Life II

By Scott Spotson

Upon discovering a 1958 book titled "Account of Time Travel on Earth Using Wave Theory," 42-year-old Max Thorning's life is thrown into chaos. Seeking answers to the book's cryptic clues, he discovers Dr. Time, a seemingly benign alien who has control of the Time Weaver, a remarkable device that can command any scene from the Earth's past. Dr. Time offers him a choice to go back into Time, to any point in his lifespan that he can vividly recall. The catch: he can only bring his memories, and can only live the future one day at a time. Follow Max's dilemma as he goes back to his 16-year-old self and tries to forge his destiny into a new one called Life II.

Similar books: "Replay" by Ken Grimwood, "11/22/63" by Stephen King
Enjoy the sequel, "Bridge Through Time" by Scott Spotson, which offers parallel universes and even more time travel!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Spotson
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301509553

Scott Spotson

Scott Spotson is a novelist who excels in imagining scenes of intrigue and adventure within ordinary lives while daydreaming, then pulls together various plots to create a compelling story. He likes to invent “what if?” scenarios, for example, what if I could go back to my university days, and what would I do differently? What if I could switch bodies with friends I am jealous of, like the guy who sold his software for millions of dollars and does whatever he pleases? What if I had the power to create clones of myself to do my bidding? Scott then likes to mentally insert himself into these situations, then plot a way to “get out” back to reality. This is how “Life II” and “Seeking Dr. Magic” were born, within weeks of each other. He’s still working on dreaming up a situation where he gets to smash a pie in the face of his boss, with no justification whatsoever – how to get out of that one?Scott loves to travel and is partial to the idea of spending extended vacation at ski resorts up in the mountains. You know, the one like in the James Bond movie “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” where the view is breathtaking, there’s an outdoors hot tub facing a pristine snow covered mountain, and one can warm up inside on a bear skin in front of a huge cobblestone fireplace, sitting on a circular wooden bench fitted with animal pelts and sipping at a mango and pineapple smoothie mixed with a touch of grenadine – okay, he’s getting too carried away!Scott has visited Taiwan, Australia, New Zealand, Sweden, Germany, Denmark, Iceland, France, Mexico, Austria, the Netherlands, Switzerland, England, and Hong Kong.As can be deduced from the beginning of “Life II,” Scott loves brain teasers.

Book preview

Chapter One

October 23, 2013 at 11:47 a.m.

Max Thorning, an investment salesman always in search of hefty commission fees stripped from the trust fund of that graying doctor who drove a Porsche on Sundays, was a man in a hurry. He exited the towering steel and glass skyscraper, in search of that tiny parkette that afforded a soothing oasis from the grimy, concrete metropolis of Vancouver.

Yo, Max!

Hey, Garfield!

Garfield Yates, Max’s skinny, chrome-domed writer buddy, waved in greeting from their favorite park bench. It was a beautiful, sunny day, so Max and Garfield had agreed to meet up for lunch. Garfield pulled a thick ham and egg sandwich out of a brown paper bag and offered a bite to Max.

Scrunching his mouth, Max declined, instead retrieving a greasy corned beef sandwich from the cardboard take-out box he’d brought. How’s the job hunt going? Max asked in between bites of the bulging sandwich, a treat he savored once a week.

Garfield grimaced. Not well. This morning, I just lay in bed, chowing down on potato chips and listening to some old tunes. Remember the Bee Gees?

Oh man, Max laughed. You still have them?

Yeah, Garfield chuckled. I still have that old record player, too. It was actually in a box in my parents’ house. They’d never bothered to throw it out.

Max shook his head, snapping to attention as Garfield squatted lower to pluck dropped crackers off the lawn. Groaning, Max shielded his eyes with one hand to block out an unwelcome ‘sneak peek’ of the upper part of his friend’s scrawny buttocks. Garfield, sadly, was living with his parents again. It was ‘temporary,’ he’d insisted, until he could get back on his feet.

As his lanky buddy plopped back into his seat next to Max, he stuffed broken-up crackers into his mouth, while, with the other hand, he tossed a folded newsletter into Max’s lap.

Look at this, he mumbled, barely comprehensible above the munching noises.

After Max snapped the crisp newsprint open, his eyes bulged. Right on the front page of their alumni newsletter, UBC Chat, blared a professional color photo of someone familiar. That square-shaped, rugged face, still boyish even in middle age; that blond, curly hair; even the stare of the man captivated him, conveying an ‘I’m important. Don’t you forget it’ vibe.

He was a star athlete back in my high school, wasn’t he?

The headline answered his question.

Dr. Nathan Symes, August 28, 1971-September 30, 2013.

Max read the article, which started off with, ‘Nathan Symes M.D. ’98 Head of Cardiology at Vancouver General, and dedicated UBC fundraiser, passed away…’

Wow. One of the guys from Confederation High—his old high school—had bitten the dust. So soon. Forty-two, just like Max, and he was already at one with his Maker. Same birth year. Same span of life.

