us.”
“Come on! You’re making it sound like I’ve entered a science fiction story.
“ Am I in a scene where a black hole opens up and transports me back to the worst time of my life?
“ Or maybe I’m to believe that there really are Worm Cams, like those described by Arthur C. Clarke! Are we using a wormhole link to look back in time?
“ But Worm Cams were just for viewing, not for changing history. Isn’t your purpose to alter what I went through?”
As he spoke, Mark felt something brush lightly against his upper arm and, looking up, saw a butterfly alighting there.
***
As Martin touched his father’s arm, hoping desperately for a response that had not yet come from any form of stimulus, his dad seemed to visibly relax. Martin thought he detected a tiny inclination of his dad’s head toward him.
“Dad, please wake up!” he begged, trying to wipe away his tears.
Mark’s eyes followed Martin’s movement to the button connected to the nurse’s station , but that was the only sign of awareness. Almost immediately, two nurses were in the room, setting a tray loaded with medical paraphernalia on the bedside table.
“Please help him! His head moved; I think he’s making an effort to come to.”
Poking, pleading; cradling his head in the curve of her forearm, the older and normally stern-faced nurse was crying too. Her companion checked Mark’s vital signs and swiftly scribbled notes on her pad.
“Do something for my dad, now!” Turning back to the figure in the bed, Martin shouted.
“Dad, can you hear me? Show me you can. Please! I can’t bear your helplessness another minute. You’ve gotta wake up!”
Martin saw emotions ranging from compassion to sorrow cross the faces of the nurses but there was no sign of the one thing he wanted to see; hope.
Rocking back and forth with his forehead braced in his hands, he sobbed bitterly. When he left the hospital, a little later, he walked as though in a trance.
Once home, he turned on his computer and sent a short e-mail to Janine, informing her that his Dad’s condition was unchanged.
11
JANINE’S JOURNAL
After receiving Martin’s message, I called my Episcopalian priest. I hated to admit a lack of faith, but I wanted some assurance, the kind I hoped Father John would be able to give.
When he arrived, I served coffee and the cookies I’d just taken from the oven. Making a batch of chocolate chip cookies hadn’t really taken my mind off Mark, even though that was my purpose. It just made me wish I’d baked some when he was here to enjoy them.
Before Father John had finished his first cookie, I rushed into my story.
“I feel so helpless, but I can’t afford to fly to Switzerland. What do I do? I’ve been reluctant to tell my close friends, even my family. I’m sure they won’t believe I’m in love with Mark. They’ll say four months is too soon to feel that. But I do!”
Instead of pressing me to talk to my family, Father John suggested ‘pouring my thoughts into a journal.’
As soon as the priest had left, I sat down with a blank notebook. Instead of venting my fears I started to write about the changes that Mark’s presence had made in my life.
A few pounds and a few years have taken a toll on my confidence, even though I am told I look younger than my age. I can’t explain why but, when Mark tells me I am one of the more intelligent women he has known, the words seem to strangle some of my self-doubt.
When he tells me that I am a beautiful and intensely sensual woman, I actually believe him. It’s as if his words unlock qualities I’ve denied for much of my life.
In a recent e-mail, Mark jokingly asked me to reciprocate the topless photos he had sent of himself in his sailboat. Although not willing to go quite that far, I wanted to do something to indulge him. So I dressed in a
“Come on! You’re making it sound like I’ve entered a science fiction story.
“ Am I in a scene where a black hole opens up and transports me back to the worst time of my life?
“ Or maybe I’m to believe that there really are Worm Cams, like those described by Arthur C. Clarke! Are we using a wormhole link to look back in time?
“ But Worm Cams were just for viewing, not for changing history. Isn’t your purpose to alter what I went through?”
As he spoke, Mark felt something brush lightly against his upper arm and, looking up, saw a butterfly alighting there.
***
As Martin touched his father’s arm, hoping desperately for a response that had not yet come from any form of stimulus, his dad seemed to visibly relax. Martin thought he detected a tiny inclination of his dad’s head toward him.
“Dad, please wake up!” he begged, trying to wipe away his tears.
Mark’s eyes followed Martin’s movement to the button connected to the nurse’s station , but that was the only sign of awareness. Almost immediately, two nurses were in the room, setting a tray loaded with medical paraphernalia on the bedside table.
“Please help him! His head moved; I think he’s making an effort to come to.”
Poking, pleading; cradling his head in the curve of her forearm, the older and normally stern-faced nurse was crying too. Her companion checked Mark’s vital signs and swiftly scribbled notes on her pad.
“Do something for my dad, now!” Turning back to the figure in the bed, Martin shouted.
“Dad, can you hear me? Show me you can. Please! I can’t bear your helplessness another minute. You’ve gotta wake up!”
Martin saw emotions ranging from compassion to sorrow cross the faces of the nurses but there was no sign of the one thing he wanted to see; hope.
Rocking back and forth with his forehead braced in his hands, he sobbed bitterly. When he left the hospital, a little later, he walked as though in a trance.
Once home, he turned on his computer and sent a short e-mail to Janine, informing her that his Dad’s condition was unchanged.
11
JANINE’S JOURNAL
After receiving Martin’s message, I called my Episcopalian priest. I hated to admit a lack of faith, but I wanted some assurance, the kind I hoped Father John would be able to give.
When he arrived, I served coffee and the cookies I’d just taken from the oven. Making a batch of chocolate chip cookies hadn’t really taken my mind off Mark, even though that was my purpose. It just made me wish I’d baked some when he was here to enjoy them.
Before Father John had finished his first cookie, I rushed into my story.
“I feel so helpless, but I can’t afford to fly to Switzerland. What do I do? I’ve been reluctant to tell my close friends, even my family. I’m sure they won’t believe I’m in love with Mark. They’ll say four months is too soon to feel that. But I do!”
Instead of pressing me to talk to my family, Father John suggested ‘pouring my thoughts into a journal.’
As soon as the priest had left, I sat down with a blank notebook. Instead of venting my fears I started to write about the changes that Mark’s presence had made in my life.
A few pounds and a few years have taken a toll on my confidence, even though I am told I look younger than my age. I can’t explain why but, when Mark tells me I am one of the more intelligent women he has known, the words seem to strangle some of my self-doubt.
When he tells me that I am a beautiful and intensely sensual woman, I actually believe him. It’s as if his words unlock qualities I’ve denied for much of my life.
In a recent e-mail, Mark jokingly asked me to reciprocate the topless photos he had sent of himself in his sailboat. Although not willing to go quite that far, I wanted to do something to indulge him. So I dressed in a
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