Ken Grimwood - Replay

"I know that now. But at the time … When you came into my office at Starsea, out of the blue, I didn’t know how the hell to react. I don’t think I even realized quite how lonely, how desperate, I’d become. I just assumed, by then, that I’d never meet anyone else like me, not even anyone who would believe what I’d been through, let alone someone who’d shared the experience. You’d withdrawn to the land, to your mountains and your crops … while I’d put up emotional barriers of a different sort: outward-focused ones, a very public form of solitude. Trying to save the world was my way of hiding from my own needs. That was a hard thing to admit—to you, or to myself."

"I’m glad you had that courage. It taught me I didn’t have to hide from my own feelings or my fears."

Pamela looked long and deeply at him, tenderness in her eyes and on her face. "We’ve soared, all right, haven’t we? We really have."

"Yes," he whispered, returning the gaze. "And we will again, soon. Hold on to that. Don’t forget it."

Jeff stood at the stern of the boat, watching the village and the hills behind it recede into the distance. He watched until he could no longer discern the figure of Pamela on the wooden dock. Then he lifted his eyes to the red-and-white speck that was her little villa and watched until that, too, had blurred into invisibility.

The wind off the open sea stung his eyes, and he moved into the enclosed section of the passenger ferry, bought a beer, and took a seat alone, away from the scattering of off-season French and German tourists.

It wasn’t really over, he forcibly reminded himself, just as he’d told Pamela to do. Only this replay, that was all that was ending; they’d be together again very soon, could make a fresh start of everything. But God, how he hated to leave behind this particular reality, this life in which he and she had come to know and love each other. They’d come so far, done so much; he was as proud of Pamela’s achievements in film as if they’d been his own. How heartrending to think of entering a world where Starsea, and the enormously successful string of touching, all-too-human comedies and dramas she had made in the years since, never had existed and never would.

He clung tenaciously to the concept of time lines that they’d discussed in New York, years before. Somewhere, he was sure, there would be a branch of reality in which her artistic legacy lived on, would continue to move and enlighten audiences for generations to come. Perhaps Judy’s son, Sean, really would find a way for the dual intelligent species of earth’s oceans and its land masses to communicate with one another; if he did, that supreme gift of shared planetary wisdom would have sprung directly from Pamela’s vision.

It was a hope worth harboring, a dream to cherish; but now they would have to concentrate on new hopes, new dreams, another life as yet unlived.

Jeff reached into his jacket pocket, took out the small, flat package she had handed him as he boarded the boat. He removed the tissue wrapping carefully, and his throat tightened with emotion when he saw what she had given him.

It was a painting, a precisely done miniature, of Mount Shasta as it appeared from the hill on his property; and in the serene sky above the mountain, two figures swooped and soared on brilliantly feathered wings: Jeff and Pamela, like mythological creatures come to life, in eternal exultant flight together toward a destiny never before encompassed in reality or myth.

He stared at the tiny work of art and love for several moments, then rewrapped it and put it back into his pocket. He closed his eyes, listened to the churning of the boat as it cut through the waves of the Bahia de Palma, and settled quietly into the first leg of his journey home to die.

A dull gray early-morning light filtered through the louvered window and the blue-green drapes. As Jeff opened his eyes he saw a sleek, seal-point Siamese cat peacefully asleep at the foot of the king-sized bed. It raised its head as he stirred. The cat yawned once, then issued an annoyed and clearly interrogative "Rowwr?"

Jeff sat up, turned on the bedside lamp, and scanned the room: stereo console and TV against the far wall, flanked by shelves of model airplanes and rockets; bookcase on the right-hand wall; uncluttered dresser below the windows to his left. Everything neat, ordered, well-kept.

Oh, shit, he thought; he was in his boyhood room at his parents' house in Orlando. Something had gone wrong, dreadfully wrong. Why wasn’t he in the dorm room at Emory? Good God, what if he had come back as a child this time? He threw back the covers, looked down at himself. No, he had pubic hair, even had a morning erection; he rubbed his chin, felt stubble. At least he wasn’t prepubescent.

He leaped out of bed, hurried to the adjoining bathroom. The cat followed, hoping for an early breakfast as long as they were going to be getting up at this hour. Jeff flicked on the light, stared in the mirror: His appearance seemed to match the way he’d always looked at eighteen. Then what the hell was he doing at home?

He pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, slipped his sockless feet into some old sneakers. The clock by his bed put the time at almost a quarter to seven. Maybe his mother would be up; she always liked to have a quiet cup of coffee before starting her day.

He rubbed the cat’s neck. Shah, of course, who’d gotten run over during Jeff’s junior year; he’d have to tell the family to keep him inside. The regal animal strutted alongside him as Jeff walked down the hall, through the terazzo-floored Florida room, and into the kitchen. His mother was there, reading the Orlando Sentinel and sipping her coffee.

"Well, goodness gracious," she said, raising her eyebrows. "What’s the night owl doing up with the robins?"

"I couldn’t sleep, Mom. Got a lot to take care of today." He wanted to ask what day it was, what year it was, but didn’t dare.

"What’s so important that it rouses you at the crack of dawn? I’ve been trying to do that for years, and never succeeded. Must have to do with a girl, is that it?"

"Sort of. Could I have part of the paper, please? Maybe the front page, if you’re done with it?"

"You can have the whole thing, honey. I’m about to start breakfast anyway. Want some French toast? Or eggs and sausages?"

He started to say, "Nothing," then realized how hungry he was. "Uh, eggs and sausages would be great, Mom. And maybe some grits?"

She gave him a mock-insulted frown. "Now, when have I ever made you breakfast without grits? They paste your ribs together, you know that."

Jeff grinned at his mother’s old, breakfast-table joke, and she set to preparing the meal as he picked up the newspaper.

The main headline stories were about civil rights clashes in Savannah and a total eclipse of the sun in the northeastern U.S. It was mid-July 1963. Summer vacation; that was why he was here in Orlando. But Christ, it was three full months later than it should have been! Pamela must be frantic, wondering why he hadn’t contacted her yet.

He ate his breakfast hurriedly, ignoring his mother’s admonitions to slow down. Glancing at the kitchen clock, he saw it was just after seven; his father and sister would be getting up any minute. He didn’t want to get embroiled in a family discussion of what he knew he had to do.

"Mom…"

"Mm-hmm?" she said distractedly, getting more eggs ready for the later risers.

"Listen, I’m gonna have to go out of town for a few days."

"What? Where to? Are you going down to Miami to see Martin?

"No, I have to, uh, go up north a ways."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What does that mean, up north a ways ? Are you going back to Atlanta so early?"