Max’s heart skipped a beat as he read further.

Suicide? What could possibly drive a guy to suicide? A successful doctor, too! With pieces of his frayed memories now drifting into place, Max remembered—Nathan had been voted ‘Most likely to succeed.’

Without warning, a sharp pain stabbed his gut as the repressed memory flashed through his mind; unwelcome, banished, and consigned to purgatory. The haunting image of a limp, lifeless body he knew to be Darlene Labrosse, who seconds prior was very much alive and screaming as he, an out-of-control, drunk driver, swerved off the road.

He closed his eyes at the painful memory. When his eyes flickered open, they only showed a brooding, sullen mask eclipsing his steely features.

You okay, bud?

Max shook his head.

It’s that car crash again, right?

Slowly, Max nodded once.

Let it go, Garfield said, clasping Max’s shoulder.

Max tossed his half-eaten sandwich back into the take-out container and stared dead ahead at the back of a statue of Captain George Vancouver, unthinking as he noted the copper-plated tricorn hat and waistcoat.

I’m just not hungry, he muttered, and the two friends stared off into the distance, both unspeaking, yet communicating volumes.

Chapter Two

October 23, 2013 at 12:22 p.m.

Garfield watched the receding outline of Max Thorning as his longtime best friend returned to work, the shoulders on the retreating figure slumping.

Poor Max.

Garfield pretended to look away then snapped back to his line of sight targeting Max, just to be sure his friend wouldn’t catch him passing judgment, however innocuous it might be. Satisfied, he slouched on the park bench, the best possible position to trigger constant, excruciating backache. Fortunately, no matter how many times his mother admonished him to stand straight—yes, the last time was just yesterday as he’d chatted on the phone in the kitchen—his back miraculously resisted the abuse lavished upon his lumbar region.

He’s haunted still by the horrific car crash, from ‘87.

Those eyes. Oh man! When he snaps into his funk, I might as well use a crowbar to spring him out. He shuts down. He mopes. I get it. He had too much to drink, and he was reckless the moment he seated himself in that ’82 Mustang—but geez! It’s been more than twenty years, and he still can’t let go.

Garfield smiled as he pictured a fifteen-year-old Max reclining back in his chair during geography class, cracking jokes with the befuddled teacher, Mr. Stadnicki. How he’d grab some friends, both guys and gals, and head off to Wreck Beach to do some skinny-dipping at midnight.

Plus, that expulsion from college. Since then, Max hasn’t been the same jovial, back-slapping guy I’d known in high school.

I admire Max, I really do. But he has to believe in himself again.

How ironic then, that the guy who professes to be the most shining example of Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People—would be holding a match to that revered book with a wicked grin on his face.

Chapter Three

October 23, 2013 at 4:35 p.m.

Max entered Raymond’s Used Bookstore, still in a funk over two untimely preoccupations; one, the lunchtime brutal reminder of the horrific car crash decades ago, and two, Dr. Hartley Mortimer’s secretary calling to say he would not be signing on to be Max’s client but instead would keep his investments ‘safe’ with his bank.

After more than two months since his last visit, he sought refuge within this anachronism; a musty, old secondhand bookshop that still persisted amidst all those ephemeral electronic enterprises that promised you the moon with a click on the keypad but offered you no engaging, warm sanctuary where you could browse to your heart’s content while the owners forked over every penny of their meager profits to pay for the lease of those bricks and mortar.

Shit, Max thought, unable to keep his mind off the defeat. Dr. Mortimer has over $1.2 million in net assets and earns $325,000 a year from his family practice. After more than twenty years in the sales business, Max could calculate the commission within a thousand dollars right away. Lost $15,000 in commission, plus a chance to keep earning trailer fees so long as that physician lives and breathes and rakes in money. Numbers, it was all about the numbers. The figures that danced in his head, those that he scanned on a client’s rumpled papers during a visit, and those that magically appeared in his commission account. He craved the human contact that came from just sitting down and chatting with a husband and wife about their lifestyle, but couldn’t stop feeling that all these ones and zeroes were imaginary, a figment of an illusory world that could vanish at any moment.

A sudden spell of vertigo seized him, and he stumbled to one side, resting his hand on a stack of dusty, old books. The motion sickness passed, and he glanced at the object that’d steadied his wobble. It was one of those pale blue, cloth-covered, hardback tomes of a bygone era, when milkmen completed their rounds and when Prince Albert Crimp Cut Tobacco sold in a tin can.

Intrigued, Max picked up the book. Feeling the woven-cloth texture of the cover, he glanced at the title: Account of Time Travel on Earth Using Wave Theory, by Medicus Tempus.

Whoa. Weird title.

