Spark (24 page)

              There is only one thing to do:  Find Tess Turner so I can get to the bottom of it.  But first… more.  I have to know more.  So I start digging.  I open every folder, every file, every document… and I read.  I get so caught up in the research and the documents about Tess that I lose all sense of time.  Minutes turn into hours, and the words that I read start to become real.  At one point, I am brought to tears. 

              Two things happen next that stir up such a concoction of fear and frustration and intrigue that I am nearly immobilized.  First, I find the document titled simply “Zach.”

              My dearest Zach,

              If you are reading this file, you have found my research, and I am gone.  As I have no way to discern how far you have gotten into it, let me begin by saying that this project has been the greatest fulfillment and accomplishment of my life.  I regret that I was not able to share it, in person, with you.  I was very proud of you, and I want to share this with you now, because I think it is very important.  This is life-changing, groundbreaking research. And the best part?  It’s real.  I hope you don’t feel I have toyed with Tess’ life or yours. But even when you were just children, I sensed something powerful between you.  Who could have known how this would all turn out?  I hope that it has turned out for the best, for both of you.

              I am including in this letter something important for you.  If you haven’t already discovered the focus of my research, it is in a nutshell about the miracle of time travel.  What I am about to give you is a gift, but it is a gift that comes with responsibility.  Use it wisely, son…

              As I continue, I find information about a data chip that facilitates time travel.  Its location is revealed, as well as directions for its use—should “the need ever present itself.”  My mind wavers, trying to wrap itself around the idea that time travel is even possible, and the thought of implanting a device inside my body.

              What I find next baffles me even more.  It is a file titled, “Project Zero – Subject Tess Turner:  Wireless Updates.”  Upon reviewing it, I find her voice again, telling her story.  Only this time, it’s as if it’s happening right now:

Project Zero:  File 7-18-2012, Subject Tess Turner

Everything complicated begins with something simple, some boring thing that you do every day of your life—like waking up.  In those few seconds between dreaming and reality, nothing really happens and anything is possible.  You are at zero, the least complicated number, the one that will never—no matter how much you add, subtract, multiply, or divide—have a measurable effect on anything.  It’s a calm place, a safe place.  Zero is the feeling of being buried under a warm, fuzzy blanket on a cold morning—a good place that never lasts.  You have to wake up.  You have to leave the warm comfy spot.  It’s required.  And it’s all uphill from there.

I awoke.  I instinctively tried to raise my head (which, incidentally, felt like a block of cement attached to my neck) to figure out where I was.  I wanted to reach up and rub my eyes so I could see better, but my hand felt too heavy for some reason, like a weight was strapped to my arm.  What day was it? 

Apparently, Tess’s chip has been wirelessly updating this whole time.  I read on and on and well, you know the rest of the story.  But the last file is like a punch in the gut:  Tess is going to erase it all.  And it might just be up to me to fix it. 

              I read the directions carefully for how to insert the chip.  It didn’t hurt a bit.  And are you ready for your mind to be blown?  Apparently, it’s an exact copy of Tess’s. 

              *

              I race up to Tess’ door in the rain, ring the doorbell twice.  When she doesn’t answer, I send Dani a text to see if Tess is with her.  She’s not.  I’ve missed her and I don’t know why, but there's only one place that comes to mind:  Fuller Park.

Tess

I sort of drift in and out of consciousness for what seems like hours.  I hear voices, but they are muffled.  I feel like I’m in a pool of water, floating, just beneath the surface, my arms spread wide, palms up.  I can see light, but it's muted—like I’m surrounded by grayish fog.  I sense things like ripples in the water, a person near me, garbled voices saying words I don’t understand. But I’m so afraid to move.  I can’t feel my body anyway.  My body is stiff, my hands don’t work.  What is this called?  Where am I?  It feels like I’ve been here forever and I just want to go home.  But when I try to think of what home is or what it looks like, nothing comes. 

              I know I’m not alone.  In fact, I’ve always known it.  Someone is always nearby.  That’s a good thing.  Because if I were alone, I would probably die of boredom. Suddenly, the fog clears and the light gets brighter.  Something traces across my field of vision—was it someone’s hand?  It takes everything I’ve got to do what I’m about to do, but I’m tired of just floating here, and no one is going to come get me, so I reach.  I lift my thousand-pound hand and extend it to the light.  When I get close enough that I think I can feel the warmth from the light, my fingers stub against something hard and deathly cold. My fingers seem to freeze instantly.  There’s something there, between me and the light.  It’s like I’m underneath a frozen lake.

             
You know what’s really weird?  I think I saw Dani, for a split second, standing in front of me.  She was so tall, but I know it’s probably just because I am lying down.  Her hair was all puffed out and curly and her lips were pink and glossy.  Then I remember I’m not exactly awake, so seeing Dani—much less seeing what color her lip gloss was—is virtually impossible. 

              I wish I could see past this frosty fog!

              When you’re as bored as I am, you will come up with anything to pass the time, including dreaming up people appearing out of nowhere.  Once, I swear I saw my bus driver, Mr. Ragsdale.  Those furry, caterpillar eyebrows and that flyaway hair, the jowls—I’d know him anywhere.  But, I have to admit, I was confused.  First of all, why would Mr. Ragsdale suddenly show up?  And if I was just dreaming, why would I have a dream about
him,
of all people?  The cute boy from down the street, maybe, but Mr. Ragsdale?  He reminded me of the sour smell of bodily fluids on that dusty, clunky bus.  I must be going completely crazy.

