March 5, 1993 [18]

The knuckles on James' left hand blanched as he lowered himself into a pushup while his right turned the page of the book propped in front of him. It was Albert Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus, a book he'd read countless times and the closest thing this non-believer had to a bible.

Upstairs, the phone rang and James switched hands.

It had been an easy life thus far. He'd fostered peace and goodwill at his school and his mother was in relatively good spirits and temperament. There had been some interesting national headlines, however: Nicole Brown-Simpson was found strangled two years early with no leads to the killer. Rodney King was never beaten by a group of LA cops on a DUI stop – or at least it wasn't taped. Yet there were two unique, if equally violent riots stemming from LAPD brutality in the summers of 1987 and 1991.

James didn't think much of it. Mostly, he thought of Martha.

The door to the basement opened and he heard his mother call, "James! Phone! It's some girl!"

"Kay, Mom! I'll be up in a second!"

As always, patience wasn't an issue for James. But he had to admit, he was more anxious than usual to see Martha and live a full life together after their far too brief rendezvous in Hawaii. Hawaii... Can't wait to hear how that turned out. Hope there are no hard feelings. Either way, he planned to gloat over his victory.

James climbed the basement stairs, entered the kitchen, and found the phone on the counter. "I'm going to take it in my room, okay Mom?" His mother sat at the dining room table, silent and lost in thought. "Mom?"

She snapped to him with a smile. "Yes darling?"

"I'm going to take the call in my room. Do you think you could hang up the phone when I ask?"

"Of course," she said, nodding.

"Thanks," he said, then left for his bedroom.

James had called Martha a handful of times, though she'd never called back. No worries. If patience is a virtue, then I'm the friggin' Pope.

He sat on the side of his bed, picked up the phone, covered the mouthpiece with his hand, then called, "Got it, Mom!" Through the receiver, James heard the kitchen phone hang up like a car crash. Then, he said, "Hello?"

"Hi... Hi, Jimmy. This is Ashley, um... Ashley Baker?"

"Oh, hey Ashley. How are you?"

"Good. I'm good. How... are you, Jimmy?"

"I am also good. Thank you for asking. What's up?"

Ashley Baker was going to ask James to the spring dance.

"Like... I... Hold on." James heard the rustling of paper and then a deep breath. "I've really enjoyed sitting next to you in English class this year you're a really cool person and I'm really glad to have you as a friend and even though I really don't want to lose you as a friend I really wanted to see if maybe you wanted to go to the dance with me."

Ashley Baker was reading from a speech she'd written out for the call. James would have interrupted her, but he knew what a long time she'd spent on it. A REALLY long time.

She continued, moisture steadily draining from her voice, "And I know you'll probably say 'no' but then yesterday in class you said 'He who is brave is free' and it really inspired me and so I'm asking but if you want to say 'no' that's really okay and I hope that we can still be friends."

"Wow, Ashley. I'm so flattered," James said, with a voice as sincere as Ashley's was nervous. "What a nice thing to ask. But the truth is, I'm not going to the dance with anyone. I've made a decision that I'm not going to date until college. I'd rather focus on my studies, my tennis, and having fun with my friends – yourself included."

It was much simpler now that Martha wasn't coming to Illinois. Before, he had to hedge his excuse – he couldn't claim to be waiting for college, because her arrival would betray that vow and most of the female student body and a percentage of the male would hate her. I learned that the hard way. Now, the cut was clean and clear. He'd meet his first and last girlfriend at college in California, just as he'd predicted.

"But you know what?" he continued. "I've got a crazy idea. What do you think of Charlie Zigulski?"

"Charlie Zigulski? He's okay. Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong. But I've got this feeling that you two would be great together." Actually, you won't make it past college, but you'll spend the rest of high school in bliss and he'll do wonders for your self-esteem.

Ashley was unconvinced. "He's like, really quiet."

"Totally quiet!" James agreed. "He takes his time, but once he feels comfortable with a person, he's hilarious! Highly sarcastic – just like you. And he's nice and he's smart... He's great! Like I said, maybe I'm wrong, but you two seem right."

"Oh, okay. How should... What do I..."

"He'll call you. Sometime this weekend, alright?"

"Thanks, Jimmy," Ashley said, her smile beaming through the receiver. "You're like, a really... really great friend."

"Really?"

"Really."

"See you later Ashley." Then James hung up.

He took a moment – because Charlie Zigulski can wait – and stared at the wall in front of him. His mural, half finished, spread from right to left. Vibrant green vines dappled with flowers and glinting dew droplets crossed, combined, and split with serene Venetian canals and roads of yellow brick. Here and there along the paths were a boy and girl, skipping, paddling, or climbing together along, through, and over their best lives.

The phone rang again and he picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

A moment passed.

And then, "James?"

It was her! And something is wrong! Something was most definitely wrong. Her voice wasn't raised, but fraught with enough fragility and uncertainty that she might as well have screamed HELP!!!

A harsh click and scrape came through the phone and then, "Hello?"

"I have it, Mom," James said and she hung up again.

"Hey babe!" James said brightly. "It's good to hear from you. Is something wrong?"

"You've got to be kidding me," Martha mumbled.

"What? I don't understand. What's wrong?"

Martha waited to respond, then sighed. "Yes. Something's... wrong."

Every word from her mouth screams HELP!!! "Okay, well... Remember me? James? Good ol' Jimmy Quinn who loves you more than anyone in the whole multiverse? You can talk to me – tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help. Or I can just listen... if that's what you want."