Inserting his thumbnail, he opened to the front page:

General Elliptical Principles of Time, Simplified

Dear Reader,

Time is a puzzle, and this book is intended for those who are creative thinkers, longing for a solution.

Time has been described in many different ways. Some say Time is flexible, and can be commoditized, as you would measure furlongs and pecks. They are incorrect. Time marches to its own drummer. It cannot be varied, cannot be manipulated by any agent, and cannot be violated. It can only be studied and respected – indeed, Time is our Master.

Time, hence, is rarely tranquil, yielding several emerging viewpoints – even now. Many individuals necessarily originate numerous assumptions, subject to rigorous evaluation each time.

In his works on Time, the astrophysicist J. Rosenfeld described Time by the formula ...

Unreal. This guy makes it sound like time travel isa long-settled scientific fact.

He flipped to the halfway point in the weighty tome.

He gasped.

Underneath a heading titled ‘Exhibit A’ the photo, crystal clear in vivid color, seized his full attention and triggered fear.

It was a photo of him as a kid.

What? How did that get in there?

Eyes bugging out, he gasped again, redoubling his focus.

The photo showed him on his knees on—yes, he instantly recognized the orange and red patterned area rug of his childhood home and the teal-splashed wall framing his outline. That baseboard, with the flat slab, and the two-step grooves atop. His Brio train set, his favorite as a young boy.

Who’s the sicko that put this in the book?

His white-knuckled fingers grasping the book hard, he glanced at the caption underneath the photo:

Max Thorning, July 17, 1977, 16:34:1904

I was six years old then!

My parents have never showed me this photo before! They’ve showed me hundreds of childhood photos, all lovingly preserved in worn-out albums, but this is a new one! Did they lose this one back when I was a kid? If so, how did this creep get his hands on it?

Dread twisted his stomach as he jumped to the next logical thought:

How did this psychopath know I would pick up this book? How long has he been waiting for me?

Another chill enveloped him; ice coursed throughout his veins as another perverted notion crossed his mind.

Did this creep actually come into my living room when I was a child, hide out, and snap this photo without me knowing? And wait thirty-five years to shock the shit out of me?

He closed the book, his finger still firmly wedged on the page of that damning photo. Answers, I need answers, right now! I know the clerk wouldn’t have a clue, but he’s worked here ever since it opened.

Darting past the haphazard shelves of musty, dusty, old books, Max made his way to the cashier. An old-fashioned cash register with brass keys sat on a glass counter that was nearly covered with stacks of books. The thin, wiry, old man with feathery wisps of white hair was engrossed in an ancient tome of his own.

What’s the meaning of this? Max demanded using a volume between forceful denunciation and a shout, holding the front cover of the book upright in front of the clerk’s wrinkled face.

Eyebrows rising, the clerk yanked up his chin. As Max waited a few seconds, heart beating fast, the elderly man peered over his wire-rimmed spectacles, studying what Max held.

I’m not sure what you’re referring to, sir.

This, Max growled, opening the book at his finger bookmark. Peering sideways, he awaited the splash of vivid color that marked the photo. His heart sank as he realized it had disappeared.

Is there something offensive in there? the man grumbled, shaking his head. If you want me to read it, you’ll have to bring it closer. Keep in mind, though—

No! a horrified Max exclaimed. There was a photo in there! Turning the book around he thumbed through the pages like a madman, searching for the damning photo. Just a minute, just a minute …

Huffing, the clerk returned to the book he’d been reading.

Max’s synapses lit on fire. Did I imagine the whole thing? How could I possibly ‘see’ something I’d never seen before?

After a minute of examining the entire mysterious book, he sighed and his shoulders drooped. Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.

The old man didn’t bat an eye, not looking up. Don’t worry about it.

Can I buy this book, though?

This time, the clerk snapped, All books on display are for sale.

Right, Max said, hesitating. He glanced to the back and saw the handwritten sticker price, the tiny paper no bigger than half an inch. $15.75.

He handed the clerk his credit card and waited as the man pulled out an old-fashioned credit card reader from under the counter. The guy placed the card in the metal tray and ran the arm across it, making an imprint on the carbon paper slip below.

I didn’t know you can still use those things for credit cards, Max offered, more surprised than critical.

Time changes many things, but it doesn’t mean it’s always for the better.

He slid the credit card form to Max and placed a ballpoint pen on top. Max signed it and the clerk tore off a copy, handing it to Max before placing the book in a brown paper bag.

Max shrugged off the dismissal, the mystery over his apparent hallucination now crowding out the despondent setbacks he’d had today.

July 17, 1977, it had said.

Chapter Four

October 23, 2013 at 5:16 p.m.

