What if you could go back in time to save the person you love the most?
When his father dies in a tragic climbing accident, Charlie discovers a well-hidden family secret which turns his life upside down and threatens to destroy his sense of self as well as his relationship with his girlfriend, Brooke.
Although deep down Charlie always suspected his family wasn't what it seemed, the truth of his adoption compels him to search for his birth mother. In the quest to find her, he realizes traveling to the past for the truth he seeks will jeopardize his relationship with the person he cherishes most in the world.
Brooke almost lost everything traveling back in time to save her brother. Will Charlie make the same mistake?
tw: adoption, drug abuse
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Chapter One
It was raining, but only barely. It was an in-between kind of rain. The type that can’t decide if it wants to be a soft mist or a full-on drizzle. I held the umbrella above our heads as Brooke methodically marched in place to keep her heels from sinking into the soft earth. My mother stood beside me, sharing her umbrella with Melody. Hundreds of mourners surrounded us, including Brooke’s parents and my extended family, but as far as I was concerned, we were the only four people on earth.
The minister was still speaking. I stopped listening to whatever he was saying about my father, his life, and the many outstanding contributions he left behind. His words meant nothing to me.
Brooke reached for my hand which I eagerly took. Her fingers were cold, as they always were, even in the middle of July. Her presence strengthened me as I watched my mother and sister blotting their eyes with shredded tissues. It was emotionally exhausting to see them in pain, and I was at a loss for how best to console them. Brooke had lost her only brother just before we met and had somehow managed to carry on despite the strong bond they shared. I squeezed her hand, and she peered up at me from behind her hair. I knew she was wondering why I was the only one who hadn’t cried about my father’s death.
The truth was, I had no tears to shed for the man who had been my father but never my dad. I knew she wanted me to mourn his loss, but the reality was, not much in my day to day life would change now that he was gone. A trust fund would sustain me financially, and since my father had never supported me emotionally, my life would continue on in much the same manner as it always had.
As the service ended, we were encouraged to approach the mahogany casket to say our final goodbyes. I followed behind my weeping mother, who placed her hand upon the glossy surface. As she stepped away, Brooke gave me a gentle nudge and I took a step closer. I read the inscription on the side of the box – “Phillip Henry Johnson: Husband, Father, Public Servant.” I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel something that resembled grief. Instead, I felt only indifference. I stepped aside to make way for the throng of constituents who dabbed bloodshot eyes and shook their heads in quiet disbelief.
As we made our way toward the waiting town car, Brooke broke the silence that had been looming over us for most of the day. “I’m worried about you,” she said, her concern visible in the lines crinkling her forehead.
I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Life goes on, right?”
“It does,” she frowned, “but usually not right away.”
The rain stopped and I lowered the umbrella, shaking the water droplets onto the ground. I followed Brooke into the car, sliding across the back seat beside her.
“It’s okay to be sad, you know?” she said, laying her head on my shoulder.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Although Brooke and I had been inseparable since the day we met, there were still parts of my life she didn’t understand. Her family was close. Loving. Supportive. Hers was the type of family Norman Rockwell had painted. Even her brother’s death hadn’t shaken their faith or love for one another.
My family was not that kind of family.
My father had been a politician and a politician above all else. During campaigns and elections, my father paraded us around, his perfect nuclear family for the world to praise and admire. What the voters weren't aware of was in 20 years, he had never seen me swim the final leg of a medley relay. They didn't see the empty seat at the kitchen table during mealtimes. And they certainly didn't realize he never showed affection unless cameras were rolling to capture the moment. The Phil Johnson the world knew was not the Phil Johnson that Melody and I had for a father. And so, instead of sadness, I felt only regret that my father had squandered his time with us.
“I can’t go to the reception. I can’t pretend for all those people. I know my mom wants me to be there, but I just don’t think I have it in me.”
She nodded supportively. “I know it’s been hard. Is there something else you want to do? Somewhere you want to go?”
I brushed a lock of hair from across her face. I didn’t say it, but I was already where I wanted to be. Anywhere with her, the most grounded, solid woman I knew, was right where I belonged.
“Let’s just go to my house,” I said. “Watch a movie. Order a pizza. Forget that I’m supposed to be the heartbroken Senator’s son.”
She took my hand. “You got it.”
The minister was still speaking. I stopped listening to whatever he was saying about my father, his life, and the many outstanding contributions he left behind. His words meant nothing to me.
