TimeShift, Page 2

  chapter 1

  May 27, 2016

  Weak columns of early morning light sliced through the blinds in the darkened master bedroom of the house that three generations of Taylor men have called home. The bars of light fell across the dark hardwood floors, up the foot of the bed and skipped to the dresser. They cut across the dresser mirror and illuminated the face of an attractive man at the top of a narrow strip of newsprint tucked into the mirror’s frame.

  Owen lay in bed awake, a mixture of drowsiness and inadequate sleep clouded his mind. He was unsure for how long he had been awake, but guessed—by the way his head and body ached—it may have been only minutes after he had fallen asleep. He looked across the room at the digital clock on the dresser. Seeing 5:42, he rubbed his eyes. After staring at the ceiling for several minutes, he knew any further attempts to sleep would be futile. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. The heaviness in his chest—a sensation to which he had become accustomed over the last six months—felt heavy, like his entire body’s weight hung inside his rib cage. He looked across the darkened room again at the alarm clock hoping it would show a more reasonable number. The red illuminated digits announced 5:46, and he sighed as he looked away. The column of newsprint caught his attention. Seeing the obituary brought a fresh wave of heaviness to his heart. As he stood, he turned on the lights and his eyes squinted reflexively. He dragged himself to the dresser and stared at the obituary even though he knew it word for word. He knew it because he wrote it.

  “Michael William Taylor, February 16, 1947 – December 21, 2015, passed away peacefully at his home in Riverbend. Michael was a young, vibrant man who lived life to the fullest. He was predeceased by his parents, Jon and Nancy Taylor, and his wife, Abbey. His memory will always be cherished by his only remaining family—son, Owen Taylor, as well as family, friends and those he touched throughout his life and career. Michael is known mostly for the buildings he designed in Tricity including the Centennial building on Main and 20th, the Miner building on 2nd and 11th and many others. Other prominent works include the Free Children’s Hospital, where he donated his professional services, and ‘The Escalade,’ an upscale condominium complex on the west coast. Michael was a dedicated father; his wife having passed three years after the birth of their son, Owen. Michael had a zest for life that he shared with all those around him. Hiking, kayaking, fishing and camping were just a few of the activities that Michael instilled a love for in his son. In retirement, Michael again took up sculpture and woodcarving; two hobbies he enjoyed in his youth that a demanding career had forced to the sidelines. Several of his commissioned sculptures reside at the CityCentre Rooftop Atrium and Art Gallery and the Central Station terminal. Michael’s passing is an unspeakable loss to his son Owen, his friends as well as the community. Services will be held—”

  Owen smiled wistfully at the close-cropped face in the photo. His father had been dead for six months. During the day when his mind stayed occupied, the loss was barely tolerable. At night, his thoughts acted like oil and vinegar. Good thoughts were trapped at the bottom as the negative thoughts floated above, choking the good thoughts away from the surface. He awoke in the mornings feeling listless, and he attributed this to the depressing memories that lingered in his mind, keeping him from peaceful sleep.

  Michael was the only parent Owen had ever known, and the two shared a bond stronger than hardened steel. Owen knew his father had moved into this, his parent’s—Owen’s grandparent’s—home, in the suburb of Riverbend after they died in a car accident. Despite the tragic circumstances, Michael appreciated the opportunity to live in the home that had meant so much to his father. Owen’s grandfather, also a renowned architect, had designed and built the house to be his retirement home. Living in his parents’ home resurrected happy memories of Michael’s youth and warm reminders of his parents. The change of scenery also eased the loss of his wife, not yet a year past. Michael and his son, although too young to understand, had both experienced significant losses and Michael had looked forward to a fresh start.

  Both men always shared a healthy, mutual respect for each other. Despite differences of opinions that shook the house at 152 Riverbend Road in Owen’s teenage years, Owen and his father were always best friends. As Owen grew, it became apparent to Michael that Owen favoured two particular interests—outer space and camping. Michael encouraged these interests by enrolling Owen in Scouts and Space Camp, and he spent considerable time learning alongside his son. On weekends, they would hike through the backwoods with large packs of gear and set up camp at remote lakes or other destinations far off the beaten trail. For Owen, the telescope was considered an essential camping necessity and he carried it with him the way other children dragged along teddy bears or toy cars. Many nights were spent lying on rocky outcrops staring up into the vast expanse of space. By Owen’s mid-teens, both he and Michael were master survivalists and proficient amateur astronomers.

  After university, Owen moved into the heart of the city upon landing his first job in a lab testing geological samples. Although the drive to Owen’s from Riverbend Road took less than an hour, the transition for both men had been harder than either expected or wanted to admit, and they continued to stay close. The majority of Owen’s friends had spread around the world after university as they followed careers and relationships. The few friends that remained knew Michael well and enjoyed time with him as much as they did with Owen.

