What if you could go back in time to save the person you love the most?
The rules are simple. If you want to travel back in time, you need to be at least eighteen years old. You can only travel within your own lifespan for a maximum of six months. And above all else, you must never, ever, change the past.
But that's exactly what Brooke Wallace plans to do.
As Brooke faces existence without her beloved brother, his life cut short by a rare disease, she can think of only one solution - travel back in time to prevent his death. However, her attempts at fixing the past challenge her to confront everything she believes to be true about herself. And ultimately, she is forced to discover whether or not we can ever truly be in charge of our own destiny.
The rules are simple. If you want to travel back in time, you need to be at least eighteen years old. You can only travel within your own lifespan for a maximum of six months. And above all else, you must never, ever, change the past.
But that's exactly what Brooke Wallace plans to do.
As Brooke faces existence without her beloved brother, his life cut short by a rare disease, she can think of only one solution - travel back in time to prevent his death. However, her attempts at fixing the past challenge her to confront everything she believes to be true about herself. And ultimately, she is forced to discover whether or not we can ever truly be in charge of our own destiny.
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Prologue
I heard it through the wall from the other room. It was faint at first, but then came on a little stronger. There was a moment when I was sure that I was imagining it. Hoping. Praying. But then I heard it again. The low cough that always came. Always.
I resisted the urge to go to him, but my feet were moving before I could stop myself. I paused at the door to the hallway, waiting. Listening. The world was imploding around me for the third time, and more than ever before, the full ramification of what the cough signified weighed heavily upon me. I knew it was over. It was the end of the dream. For all of us.
I padded down the hall quietly and stood at his open door. He was there, as he often was, lounging on the bed reading nonfiction. Probably historical in nature. Perhaps for his world history class. He was a voracious reader. That fact had never changed. I studied his face, with his cheeks that were clearly not chiseled, but slim. He was chewing at his bottom lip, not out of nervous habit but out of comfort. He did not know I was watching him, which made the moment all the more special, until the cat meowing at my feet alerted him to my presence.
“Whatcha’ doin’?” he asked, without looking up from his book.
“Nothing,” I replied, inching into the room, “What are you reading?
“About the fall of the Roman Empire.” He looked up and saw me. Really saw me looking at him, and like always, he could see right through to the core of my soul.
"What?” he admonished. “What is it?”
Oh Brother! I wanted to scream. I am about to lose you again! Only this time even the hope of you is lost and I can’t begin to explain it to you!
I averted my eyes quickly and climbed on the bed with him.
We sat there, side-by-side, heads resting on the headboard, looking ahead, not at each other. He was so close I could feel his warmth. Time passed. Several minutes in fact. He finally accepted that I was not going to willingly share what was bothering me, and so, knowing me as he did, he tried another tactic.
“Do you remember when we were little? When I would get up early, before Mom and Dad would let us wake them? I would come to your room instead. You would let me climb under the covers with you so I would be warm and you would read your books to me. What were those ones we read over and over a million times? The Adventure of Doodle Bear? Doodle Bunny? Doodle…”
“Doodle Beetle,” I answered quietly.
“Yeah! The Adventures of Doodle Beetle! I loved those books! I wonder if we still have them around somewhere?” He looked at me again, gauging whether or not I was ready to talk.
I smiled at him. Not because of our circumstances, but because of the shared memory. There had been quite a few during the course of my second trip. Not as many as the time before, but enough that I was able to keep my purpose under wraps.
The first time I had returned to him I had almost given myself away on more than one occasion. I was horrible at remembering that some things would be different. That there was no way that it could all be the same. One small decision could change everything. I knew that all too well. Over the months, I had made the mistake of mentioning shared experiences from our past a number of times. There were several instances when I was forced to act aloof when he no longer shared my memory. I had to pretend that I had dreamt it or that perhaps the event had happened with someone else. But I had gotten better. I rarely talked about the past, unless he brought it up first. For this reason, the moment was sacred.
He coughed. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Must be catching a cold!” he said, laughing. “Probably shouldn’t sit too close! And we better not tell Mom… she’ll quarantine us!” He winked at me.
“Must be,” I replied, scooting over out of pretense, not out of fear of some unknown virus. I knew he had nothing I could catch.
“You think Mom has any cough drops in her bathroom?” he wondered aloud as he swung his long legs off the bed. He pulled himself up, crossed the room in two strides and was out the door. The moment was gone. Forever.
I returned to my room and sat at the desk, not knowing what to do. I stared out the window into the forest just beyond the edge of our yard. The trees were beginning to bud. Tiny patterns of pink and gold played in the barren branches. New life.
Trees are amazing, as is so much of nature. They know when it is time. Time to grow. Time to sprout new buds. Time to lose their leaves and go dormant for the winter. It all has to do with the amount of daylight that the leaves receive on any given day. During the summer, the sun shines on the leaves for 15 hours a day, giving the chlorophyll in the leaves plenty of sunlight to produce the glucose the tree needs to survive. But by autumn, the sunlight the leaves receive is down by several hours a day, causing a chemical reaction which forces each leaf to close the trap door at the base of its stem that connects it to the branch. Once the trap door is shut, glucose cannot exit the leaf and water cannot enter. The green chlorophyll dies off and the true beauty of the leaf is momentarily revealed before the leaf breaks from the branch, falls to the ground, and dies.