Brooke reached for my hand which I eagerly took. Her fingers were cold, as they always were, even in the middle of July. Her presence strengthened me as I watched my mother and sister blotting their eyes with shredded tissues. It was emotionally exhausting to see them in pain, and I was at a loss for how best to console them. Brooke had lost her only brother just before we met and had somehow managed to carry on despite the strong bond they shared. I squeezed her hand, and she peered up at me from behind her hair. I knew she was wondering why I was the only one who hadn’t cried about my father’s death.
The truth was, I had no tears to shed for the man who had been my father but never my dad. I knew she wanted me to mourn his loss, but the reality was, not much in my day to day life would change now that he was gone. A trust fund would sustain me financially, and since my father had never supported me emotionally, my life would continue on in much the same manner as it always had.
As the service ended, we were encouraged to approach the mahogany casket to say our final goodbyes. I followed behind my weeping mother, who placed her hand upon the glossy surface. As she stepped away, Brooke gave me a gentle nudge and I took a step closer. I read the inscription on the side of the box – “Phillip Henry Johnson: Husband, Father, Public Servant.” I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel something that resembled grief. Instead, I felt only indifference. I stepped aside to make way for the throng of constituents who dabbed bloodshot eyes and shook their heads in quiet disbelief.
As we made our way toward the waiting town car, Brooke broke the silence that had been looming over us for most of the day. “I’m worried about you,” she said, her concern visible in the lines crinkling her forehead.
I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Life goes on, right?”
“It does,” she frowned, “but usually not right away.”
The rain stopped and I lowered the umbrella, shaking the water droplets onto the ground. I followed Brooke into the car, sliding across the back seat beside her.
“It’s okay to be sad, you know?” she said, laying her head on my shoulder.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Although Brooke and I had been inseparable since the day we met, there were still parts of my life she didn’t understand. Her family was close. Loving. Supportive. Hers was the type of family Norman Rockwell had painted. Even her brother’s death hadn’t shaken their faith or love for one another.
My family was not that kind of family.
My father had been a politician and a politician above all else. During campaigns and elections, my father paraded us around, his perfect nuclear family for the world to praise and admire. What the voters weren't aware of was in 20 years, he had never seen me swim the final leg of a medley relay. They didn't see the empty seat at the kitchen table during mealtimes. And they certainly didn't realize he never showed affection unless cameras were rolling to capture the moment. The Phil Johnson the world knew was not the Phil Johnson that Melody and I had for a father. And so, instead of sadness, I felt only regret that my father had squandered his time with us.
“I can’t go to the reception. I can’t pretend for all those people. I know my mom wants me to be there, but I just don’t think I have it in me.”
She nodded supportively. “I know it’s been hard. Is there something else you want to do? Somewhere you want to go?”
I brushed a lock of hair from across her face. I didn’t say it, but I was already where I wanted to be. Anywhere with her, the most grounded, solid woman I knew, was right where I belonged.
“Let’s just go to my house,” I said. “Watch a movie. Order a pizza. Forget that I’m supposed to be the heartbroken Senator’s son.”
She took my hand. “You got it.”
Chapter Two
“I’ve been looking for you for half an hour,” Brooke said, with only a hint of exasperation in her voice as she peeked through the doorway into my father’s study. She walked across the room and sat behind me on the floor, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Your mom and Melody just got here. I ordered pizzas and they’re on the way. I even got your favorite, ham and pineapple.”
When I didn’t immediately respond, she maneuvered beside me, raising an eyebrow in my direction. “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry. You’re always hungry.”
“It’s not that,” I replied at last, coming out of a daze, “it’s all this.”
Somehow I became absorbed in my father’s belongings, which were spread across the ornamental rug in the center of the room. When I passed by the door to the office, a door that was never open and frequently locked, something made me hesitate and try the knob. To my surprise, it opened. I rushed inside, peering over my shoulder, as if my father had the power to return from the grave to admonish me, as he’d done my entire life.
Once inside, I wandered around for several moments, looking for something to prove once and for all that my father had loved me. A photograph of us together. A cherished coloring page from my youth. Something. Anything.
What I found instead was the box of gear the police department returned to my mother after completing the autopsy.
“These are the ropes he was wearing when he fell,” I said, holding up a section of my father’s climbing gear.
Brooke held the rope in her hand as if it was a venomous snake.
