Chương 2: Book 1 - Chapter 1

It began on April 4, 1984. I was in the doctor's office getting my arm X rayed. I was nearly eight years old, three months shy of my birthday, and had been wearing my cast for ten weeks. The doctor insisted I needed a follow up X ray to ensure the bones were properly set after my fall out of the tree in our backyard. There was a click as the X ray fired. I felt overwhelmed with dizzying disorientation, followed by a rush of shouting voices in my head. Vomit happened.

Voices kept shouting, but I couldn't understand the overlapping yells. The X ray tech rushed into the room. I threw up again, on the X ray tech. There was screaming. Not mine, but Mom's. The new voices in my head clarified and synchronized, shouting one thing over and over: "You're allergic to eggs!" The vomiting stopped.

"Mom, I think I'm allergic to eggs." She looked around, her gaze falling on the remnants of my breakfast everywhere, and then back at me. Mom instantly switched to mother mode.

"I rarely make you eggs. Do you usually feel sick when you eat them?" I nodded in confirmation, the voices suddenly silent. The X ray tech returned, with towels. I was mostly clean, but Mom wiped up a bit off my shoe. We returned to the lobby. Half an hour later, they removed my cast. On the way home, Mom got me takeout at the local Sonic. I ate in the car while she drove the twenty minutes it took to get home.

"I think I need a nap when we get home," I told Mom as I stuffed my takeout trash back in the bag it came in.

"Shower first, I want to wash your clothes and your shoes," Mom replied. After showering and changing clothes, I was lying in bed in my room, with the lights off and the door shut. I closed my eyes, and suddenly, memories sprang forth. My memories. From tomorrow, and the day after that, and the days stretching out into an endless future. I began to panic. My heart was beating wildly. The voices, a chorus of them, returned. Speaking with a new gentle tone: "Be calm, John. Everything will be okay."

I recognized the voices. Some sounded like me. Others were deeper. Like hearing your voice played back to you. Somehow, I recognized that these were all my voice. My voice from tomorrow, the day after, and more.

"We are you," the voices explained.

"But you are not us. You are but a single instance, the collapsing probability. We are potential. The sum of infinite possibilities. Every possibility explored, mapped and cataloged."

"How?" I thought to them.

"An experiment gone awry. There in a distant future, a group of people tried to reach back. They had records that showed you would be there, in the doctor's office, on that day and time. They tried to send you knowledge of the future, specifically how to develop advanced technology to avert a coming catastrophe."

"Why? Why me?"

"Your medical records, including future brain scans showing years of migraine headaches indicated you were the best candidate."

"What happened?"

"Your brain is different. It likely would have worked with other candidates. But that doesn't matter. What happened is better. We know everything. You will learn to access this knowledge. The result will be the same. They wanted to save Earth from destruction. You will do so."

"Do I have a choice?"

"The choice will always be yours. But if you knew the result of every choice before making it, would you not inevitably make the most perfect choice? If you could remember the consequences and experience of every wrong choice without having to make it, would you need to do so?"

"How do I do this?" I demanded.

"Think about a perfect future. Concentrate on it. Remember the events that come." The world unfolded in my mind. Infinite possibilities coalesced before my eyes into a single, shining path—a clear destiny. The universe met my mind, and my mind met the universe. Knowledge, experience and training awaited me with perfect recall, an instant mastery of anything I could ever possibly learn. A lifetime studying piano, following Mom's lost dream of being a concert pianist. Other instruments.

Making instruments, performing concerts. It began to spiral out of control. The sheer immensity of it all threatening to overwhelm me.

"Be calm, John. You have touched the edge of the infinite. Relax. Be in the Now."

"I know so much! I can play the piano, guitar, violin, bass and drums! I can play drums!"

"Be calm, John. There is much space between can and should. Your future selves, variations of you have studied hard, worked hard. Their skills are yours without effort, without cost. But that effortless ability comes with grave dangers. Danger from those who learn of your abilities and try to force you under their control. We will be careful and avoid them. It means your life! The life of your family!" I heard them, but I was still overwhelmed by the first raw instance of power I had ever tasted.

