turn down an opportunity like this? How many people get the chance to see loved ones that have died long ago? "Okay, let's go. We can get in through the back door."
As usual, Grandpa had forgotten to lock up. That saved me from having to remember the passcode. A flood of aromas filled my nose when I inched the door open. Everyone's house has a smell of some kind. Most people just overload on whatever air freshener they like the best. Some smell like fabric softener. Then there are some that smell like whatever food they cook most often. Grandpa's cabin fell into that category. The smell?
Bacon and coffee.
And maybe butter.
It was a combination of flavors that brought back memories of summer mornings when Grandpa would be making breakfast while I played with my toys in the living room. I could almost hear Grandpa telling me stories about the big fish he had caught on his latest adventure on the lake.
No, I really was hearing it.
Doc and I stepped through the door to the rear den. I could hear voices from the other room along with the sizzling of breakfast on the griddle. The den was just as I remembered it. All of Grandpa's biggest fish were mounted on the walls. His favorite old couch was there. Even his fishing gear was piled in the corner, presumably where he left it after a recent trip. The fireplace and wicker chair where he used to read, the wooden coffee table he carved—it was all just as I had remembered it.
"Breakfast is served!" a voice boomed from the other room. There was no mistaking it. That was Grandpa!
Even knowing what I was about to face, the sight that greeted me when I stepped into the living room stopped me dead in my tracks. There he was, Grandpa Joe, standing at the little table near the far wall with a plate full of bacon and pancakes in one hand and a pitcher of orange juice in the other. At this point in my life, he had to have been around seventy years old, but he didn't look the part whatsoever. He took good care of his body—the temple, he called it—with routine exercise and plenty of vitamins. And though his temple was routinely bombarded by bacon, that was likely his one and only vice.
"Come and get it, Herbert!" he said.
There's no real way to accurately describe what it is like to look upon your childhood reflection. A part of me wanted to cry. I was staring at the innocent little boy whose outlook upon the world had yet to be corrupted. Yet another part of me wanted to go and punch that child in the face for being so naïve to the nature of the society around him. Regardless, there I was, jumping up from my imaginary world of race cars and speedboats to run for another of Grandpa's delicious breakfasts.
To avoid confusion, I'll refer to the childhood version of myself as "Herbie" going forward. It's funny; I don't mind calling myself that, but if other people do it, I really get irritated.
Herbie climbed into his chair as Grandpa put two pancakes and a slice of bacon on his plate. He couldn't have been more than four years old at the time; it's a wonder this was even a part of my memory at all. It's amazing what things stick with a person. I walked around the two recliners to get closer, fascinated by the sight of my own history brought to life. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet, but the sound attracted no attention. The cabin was old; it creaked plenty enough on its own.
"Have enough there, Pal?" Grandpa asked. Herbie just nodded and stuffed his mouth with pancake.
“Pal.” Grandpa always called me that. It's funny, to most people, that kind of thing probably goes in one ear and out the other. But I liked it. It made me feel special. Considering my Mom referred to me as "the brat" and Dad used even more colorful terms, being Grandpa's "pal" was something I treasured. It meant that there was at least one person out there who loved me. One person who didn't mind having me around. One person who enjoyed my company. Grandpa was my friend, and to this day, I haven't had another like him.
And like a child trapped in an adult's body, I found myself fleeing the cabin to avoid sobbing uncontrollably in front of them.
I walked as softly but quickly as I could until I was back outside. Then I ran all the way back to the Chronopod. It wasn't until I was standing amidst the trees wiping my eyes that I remembered Doc. I'd left him all alone in there!
"Are you alright?"
Wait . . . How? "How did you know I'd left?"
"I had a feeling. Was that too much for you to handle? We can stop now, if you'd like."
He had a feeling? How? "No, I'm fine," I said. The uncontrolled sniffle that followed the statement clearly stated otherwise.