The moment he entered his suburban two-story house, he sidestepped the baseball gloves and tossed-aside jackets lying on the stairs and dashed upstairs, a man on a mission. He thought of heading straight to his bedroom, but relented as he spotted his twelve-year-old daughter, Angela, at her dresser, gesturing in front of a propped-up tablet computer. She didn’t seem surprised to see her father walk into her room and signed to him, Wait a sec, I’m talking to Courtney.

Closing in, Max could see Angela’s friend on the screen. He waved and Courtney wiggled her fingers back at him.

Angela was born deaf at a very good time, if there ever was one.

He marveled at the ease in which Angela signed conversations with Courtney, a hearing classmate. Angela had taught her friend sign language.

Had she been born during my time, she would have had no Internet, no amazing devices to help her, like the captions on the TV…

After two minutes, Angela finished. She shut off the videoconference and stood to hug her father. Proficient in sign language, Max conversed easily with Angela and her deaf friends.

Guess what, Daddy? Angela said, her hands a blur. I qualified for the track and field team today!

A wide grin spread across Max’s face as he signed, Congratulations! Way to go!

After they’d signed for several minutes, Brandon came in, holding up Abby’s smartphone.

Daddy, he said, can you take me now?

Max knew right away from the digital map on the screen that Brandon wanted a ride to find a geocache too far to reach by bike. Geocaching was the digital age equivalent of orienteering, and Brandon devoted nearly all his spare time to his new hobby, eager to find the treasure in every box. It wasn’t the value of the treasure—usually a few marbles, an ornamental key chain, or a Lego figurine—that enthralled the boy; rather it was the thrill of the hunt.

Just a minute, Brandon, Max said, there’s something I have to do first. Eager to re-explore childhood, he badly wanted to take his son out, but that unnerving hallucination with the photo still drove him to seek answers. Passing Brandon’s bedroom, Max strode down the hallway to his closet, opened the doors, and found the large box he’d been looking for.

Ah. Good timing. His mother had just given him a boxful of photo albums, 8mm reels and tiny frames of yellowed photos from his childhood. It’s time, she had told him. I safeguarded these for you for years, but something could happen to me. They’re yours now.

Oh Mom, he had replied, holding warm gratitude in his heart. Nothing will ever happen to you. But thank you. I’ll take good care of them. They hugged, sealing the deal.

July 17, 1977 … Which one is it?

Am I imagining things? Maybe I should go out with Brandon. No. I saw the photo. I couldn’t possibly imagine something I’ve never seen before so clearly.

Heart beating faster, Max tore open the flaps of the waist-high cardboard box and scanned the stack of albums, all different sizes and patterns. His mother loved to buy a photo album that was unique, to mark an era of the Thorning family. By heart, he knew the cheery, bright yellow album dotted by retro-seventies flowery icons covered his years in kindergarten, as well as that memorable trip to New York City, with the smiling family photographed atop the Empire State Building.

Let’s see, July 17, 1977, I had just turned six years old. That would be … first grade. Then … I should look in the album with that front-cover photo of hot air balloons.

Finding it at the bottom of the pile, Max fished it out, sitting on his side of the bed. Taking a deep breath, he eyeballed the photos, instantly recognizing not only each photo but also the set-up on every laminated page. Yup. Yup. After he finished the entire set, he nodded to himself. That photo wasn’t in there. I should ask Mom. I could describe it to her, and she might say something like, Oh yes, that was one of my favorites. I kept it in a frame by my bedside, not in the album, and I probably lost it when we de-cluttered the house when you were about thirteen. Or maybe, dear—

Reminiscing, Max? came the familiar voice.

Huh? Max turned to his wife, Abby, just back from work. Oh, hi hon.

She stood tall, sighing as she kicked off her pumps. Hmm? she said, her eyebrows raised in anticipation.

Yeah, he said, nearly stammering as he dug for an excuse. I just thought of it, and … He trailed off, hoping Abby wouldn’t judge.

His wife shrugged as she turned away in the direction of her bedside table. Never mind, she muttered. He knew that tone of voice meant she was annoyed but didn’t want to kick up a fuss. She’s sensible that way, and that’s one thing I love about her.

Fourteen years of marriage, and Max could only think one day ahead at a time. He knew of married men, friends of his, who happily envisioned retirement plans with their wives. Possibly in a gated community residence in Florida created exclusively for seniors, with the mandatory offerings of shuffleboard, swimming pools, and red asphalt tennis courts. Or, maybe a secondhand yet roomy recreational vehicle, chugging across the countryside. Or, perhaps a permanent move to another province to live nearer their grandchildren as they grew up. But he didn’t feel that way. He looked at Abby and wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. Love? Respect? Affection?

Fears confirmed, he watched Abby pick up the Dreaded Book. Titled Communication Without Tears. It had held her rapt interest for the past few weeks, as she read one chapter a week, taking time to digest its messages. The Dreaded Book dangled from her hand as she left, and Max was glad to see it out of his sight.