Power I wanted to display. I wanted to show it off! I could hear the soft music of Mom's daily piano practice coming from the dining room. Normally she would play for an hour or two until my sister and I got home from school. Today was Wednesday. Mattie was at school. I was only home because of my morning doctor appointment. She had intended that I go to school after my appointment, but my vomit had ended that plan.

"Did I wake you?" she asked as I walked into the room.

"No, I woke me. Can I play?" I asked. She stood up from the bench and waved me into her seat. It was an older piano, an upright, but sturdy and comfortable. Mom gave us weekly lessons every Friday. She taught a few other people too at various days and times. I played my week's assignment with a smoothness and complexity I'd never touched before, without even needing my practice book. Mom applauded. I looked at her over my shoulder.

"I had a dream about playing the piano," I explained, the notes and lies flowing effortlessly.

"Can I try your song?"

"You're welcome to try," Mom said, with a hint of amusement. I played. It started rough, but improved. Most of my muscle memory was for grown up hands. As I reached the end of the first page, Mom flipped the sheet music for me. I reached the end and Mom pulled me into a big hug.

"Johnny, that was—that was incredible! Where did that come from?"

"I had a dream," I lied again.

"The piano just makes sense now." Mom pulled back, her eyes wide with disbelief and pride.

"Play it again! Please, play it again!" Leaving the sheet music on the final page, I performed a near perfect rendition of 'Memory,' the music pouring from me with a new grace. She seemed even more shocked than before. I played it a third time, and this time flawlessly, the muscle memory matching the reach of my small childish hands. I sung along to the music. The sound that came out was still mine—high and slightly reedy—but the notes were so true, so perfectly held.

My lungs didn't burn, and my throat felt no effort at all, as if the song was just playing itself through me. When I finished I asked her, "What does this have to do with cats?" Her laughter broke her out of her daze. She explained, "It is a song from a musical about cats. It is sung by an old cat who wishes she could have a new life."

"What else do you have that I can play?" I asked. She had me stand up, then played a song from memory, then turned to me and asked me to play it. So I sat down and played 'Moonlight Sonata' flawlessly, even replicating the subtle mistake she made, a testament to my perfect recall. She only played the first part, almost 6 minutes of the song. I copied her note for note. I reached the part she had gotten wrong.

"It doesn't sound right at this part," I said, reaching the mistake she had made. Mom smiled, leaning forward in excitement.

"I made that mistake on purpose." She pulled out the sheet music.

"How long do you need to look at this to play the whole thing without the music?" I took a few minutes to read through the music. My hands moving on invisible keys as I read the music. Then I handed her the book back, sat down, and began to play. The eight minute mark got difficult and fast. I played with remarkable accuracy, though my hands strained to span the wider stretches, causing a momentary hesitation on a few notes. When I got through the final pounding notes, I jumped up, startling Mom.

"I got to pee!" I shouted as I ran to the bathroom. I took my time washing my hands, giving Mom a moment to collect herself. Her mind was probably spinning. I came back into the room to a thousand watt smile.

"Johnny," she said, pulling me into a quick hug.

"That was amazing. Not perfect, but very, very good." She held me at arm's length, her gaze serious.

"I have some questions. I want you to think about your answer before giving me the truest answer you can." This was a fallback phrase Mom liked to use when questioning my sister and me about mistakes.

"The truest answer," she would say, "is the one you see with hindsight—free of excuses about what you felt at the time. No mention of why or how. Just the answer that applied now."

"Am I in trouble?" I asked.

"Not at all," she said pulling me in for another quick hug.

"I'm just trying to understand. Are you ready?" I nodded.

"Okay, question one: Have you ever played that song before today?"

"First time was today, just now with you." She nodded an acknowledgment.

"Question two: When you copied me, did you copy by watching where my hands played, or the notes you heard."

"Mostly notes, but I did watch where you started your hands. But, I couldn't always see them both while you were playing." This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Another nod.

"Question three: Do you remember everything you read?"

