The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (26 page)

But Garison was hitting the snap-release and disconnecting the camera from the machine. He brought it over to the monitor and unhooked the wire that led from the TV to the VCR. He looked at the lead, then screwed it into the back of his camera. "Why would the wires be compatible but not the tapes?" he asked no one.

Shrugging, he stuck his tape back into the camera and hit the play button. An image came on the screen of him sitting in the pilot's seat, with the old layout of the lab plainly visible behind him. His hair was short again and he still wore the leather jacket, but the jacket was new and Garison was younger. The Garison on the screen began his explanation of what he was doing, gave the thumbs-up signal, and then the screen showed a flash of light, followed by a pastoral scene. In the foreground, Garison could be seen to be taking off the oxygen mask and casually checking the air.

"What...?" Heather mumbled.

The camera was then obviously taken off its stationary mount and began a panning shot of the meadow, accompanied by Garison's commentary. Heather stood transfixed, listening to her husband's voice on the tape explaining about how he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. It was all more than she could respond to, so she just looked from the screen to her husband, then back to the screen. Garison smiled, seeing in the look in her eye a recognition that her plan was crumbling. Or, he asked himself, was that what he was seeing? She didn't just look confused, but hurt as well.

Suddenly, the camera cut to a beautiful young blonde woman, smiling curiously and asking the cameraman—who was, apparently, Garison—what he was doing. Heather looked to Garison and asked, "Who is that?"

"That," he told her, "Is my real wife."

He heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to look at her in triumph but was greeted by the most horrific look of despair he had ever seen. Heather's shoulders had sagged and she looked for all the world as if her entire existence had just been jerked out from under her like a rug. She has to have been brain-washed, Garison thought to himself. Angry as he was at her for being a spy, he found his heart going out to her as he thought how horrible it must be for her to learn she was just a pawn in some larger game.

With a trembling voice, she asked softly, "What's going on, Garison?"

"You tell me."

Heather's Diary

March 15, 2005

I am so scared.

I was expecting today to be one of the greatest days of my life. It was supposed to be one of the greatest days in the history of the world. In the grand scope of science and history, maybe today will go down as a great day, for the most ambitious experiment in the field of quantum realities seems to have been at least a partial success.

As this once promising day winds down, though, I have to think it's the worst day I've ever known. It's the end of the day, the sun has gone down just like it's supposed to and everything seems fine about the world except that I am alone in my bedroom. My husband is in the house, but I don't want him in here. I'm afraid of him.

Afraid of Garison?

I sure never thought I'd ever think that, let alone write it. But there it is. I'm afraid of Garison. For the first time—ever—he struck me. Well, I guess he didn't so much strike me as shove me, but it was with great and hostile force.

Somehow, I know it's not his fault, though. He must have gotten hit on the head, or been drugged or something. Because the Garison who came back from the experiment today isn't the Garison I married.

Diary, you know my married life hasn't been perfect. You know there have been other times when I've sat up here alone while Garison slept on the couch. And more nights that I slept there while he was alone up here.

But we have always worked through those things. Even when we were fighting, I never once doubted that we were in love with each other. I'm sure he never did, either. From time to time, we just needed some space to ourselves, to "cool off".

Today, though, he said he doesn't even know me. And he—well . . .

He didn't really hit me. Not really. And the fact that I fell was partially my fault. I think he was just trying to push me away from him but the result is the same as if he had pushed me down.

But the look I saw in his face hurt far more than landing on my backside or his grip on my face before that. It wasn't just that he didn't know me. For some reason, he despised me. I saw in his eyes something like revulsion. I have never seen such a look and it scared me, especially coming from Garison.

I love Garison Fitch. I still want to spend my life with him. I love being his wife, being Heather Fitch.

But something is wrong with him. I have to find out what so I can help him.

What can I do? And what if I can't help him? What if this is permanent?

Maybe I'm being silly. Maybe this is just temporary. It all started just this afternoon, after all. Maybe it'll be gone in the morning and everything will be back to normal.

He claims he's been gone five years, though. And he looks like he's been gone five years or even more. What if that's true?

What can I do?

I don't want to lose Garison.

Heather Dawson Fitch sat on her bed, leaning against the headboard. She set her diary aside on the night table and drew her knees up to her chest. She had a fire going in the fireplace—and being an upstairs room the bedroom was quite warm—but she felt chilled. As she clutched her legs closer to her body and pulled the covers tighter around her, her teeth chattered.

It wasn't just from the cold, though. Her chills were caused by something other than the room temperature. She knew she was cold and shaking with fright.

She could hear Garison walking around in the house. Step by step she heard him enter every room and walk around. If there was any comfort to be found, she found it in that. Apparently, much of the house was as unfamiliar to Garison as she was. The fact that his memory was somehow confused even by the house he had built with his own hands made her feel better, but not much.

There was almost a full moon out and, as she turned off the bedside lamp, she watched the weird shadows creep across the floor. She felt like a scared child, but she couldn't help herself. She reached over and turned the light back on.

Just then, there came a knock at her bedroom door. Garison asked softly, "Heather?"

"Wh-what?" she answered, trying in vain to keep the tremble out of her voice.

"Can I come in?"

"I-I'd rather you didn't."

There was a pause, then he asked plaintively, "I'd just like to talk to you."

She was silent a long time before saying, "Garison?"

"Yes?"

"Let's talk in the morning. I just don't think I'm up to it tonight."