  Years passed and Michael watched his son grow as a person and into his career. He knew it had always been Owen’s dream to work at NASA, or for the International Space Coalition. He was shocked to learn that despite the promising contacts Owen had made at the ISC while touring there after university, he had never pursued a career there, choosing instead to stay in Tricity. When Michael asked his son about his shift in career goals—away from the better pay and professional prestige a career at the ISC would have brought—Owen’s answer had surprised him.

  “I have more than one goal in life, Dad. Plus, money isn’t everything. Sure, working for the ISC would be amazing, but it can’t offer me something that a job here does.”

  “What’s that?” Michael had asked, expecting his son’s answer to be a girl, good hiking trails or mountain biking.

  Owen’s face had reddened as he had said, “You.”

  Michael had stared at his son for several moments while searching for a response. He felt guilty for being the reason his son had compromised his dreams and even guiltier for feeling happy about it. Some of these emotions must have shown on his face because Owen had added, “Now don’t go getting all after-school-special on me. I also happen to like it here.”

  Michael swelled with pride as his son became a highly-respected astrogeologist for the research branch of the government organization, National Research and Defence. His specialization made him one of a handful of astrogeologists globally and as such, he was frequently sought after for specialized projects. On many occasions, he had travelled the globe to study various meteor impact sites. When Owen’s expertise had been specifically requested by the ISC through his work at the NRD, it alleviated some of the guilt Michael had felt for Owen not chasing his dreams.

  One of the men’s Sunday hikes fell on an unusually warm fall day and Owen and his father planned to hit their favourite hiking trail before the inclement winter weather arrived. Michael had awoken that morning feeling tired and under the weather. He popped some vitamin C pills in hopes of killing the bug before it grew into a full-blown cold. Owen picked him up mid-morning and soon they were on the trail, enjoying the blue sky, the warm breeze and what remained of the vibrant fall leaves. After being on the trail for only a few minutes, Michael had found himself short of breath, something that had not gone unnoticed by Owen.

  “Are you feeling alright?” Owen had asked. “You seem a little off your game today. Are you coming down with something?”

  “I must be,” said Michael. “That, or maybe my old age is catching up with me.” />
  Owen chuckled, however uneasily. At sixty-four and fit as a fiddle, Owen knew his father’s health surpassed that of many thirty-year-olds.

  After several more minutes of walking, the men reached a fork in the trail. Owen stopped at the junction. His father’s breathing had not improved, and Owen worried his father was downplaying how he felt.

  “We don’t need to make this a major outing. Why don’t we stroll over to Duck Lake instead?”

  Michael struggled to catch his breath and succeeded after several attempts. “Sure, I think that would be good. When was the last time we went to Duck Lake anyway?”

  The path leading to the right would have been their typical route—a scenic, but long and technical hiking trail leading up and down steep rocky terrain, through a man-made cave and around a lake. Instead, the trail to the left continued a short distance where it ended at a picnic area overlooking Duck Lake. The two men sat at a picnic table and watched a flock of seagulls run amok in the empty park while they chatted about their week’s events. Uncomfortable with his father’s increasingly ill appearance, Owen suggested they head back to his truck.

  Halfway to the truck, Owen noticed his father’s breathing becoming increasingly laboured, and he stopped so his father could catch his breath. Michael had begun sweating profusely and his ghostly pallor matched that of the wispy clouds moving lazily across the blue sky.

  “Okay, take it easy. We’re close enough to the end and the trail is wide enough, I’m going to get the truck and pick you up.”

  Michael did not respond immediately. Hunched over with his hands on his knees, he shook his head as he tried to catch his breath. “No, it’s fine. Let’s just walk slowly.” He looked at his son, smiled weakly and added casually, “And then maybe we could swing by the hospital on the way home? Maybe I should get checked out. It would probably be the responsible thing to do.” His voice remained calm, but his widened eyes betrayed his casual demeanour.

  Owen wrapped his arm around his father’s waist and supported him as they resumed walking. As they reached the trail head, Michael fell to his knees, clutching his chest and collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

  Not unlike other heart attack survivors, Michael’s heart sustained considerable damage and never fully recovered. He had just begun enjoying life as a retiree—he had laid-off his landscape contractor, taken up gardening, resumed sculpting and some of the other artistic hobbies he had enjoyed before Owen’s birth. All his rediscovered joy had been snatched away from him, now too weak to walk down the stairs from his bedroom to the kitchen. Despite his father’s protests that he would recover with a few weeks of rest, Owen rented out his house in the city and moved back into his childhood home with his father.

  Michael had always maintained good spirits about his health, but when it became apparent his recovery was not progressing the way he and the doctors had expected, his spirits fell and he went through a period of depression. After much support from friends of both Owen and Michael, Michael had come to terms with the situation and once again became himself in spirit, although a new man in appearance. The broad-shouldered, muscular man that Owen once knew no longer existed. That tanned, energetic man was replaced by a pale, angular man with barely enough energy to walk from room to room.