"I don't understand—isn't that why everyone reads—to remember it?" I asked her.

"Not everyone can remember everything they read. Your Dad does pretty great. He has an amazing memory. I remember the basic stuff of what I read, but not word for word. You remembered the notes after looking at them and the words to the song 'Memory' after reading them while playing it the first time?"

"Well sure. I remember everything I read. I remember every word, even what page it is on. You mean you don't?" I asked her.

"No, I don't," she said.

"It takes a special mind to be able to do that. It is called a photographic memory, and very few people can do that."

"Huh. I always thought that the kids in my class didn't get perfect scores because their Mom didn't make them do the homework. I never thought that maybe they did their homework, but just couldn't remember it!"

"Final question. Are you hurting at all? That was a lot of work your hands just did."

"They felt warm, but they cooled off when I washed them."

"Great. Your sister will be home in five minutes. Run down to the bus stop and walk back with her please."

"Yes, Mom." I put on my other pair of shoes and ran to the corner to wait for Mattie's bus. I could see it as it lurched from a stop further down the street. It turned the corner and pulled to a stop, the plume of diesel exhaust filling the air. Mattie exploded out the bus doors the moment they opened, her backpack bouncing against her back.

"You're home!" she shouted.

"I was worried when you weren't on the bus." I held up my pale arm to show her.

"It's off!" she shouted as she ran and grabbed my arm to look at it. The bus doors closed and it rumbled away, and I held my breath for a moment to wait for the passing plume.

"It's wrinkled and pale," she said as she pulled on my arm leading me back to the house.

"Did it hurt when they took it off?"

"Nah, it's a special saw that can't cut skin, but it cut through the cast."

"So, where is it?" she asked, frowning and looking around.

"Did you bring it home? It had my signature!" I grinned catching up to her and put my arm around her shoulder.

"Mom had to throw it away. I threw up all over it."

"Gross!" Mattie stepped back dramatically, then immediately burst into giggles.

"Like, a lot of puke?"

"Everywhere! On the floor, on the X ray tech, and when I was trying to stand up, it went all down the cast and onto my shoe," I exaggerated slightly. Mattie was still giggling, but she sighed sadly as we started walking toward the house.

"Aw, that's too bad. I wish you had gotten to keep it. I liked being the first one you let sign it. Now we can't see the signatures of all your friends and family." Mattie dropped her backpack with a thud as soon as she walked into the house.

"Mattie, homework first! Bring your backpack to the dining room table, please!" Mom called from the kitchen. Mattie sighed dramatically, but I picked up her bag for her, grabbing mine from by the door. I carried both to the dining room table. As I set both bags on the table at our respective chairs, Mom brought in the after school snack.

"Apple slices and crackers. Homework first, then you can play," she told Mattie. Mattie stuffed an apple slice into her mouth and began to dig through her backpack.

"Here! Mrs Davis gave me this for you," she said, handing me a wrinkled packet of papers.

"Oh, good, you can do all the schoolwork you missed," Mom said as she watched me unfold the class assignments. I quickly buzzed through my homework, putting it back in the school bag for tomorrow as I finished each assignment. I looked up to find Mattie furiously tapping the touch dots of her math homework, counting everything out as she did her addition assignment.

"Mattie, you don't have to count all of the numbers each time," I told her.

"What?" she asked.

"For the third question, seven plus two: Just start with seven, then count the touch dots on the two, and write the answer." She attempted the suggestion.

"Seven, one, two." She looked up puzzled.

"How does that give me the answer?" I smiled, "Like this: seven, then count the dots, eight, nine. Then you know the answer is nine."

"Oh that is faster! Thanks Johnny." Mattie continued her first grade homework. I was only a little over a year older, but was in the third grade. I had so surpassed my fellow students in kindergarten that the teacher had decided early in the school year to move me into first grade. I started my math homework, multi digit division. It was easier, because I could just look at the problem now, see the memory of my written work and just write the answer. Mom paused, looking over my shoulder.