“I was never allowed in here, you know. Before. When he was alive. So I thought maybe, if I spent some time with his things, it would make me feel something.”
“And?” she asked, tossing the rope on the floor and picking up a loose carabiner.
“And, no. It’s just stuff.” I paused, considering whether to go on. “But there is something strange I noticed.”
“What’s that?”
“This rigging,” I said, holding up a twisted lump, “has fallen apart. And what’s still together is all wrong. My father would have never tied it this way. It’s not safe.”
“Maybe it got messed up by the police during the cleanup after the accident,” she suggested.
I had already considered that explanation, and concluded the disastrous ropes weren’t the product of a sloppy investigation. And yet, it was unlike my perfectionist father to tie his anchor in such a dangerous way.
“Do you see this rope here?” I said, holding out the length in question. “This is an anchor. It’s designed to hook onto the belay, which keeps you from falling in case you slip while you’re climbing. But this anchor is tied all wrong, and it appears to have been done this way on purpose. My father always kept his fittings tied from one climb to the next. He never undid them. But I’ve never seen him tie an anchor this way.” I inspected the ropes and realized the magnitude of the mistake. “See how the carabiners are hooked to three sides of the anchor making a sort of triangle shape?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that is the way this is tied, if one of these corners fails, they all fail. The whole anchor falls apart. That’s probably what happened to the one that’s pulled apart.”
Brooke was silent for several moments before speaking. “What are you thinking, Charlie?”
I shook my head. I was reeling. Had my father suffered a momentary lapse in judgment when tying his anchor? Had he simply made a mistake? A mistake that led to a 100-foot fall and his own death?
“I don’t know what to think,” I sighed, picking myself up off the floor. “I guess I’ll just pack this stuff back up and then we can have some pizza.”
Brooke wandered around the study while I tucked the ropes and climbing gear back into the box. I was glad she was there. My Brooke. The woman who stole my heart and soul in one fell swoop. I never believed in love at first sight until I saw her across the quad, tossing a football with my friends in the fall of my sophomore year. Before I met her, I’d been afraid to love. Afraid to allow anyone behind my carefully constructed wall. A wall I created because I was afraid of being cast aside. But I felt, in that moment, she was someone I could take a chance on letting into my life.
As I watched her from across the room, nosing through my father’s desk, I felt at ease for the first time in days.
“You ready?” I asked as I snapped the lid onto the box.
“Yeah, I guess. But Charlie?” She hesitated, glancing up at me with the look of a four-year-old who was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Who’s this?” she asked finally, holding out a piece of paper in her hand.
“What is that?”
“It’s an old photo. It was here,” she said, “in your father’s desk drawer.”
She crossed the room and handed me the picture.
The woman in the photograph was beautiful. A graceful wisp of a woman, staring into the distance instead of looking into the camera. It was obvious she was been unaware she was being photographed, and that whoever took the picture had done so from afar. The woman was someone I didn’t know. And yet, I saw her face every day of my life.
“She looks a lot like you, Charlie,” Brooke whispered.
It was true. She had my eyes. My nose. My pronounced cheekbones. Or rather, I had hers.
I attempted to steady myself on the corner of the desk, but my legs could not support my weight. Like an accordion, I crumpled to the floor, and in an instant, Brooke was there, in my lap, holding my head in her arms. As I struggled to breathe, she ran her fingers through my hair and whispered into my ear.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” she repeated until her soothing became something of a mantra.
The truth was I always knew this woman existed. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I always knew that my mom hadn’t given birth to me. She and I looked nothing alike, especially as compared to Melody, who could have passed for her sister. But there was more to it than just appearance. Through the years, there had been many heated conversations between my parents which shifted into silent standoffs as soon as I entered the room. I overheard them discussing monetary transactions and a woman who I “didn’t need to know about.” When I asked questions, they told me to mind my own business. When I snooped, I found only locked doors and empty files. My parents kept a secret from me my entire life. And it was finally time to find out the truth.
When I didn’t immediately respond, she maneuvered beside me, raising an eyebrow in my direction. “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry. You’re always hungry.”
“It’s not that,” I replied at last, coming out of a daze, “it’s all this.”
Somehow I became absorbed in my father’s belongings, which were spread across the ornamental rug in the center of the room. When I passed by the door to the office, a door that was never open and frequently locked, something made me hesitate and try the knob. To my surprise, it opened. I rushed inside, peering over my shoulder, as if my father had the power to return from the grave to admonish me, as he’d done my entire life.