He sighed as he shifted his weight on the mattress. When I married Abby, we had good intentions. We were sure we would grow on each other, to nurture each other in sickness—oh wait, I’m drifting off into my wedding vows!

A burst of activity dashing into Max’s bedroom happily disturbed his useless five-minute rut. It was Brandon, a big smile fixed on his face.

Daaaad …

Okay, let’s go, let’s go, Max said, chuckling at how many times he’d said it in the exact same way, so that it became a conditioned reflex.

Eager to re-explore childhood, the father started out the door with Brandon.

Chapter Five

October 23, 2013 at 10:23 p.m.

After dinner, Max settled into his usual evening routine. Wash the dinner dishes. Clean up the kitchen. Watch whatever was on the History Channel.

In ticking off his continually evolving list of ‘pet pleasures’ and ‘to-do errands’ he felt buttressed by the normal hurly-burly of family life—a settled routine that allowed him to defer painful introspection into perpetuity. Once you stop what you’re doing and think about what’s bothering you, he’d reminded himself several times when he faced an unexpected stalled moment, then you might as well be one of those depressed, moribund losers who waste their lives away. And Max didn’t want to be one of those types. No way, never, fugetaboutit!

So efficient he was at this distraction mindset that he totally forgot about the book he’d purchased earlier until it was bedtime. Max went upstairs, settled into bed, and snapped it open.

Abby slid under the covers beside him, bringing the Dreaded Book with her. She frowned as she scanned the front cover of Max’s book, but he pretended not to notice.

What’s that book?

Just an old book I found that seemed interesting.

She peered at the cover. "Account of Time Travel on Earth Using Wave Theory. How old is it?"

Max didn’t need to turn the pages back to the beginning. 1958.

Is it science fiction? she pressed, taking the book from him and turning it over in her hands.

No, Max replied. It’s theoretical. He retrieved the book back from Abby, hoping that those weird childhood photos wouldn’t pop up on the pages before her eyes.

Did something happen at work today?

Not really. Dr. Mortimer finally said no. All those phone calls, and for nothing.

Max? The way she said it, the way she started stroking his arm, meant he had to lift his head and look straight at her. It’s time to move on. I could work extra hours, you know—

No! I have many other prospects. It’s just a slow time of the year, that’s all. People’ll firm up their decisions by Christmas.

But we haven’t paid down the mortgage for so long.

Leave it alone, Max growled, intending his words as warning.

Abby placed the Dreaded Book on her side table and leaned on her side, facing Max, resting her chin atop her fist. It’s been more than twenty years, she said, deploying a sympathetic voice. Your expulsion’s ancient history.

Max stared into her brown eyes and flattened his lips. I don’t care.

You were so close to that degree. They’re really accommodating to mature students these days. Once you get the job you want, you could finally work on a fixed income, and—

I don’t want to talk about it.

Please think it over, she said, clasping his hand with a gentle squeeze.

I will, Max said without meaning it as he turned back to the arcane theory in the book, managing to sink into a cross-eyed stupor within minutes. To break up the monotony, he flipped through all the musty pages, hoping to find any unusual likeness from his past. When his search resulted in nothing, he got out of bed and walked downstairs to his home office. The chair creaked as he lowered his weight and typed in the book’s title. Oddly, none of the online booksellers had any reference to it. Max typed the words account time travel wave theory. The search engine turned up thousands of results, but nothing with the specific title.

He put in the author’s Latin-sounding name, Medicus Tempus, and clicked the online translator to see what he could find. He input the information and was surprised by the result: Physician Time.

Hmm … physician.

Doctor.

Time.

Doctor …

No, it couldn’t be that easy. Or was it?

Of course! Doctor Time!

Max frowned. Am I any closer to finding out who posted my private photos?

He turned to the publication information and noted the city of publication: Athens, Greece. He’d never seen a book published in multiple languages, and this unsettling book featured a premise, repeated over and over in different languages. He wasn’t a language whiz, but from the layout, the formulas displayed, and the repetition of names of academicians, he concluded that the entire book consisted of translations from beginning to end.

As he flipped through the book one last time, about ready to surrender to drowsiness and head back to bed, his heart skipped a beat.

A striking photo on page 611 stared back at him, untouched by the ravages of time.

A photo of a teenage version of him with shaggy hair, sitting in the driver’s seat next to his father, Bill—as he was back in that time, in clothes that defined him in a different era, when he had gone through his plaid shirt phase. Gone were the dark circles under his father’s eyes, and the wrinkles had miraculously vanished from his face.

The caption read:

Max Thorning, August 3, 1987, 19:02:8021

I was sixteen, taking my first driving lessons! I remember—my father did most of my training.

He gulped as a fresh pang of guilt stabbed his gut. Driving lessons that were futile… because of that horrific crash a month later. Is this book trying to tell me something?

