words made plain what she'd meant. "He couldn't have picked a better person to be
his best man."
I'm not so sure about that, thought Theo, but he didn't give the words voice.
He couldn't pursue Michiko, of course. She was Lloyd's fiancée.
And besides ...
Besides, it wasn't her lovely, captivating Japanese eyes.
It wasn't even a jealousy or fascination born of her choice of Lloyd instead of him.
Down deep, he knew the real reason for his sudden interest in her. Of course he
knew it. He figured if he embarked on some crazy new life, if he took some wild left
turn, made a totally unpredictable move --such as running off and marrying his
partner's fiancée --that somehow he'd be giving the finger to fate, changing his own
future so radically that he'd never end up staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
Michiko was devastatingly intelligent, and she was very beautiful. But he would
not pursue her; it would be craziness to do so.
Theo was surprised when a chuckle emanated from his throat --but it was
amusing, in a way. Maybe Lloyd was right --maybe the whole universe was a solid
block, with time immutable. Oh, Theo had thought about doing something wild and
crazy, but then, after what seemed careful consideration, weighing the options and
reflecting on his own motives, he had ended up doing exactly what he would have
been doing had the issue never been raised.
The movie of his life continued to unfold, frame after already exposed frame.
21
Michiko and Lloyd had planned not to move in together until after the wedding,
but, except for the time she'd spent in Tokyo, Michiko had ended up staying at
Lloyd's every night since Tamiko's death. Indeed, she'd only been home a couple of
times, briefly, since the Flashforward, eight days ago. Everything she saw there
reduced her to tears: Tamiko's tiny shoes on the mat by the door; her Barbie doll,
perched on one of the living-room chairs (Tamiko always left Barbie sitting up
comfortably); her finger paintings, held to the fridge door by magnets; even the spot
on the wall where Tamiko had written her name in Magic Marker, and Michiko had
never quite been able to get it clean.
So, they stayed at Lloyd's place, avoiding the memories.
But, still, Michiko often drifted off, staring into space. Lloyd couldn't stand seeing
her so sad, but knew that there was nothing he could do. She would grieve --well,
probably forever.
And, of course, he wasn't an ignoramus: he had read plenty of articles on
psychology and relationships, and he'd even seen his share of Oprah and Giselle
programs. He knew he shouldn't have said it, but sometimes words just came out,
tumbling forth, spoken without thought. All he'd been trying to do was fill the silence
between himself and Michiko.
"You know," he said, "you're going to have another daughter. Your vision --"
But she silenced him with a look.
She didn't say a word, but he could read it in her eyes. You can't replace one child
with another. Every child is special.
Lloyd knew that; even though he'd never --yet --been a parent, he knew it.
Years ago, he'd seen an old Mickey Rooney film called The Human Comedy, but it
wasn't funny at all, and, in the end, Lloyd thought it wasn't very human, either.
Rooney played an American soldier in World War II who had gone overseas. He had
no family of his own, but enjoyed vicarious contact with the people they were all
fighting for back home through the letters his bunkmate received from his family.
Rooney got to know them all --the man's brother, his mother, his sweetheart in the
States --through the letters the man shared with Rooney. But then that man was
killed in battle, and Rooney returned to the man's hometown, bringing back his
personal effects. He ran into the man's younger brother outside the family
homestead, and it was as if Rooney had known him all his life. The younger brother
ended up going into the house, calling out, "Mom --the soldier's home!"
And then the credits rolled.
And the audience was supposed to believe that Rooney somehow would take the
place of this woman's late son, shot dead in France.
It had been a cheat; even as a teenager --he'd been maybe sixteen when he saw
the film on TV --he knew it was a cheat, knew that one person could never replace
another.
And now, foolishly, for one brief moment, he'd implied that Michiko's future
daughter might somehow take the place in her heart of poor dead Tamiko.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Michiko didn't smile, but she did nod, almost imperceptibly.
Lloyd did not know if it was the right time --his whole life, he'd been plagued by
his inability to sense when the right moment was: the right moment to make his
move with a girl in high school, the right moment to ask for a raise, the right
moment to interrupt two other people at a party so that he could introduce himself,
the right moment to excuse himself when other people obviously wanted to be alone.
Some people had an innate sense of such things, but not Lloyd.
And yet --
And yet the matter did have to be resolved.
The world had dusted itself off; people were getting on with their lives. Yes, many
were walking with crutches; yes, some insurance companies had already filed for
bankruptcy; yes, there was a still-untold number of dead. But life had to go on, and
people were going to work, going home, eating out, watching movies, and trying
with varying degrees of success to push ahead.
"About the wedding ... " he said, trailing off, letting the words float between them.
"Yes?"
Lloyd exhaled. "I don't know who that woman is --the woman in my vision. I
have no idea who she is."
"And so you think she might be better than me, is that it?"
"No, no, no. Of course not. It's just ... "
He fell silent. But Michiko knew him too well. "You're thinking that there are seven
billion people on the planet, aren't you? And that it's blind luck that we met at all."
Lloyd nodded; guilty as charged.
"Perhaps," said Michiko. "But when you consider the odds against you and I
meeting, I think it's more than that. It's not like you got stuck with me, or me with
you. You were living in Chicago; I was living in Tokyo --and we ended up together,
here, on the Swiss-French border. Is that random chance, or destiny?"
"I'm not sure you can believe in destiny while at the same time believing in free
will," Lloyd said gently.
"I suppose not." She lowered her eyes. "And, well, maybe you're not really ready
for marriage. So many of my friends over the years have gotten married because
they thought it was their last chance. You know: they'd reached a certain age, and
they figured if they didn't get married soon, they never would. If there's one thing
your vision has demonstrated, it's that I'm not your last chance. I guess that takes
the pressure off, doesn't it? No need to move quickly anymore."