The long distance crackled as he waited for her response. Finally she said, "I'm not ready to talk about it."

"Oh. Okay. I can respect that." This was a first. Martha had never refused to share a piece of herself with him, nor he with her, once he'd come clean in her first life. "It's great to hear your voice, though. I miss you. How have things been? Other than... you know, whatever it is we're not talking about. Are you on track for Berkeley?"

"You don't understand."

"You got that right. Sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be flippant. This is serious. Help me understand."

"I..." Martha paused.

The silence hung like a string of traitors. And since when does Martha Beckett struggle for words?

Finally, she returned. "All it took was one, James. I said one word and you knew something was wrong. Which is... wonderful, I guess, that you know me so well, but... it won't work."

"What won't work?"

"You and I..." She sighed into the phone. "I can't figure this out or fix it or whatever if we're... I just need to... be away from you for... for a while."

Away from me...

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but I... can't do it with you."

His stomach caved reflexively. Was it finally happening? Had she come to see him as the fraud he'd always been? The man behind the curtain with cheap tricks but no magic?

"Tell me I'm wrong, but it... it sounds like you're breaking up with me, Martha."

"I'm not breaking up with you," she said with a sigh. "Can I break up with you? Is that even possible?"

"Great. You would if you could but you're stuck with me. Very reassuring."

"That's not what I said."

"But the implication is... Wait. Wait, is this about Hawaii?"

"Sort of..."

"Because that's not fair. That was your idea. I tried to warn you but you said we'd forgive each other..."

"It's not..."

"No. Hold on." James flushed. He was doing this wrong. "No, I'm sorry." His mind swam. What did he need to say? "I'm sorry if I took it too far. Did I take it too far?" He stood to pace the short distance the phone cord would allow. "Did I... Was I too tough on your friend – her name was Nan, right?"

"This isn't about you! It has nothing to do with you! And I'm sorry because I know it will affect you deeply and you don't deserve it but it's unavoidable."

Not about me? Is she serious?!? But he stopped himself. Calm down... Remember... Patience... This is Martha... Trust her words... You can do this...

"Okay," he said after his heart rate finally settled. "Martha, you know... how much I love you. And you're right. I knew something was wrong the instant you spoke. It's the downside of spending eight centuries together. And while I promise to never lie to you and trust from you the same, you deserve independence. Your thoughts should be yours to keep, not mine to surveil." Though he'd never considered this notion until now, it made perfect sense. Knowing Martha inside and out was categorically invasive.

"And... I want to help you. Desperately, I do. But I trust you. If you say you need to do this by yourself then that's what needs to happen. Do you... have an idea how long you'll need?"

"A couple," Martha said, her voice barely above a whisper. "A couple of lives maybe?"

He considered the time a couple of lifetimes comprised. 100 years? 150? More? It's going to be exhausting. But I can do that.

"It's going to be... I mean, I can do that. I can... wait as long as you need."

"Thank you. And no suicides, okay?"

"No suicides. Of course." On its face, this was a selfish request. He could blow through three lives in three weeks if he was proactive enough. But James understood. He still hadn't fully forgiven himself for the pain he'd put Martha through after her rebirth, all in the name of expedience.

He also remembered his own nightmares from lives long past... Steven's broken voice confirming it over the phone... The dizzying panic and violent sensation of vacuity – as if waking up after an organ harvesting.

The years ahead would be long and difficult without her, but the request, if anything, was a cause for hope. Whatever was going on with Martha and however that related to James, a bond between them remained unbroken.

"So I'll just... wait?"

"Yes, thank you," she said weakly. "I'll contact you."

"Then I guess that's it," he said. "I love you."

"I know."

"Ha. Nice Empire reference. The only question is whether I should be Leia or..."

"Goodbye, James."

"...Chewbacca." But there was only a dial tone, flatlining in her absence.

James hung up the phone and sat back down on his bed. He stared forward numbly, his eyes unfocused, at the blurred mess of white, green, yellow, and black paint on the wall.

She'd said it had nothing to do with him, yet the feeling gnawed... This conversation was unavoidable and overdue; a perishable love; a prophecy fulfilled. She was too good for him... It was only a matter of time...

Or maybe she's telling the truth and she's in real trouble and I'm making it all about me!

James took in then let out a slow, deliberate breath.

This was a break. A break was not a big deal. In fact, he'd taken his share breaks over the lifetimes. Before her rebirth, every fifty lives or so, he'd forego their relationship. With enough summer school courses, he could graduate after his junior year, then leave town without looking back. He'd spent one living off the land in the wilds of the Yukon; another as a fixer in Columbia; and a third as a monk at the Jokhang temple in Tibet.

It was this last endeavor that piqued his interest – the silence, the fasting, the abnegation. This could be that...

The mural on the wall came back into focus. The couples dancing along the paths were from another time; from before and hopefully after. But they certainly had no place in the present. Whatever path Martha was on, she'd travel alone. Whatever danger lay ahead, she'd brave without him. Trust she'll survive. Trust she'll come back.

With faith and yet more patience, James could outlast Martha's break. But the mural, now a tantalizing fairy tale, was too much for him to bear.

James grabbed his keys off the end table and left for the hardware store and a gallon of white.

Author's note:

That feeling when... you realize it's happening.

I still remember – driving home from seeing Apollo 13.  (While I was still driving!)  She tore out my heart in my own car - you know, that thing I sit in every day to get from place to place?  That was a lovely association to have for the next year!

Whoa.  Sorry.  Things got a little real.