The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (32 page)

At the mention of his parents, he quickened his pace and they made their way to a car rental counter. When they had been dropped off at their assigned car, he marveled that it was so attractive, as opposed to the grey boxes he had been so used to in the Soviet Americas. It had been surprising enough to learn that he and Heather owned two cars themselves—including an oddly shaped vehicle called a pick-up truck—but to be able to rent such an attractive vehicle with only one of those plastic cards with the embossed numbers and an identification card with one's picture on it!

As he sat down and closed the door, a mechanical strap moved into position to hold him to the seat. He started to fight against it with an exclamation of, "Hey! Wait a minute! What is this?"

Heather reached over with a calming hand and touched him gently on the leg. Somehow, he remembered her touch and was instantly distracted from the strap wondering why or how he could remember such a thing, having never experienced it before. She explained, "It's an automatic safety belt. It's for your protection. See, I've got one, too."

"Oh," he sighed, trying to be casual. The touch on his leg left him with feelings that were decidedly not casual and it both embarrassed and angered him.

As they drove through Denver, Garison marveled at the sights. It was such a pretty city, compared to the Cherry Creek he remembered. The strictly utilitarian buildings were gone in favor of attractively designed sky-scrapers. The houses were charming and individual, rather than concrete blocks thrown together in a shape roughly like a rectangle. Most surprising of all, there were horse ranches right in the middle of urban areas. "Do all cities have ranches like this? Right in the middle?"

She laughed and replied, "No, Denver's unique that way."

"It's so beautiful," he mumbled, "And the mountains!"

Misunderstanding his second statement, Heather nodded, "Yeah, it's a shame you can't see the mountains any better than you can. I hate the smog."

"Smog?" Garison asked in wonder. There was a feint brown tint to the air, but not like he remembered. In the Cherry Creek he remembered you couldn't see the mountains from downtown because of the pollution. This was almost pristine.

They began to discuss the architecture and Heather marveled at how much seemed to have changed from top to bottom just because a little boy had been pushed out of the way of a wagon. She also found it enchanting, the things Garison was struck by that she had so long ago taken for granted.

When the car stopped in front of a nice-looking, red brick, two story house, Garison asked, "Is this it?" rather nervously.

"Sure is."

As he showed no inclination of getting out of the car and was just sitting there as if memorizing every brick and shrub, Heather prompted, "Aren't you planning on going in?"

"Huh?" He shook his head, as if to clear cob-webs, and replied, "Sure."

He got out cautiously, trying to keep from being strangled by the seat-belt, and stood up. He looked as if he might stand forever on the side-walk, but Heather came up behind him and gave him a little shove. He hesitated still, but then went slowly up the walk. When they were on the stoop, he asked, "Do I knock or just go on in, or what?"

"You're parents have always said that you and your siblings were just supposed to walk right on in as if you still lived at home." Heather thought to herself that, after all, all they ever do is watch TV, anyway. Not like you're going to interrupt something important. It was such a contrast from her own father, who had demanded his children knock and wait for the door to be answered ever since they had moved out on their own.

"Why did they move to Denver? Dad—at least the one I remember—loved Durango."

"I think his job moved him. Then, when they retired, they decided they liked it here. They have a of friends here—and your mother likes the shopping."

"That sounds like her—" Garison was about to reach for the knob when he asked, "Siblings?"

Heather nodded, "A brother and two sisters. Tommy, Janie, and Susie. Weird joke, huh?"

Not knowing what she meant, he remarked, "But Mother couldn't have any more children. They almost couldn't have me."

Heather struggled to find a response, then shrugged, "I guess that's just one more thing that changed, Garison."

"But how could my saving George Washington change my mother's reproductive abilities? That doesn't make any sense!"

"None of this makes any sense, Garison." Heather reached for the knob and said, "You want to debate this now or do you want to see your parents?"

Garison nodded, took a deep breath, and walked inside, calling, "Mother? Father? It's me, Garison!"

A couple in their mid-sixties got up from in front of the television and smiled. The man, Bobby Fitch, laughed, "'Mother'? 'Father'? What's with the formalities, Garison?"

For his part, Garison was about to hyperventilate. They were fifteen years older than when he had last seen them, they had both put on weight, and his father's hair was now almost completely white, but they were his parents. Garison rushed to them and embraced them, breaking into tears of joy.

Loraine Fitch looked over her son's shoulder to her daughter-in-law, wondering why her son was acting as if he hadn't seen her in twenty years when it had only been two weeks, and mouthed, "What's going on?"

Heather smiled affably and replied, "This may take a bit of explaining, Loraine."

March 17, 2005

The weirdest phenomena has begun to overtake me as time goes on in the twenty-first century. Memories from "the other Garison Fitch"—Heather's Garison, you might say—have begun to permeate my mind. But it is not as if they are driving my memories out of my head. My memories are staying in tact.

I had never been a believer in penance, but I was beginning to think that this double life I was doomed to comprehend was my penance for destroying the world. Suddenly, though, I was not living a double life but remembering a double life. Living one might have been more comforting. And this is all happening so fast that, two days later it seems as if it’s been going on for years and I cannot even think of it in the present tense.

To someone who has never experienced it, and I can't imagine that anyone else has, it's hard to explain. In my mind, I have started to have two complete sets of memories. I can remember everything I did back in the Soviet Americas and in the eighteenth century, but I am also starting to remember everything the other Garison Fitch did while growing up in the United States. But I'm not remembering them as if I were remembering someone else' deeds, I am remembering them as if they were my own memories. It is as if I, a thirty to thirty-five year old man, have sixty-five years worth of memories.

