Sarah Meet Sarah

by Susan A. Anthony

Sarah dragged open the plastic door of the port-a-loo, fighting against the spring trying to slam it shut. She hoped there was a tropical watermelon scented diffuser in the urinal. Her prayer was answered. Pulling up the lid of the toilet, an array of other people’s expelled bowel contents greeted her. She parked herself atop the steaming pile about to check her email. No phone. 

She thought she had probably left the phone in her bag two hours before. The bag she’d shoved under a long steel bench before she put on a neon orange plastic apron, tied back her grey hair and completed her uniform with orange matching gloves. She was ready to shove her hands into scorching hot water for her volunteer shift at the folk festival, cleaning dishes.

Outside her toilet refuge, music blasted. Songs of complaint. Petty disputes. Puny cries to stop whatever bothered the performer now. The same performer who she watched tear into their volunteer guide about the perceived insult to him that there was no meat at the festival.

Where were the sixties? Flowers in the barrels of guns? The only similarity was ditching their bras.

Where was her love? Holed up in a hospital bed, fading.

Sarah gathered her face in her hands and took a deep breath. Tropical watermelon was replaced with the bitter smell of disinfectant. She lifted her head. To her right, the green diffuser was replaced by a solid white urinal cake with a swirl of yellow piss circling it.

“Hurry up, Sarah,” said a familiar voice. “We’ve got to get away from here. I think they saw us come in.”

Around her, white tiles were chipped and cracked. The familiar plastic of the port-a-loo gone. “Jon?” she said, in disbelief.

“Well, I hope so. I don’t want anyone else taking a piss next to my wife especially when she’s taking a piss too. Come on, Sarah.  Get your knickers up.” He laughed. It was usually the other direction he was interested in.

Sarah scrambled up. Jon grabbed her hand. The sinks were more broken than the tiles. She looked for a hand-sanitizer dispenser.

“Dream on,” said Jon, tugging her. “We need to get past them and to the lab. I have a plan.” Outside she heard screams and shouts.

Jon always had a plan. His current plan to dodge the draft was time travel. Sarah laughed when he first suggested it until she saw the H.G. Wells contraption in his laboratory. This was where they were headed. Except they had to pass a mob of angry protesters. She remembered the sixties. Where there were protesters, there were troops with bullets, hopefully rubber, possibly live ammunition. Sarah was scared enough to hope for rubber.

They stepped into the bright light of a full moon. Jon pulled her into the shadows. Ahead, men with long black sticks, vests and guns poked into door wells and bushes. Jon pulled her into a gap she could not see, sliding his hand over her face. He hissed a warning. He stepped backwards, pulling her with him. One arm brushing the wall. “Found it,” he said. They paused, waiting for the armed men to pass them by.

“Shit,” Jon said. The men did not pass them by. He pulled at the door, flooding the alley with light. Shouts went up. Jon dragged Sarah inside. Slamming the door shut.

“Run,” he bellowed. She recognized the university buildings. Jon’s lab was six floors up. She bounded up the stairs, thrilled at her new found energy. Jon bolted the alley door and raced after her.

As they passed a glass door, she caught sight of herself. Long brown hair. It was then she noticed her clothes. Shaggy cropped jean shorts. Tanned legs, no veins visible. Jesus sandals, well worn. A blouse of thinnest cotton, and heaven help her, no bra.

Lightly panting they made it to the lab. In the middle of the lab, covered in old sheets, was the time machine.

He turned, “Who won the Blue Jays game today? Toronto or Boston?”

“No clue,” she said to his obvious disappointment.

“It’s important, Sarah.”

“The Browns beat the Jets. That surprised everyone. Does that help?”

“Perfect, thanks,” he said.

He pulled away the sheets, dragged a cable to the wall and plugged in the device. It whirred into life.

“I’ll be back,” he said, grinning as if he’d made a joke. He disappeared. A moment later, he was back. “I need to get you home,” he said. “You’ll be missed. You look great by the way. I forgot how long your legs are in shorts. Come here and give your old man one of your hot kisses.”

