her.

Stan was with me. "He can sing, I've heard him. I've never heard him play, though."

"I can play," I told both of them. "I'm no Eric Clapton, but I hold my own. And I want to shove it down Sinclair's throat."

"I know, what is her problem?" Stan asked. "You weren't bothering me." He grinned at Kara. "It's true, I can't sing."

"Her problem is that she hates boys. She especially hates smart boys. I'm both. She hates my guts."

"She picked on you whole class after that," Kara said.

"Yeah, I know. And on my birthday."

"Really? Happy birthday!" Kara said. That's right, it was my 13th birthday. Time to give myself a slightly late birthday present.

Wednesday morning, I walked into Mrs. Sinclair's room with my guitar. "See you after lunch," I said with a smile.

I had pumped myself up about this. I could play. And, though my voice didn't quite have the resonance at 13 that it would gain in adulthood, I could sing. I just had to remember to be uninhibited and go for it.

So, we got to English and she called me up, still expecting for me to fall on my face. I got my guitar out and made sure it was in tune. I was going to have fun with this. I'd never done anything like this the first time around--too scary, of course. This time, I wasn't scared.

"OK," I said, "since this whole thing started because Mrs. Sinclair was eavesdropping onto a conversation between Stan, Michelle, and myself, I guess I've got to start off with this one." So I played--of course--"Michelle". Sailed right through it. It was one of my favorite songs to play throughout life, so I knew it cold. And I sang it right to Michelle--with a smile on my face, of course, letting her know I was just playing around. I leaned right at her desk for the "I love you, I love you, I loooooove you," part, and she gave me a huge smile. I didn't miss a note, singing or playing. When I was done, I got raucous applause--and it felt damn good

They called for another, Mrs. Sinclair--stunned out of her tiny mind--acquiesced. "OK, since I'm playing acoustic--James Taylor's not too wimpy is it?" Everyone laughed. "I love playing this song," and I went into "Shower The People." It went over well.

They called for one more. Mrs. Sinclair--who, by now, looked like she wanted to cry--said, "OK, but this is the last one."

"All right, I'm going to try to rock out on an acoustic." Hell, I'd done it plenty times before. I even saw Melissa Ethredge do it--of course, that wouldn't happen for 23 years. Bruce himself would do it 10 years hence, though he'd rearrange it. So I knew I could pull it off. Yes, you can play "Born to Run" on an acoustic guitar. Well, as long as you can sing it. I wasn't as good at 13 as I would be at 33, but I could sing it.

I'd always regretted not doing this--playing and singing in front of these people, many of whom had written me off as worthless. Well, part of it was I didn't realize how good I was until much later. I was pretty good at 13, especially with singing--hell, I won on a local TV talent show when I was six. My pubescent voice change--and my voice didn't really change all that much--didn't kill the talent. But I was inhibited and scared to really 'go for it' when I was 13. I didn't have any confidence in my talent. That's what I could draw on, because of the recycling--I knew I was good. I just had to let go, lose my inhibitions, go for it--and since I was singing Bruce, I had to belt.

I belted. Jaws were hitting desks before I got halfway through the first verse. I just let it all out. And then I got gutsy.

While vamping the riff between the first verse and the second, I said, "Hey I don't know anyone named Wendy. Should I change the name? What do you think? I should sing it to someone, change the name, huh?" A few people yelled, "Yeah, change the name!"

I looked right at her. She didn't even see it coming. I sang it right to her. "Kara, let me in, I wanna be your friend, I wanna guard your dreams and visions..." I don't ever remember, in either life, seeing Kara Pocharsky blush. It was beautiful! And it deepened when I got to the line at the end of the middle part: "I wanna die with you, Kara, on the streets tonight, in an everlasting kiss!"

When I got done, three things happened. First, the class just erupted. Second, Kara blushed the color of cranberry juice--and grinned at me. And third, Mrs. Sinclair looked like she had eaten 43 lemons. Of course, I had to rub that one in--after putting my guitar back in its case, I grinned at her and said, "Satisfied?" She didn't look satisfied at all. Which made me very satisfied!

Walking out of class, Kara--still grinning and blushing--came up to me and said, quoting the song, "Strap your hands cross my engines?"

"Hey, I didn't write the lyrics!" I protested.

"No, you just sang them to me. With my name in them!" And then she walked away. Funny, she looked remarkably not upset about the whole thing!

So, that was Wednesday. What a great day. Thursday, I was eating with Stan and his gang. I was surprised to see Beth plop down next to me.

I hadn't seen a lot of Beth. It wasn't like I was avoiding her. Well, maybe it was, a little. It was still hard for me to deal with. I was still kind of feeling my way through things in my mind. But, on this day, she came and sat down with us for lunch.

"Hey," she said, "you don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," I said. Stan and the gang nodded approval. "You guys all know Beth?" I made some quick introductions.

"I had to come talk to you," she said, grinning. "I heard about your little show in English yesterday. Good for you! I wish I had been there to see it."