As it was for the leaf, so it would be for my brother. His time was coming yet again. I had been almost positive that whatever needed to change to reset the outcome had surely taken place, but if the cough was any indication, that was not the case. In time, my brother would die. I had failed to stop the inevitable. The only question now was whether I would have the courage to stay and watch it happen again.
I resisted the urge to go to him, but my feet were moving before I could stop myself. I paused at the door to the hallway, waiting. Listening. The world was imploding around me for the third time, and more than ever before, the full ramification of what the cough signified weighed heavily upon me. I knew it was over. It was the end of the dream. For all of us.
I padded down the hall quietly and stood at his open door. He was there, as he often was, lounging on the bed reading nonfiction. Probably historical in nature. Perhaps for his world history class. He was a voracious reader. That fact had never changed. I studied his face, with his cheeks that were clearly not chiseled, but slim. He was chewing at his bottom lip, not out of nervous habit but out of comfort. He did not know I was watching him, which made the moment all the more special, until the cat meowing at my feet alerted him to my presence.
“Whatcha’ doin’?” he asked, without looking up from his book.
“Nothing,” I replied, inching into the room, “What are you reading?
“About the fall of the Roman Empire.” He looked up and saw me. Really saw me looking at him, and like always, he could see right through to the core of my soul.
"What?” he admonished. “What is it?”
Oh Brother! I wanted to scream. I am about to lose you again! Only this time even the hope of you is lost and I can’t begin to explain it to you!
I averted my eyes quickly and climbed on the bed with him.
We sat there, side-by-side, heads resting on the headboard, looking ahead, not at each other. He was so close I could feel his warmth. Time passed. Several minutes in fact. He finally accepted that I was not going to willingly share what was bothering me, and so, knowing me as he did, he tried another tactic.
“Do you remember when we were little? When I would get up early, before Mom and Dad would let us wake them? I would come to your room instead. You would let me climb under the covers with you so I would be warm and you would read your books to me. What were those ones we read over and over a million times? The Adventure of Doodle Bear? Doodle Bunny? Doodle…”
“Doodle Beetle,” I answered quietly.
“Yeah! The Adventures of Doodle Beetle! I loved those books! I wonder if we still have them around somewhere?” He looked at me again, gauging whether or not I was ready to talk.
I smiled at him. Not because of our circumstances, but because of the shared memory. There had been quite a few during the course of my second trip. Not as many as the time before, but enough that I was able to keep my purpose under wraps.
The first time I had returned to him I had almost given myself away on more than one occasion. I was horrible at remembering that some things would be different. That there was no way that it could all be the same. One small decision could change everything. I knew that all too well. Over the months, I had made the mistake of mentioning shared experiences from our past a number of times. There were several instances when I was forced to act aloof when he no longer shared my memory. I had to pretend that I had dreamt it or that perhaps the event had happened with someone else. But I had gotten better. I rarely talked about the past, unless he brought it up first. For this reason, the moment was sacred.
He coughed. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Must be catching a cold!” he said, laughing. “Probably shouldn’t sit too close! And we better not tell Mom… she’ll quarantine us!” He winked at me.
“Must be,” I replied, scooting over out of pretense, not out of fear of some unknown virus. I knew he had nothing I could catch.
“You think Mom has any cough drops in her bathroom?” he wondered aloud as he swung his long legs off the bed. He pulled himself up, crossed the room in two strides and was out the door. The moment was gone. Forever.
I returned to my room and sat at the desk, not knowing what to do. I stared out the window into the forest just beyond the edge of our yard. The trees were beginning to bud. Tiny patterns of pink and gold played in the barren branches. New life.
Trees are amazing, as is so much of nature. They know when it is time. Time to grow. Time to sprout new buds. Time to lose their leaves and go dormant for the winter. It all has to do with the amount of daylight that the leaves receive on any given day. During the summer, the sun shines on the leaves for 15 hours a day, giving the chlorophyll in the leaves plenty of sunlight to produce the glucose the tree needs to survive. But by autumn, the sunlight the leaves receive is down by several hours a day, causing a chemical reaction which forces each leaf to close the trap door at the base of its stem that connects it to the branch. Once the trap door is shut, glucose cannot exit the leaf and water cannot enter. The green chlorophyll dies off and the true beauty of the leaf is momentarily revealed before the leaf breaks from the branch, falls to the ground, and dies.
As it was for the leaf, so it would be for my brother. His time was coming yet again. I had been almost positive that whatever needed to change to reset the outcome had surely taken place, but if the cough was any indication, that was not the case. In time, my brother would die. I had failed to stop the inevitable. The only question now was whether I would have the courage to stay and watch it happen again.