              The cute boy from down the street…

Zach

I stare in amazement as she opens her eyes.  They have glints of silver in them, like captured stars— so alive.  She looks at me and I instantly want to swoop in and grasp her hands, touch her face, kiss her.  It’s been so long.  But of course, I can’t—not yet.  Is she my Tess?  Or am I nobody to her?  Am I just the geeky kid from the school bus, the one who had permanent bed hair, jeans that were too short—whose shoelaces dragged on the ground?  Does she know that we are forever connected, drawn together by a miracle of science, fused with the awesome power of nature?  Does she know that I know her better than anyone else, that I know everything there is to know about her?  Do I dare ask?

              Dani, as expected, starts crying immediately, and I hand her a tissue.  She buries her face in it for a moment and then tells me to go get Tess' parents, who have stepped out to get some coffee.  “Ok,” I say, taking one more long look at Tess before I go.  She’s closed her eyes again, which makes me sad.  Then, I take off down the hall looking for Mr. and Mrs. Turner.

              I find them, making their way back toward the room, carrying their Styrofoam cups.  The minute they see me, I gesture for them to hurry and they start fast walking.  I keep thinking they are going to spill their coffee on the shiny tiled floor.  Somehow, though, they make it to me with—full cups of coffee intact.  They don’t even stop to ask me any questions, but make a bee-line for Tess’ room.  Mr. Turner has a disappointed frown on his face, as if he’s missed the biggest moment of their lives. 

We’ve known for several days that something was going on.  The doctors said Tess’ brain activity was changing, that it might indicate a surfacing.  One of them, Dr. Miller (where do I know that name?), a mole-faced little man in a perpetually bad mood, warned us that it could mean everything—or nothing, with emphasis on “nothing.”  He’s not exactly an optimist.  The hardest part for me has been pretending my whole world doesn’t literally rest on Tess’ recovery.  I almost have to convince myself… but in my heart I know only one thing:  Tess’ surfacing would be the most important day of my life.  For outward appearances, Tess is just an old childhood friend to me, someone I used to tease and play rock, paper, scissors with.  I’m only here because of Dani.  Because we were there, together, the day of the accident.  Because we are best friends.  To let anyone think otherwise would arouse suspicion, not to mention drive Tess away for good.  She’d never understand, not now anyway.

              I go back into Tess’s room and her parents are hovering over her.  Dani is sitting in a chair, shaking her head in disbelief, a fresh tissue in hand.  I sit down in the chair next to her and put my arm around her.  I don’t really know what to say, so I just pat her shoulder.  She glances at me, with her red nose and puffy eyelids, her cute pouty lips.  “I can’t believe it,” she says.  “She’s alive.”

              My heart does a flipflop in my chest, at Dani’s words—
she’s alive. 
Yes, she is.  Of course she is.  She’s always been alive.  For me, anyway.  I nod at Dani and rub her back, still not sure what to say.  Nothing I could say out loud, at this moment, would capture just how much this means.  Dani lays her head on my shoulder and sniffles.  I hand her another tissue and we sit like this, for a good fifteen minutes, watching Tess’ parents, the doctors in a flurry of activity, trying to gauge Tess’ condition. 

              They say a lot of big words that I don’t understand, put instruments to her head, and scribble things on their notepads.  Then, I hear something that slices through me, slowly, like a sharp knife. You know—how you feel the cut, you know it’s there, but there’s no pain, not at first.  All of a sudden, your nerves go haywire, sending sharp warnings from the source—then the bleeding starts. 

              “She’s not surfaced,” Dr. Miller says.  “She’s gone back under.”

              The bleeding starts, and it will never, ever stop.  Not until I hear Tess Turner’s voice again.  Not until I see the shimmer in her eyes like moonlight on crashing waves.  I could dive in there and make the sea my home.  It’s not time for that yet, I know.  Maybe it never will be.  But the dream of it is so strong, I can feel it.  A dream this real is the next best thing to reality.  See, that’s the funny thing about love.  Love can be impossible, unrealistic, and completely out of reach.  But yet, it’s there.  And sometime you make a decision to follow it.   The connection never goes away. 
Decisions, by definition, are sort of permanent, and eternity is a long time to be wrong. 
It makes me happy, to dream about loving Tess, to know that I’ve made the decision to, even though I know it may never happen, not in this life.             

              My heart starts beating, faster and louder, until I think it will burst.

              And then I hear her voice, for the first time in who knows how long:

              “Zach?  Are you here?”

              I am up, on my feet, my hand in hers, before I can speak.  She looks at me and I already know what she is thinking.  “I’m here,” I say.

             
Stay with me, forever.

About the Author:

Melissa Green Dereberry is an award-winning author whose work has appeared in
Common Boundary, American Literary Realism,
The Quest, Midwest Poetry Review,
and
Writer’s Journal
. She is the author of an instructional guide on the novel
The Outsiders
. Her first novel,
Somewhere Like Here,
a literary mystery, was published in 2012.  Her awards include the Springfield Writer’s Guild Grand Prize (1998), the Johnson Memorial Grand Prize Award—League of Minnesota Poets (2003), the William Stafford Award—Washington Poets Association (2009), and the
Writer’s Journal
poetry contest (2011). She has taught college English for over fifteen years.