Who could possibly take a photo of me from the road? Has this sicko been stalking me all my life? He squinted at the photo, trying to decipher from the background where this photo had been taken. That’s the local library I can see through the car windows.

He noticed his fingers were trembling. Shocked at his reaction, he dumped the book, still open, onto his desk, pushing his chair away, repulsed. His mind was furiously working itself into a knot as he raced through his thoughts.

His head spun. None of this makes sense …

As he glanced back at the bewitching book, he gasped.

The ominous photo on page 611 had vanished, replaced by crisp rows of arcane text.

Chapter Six

October 24, 2013 at 2:12 a.m.

Damn it, I can’t sleep.

Max had been constantly thinking about the time travel book, wracking his brain trying to analyze it from every perspective, with no success. He rolled over and checked the clock.

2:12 a.m.

He craned his head and gazed at the clock, watching the minutes tick by. He glanced at Abby sleeping at his side, her face nuanced by a dreamlike softness. He sighed. If only we could start over, go back to fondly greeting each other, without all this emotional baggage, without the same old, tired preconceptions. Could I change, like the Dreaded Book suggests? Is it that simple to erase your negative memories?

There was no point in fighting his growing restlessness. He slipped out of bed, creeping downstairs in the dark, careful not to trip over the scattered clothing and odd toy left on the stairs.

He snuck into his home office, flipped on the light, found the book in his desk drawer and pulled it out. His breath still, he snapped it open and scanned it, thumbing the pages rapidly, looking for further ‘ghost’ photos. Finding none, he began to re-read the Table of Contents.

General Elliptical Principles of Time Simplified

Fine-tuning Resolution of Time Neutral Coordinates

Something struck Max as odd. A dedicated fan of brain-teasers, he decided to try different ways to crack the code—if there even was one.

GEPTS, he observed. Nope.

Include the small word of? GEPOTS. Nope. Damn!

Second line now. FRTNC?

FROTNC?

This shit is crazy! He sighed, slamming the book shut.

Another method was to go back to these selected letters, and replace each letter with the following letter of the alphabet.

Back to line one. HFQUT.

Max was miffed now. The mystery was killing him. No need to consider the extra small word of since it was obviously hopeless.

Try the immediate preceding letter for each first letter of each word on line one? Why not.

FDOSR.

What about this … Take the first word of the first title, the second word of the second title, and so on. General – G – Resolution – R – Exact – E... GRE....

Hmmm. This was looking promising. He grabbed a pen lying nearby and wrote it down.

When he was finished, he sat back in his chair, contemplating what he’d just scribbled.

The completed word was Greece.

Max’s heart pounded. Shakily he held the book and pushed himself back from his desk. This was definitely a code!

He tried the same approach, working upwards.

The first word of the last title was Analyzing, hence A.

Analyzing – A – There – T – History – H …

Athens! he yelled out loud. Glancing quickly behind him, he quieted himself, coveting the crystallized moment when all loved ones jointly succumbed to slumber, as the moonlight stole shadows within the hushed home. No response.

Back to business.

Max double-checked the rest of the Table of Contents. Yup, Athens it was.

Athens, Greece; where the book was published. Why did the author go to such lengths to put into code the place where it was published? Was the stalker from Athens? If so, what was he doing here in Vancouver? Could it be a she?

Athens by itself isn’t enough. He needed a more specific location. A simple address? Longitude or latitude? Dammit. There had to be more clues.

Wait a minute. The French version—did it have clues, too? He flipped through the pages.

Skimming the top two lines of the French version, he read:

Goût du temps – introduction à la théorie

La retour de principes généraux elliptiques simplifiée

Max’s heart raced. He applied the same diagonal solving process he’d used on the English version. Yup. Athènes, Grèce. He was on the right track.

Suddenly everything clicked. Bells and whistles in his brain exploded. Of course! Someone who found this book in a bookstore in Lyon, France, would be able to crack the code. A reader in Seoul, South Korea, could probably solve it, too. Max nodded in awe at the apparently huge reach of this book, feeling dread course through his veins.

But if the book was intended for the whole world, why was it so hard to find?

He sat back and tried to clear his head. He had to focus.

Max turned to the first English passage and read it again:

I sincerely apologize for the obtuse way the book has been written …

Definitely obtuse. Nothing here.

It wasn’t until his eyes moved to the third paragraph that he froze once again, gripped by a fear, which steadily tightened its adrenalin-powered noose around his throat. He re-read each word carefully, this time writing each letter on a scrap of paper:

Time hence is rarely tranquil, yielding several emerging viewpoints–even now. Many individuals necessarily originate numerous assumptions, subject to rigorous evaluation each time.

Max stopped writing. Reading it back, he drew in a startled gasp, his jaw dropping nearly to the floor.

T-h-i-r-t-y-s-e-v-e-n.

M-i-n-o-n-a.

S-t-r-e-e-t.