  On good days, Michael would venture to a seating area Owen had set up in the living room that overlooked the river. For hours, Michael would sit and watch deer and the other wildlife that wandered into the backyard as the river meandered past. When Owen went back to work, a private nurse came to spend the days with his father. The time that passed had devastating effects on not only Michael but Owen as well, who felt powerless. Owen could do nothing but watch the health of his father and best friend continually decline. Finally, one warm December morning before Christmas, Owen came downstairs and found that his father had passed away in his favourite chair overlooking the river.

  Owen had managed to avoid a complete withdrawal from life through the support of many friends and co-workers. His best friends, now spread all around the world, had come home for the funeral. Too soon, however, they needed to return to their lives, jobs and families, leaving Owen alone in a sprawling, empty house full of sweet but painful memories at every turn. His director offered him time off, but he declined the offer, choosing instead to throw himself deeper into his work. Work dulled the pain during the day, but coming home to the empty house every night was nearly as painful as it had been the first few days after his father’s passing. Adjusting to life without his father and best friend proved to be an enormous obstacle around which Owen could not find his way.

  Owen glanced away from his father’s smiling face in the obituary and the reflection of himself in the mirror caught his attention. At six-foot-one, he needed to duck to see the top of his head. He ran a hand through his thick, chestnut-brown hair. It had grown far longer than he usually kept it, the locks now hung into his eyes if he let them. It had a casual, unkempt look about it, not entirely inappropriate for work, so he left it alone. The mere thought of having to make small talk with his hairstylist was too onerous to even entertain. He rubbed at the farmer’s tan on his bicep where his shirt sleeves ended and his lightly tanned arms began as if this would somehow blend the two colours together. The tan line on his left arm was partially hidden by a Celtic armband tattoo he had picked up as a souvenir in Europe. He noticed for the first time that his muscle mass had diminished, having spent very little time at the gym over the last six months. His shoulders, though naturally broad, were not as muscular and imposing as they had once been. By contrast, his abdominals were more prominent—most likely, he assumed, the result of depression cutting into his appetite. The fine lines around his tired, dark-brown eyes seemed deeper than he had remembered, and the dark circles beneath them had not been there a year previous.

  A gurgling sound from the coffee maker in the kitchen below brought Owen’s attention back to the day at hand, and he went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The hot water pummelling his chest was a welcome, soothing sensation. The heat seemed to melt some of the weight he carried there and the steamy vapour energized him. Anxious to get to work and occupy his mind, Owen dressed and raced out the front door without a glance at the freshly brewed travel mug of coffee waiting for him in the kitchen.

  Owen slipped his truck into his parking space in the office parkade. Instead of entering the building, he detoured through an exit to the street and walked several blocks to a coffee shop to replace the forgotten coffee in his kitchen. Minutes later and with a large coffee in hand, he walked back toward his office. With his mind now properly fuelled, he began to think about his tasks for the upcoming day. He stood at an intersection waiting for the light to change, savouring the warm morning sun on his face. As he sipped the steaming coffee, he thought about how to begin the long, wrap-up process documenting a fascinating discovery he had recently made. Owen ordinarily despised the administrative portion of his job, preferring to be seeing and doing instead of writing. However, documenting the findings of a completely alien, high-energy super-element would hold his interest with no difficulties.

  Owen waited for the traffic lights to change so he could cross. He stood at the edge of the curb and within moments, a large number of pedestrians had gathered behind him. Owen watched as a city bus barrelled toward him and he became uncomfortably aware of how close he stood to the curb’s edge and stepped back. He felt something bump him in the shoulder and he lost his balance. Hot coffee sloshed from the lid of his cup and burned his fingers. He swore under his breath and stepped back onto what little curb remained to catch his balance. The bus rocketed past and the wind from its draft blew his hair. His heart pounded and a wave of adrenaline surged through his body. A little too close for comfort, he thought. He tried to wipe the spilled coffee from his pant leg and, seeing another bus approaching in the same speedy fashion, he decided to get clear out of the way. He turned to slip through the crowd, but he found no space to cut through. Instead, he got
bumped by the bags and shoulders of people distracted by their thoughts or too busy chatting to hear Owen’s “excuse me’s.” He leaned backward into the crowd, which prompted choice words and complaints as people shuffled and tried to make room for him. Then Owen felt another bump in the back, but this time much harder. He willed his shoes to cling the sidewalk, but his body weight hung over the wrong side of the curb. Dropping his coffee, he reached backward, grasping blindly for anyone or anything and felt nothing but air. Both feet slid off the sidewalk and he staggered forward, unable to maintain his balance. He carried too much momentum and knew he could not recover in time. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the impact.