Upload and Reboot
by Tyler Marable
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
We journeyed through the tesseract — I had willed it forth with my mind — to the former Mr. Benton’s hometown. We stood in the yard of a small home. There was nothing remarkable about the house: rural, country French style, the owner obviously not a minimalist, which was made clear by the clutter on the porch. The only thing exceptional about the home was its owner: the former Mrs. Benton.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Are you?” I said. “This is your choice, not mine.”
His eyes looked to the sky. I did not believe the answer resided in the clouds. Curious why humans do that: look up when unsure. “I don’t know. It might not go well.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. “It might go too well.”
“Are you coming? It might be strange for her, you being an alien and all. I don’t want you mouthing that crap in front of her.”
It might be strange for her meeting a reincarnated ex-spouse. I did not project that thought into his mind. “I will wait here, if that is your wish.”
The former Mr. Benton walked to the home, ascended the stoop with nervous legs and a pounding heart. What would he say to her? She would not recognize him.
She’ll remember me; I know Jill.
He had not used prudence when making this decision, nor had I when I proposed such a ludicrous notion. The love he felt for this woman took hold and negated all reason. I believe some famous wordsmith of Earth proclaimed: “Discretion is the better part of valor.” Indeed he was correct. Although I must add: Discretion is also the better part of love.
I did not wait in the driveway but stood by the former Mr. Benton’s side as he knocked on the door. I clouded his mind and senses to my presence, making myself essentially invisible.
The door opened. On the other side of the threshold stood the former Mrs. Benton. She no longer held his last name but the surname of another.
“Yeah?”
“Um. Hey.”
She studied him. “Do I know you?”
“Yeah, you can say that. It’s me... Michael.”
“Michael?”
“Benton,” he said. “Your husband. Well, your divorced husband.”
She grinned; it was awkward. A grin that did not know if it wanted to be a smile or a frown. It vanished once she saw he was serious. “Get off my porch.”
The former Mr. Benton stepped forward, his eyes tearing. “You remember junior prom? How I couldn’t even ask you out. I had to get Terrance to. And that bastard took you himself.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you who I am. You remember Emma?” he asked. “I proposed to you under her. We called the tree Emma because of the name carved in it.”
“How do you know all of this?” she whispered in disbelief. “Have you been spying on me? ”
“Who is it, honey?” a voice called from inside.
“Is that Hank?!” Michael/Jason asked, peering into the home.
“Yeah,” she said. “I get it now. You’re one of Hank’s friends, huh. Y’all playing a joke on me. You here to see him?”
“I’m here to see you.”
“Why?”
“I told you why!”
A man appeared by the side of the former Mrs. Benton. He draped an arm around her neck while sipping from a mug. “How many times have I told you to ask who it is before you answer the door. At least peek out the window first.”
Although he now had 20/20 vision, courtesy of the late Jason Wesker, the former Mr. Benton did not believe his new eyes. “Hank? You were the one screwing my wife?”
“Huh?”
Anger brewed inside. He took a step forward, wearing a scowl. “I can’t believe this. I knew you divorced me because you had someone else, slut. I just couldn’t believe it was Hank.”
“What is he talking about, Jillian?” Hank asked.
“I don’t know this guy,” she said. “I think he fell and bumped his head somewhere.”
“You were my friend, Hank,” the former Mr. Benton said.
Hank raised his shirt’s hem. The handle of a revolver protruded from a concealed holster. Thirty-eight special, a weapon that fired tiny lead projectiles. How primitive, a very uncivilized weapon.
Hank unholstered the gun and let it dangle by his side. “I wouldn’t come any closer. In fact, I must ask you to leave.”
“This isn’t over, Jillian.”
“Get the hell off my porch!” she said. “I’m calling the police.”
The door slammed shut. The former Mr. Benton left, thought he’d go for an afternoon walk. I let my presence slide back into his senses and reappeared by his side.
“I thought you said it was going to go well,” he said.
“I said it might go too well.”
“What the hell does that even mean?” he said.
I shrugged as if unsure. But I knew there was probably a 99.9% chance it would not go well. I led the subject into this interstellar space crash because I believed in the point-1%. What if Jillian recognized him even though he was a new man? How fascinating it would have been. But alas it did not go “too well,” to my chagrin. It crashed, burned, and disintegrated in deep space.
He ran a shaking hand through his hair, visibly upset. “It didn’t go well, did it, dumbass? I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. How did I think this would end?”
“You didn’t know how it would end; neither did I.”
He stopped and turned to face me. “Why did you bring me back?”
“I did no such thing. I have no control over these matters.”
He grabbed my lapels and shook me. “I killed myself! I wanted to die. Why didn’t I stay dead?”