37 Minona Street.

He looked back at the book, feeling a chill circle his head. Really? Was it that easy?

Shoving everything aside on his desk, Max turned to a global positioning system website and plotted the location.

It was a real street in downtown Athens.

Max sat back in his office chair, still numb. An idea began rattling around in his skull. He wanted to run to the door and straight to the airport. I have to go, find out who’s been snapping photos of me for over thirty years, and how these crisp photographs appear on musty, old paper and then vanish at will. The idea was calling to him like a siren luring sailors to their watery graves.

But when? And how? What can I tell Abby?

He logged into his work server calendar. Nothing he couldn’t shuffle or push back for a few days.

You have to do this. It’s the only way to confront the creep who’s been embedding himself in my psyche, like a sadistic voyeur.

Another thing. If they can make photographic windows of my life appear at will in a book, or mess with my mind, what’s with this time travel message? Is this some sort of sinister hint that I’ve to repent for something awful I did decades ago?

Could it be Darlene Labrosse’s family? He closed his eyes, remembering the heart-wrenching visit he’d made two years after the accident to her parents. As the still-distraught couple shed fresh tears in their living room, Max had bowed his head and apologized again, as he’d done at the memorial service.

Fear gripped his heart with the next thought. Could the ghost of Darlene Labrosse be seeking revenge? He didn’t doubt that such a ghost, if she existed, would be perfectly entitled to extract some semblance of finality. But why now? Why twenty-six years later?

The next day, he booked his flight. Two days later, his one suitcase freshly packed, Max boarded a taxi in front of his house.

Chapter Seven

October 26, 2013 at 7:14 a.m.

As she glanced through the living room window, sneaking in a peek of her departing husband, Abby Thorning experienced a sense of foreboding so striking that it left her temporarily numb.

He can’t leave! He just can’t!

Why am I thinking this? Why is my warning system triggering such qualms? I should run to him. But he’ll ask my why. Maybe it’s just everyone’s fear every time a loved one is about to take a flight. Many people update their wills just before taking a plane. I know I’m being irrational …

She darted out the door anyway.

The taxi had started to drive off, but she saw Max shoot a startled glance in her direction. His mouth opened, and the taxi screeched to a stop.

What, hon? Max said, his eyes wide as he powered down his window from the back seat.

Abby’s white knuckles clutched the smooth rim of the window as she leaned in. Uh … I was just worried about you.

Max gave her an uneasy grin. Forcing a single chuckle, he said, Thanks. Really, everything will be fine. I checked in on the airline website, and there are no major delays.

Still, a stone had settled in the pit of her stomach. I know, dear. I’m probably being silly.

Max’s eyes widened and the corner of his mouth twitched. I should be giving him more loving attention these days, just simple gestures like this. Really, I should do these quick reminders of my love, just like my parents did when I grew up.

Max’s hand clasped her left hand, his touch electrifying her and his body warmth more than generous. You’re not being silly. I really appreciate this. I’ll miss you too.

They held on to the connection for another three seconds, their faces searching each other. She didn’t know if Max’s raised eyebrows and sad eyes meant he was feeling impatient to go to the airport, remorseful of their recent marital troubles, or irritated at her sudden concern. Or, perhaps, it was a combination of all three. Maybe he simply misses me.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped back and withdrew slowly from Max’s gentle grip. Have fun in Greece, she said, trying to muster some enthusiasm in her voice.

Will do.

She then exhibited a rare, lopsided grin. Hey, don’t get sand in your bathing shorts. Gosh, did I sound that corny? Why am I cracking lame jokes now? I never do this.

Max blinked before smiling once more. Bye, he said, waving stiffly as the taxi moved away.

Abby could only stare after him, from the side of the street, as the taxi rounded the corner, escaping her view. Even so, she continued to stand, wringing her hands, her gaze fixed straight ahead but her eyes vacant in the mist of confusion and unease.

Poor Max. I know he’s been going through a mid-life crisis lately, bemoaning how his university friends have bought cottages and embarked on expensive travel, such as the guy who went on a safari in Africa and showed Max the photos. He’s feeling inadequate, now that he’s no longer bringing in the commissions he used to.

I know, I know. Garfield’s doing even worse in his career …

She scoffed.

Okay, scratch that. Not career. More like a family business, helping his dad in the repo stuff. His job doesn’t pay well. It’s a vicious circle, since Garfield’s too broke to live away from home, so he’s dependent upon his parents in too many ways. Still, he’s a sweet, decent guy, and there aren’t too many of

Reviews for Life II

[hotcha-2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What an intriguing story! I liked that Max thought he could prevent that killed a girl when he'd so drunk at sixteen whe good sense told him to call a cab. With each time travel to 1974 forty-two year old Max Thorton, a financial investment salesperson decided that twenty-six years was long enough to have his nightly nightmare, but each time he changed the past and had to return three times to his younger self to get it right and along the way he learned more about his family in the body of a sixteen year old and the eyes of a forty-year old.