"All right," he replied. She heard him take a couple steps away from the door, then come back. She cringed under the covers a little, afraid that the door would burst open with a shattering of the doorframe at any moment, but all he did was venture, "Heather?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I knocked you down. I didn't mean to."

"I know, Garison," she replied. She wasn't sure, though, if she believed herself.

"Goodnight, Heather."

"Goodnight."

Excerpt from
A Fitch Family History by Maureen Fitch Carnes

Darius Fitch, his wife White Fawn, and their brood of seven settled into life on Cherry Creek and did quite well by all accounts. Darius never did travel back to the east, but he often sent letters back by trappers, mountain men or traders who came through the area. Darius continued to explore the Rockies and took copious notes while interviewing trappers, Indians and anyone else who had seen the lands to the west. He wrote down everything he found out—either through his own explorations or someone else's—and put it all in a notebook which became a sort of Bible to many of the mountain men who came west during the first part of the nineteenth century. (At least, the ones who could read.)

After copying his journals by hand, Darius sent the originals back to George Washington and they may be found in the Library of Congress, though the originals are kept in moisture free vaults and only available for viewing after filling out mounds of paperwork. Darius's copy of his journal, along with all the other notes he collected, are on display in the library of the University of Colorado at Boulder. (These, too, require an act of Congress for viewing.) UCB Press printed copies of the notebook under the title An Early Colorado History almost a decade ago but it has since gone out of print. Copies may sometimes be found in used book stores in the northern Colorado area, and of course many public libraries have copies.

Chapter Sixteen

March 15, 2005

Heather Dawson, if that really is her name, is, physically, the sort of woman a man dreams of but never meets, not to mention marries. My heart still belongs to Sarah—and always will—but no man whose blood still pumps can deny the beauty of this woman who calls herself Heather. The Greeks would have thought her a goddess come to earth, and I am sure many enlightened men of the twenty-first century think the same. If she is a spy, and were picked for her looks, a better choice could not have been made.

In "the old days", which now seem to be "the current days", the KGB was well known to recruit beautiful young women to gain information the old fashion way: with sex. I believe such operatives were known in the business as "honeypots". While Heather is certainly pretty enough for such duty, there's just something about her. Something tells me she would never be so immoral. Yet, she may be just a very fine actress.

In looks, she is the direct opposite of Sarah. She is dark and mysterious where Sarah is—was—fair and an open book to all who met her. Heather purports to be a learned woman with many years of schooling—and a law degree of her own—while Sarah was learned only in the ways of people, not the ways of books. (Though she had read extensively, the closest she had ever had to "formal training" was from Mrs. Clives and myself.)

Heather also appears to be somewhat athletic, a thing I had not known much of in my time. Women in the Party—if they were athletic—looked and acted like men. (In fact, some of them were men; given hormone pills so as to look like women and, thus, able to compete in women's sports. No stretch of the imagination could convince me that Heather is or ever was a boy.)

In the eighteenth century, women did not participate in boisterous activities like sport or even hunting. Or, if they did, they were very discreet about it. Sarah played games with the boys and I, but she always wore a dress and usually wouldn't do it anywhere where she might be seen. But Heather, when I first saw her, was wearing athletic wear and the tone I saw in her arms later when she took off her sweater told me immediately that she indulged in sports. In short, she had the physique of someone who took pride in their physical well-being.

It may be folly on my part, but I am quickly coming to believe that Heather truly is an ally. And, whether or not she really is my wife seems irrelevant in the face of the fact that she believes she is my wife.

Perhaps she has been hypnotized or brain-washed to believe as she does. Maybe that is why portions of her story were so obviously false. Maybe true memories of her life somewhere were integrated with the created memories. If that were the case, then she will need help recovering her true memories. And maybe, somehow, she can help me as I help her. I think I would like to explore the possibilities, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

After all, maybe she knows something that would help me in my pursuit of rebuilding the machine and finding my Sarah. Maybe she has been picked for this mission in the first place because of her knowledge of physics. Maybe, in an effort to leave her scientific knowledge in place while restructuring her other memories, holes have been left through which her "old mind" has crept through. Such holes may be exploitable for both our benefits.

If she does, indeed, know a great deal about the machine as she says—and even understands its workings—perhaps she can help me find a way to regulate where (and when) the machine goes—rather than trusting to blind luck. In that case, I could return to Sarah. If great accuracy could be achieved, perhaps we could even return to the point in time when Heather was brain-washed and correct that situation as well.

Of course, there's still the distinct possibility that she's just an actress. If that is the case, then there is still the possibility of using whatever information she has to my advantage. Conversely, I must be careful to not give away anything I can't afford to part with where knowledge is concerned.

On the other hand—and I hate to bring this up, even to myself (not to mention the fact that I am running our of hands)—what if she really is telling the truth? How could that be? How could she really be my wife, since I have never met her? Is it something to do with time travel? I remember having some similar thoughts of disorientation five years ago when I landed in 1739. I didn't believe that was real at first, either. But how could anything I did in the past have changed the future to give me a wife?

How can I answer that question when I still don't understand the circumstances that have brought me to where I am?

When morning broke across the snowy landscape and promised a bright, sunshiny day, Heather had been immediately sure of what course to take. While the prospect of a new day and the bright sunshine spilling through her window and onto the comforter made her feel somewhat better, she was still afraid. She took a moment to be thankful that the day was bright for a grey, overcast day such as they had been having of late would have only made her gloomy mood worse.