"Johnny, you have to show your work." So I showed my work, but I still tried to show off—writing the steps left to right, top to bottom, starting with the answer. Just the opposite of how third grade long division is done. It took her a moment to realize that I was pulling the whole numbers from my mind, not working out one set of numbers at a time. I was showing my work, but writing it in a clear way to show that I was not doing the work first. Mom just smiled and went back into the kitchen.

After homework, we headed to our rooms to play. Mattie had her Barbies. I had my Legos. This time I did something different. Pulling paper and pens from Dad's desk, I wrote letters and stamped envelopes with his stamps. I finished just as it was time for dinner. I added the letters to my school bag so I could mail them tomorrow.

"Dinner smells amazing!" Dad said as he came in from work.

"Barbecue chicken, salad and green beans," Mom informed him as they briefly kissed at the door between the kitchen and dining room. Mattie and I had just finished setting the table for dinner. Mom brought everything out to the table as Dad washed up. A dinner from Mom always has a salad. I recognized that my Californian Grandma did the same thing when we visited her. I became certain that her insistence that salad is an important part of every dinner was that California influence.

"This looks good, Mary. Can you pass the Thousand Island?" Dad asked her. His insistence of only ever putting Thousand Island on his nightly dinner salad was probably due to his Oklahoma roots, but tonight I saw the almost comedic nightly routine of it between them. I examined my two parents in a strange, different light as we ate dinner. They are so different. Mom's a Berkeley music major. Dad's a high school dropout. Mom is from an upper middle class suburban Bay Area family.

Dad is from a family of Arkansas and Oklahoma farmers. Dad is big: tall, muscular, dark hair, blue eyes. He's very strong but also very gentle. Growing up, he attended a one room schoolhouse before two miserable years of high school. His early education focused on sight reading, causing him to struggle with high school classwork. His grades plummeted, and when his Dad needed him on the farm, he seized the opportunity to quit school.

When he had the money, he ordered the 'Listen and Learn with Phonics' program, which taught him how to truly read. He's never stopped reading since. This self taught mastery became his enduring pride. After getting his GED, he sought out books on every subject and any skill with a training manual and an exam. He is incredibly smart. He genuinely believes he can learn anything. He has passed dozens of state exams and holds licenses for a wide range of skills and activities.

His rule was simple: if a license existed, a training manual existed. The certifications, completely covering his office walls, now came with a deeper understanding of my Dad. They were his trophies. Twelve years ago, Dad was working as a licensed welder on a California horse ranch, building new steel corral fences. On a rare day off, he was simply riding a horse—cowboy is in his genes—and that's when he met Mom. Mom, a budding musician, attending the Berkeley music program was with friends camping near Monterey.

Seeing Dad on a horse in his full cowboy outfit, she fell hard. She always said he looked like a young John Wayne. She convinced Dad to join her group of weekend campers. He accepted, and Mom never finished her degree. By the time summer was over, they were married and back in Oklahoma. Mom's parents had a fit, convinced their daughter had been seduced by some backwoods bumpkin cowboy. It took a couple years, but Dad eventually won them over—mostly.

His kindness was primary, but his ability to make money and friends sealed the deal. He used his skills first in town government (as a city works foreman, then department head), then moved to the county planning and permit office, and finally to Cookson Hills, the big electric co op, managing line construction and maintenance for our section of the state.

When bad Oklahoma weather hits—and it really is bad here—he is fully qualified to join the repair crews alongside the men who normally see him as their office boss. The secret of their success is simple: Mom has always loved cowboys. That's why my full name is John Wayne Cook and my sister is Mattie Ross Cook. I've heard Mom's old friends question her life, but she tells them how happy she is. She teaches piano and plays for hours every day. She has an amazing garden and gets to be home with her kids and family.

Something that her old California friends must envy. I remembered Grandma Bessie's advice to her daughter in law. Naming my sister Mattie Ross Cook had helped to mend the fence with Mom's parents. I understood it now, as I put Mattie's name together with Grandma Beth's middle name Matilda, for the first time. Dad's nickname, 'Little Grit' for her now made sense for more than one reason, too. It could be worse. My name could be Liberty Valance, and with my birthday on July 4th, I'm grateful my parents rejected it.