"Herbert, the whole idea of these sessions is to explore your pain. Your thoughts. Your fears. Those very scars you hold so close to you because you don't want anyone to make them any deeper. But as long as you keep your feelings secret, they'll only continue to drown you. Please, talk to me."
There wasn't much to say. I thought my reaction was pretty obvious. "I just miss these days, that's all. If I had my way, I'd never get back into the Chronopod again. I'd spend the rest of my life here, at Starwood Lake, with Grandpa."
"The past often looks more appealing than the present, and even more so than the future," Doc said. "Tell me something. When you were here with your grandfather, did you ever worry about the inevitable appearance of your mother or father? Obviously they came back to take you home eventually. Did that ever weigh on your mind?"
"I don't know," I said, turning toward the shimmering lake to watch a flock of ducks overhead. As much as I have convinced myself over the years that nothing bothered me when I was with Grandpa—I even said so earlier in this entry—there was an . . . unsettled feeling that rose every time it was time for me to go back home.
"Does that fear come back to you whenever you think of Starwood Lake now?"
Admittedly, it did not. As I said, the cabin was, in my mind, a safe place. Perhaps I don't feel it because I no longer need to worry about such things. It allows me to have the joy of the memory without the burden of worry. "Not really. I remember it, but I don't feel it."
The sound of Doc's voice moved beside me as he spoke. "Would you then say that your feelings regarding your days spent with your grandfather are better today than they were back then? If for no other reason than the fact that your affection and appreciation for those memories is not clouded by the fear you once felt?"
"It's not the same as the real thing," I told him.
"I understand that. I'm just trying to show that you can appreciate Starwood Lake now in ways that you simply couldn't back then."
I don't know why I always have trouble conceding Doc's points. I know he's just trying to help me. "I suppose."
He patted my shoulder. "Well, where to next?"
I thought about it for a moment. The memory of this day at Starwood Lake had once been one of few happy moments from my past. Now, my brain would likely associate it with today's experience. And though I could still appreciate the original memory for what it was, I didn't want the rest of my good memories to be tainted by the intrusion of my present-day self. I didn't want any more days with Grandpa to be remembered as "trial runs" in the Chronopod. "To be honest, I think I'd just like to go home."
"Really? You don't have any more good memories you'd like to visit?"
I let out a long sigh as I headed for the Chronopod. "Actually, I do. But I'd like to keep them that way."
Tuesday – Day 2
Well, my second day of time-traveling has come and gone. The memories I explored today were not nearly as positive or comforting as my visit to Starwood Lake, but I hadn't expected this therapy to be pleasant. We went back and observed the day of my first real fight with another student. This happened in the fall of first grade when I was still naively trying to fit in with the other kids.
I should note that I didn't want to hurt other people back then, and I certainly didn't enjoy it. When a situation arose in which it was necessary, I only acted in self-defense. Not that I ever seriously hurt anyone—I think the worst I ever did was give Billy Han
del a bloody lip in middle school as he ground my nose in the dirt—but I felt remorse whenever I acted violently toward anyone regardless of the circumstances. Silly, I know. There are times now when I wish I'd shown even a quarter of the aggression I've got built-up inside today. Thinking of those days makes me furious. I mean, I know showing God's love is and always was the right approach, but the more selfish and emotional side of me says I should've let loose on each and every punk who picked a fight with me just because they knew I was an easy target.
When I got to Doc's office today, he was in his study going over his notes from a session with another patient. "Good morning, Herbert," he said, collecting the sheets into a neat pile and filing them in his desk. "How are you today?"
I gave my standard response whenever someone asks that on any given day. "I'm here."
"Today is likely to be a bit more emotional than yesterday," he warned, pushing his chair back and standing. "Are you prepared?"
"As much as I can be," I told him. "Do you know where you want to start?"
Doc deactivated his computer terminal. "I thought we'd begin with your early memories of abuse in school. Schoolyard bullying played a significant role in your childhood trauma, so I thought this would be a good starting point."
I followed him back to the storage room. "My first fight, then?"
"Was that the first memory you have