"It's not that," said Lloyd, but his voice was shaky.
"Isn't it?" said Michiko. "Then make up your mind, right now. Make a
commitment. Are we going to get married?"
Michiko was right, Lloyd knew. His belief in an immutable future did help ease his
guilt over what had happened --but, still, it was the position he'd always taken as a
physicist: space-time is an immutable Minkowski cube. What he was about to do he
had already done; the future was as indelible as the past.
No one, as far as they knew, had reported any vision that corroborated that
Michiko Komura and Lloyd Simcoe were ever married; no one had reported being in
a room that had contained a wedding photo in an expensive frame, showing a tall
Caucasian man with blue eyes and a beautiful, shorter, younger Asian woman.
Yes, whatever he said now had always been said --and would always be said. But
he had no insight whatsoever into what answer spacetime had recorded in it. His
decision, right now, at this moment, at this slice, on this page, in this frame of the
film, was unrevealed, unknown. It was no easier giving voice to it --whatever it was
that was about to come out of his mouth --even knowing that it was inevitable that
he would say it / had said it.
"Well?" demanded Michiko. "What's it going to be?"
Theo was still at work, late in the evening, running another simulation of his and
Lloyd's LHC experiment, when he got the phone call.
Dimitrios was dead.
His little brother. Dead. Suicided.
He fought back tears, fought back anger.
Memories of Dim ran through Theo's mind. The times he'd been good to him when
he was a kid, and the times he'd been mean. And how everyone in the family was
terrified all those years ago when they went to Hong Kong and Dim got lost. Theo
had never been happier to see anyone than he was to see little Dim, hoisted up on
that policeman's shoulder, coming through the crowded street toward them.
But, now, now he was dead. Theo would have to make another trip to Athens for
the funeral.
He didn't know how to feel.
Part of him --a very large --was incredibly saddened by his brother's death.
And part --
Part was elated.
Not because Dim was dead, of course.
But the fact that he was dead altered everything.
For Dimitrios had experienced a vision, a vision verified with another person -and
to have a vision he needed to be alive twenty-one years hence.
But if he were dead here, now, in 2009, there was no way he could be alive in
2030.
So the block universe had shattered. What people had seen might indeed make up
a coherent picture of tomorrow ... but it was only one possible tomorrow, and,
indeed, since that tomorrow had included Dimitrios Procopides, it was no longer even
that --no longer even possible.
Chaos theory said that small changes in initial conditions must have big effects
over time. Surely the world of 2030 could not possibly now turn out as it had been
portrayed in the billions of brief glimpses people had already had of it.
Theo paced the halls of the LHC control center: past the big mosaic, past the
plaque that gave the institution's original full name, past offices, and laboratories,
and washrooms.
If the future was now uncertain --indeed, was now surely not going to turn out
exactly as the visions portrayed --then perhaps Theo could give up his search. Yes,
in one once-possible future, someone had seen fit to kill him. But so much would
change over the next two decades that surely that same outcome wouldn't happen
again. Indeed, he might never meet the person who had killed him, never have any
encounter with whomever that man might be. Or, in fact, that man might himself
now die before 2030. Either way, Theo's murder was hardly inevitable.
And yet --
And yet it might still happen. Surely some things would turn out as the visions
had indicated. Those who weren't going to die unnatural deaths would live the same
spans; those who had secure jobs now might well still hold them then; those
marriages that were good and solid and true had no reason not to endure.
No.
Enough doubt, enough wasted time.
Theo resolved to get on with his life, to give up this foolish quest, to face
tomorrow, whatever it might bring, head on. Of course, he would be careful --he
certainly didn't want one of the points of convergence between the 2030 of the
visions and the 2030 yet to come to be his own death. But he would continue on,
trying to make the most out of whatever time he had.
If only Dimitrios had been willing to do the same.
His walk had taken him back to his office. There was someone he should call;
someone who needed to hear it from a friend first, before it blew up in his face in
media all over the world.
Michiko's words hung between them: "What's it going to be?"
It was time, Lloyd knew. Time for the appropriate frame to be illuminated; the
moment of truth, the instant at which the decision spacetime had already recorded in
it would be revealed. He looked into Michiko's eyes, opened his mouth, and -
Brrrring! Brrrring!
Lloyd cursed, glanced at the phone. The caller ID said "CERN LHC." No one would
call from the office this late if it wasn't an emergency. He picked up the handset.
"Hello?"
"Lloyd, it's Theo."
He wanted to tell him this wasn't a good time, tell him to call back later, but
before he could, Theo pressed on.
"Lloyd, I just got a call. My brother Dimitrios is dead."
"Oh, my God," said Lloyd. "Oh, my God."
"What is it?" said Michiko, eyes wide with concern.
Lloyd covered the mouthpiece. "Theo's brother is dead."
Michiko brought a hand to her mouth.
"He killed himself," said Theo, through the phone. "An overdose of sleeping pills."
"I am so sorry, Theo," said Lloyd. "Can I --is there anything I can do?"
"No. No. Nothing. But I thought I should let you know right away."
Lloyd didn't understand what Theo was getting at. "Ah, thank you," he said, his
voice tinged with confusion.
"Lloyd, Dimitrios had a vision."
"What? Oh." And then a long pause. "Oh."
"He told me about it himself."
"He must have made it up."
"Lloyd, this is my brother; he didn't make it up."
"But there's no way --"
"You know he's not the only one; there've been other reports, too. But this one -this
one is corroborated. He was working in a restaurant in Greece; the guy who runs
the restaurant in 2030 also does it here in 2009. He saw Dim in his vision, and Dim