Sarah climbed up onto his lap. After a long kiss, he snuggled his face into her shirt. “No bra. I forgot what that felt like,” he said, wistfully.

“Right, baby, hold on tight. Oh, and two things.  Don’t close the credit union account, ever. Promise?”

She nodded.

“Second, don’t trust Dr. Hansen. Get a second opinion.”

She nodded again.

She blacked out somewhere and when she awoke, she was back in the port-a-loo. The smell of tropical watermelon filled her nostrils.

Cute dream, she thought.

Later, after her folk festival volunteer shift, she headed to the hospital. Jon was in bed propped up on pillows, his breathing ragged and shallow.

The doctor came in, “Hello, I’m Dr. Hansen. May I have a word?” He laid out the prognosis. It was brutal. “What questions do you have?”

“I’d like a second opinion.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Dr. Hansen, menace in his voice.

“A second opinion,” said Sarah, forcefully.

Jon stirred on the pillows, the tone of her voice nudging him out of his slumber.

“If you insist. But you’ll have to find it.” Dr. Hansen stormed out.

A nurse came in. “Everything alright? Only I noticed Dr. Hansen leaving…”

“Who is the best doctor in the country for my husband’s condition?” asked Sarah. 

The nurse came closer. “Dr. Armitage.” She pulled out her phone and found her. Armitage, Sarah’s last name before she married Jon. She hoped it was a good sign. The nurse dialled. “One minute. I have Sarah Windsor for Dr. Armitage.” She passed the phone to Sarah.

“Sarah?” said the voice.

“Dr. Armitage?”

“Where are you?

“Don’t you want to know why I’m calling?”

“I already know. Where are you, Sarah?”

“West Mount Catholic on…”

The doctor interrupted her. “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.” And she hung up.

Less than thirty minutes later, as Sarah dozed, her face resting on Jon’s hand, she heard a familiar voice. It was Jon from her dream.  At least a dead ringer for him. Behind him, a bigger shock, a woman in a white coat, introduced herself as Dr. Armitage. Dr. Armitage was a doppelganger for Sarah’s twenty something self. The man with her was also Dr. Armitage, her husband as it happened. 

The two doctors placed themselves either side of Jon. Sarah’s face was a sea of confusion.

“I’ll let my husband explain. Please call him Jonathan it will be less confusing. He’s more an engineer than I,” and the doctor winked at her husband.

“Quantum entanglement,” Jonathan said.

“Pardon?” said Sarah.

Jonathan continued, “We are who you think we are. We are you and Jon. Do you remember waking up in the toilet?”

Sarah was shocked, “Yes. Today you mean?”

“Yes, today,” said Dr. Armitage.

Jonathan picked up again, “I know you’re more soft science.” 

Dr. Armitage nudged him in the belly. “Medicine is not a soft science.”

“Oh,” said Sarah, “My husband and I argue about that all the time.” And her hand came to her mouth smothering a cry. Dr. Armitage took Sarah’s hand, brought it to her mouth and kissed it.

 “If it’s alright with the Sarahs, now you’ve been properly introduced in the matter of how your husbands feel about soft science, I’ll continue,” said Jonathan. “The key science in play is gravitational waves, fields with a nice blend of chance and the wheel of fortune. Many instances of time are sliced together. Like slices for an electron microscope. The key is to keep the entrance to the field open. This is where you come in.” He nodded at Sarah.

Sarah scrunched up her face.

“It’s time travel, Sarah,” said Jonathan.

“But we can’t exist in the same place. Won’t it cause a …”

Jonathan jumped in, “Paradox? No. You see us and we see you. It’s fine. This is not science fiction. There are no consequences to time travel because there are always consequences, to everything. Time travel is a tiny wave in an ocean of waves. Chance is a crap shoot. There are many lives within a lifespan. The trick is to maximise the lifespan. This is where you come in.”