[juglicerr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What would you do if you could be 22 again? I discussed this with my friends, all of us in our sixties, and we thought there were three possibilities. Would one still have one's 60-year-old mind, but a 22-year-old body; would one be 22 now, with a 22-year-old mind; or would one go back in time to when one was that age, with or without a sixty-year-old mind. We all agreed that we would not give up our 60-year old minds, but would appreciate a 22-year-old body; as to going back in time, probably not, but maybe.Max Thorning is unhappily married in the present, and bored with his career, but has two children that he dotes on. He finds a book that enables him to locate an extraterrestrial alien, Medicus Tempus or Dr. Time. He is offered the opportunity to go back to some point in his life, inhabiting that body, but with the memories of his 42-year-old self. He elects to go back to when he was sixteen, follow a different career path, fix some of the things that happened in the past, but still end up with his beloved children. It turns out that it is not so easy.Spotson picks up on some interesting issues: the new 16-year-old Max has forgotten what courses he was taking, can't remember the layout of his high school, and cleans up his room unable to bear his adolescent mess. He is able to save a relative who unknowingly has cancer, but can't fix his parents' marriage. He finds that pursuing a new career changes his friendships, knowing the future is a strain, and eventually he is off in a new timeline (Al Gore becomes president of the United States, although he clearly remembers Dubya Bush winning.) He finds it difficult to reconcile himself the the losses of the original timeline.A very provocative novel. So what would you do?

[tammydewhirst · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If you could go back to any point in your past, what point would you choose? Spotson puts a new twist on a plot line that has been used frequently in film and literature. If you had your life to do over again, what would you do differently? Max heads to his 16 year old self and makes choices that he knows impact the timeline of where his life is plotted to go. More interesting to this reader, Max and I are of an age. I’m a couple of months older than he and I relate to his character is experience of era and progression.Consistency in a very complex story-line seems to be Spotson’s strong suit. Subjective matter aside, Spotson’s style once he gets going is quite fluid and flawlessly done. I’m not the person to ask if the scientific aspects are logical. This is science fiction so I have to think there’s a lot of creativity involved but it has the ring of truth (beyond the truly far fetched aspects) and that has to be difficult to accomplish. I have a lot of respect for anyone who puts the kind of work Spotson clearly did into his novel. That said, I’m not sure that I would go back for a second read.If you like intelligent sci-fi novels, Life II may be the novel for you. Pick it up and let me know what you think.

[mirihawk · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I had a lot of trouble with this book. I took a great dislike to the protagonist halfway through the book. I really felt that he was, in some ways, stupid or thoughtless in the way he gave up his old life, and also in some of his actions as he relived his new changed life. It was hard to be on his side.

I can definitely relate to wishing I had done some things differently - but I would never go back to before I had my children, for this very reason - you would never get the same children again. However, having done so - he really needed to mourn and move on. They weren't suffering, they weren't hurting, and he had been given what he wanted. The fact that he threw away so much, even the second time around, was incomprehensible to me.

The other thing that made me a little crazy is that, instead of reading the book that he found, he decoded a location from a very small part of the text and then apparently never read the rest of it. He agreed to jump through a time window without learning enough about it.

Personally, I think he should have thrown the book away, gotten a divorce, and taken some life enrichment courses....

[puddintame-358807 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What would you do if you could be 22 again? I discussed this with my friends, all of us in our sixties, and we thought there were three possibilities. Would one still have one's 60-year-old mind, but a 22-year-old body; would one be 22 now, with a 22-year-old mind; or would one go back in time to when one was that age, with or without a sixty-year-old mind. We all agreed that we would not give up our 60-year old minds, but would appreciate a 22-year-old body; as to going back in time, probably not, but maybe.Max Thorning is unhappily married in the present, and bored with his career, but has two children that he dotes on. He finds a book that enables him to locate an extraterrestrial alien, Medicus Tempus or Dr. Time. He is offered the opportunity to go back to some point in his life, inhabiting that body, but with the memories of his 42-year-old self. He elects to go back to when he was sixteen, follow a different career path, fix some of the things that happened in the past, but still end up with his beloved children. It turns out that it is not so easy.Spotson picks up on some interesting issues: the new 16-year-old Max has forgotten what courses he was taking, can't remember the layout of his high school, and cleans up his room unable to bear his adolescent mess. He is able to save a relative who unknowingly has cancer, but can't fix his parents' marriage. He finds that pursuing a new career changes his friendships, knowing the future is a strain, and eventually he is off in a new timeline (Al Gore becomes president of the United States, although he clearly remembers Dubya Bush winning.) He finds it difficult to reconcile himself the the losses of the original timeline.A very provocative novel. So what would you do?