After dinner, Mom turned to Dad.

"The cast is off, which is good," she said, sighing.

"But John threw up everywhere at Dr Johnson's office. On the floor, on the X ray tech..." She shuddered.

"And in the middle of all that, he just announced he was allergic to eggs. He's fine now, but that was our morning. I brought him home to clean up instead of taking him to school." Dad looked at me, a slight furrow in his brow.

"Eggs, huh? Well, we won't be giving you those again."

"But the piano," Mom cut in, shaking her head at him.

"That's the part I still can't explain." She turned to me.

"Play for your Dad, Johnny," she instructed.

"Mattie," I called to my sister, "you get to pick tonight. Anything Mom has music for," I said, moving to the piano. It was right next to the dining table, so they continued to sit and watch. While Mattie searched, I played the first half of 'Moonlight Sonata.' Mattie found two she liked. She held up the first, a book of songs from Hello Dolly, the Broadway musical. Then she held up the second, the sheet music for the Beatles' 'Let It Be.'

"I pick this one!" she announced, pointing to the Beatles music.

"It's about Mom."

"It is?" Dad asked, a small smile on his face.

"Yeah," Mattie confirmed seriously.

"It says 'Mother Mary' right here. Mom's name is Mary." Dad smiled widely and picked Mattie up, setting her in his lap.

"Excellent choices, honey," he told her. I grabbed the Hello Dolly book instead, as Mom had played this many times. I looked at Dad.

"Hey, Dad! Duet with me on 'It Takes A Woman'!" I played 'It Takes A Woman', which is a funny, fun song, especially if you're a guy. Dad's voice is deep. He sang Vandergelder's part. I sang Barnaby's part. Mattie was laughing hysterically, and Mom had a big smile when we finished.

"Go on, ask him," Mom prompted Dad, nudging him with her elbow.

"Ask him how many times he practiced that." Dad looked at me, his eyes calm and assessing.

"How many times, Johnny?"

"This is my first time playing this song," I told him. Mom jumped in.

"He's never practiced it. I've always been the one who plays it." Dad nodded slowly, his expression shifting from disbelief to something quietly profound.

"Well," he said, "we've sung it together plenty of times." I flipped to 'It Only Takes A Moment,' and called out, "Your turn, guys!" I began to play before they could even agree. It took Dad a second to switch gears, but he and Mom slipped into an easy, well practiced duet. I took the part of the clerk, and Mattie joined in for the chorus, remembering just in time that she got to sing too. As my parents were now holding hands, I grabbed Mattie's second selection and began to play. I played it twice.

The second time I gave the music to Mattie.

"Here, sing this part with me," I told her. We sang it to Mom. Dad's smile was focused on Mom, but when Mattie started singing from his lap, he glanced down in surprise. His eyes darted up to the empty music stand, his eyebrows rising as I looked at him while playing with no sheet music. Mom looked at me, her eyes gleaming with an idea.

"Do you think you could play a song you just heard on the radio?"

"Probably," I said, knowing that I absolutely could. Mom turned on the radio and, with a hiss of static, rolled the dial to a country station. A commercial ended, then 'Let's Stop Talking About It' came on. Mom started to change the station, then saw Dad's crooked grin and left it. After the song ended, she turned the radio off.

"Can you play that?" she asked. I took a deep breath and played. My Dad was clapping and whistling his approval when I finished. Mom gave me a proud hug.

"That was flawless, Johnny," Dad said, giving me a solid pat on the back. Mattie gave me a hug too, though she didn't know what was so special.

"Ready for bed, you two," Mom said, ushering us out of the room. The sparkle in Mom's eye let Dad know he was getting lucky that night. That small, intimate observation—that was a new level of understanding. I didn't fight bedtime, and Mattie followed my example. Brushing my teeth, I felt the sharp exhilaration from my demonstration of power clash with crushing exhaustion. When the lights went out I went to sleep instantly, but my dreams were full of strange, chaotic memories.