Dec. 12, 1996
This was it, the day I had been dreading most—the final replay of the worst day of my life. And this time, I would get no do-overs.
I’d had plenty of time to reflect on what had gone wrong when I tried to erase my accident from earlier timelines. Both times I’d gone back to meddle, Mom somehow ended up dead shortly thereafter. The marshal had once told me I might have to simply accept the price associated with the optimum outcome—and that price was high indeed.
“1979” began playing on my boom box, and the shouting downstairs intensified. A part of me wanted to rush down there and attack Dean, sparing Mom from the beating, but I resisted the urge and let the autopilot guide me.
The more I deviated from the original timeline, the less I noticed the autopilot sensation, as no truly predestined outcomes existed since I was creating a new future for myself. Yet today, I was feeling it especially powerfully, which I chalked up to this being a defining moment in my life.
I finally knew what I must do.
I had come to the conclusion that my nearly dying in the accident was what caused Mom to finally give the boot to the string of loser boyfriends. She wouldn’t be sufficiently motivated to do that until she realized how close she came to losing her only child, presumably the most important thing in a mother’s life. Sadly, it took this tragedy for Mom to build up the fortitude to regain her independence, as she had done after Dad passed away when I was a young child.
Finally, the moment arrived, autopilot tugging at me noticeably. I went downstairs just as I had in other timelines, other lifetimes. I arrived just as Dean punched Mom in the face and she hit the floor. As before, I came up and delivered that incredibly satisfying kick to Dean’s balls, and he again made the hurk sound that would have been quite comical in another situation.
My eyes met Mom’s for a brief moment, and I nodded at her, feeling the sting of tears building. This is for you, Mom.
“You little cocksucker!” Dean screamed. “I’ll fucking kill you.” He swung at me, but I leaped away, my back hitting the counter. I dodged aside as he came at me, and my elbow sent Mom’s car keys skittering across the counter. I snatched the keys up just as Dean connected with a glancing punch to my shoulder.
“Fuck you, Dean!” I shouted.
Dean came at me with the switchblade an instant later, face nearly purple with rage and a vein popping out of his forehead. I ran out the back door and around the house, slipping and sliding through six inches of remaining snow, and reached Mom’s little Hyundai.
Oh, yeah—one other thing. I went behind the car and kicked over Dean’s Harley.
He was roaring unintelligible curses by that point and, in his drunken state, took a spill in the snow.
I got behind the Hyundai’s wheel and cranked the ignition. The engine turned over reluctantly then caught. I put it in reverse and stomped on the gas, sending snow and pebbles flying. The windshield splintered from the stone Dean hurled, but I kept going. A jolt and crunch of metal sounded as the car slammed the Harley out of the way, then I was into the street. Dean was still coming, but I popped the little car into drive and took off with a chirp of the tires. The neighbors were probably already calling the cops by that point.
I gave Dean the finger as I shot down the street.
Autopilot urged me to hit Highway 50, so I did. A couple left turns and three miles later, I reached Highway 50 and took a right.
Autopilot also wanted me to floor the accelerator, so I did that as well. I dug through the cassettes in the console bin and popped one in at random. Testament’s “Return to Serenity” came on, so I cranked the volume until the speakers were about to blow. No reason not to—the car would be totaled in under ten minutes, I was guessing.
I barreled down Highway 50 at seventy miles per hour even though I knew about the icy patch coming up on the right-hand curve. Those unwelcome twins, fear and dread, were my passengers as I drove.
Through all my past timelines, this awful night had stuck with me in crystal clarity—whether from the previous jump attempts or because it was seared into my subconscious, I didn’t know.
The highway grew dark when I reached a remote stretch, trees close on either side. The car’s headlights wouldn’t reveal the black ice, but I saw the familiar right-hand curve just ahead.
This is it. “Love you, Mom.”
Tears streamed down my face as I clenched the wheel with a white-knuckled grip. At the last moment, a flash of inspiration struck, and I reached up to pull the seatbelt around myself. Click.
The tires lost their grip on the patch of black ice, and the car slewed sideways into the oncoming lane. Just at that moment, Ed Briggs’s wrecker truck came around the curve and plowed into me. The heavy steel bumper punched right through the Hyundai’s door like it was an aluminum beer can. An explosion of pain overwhelmed me as my hip was pulverized.
A sickening motion followed as the car spun back the other direction then went off into the ravine. A maelstrom of shattered glass, cassette tapes, loose change, and other debris rained around me as the car rolled over and over. The airbag grudgingly deployed and punched me in the face.
I blacked out before hitting the bottom.