For instance, I can remember both of my twelfth birthday parties. I can even remember specific details of both days. I can remember other days of conflict, but birthdays are the easiest to remember exactly when they happened. I can remember my first birthday after my parents' death, because I was sixteen. But I can also remember a sixteenth birthday when I got to drive a car for the first time.

One of the more interesting memories I am discovering is of the sports I—Heather's Garison—have apparently played. I was, apparently, somewhat of a star at a sport the Americans call football. I was an outstanding linebacker (whatever that is) they tell me. It is not really anything like the football I grew up with and is named incorrectly. Rarely does one ever touch the ball with one's foot, and—even then—there are only two designated men on each team who kick the ball. If anyone else touches the ball with their foot, they are penalized for an illegal move. It is a game that is confused in its intent, I believe. The object is to hurt and maim your opponent, but the teams are required to wear protective gear designed to prevent this. And, thousands of people seem to think this is all great sport. I find it somewhat embarrassing now that I was a standout at such a brutal (and, if you ask me, useless) sport.

The other sport I apparently participated in (and was quite good at, if my "memory" serves me correctly) is called baseball. It is an odd sport in that it pits two teams together, but not in what would seem a fair fashion. One team sends one representative out onto the field to battle nine representatives of the other team. Through skill and cunning, it is this man's goal to hit an unbelievably small sphere with a wooden stick, then race around a fraction of the field while his nine opponents are trying to touch him with the sphere—or catch it in the air. It is easily the most complicated game I have ever been associated with.

There are many anomalies in this game I have not been able to fathom. For instance, the man with the stick has a lot more field to hit to than he has to run around. And, if he can hit the sphere far enough, they allow him to run the course unimpeded at whatever speed he chooses. Also, as he stands out there awaiting his chance to strike the ball, he doesn't have to if he doesn't want to. He is free to let the ball go by. If he is correct in his opinion that the ball was poorly thrown, he is rewarded. If, however, the field official thinks the ball was correctly thrown, then the player is penalized for not hitting it. Three such penalties is the same as having an opposing player tag you with the sphere or catch it in the air. The game also seems to involve a ridiculously large amount of spitting, but I can't for the life of me figure out why.

In addition, unlike soccer or any other sport I know of, if a spectator catches the ball in baseball, he is allowed to keep it. Even if a thousand of the little spheres go into the stands, the spectators may keep them all. The balls are, as near as I can figure, the only expense, besides salary, that the teams have. Apparently, professional baseball teams pay tremendous amounts of money to the players as they don't have to spend hardly anything on the equipment.

It is a most intriguing game that I shall have to study further. Heather tells me I had some prowess at the sport, playing a position called "second cello," in my younger days, so I would very much like to try the playing of it again (even though I get the feeling that the participants just make up the rules as they go along). Perhaps, with practice, I could be promoted to first cello.

To Heather, who knew the story behind the actions, the meeting between Garison Fitch and his parents was somewhat comical. To his parents, it was unfathomable.

In his parents' recollection, it had only been two weeks since they had last seen their eldest son. He sobbed about how glad he was to see them after so long a time and they looked at him as if he had gone off his nut. It wasn't until later, when Heather had had a chance to relate the story—as it was supposed—that things settled down a little in the Fitch house. Garison's parents were intelligent people, having both held positions as university teachers at one time, though they currently were retired from a small computer firm they had worked for in Englewood called Papyrus Digital. Still, they had always found many of Garison's ideas—even as a child—somewhat incomprehensible. They had tried to understand how their son could have been not just smart but a genius, but were at a loss. So they listened to Heather's story, but held to the theory that Garison had somehow been conked on the head during his experiment. They decided to "play along" in hopes that his memory would eventually be jogged. Even they had to admit, though, that he did look considerably more than two weeks older since their last visit.

Heather was the favorite of the in-laws, despite what Garison's parents considered an obsessive interest in religion. While the other in-laws seemed to only tolerate Garison's parents, Heather often treated them better than even their own daughters treated them. "At least," Loraine had remarked more than once at family gatherings, "Heather helps out in the kitchen," which was something Janie and Susie rarely did. Loraine had made the remark well within Janie and Susie's hearing, but they had never taken the hint. Garison had long suspected Heather liked his family so well because her real family was so icy cold where as his was bubbling over with warmth—if lacking in domestic skills or religion.

It had been early evening when Garison and Heather had arrived at the house in Denver, owing to Garison's wanting to see Durango before they left (which was really just a delaying tactic), so after a couple hours of talk, the elder Fitchs retired to their bedroom, leaving the younger couple in the living room. "Ready for bed?" Heather asked.

"I am virtually exhausted," he replied. "I still am not recovered from not sleeping the night before last."

"You've also had a little trauma, too. Mental work's often a lot more tiring than physical labor, you know. I was never so tired after a volleyball tournament as I was after a long court battle. I think you need some rest."

They stood up and she led the way to the bedroom they always stayed in while at his parents' house. He paused at the door and said, "I can't do this."

"What?" she asked, totally unaware of what he meant.

"I can't sleep with you. Not tonight, anyway. Maybe not ev—not tonight."

"Do you still not remember being married to me?" she asked meekly. She had wondered about that all day, as he said "new" memories had surfaced, but she had not had the nerve to ask. She had been afraid of the answer and so had not brought it up.

"I think I'm beginning to," he replied. "Those memories are surfacing and that alone is, well, worrisome. But, you must understand: when I woke up two days ago, I was married to Sarah. I love her deeply. I probably always will.

"I believe I love you," he said. He thought for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts, before saying, "It's strange. The Garison Fitch you married—I know he loved you. I can...remember it. He is—I am he. I remember his love for you as if it were my love for you—if that makes sense. I don't know why it should because it doesn't make any sense to me.