I wished I knew the answer. “That’s what I’m studying.”
“I want to die again.”
“Why?”
“I can’t live without her.”
“You can live with Allison. Start all over. Live life all over.”
“I don’t want Allison. I don’t want to live life again... at least not without Jill.”
What a curious specimen. I imagined a myriad of creatures would not balk at a second chance for life, but this particular subject not only wanted to pass up that chance but recommit suicide as well. Why? What was so special about this Jillian?
I placed my hand on the subject’s forehead.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Extracting memories.”
* * *
I stand in a meadow carpeted with wildflowers. A boy and girl lie in the shade of what humans call a black gum tree. It is early autumn, I believe. The tree blushes in red shame, furious that it has to drop its beloved leaves and go into slumber, or perhaps the tree blushes in envy at the display of affection resting at its feet.
A breeze saunters through the meadow. The tree becomes tremulous in the wind and sheds its leaves. The boy’s demeanor is as languid and carefree as the wildflowers, but his heart is terrified. It rains red leaves under the tree as the boy drops to one knee and pulls a ring from his pocket.
* * *
The teen no longer kneels under a tree in front of the female to whom he promised the rest of his life. No, the meadow has melted away as dreams do. So fresh in the mind one moment and mysteriously gone the next, like morning dew. Now the two lie on sand, holding each other.
“Will you promise to stay in my life?” the boy whispers.
“If you make the same promise.”
“I do.”
“Will you always love me?” she asks.
“As sure as the sun rises and sets. As sure as Selene drives her chariot across the night sky.”
She giggles. “You’re so lame. My corny little poet.”
He looks hurt. Although he’s a man by human standards — age twenty — he’s just an infant to time, to one who had seen several centuries like me. He’s just a boy who doesn’t know how to handle frayed emotions.
He says nothing.
She places her hands on the sides of his face. “I meant corny in a good way.”
Before he can say, What in the world does that mean? she kisses him. Deep. Long. The ocean grows jealous and comes in to lick their bodies while they hold each other.
“I’m pregnant,” she says at last.
The boy knows not what to say, and so he says nothing. He only kisses her more deeply.
* * *
I sit in a hospital room. The boy, now thirty-nine, is nervous yet again. Both anxiousness and fear rests in his brown eyes. He and his wife have tried and tried. Three miscarriages. What kind of a god would allow such a thing to happen? he thought. But maybe this was the time. Nurses are gathered around a patient — the teenage girl is no girl any longer but a young woman. A scream fills the room, not a scream of terror but one of pain and labor. A moment later, frail whimpers accompany the wail of the new mother.
“Twins,” a nurse says. “A boy and a girl.”
“Eric and Erica,” the new mother whispers.
* * *
I now stand in a kitchen. The new mother has held her title for five years, made evident by the candles she places on the birthday cakes — an interesting occasion; not too many creatures celebrate the day they came to know of life, certainly not my kind. Her husband enters the kitchen and drops his lunch pail, his clothes stained with the labor of a long day.
She doesn’t look up from the task at hand but lights each candle with care. “You’ve been working hard?” She clearly knows the answer to this question; the sly smile playing on her lips was a tacit admission.
“You think?” he said. “I see you’ve been working hard, too. Where are the kids?”
“Playing in the backyard with their friends. It’s almost time for the birthday boy and girl to blow out their candles.”
“Do we have time to blow out ours?” He grins a crooked smile and reaches into his pocket. He retrieves a note, something he wrote while at work. “For you. I didn’t have time to get a card.”
She snatches it from him, not out of anger but elated anticipation. “And to think I thought you’d forgotten our anniversary.”
“How could I forget? It’s the same day as our kids’ birthday. But that’s all I could get. Couldn’t afford a real gift.”
She smiles. His remarks did not elicit the grin, but rather the paper. “This poem is good enough. You’ve always been quite the poet. This is beautiful.”
“No,” he says, “this is beautiful.” He wraps a necklace around her neck. “But not as beautiful as you.”
“Michael,” she whispers, “where did you get the money?”
He scoops her up in his arms. “Saved it.”
“But I didn’t get you anything.”
“I have you and the children. What else do I need?” He proceeds to carry her from the kitchen.
She knows what her husband has in mind. “But the candles!” she shouts.
“The kids can blow them out later.”
“No,” she says. “I mean the candles can burn down the house if left unattended.”
He chuckles; his wife has always been a cautious lady. “Safety first. We can light them again later.”
He bends down with his wife still in his arms and blows out the candles. He then carries her down the hallway to their bedroom. She giggles and kicks. Her legs flail in the air, as if she wanted to break free. But her husband will not be denied his anniversary gift.
* * *
Copyright © 2019 by Tyler Marable