Once inside, I wandered around for several moments, looking for something to prove once and for all that my father had loved me. A photograph of us together. A cherished coloring page from my youth. Something. Anything.
What I found instead was the box of gear the police department returned to my mother after completing the autopsy.
“These are the ropes he was wearing when he fell,” I said, holding up a section of my father’s climbing gear.
Brooke held the rope in her hand as if it was a venomous snake.
“I was never allowed in here, you know. Before. When he was alive. So I thought maybe, if I spent some time with his things, it would make me feel something.”
“And?” she asked, tossing the rope on the floor and picking up a loose carabiner.
“And, no. It’s just stuff.” I paused, considering whether to go on. “But there is something strange I noticed.”
“What’s that?”
“This rigging,” I said, holding up a twisted lump, “has fallen apart. And what’s still together is all wrong. My father would have never tied it this way. It’s not safe.”
“Maybe it got messed up by the police during the cleanup after the accident,” she suggested.
I had already considered that explanation, and concluded the disastrous ropes weren’t the product of a sloppy investigation. And yet, it was unlike my perfectionist father to tie his anchor in such a dangerous way.
“Do you see this rope here?” I said, holding out the length in question. “This is an anchor. It’s designed to hook onto the belay, which keeps you from falling in case you slip while you’re climbing. But this anchor is tied all wrong, and it appears to have been done this way on purpose. My father always kept his fittings tied from one climb to the next. He never undid them. But I’ve never seen him tie an anchor this way.” I inspected the ropes and realized the magnitude of the mistake. “See how the carabiners are hooked to three sides of the anchor making a sort of triangle shape?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that is the way this is tied, if one of these corners fails, they all fail. The whole anchor falls apart. That’s probably what happened to the one that’s pulled apart.”
Brooke was silent for several moments before speaking. “What are you thinking, Charlie?”
I shook my head. I was reeling. Had my father suffered a momentary lapse in judgment when tying his anchor? Had he simply made a mistake? A mistake that led to a 100-foot fall and his own death?
“I don’t know what to think,” I sighed, picking myself up off the floor. “I guess I’ll just pack this stuff back up and then we can have some pizza.”
Brooke wandered around the study while I tucked the ropes and climbing gear back into the box. I was glad she was there. My Brooke. The woman who stole my heart and soul in one fell swoop. I never believed in love at first sight until I saw her across the quad, tossing a football with my friends in the fall of my sophomore year. Before I met her, I’d been afraid to love. Afraid to allow anyone behind my carefully constructed wall. A wall I created because I was afraid of being cast aside. But I felt, in that moment, she was someone I could take a chance on letting into my life.
As I watched her from across the room, nosing through my father’s desk, I felt at ease for the first time in days.
“You ready?” I asked as I snapped the lid onto the box.
“Yeah, I guess. But Charlie?” She hesitated, glancing up at me with the look of a four-year-old who was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Who’s this?” she asked finally, holding out a piece of paper in her hand.
“What is that?”
“It’s an old photo. It was here,” she said, “in your father’s desk drawer.”
She crossed the room and handed me the picture.
The woman in the photograph was beautiful. A graceful wisp of a woman, staring into the distance instead of looking into the camera. It was obvious she was been unaware she was being photographed, and that whoever took the picture had done so from afar. The woman was someone I didn’t know. And yet, I saw her face every day of my life.
“She looks a lot like you, Charlie,” Brooke whispered.
It was true. She had my eyes. My nose. My pronounced cheekbones. Or rather, I had hers.
I attempted to steady myself on the corner of the desk, but my legs could not support my weight. Like an accordion, I crumpled to the floor, and in an instant, Brooke was there, in my lap, holding my head in her arms. As I struggled to breathe, she ran her fingers through my hair and whispered into my ear.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” she repeated until her soothing became something of a mantra.
The truth was I always knew this woman existed. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I always knew that my mom hadn’t given birth to me. She and I looked nothing alike, especially as compared to Melody, who could have passed for her sister. But there was more to it than just appearance. Through the years, there had been many heated conversations between my parents which shifted into silent standoffs as soon as I entered the room. I overheard them discussing monetary transactions and a woman who I “didn’t need to know about.” When I asked questions, they told me to mind my own business. When I snooped, I found only locked doors and empty files. My parents kept a secret from me my entire life. And it was finally time to find out the truth.