Dr. Armitage stepped in to the conversation. “Dr. Hansen has just given you terrible news. We can reverse Jon’s condition. In one of our lifespans, Sarah, we got you to develop a cure for Jon. We have the cure with us. We can extend his life by about twenty years. This means we have a possible ninety-four years to play with in time travel. We believe we only need one live Jon at a time and we can’t lose this one.”

“But that works for Jon, but what about you? For the Sarahs?” and Sarah pointed at Dr. Armitage.

“In every scenario we have seen, you fall ill the day after Jon dies. I think we both know that without Jon we will die of a broken heart.”

Sarah nodded. “How did you discover time travel? Jon was just playing with it at university. Did he really get it to work?”

Jonathan answered. “We didn’t know we couldn’t so we cut across the research and found a way. A few well-placed bets like the Browns beating the Jets helped us load up the credit union account to fund our experiments.”

Dr. Armitage approached the drip leading into Jon’s arm. Sarah grabbed her hand to stop her. “You won’t last forever, Sarah, but this is the only chance.  Isn’t that why you called me?” 

Sarah released her hand. Dr. Armitage injected a bright green fluid into the IV. “If anyone asks, tell them we were just passing through and provided some guidance. They don’t need to know about the injection.”

Jonathan patted the sleeping Jon on the head, “Good luck, old man.”

Sarah took Dr. Armitage into a hug. “Thank you.”

“Watch out for the port-a-loos,” says Jonathan. “But if one of us does stumble across each other again, know that you will know your Jon.”

Sarah remembered what the Jon she met earlier in the day had said, “No bra. I forgot what that felt like.” 

The doctors left, but before they did, Jonathan whispered, “Red Sox beat the Yankees in the 10th inning on Saturday. Good luck.”

Sarah sat holding Jon’s hand. She felt it stir. 

Another nurse came into the room. “Oh, I’m glad he’s back. We thought we lost him earlier today. He disappeared for a while.  But he’s back now. That’s the main thing.” And she scurried away.

Jon opened his eyes. “I did it, Sarah. I got the time machine to work.”

“I know,” she said, “and you like me without a bra.”

He laughed, his first laugh in a month.

“Now that you know how it works. Can we go on our own adventures? Surf our own gravitational wave? And also, how did you find me?”

“That we can,” said Jon, “I may need a couple more days in this place, but then I’ll be ready for action. Besides there is the matter of the lifespan travel restriction. I’ve already got an idea how to fix that.

“As to how I found you in that port-a-loo, your cell phone.”

“But I left it in my bag?”

“Did you?” and he winked.

“Oh yes, you’re right. I always shove my phone in my bra at festivals. Habit.” 

Sarah kissed his hand, pushed her hands behind her back and slid off her bra. Her phone fell out. Jon watched as she laid her body across his chest.

“Oh, I have missed that,” said Jon, wrapping his free arm around her shoulder, pulling her tight to him.

Two days later, Jon was discharged. Misdiagnosis claimed Dr. Hansen. 

Sarah took out her phone and placed a bet on the Red Sox game due to start later that day. Just enough of a bet to fund their next set of research, breaking the lifespan travel restriction.

Sarah Meet Sarah

by Susan A. Anthony

Sarah dragged open the plastic door of the port-a-loo, fighting against the spring trying to slam it shut. She hoped there was a tropical watermelon scented diffuser in the urinal. Her prayer was answered. Pulling up the lid of the toilet, an array of other people’s expelled bowel contents greeted her. She parked herself atop the steaming pile about to check her email. No phone. 

She thought she had probably left the phone in her bag two hours before. The bag she’d shoved under a long steel bench before she put on a neon orange plastic apron, tied back her grey hair and completed her uniform with orange matching gloves. She was ready to shove her hands into scorching hot water for her volunteer shift at the folk festival, cleaning dishes.

Outside her toilet refuge, music blasted. Songs of complaint. Petty disputes. Puny cries to stop whatever bothered the performer now. The same performer who she watched tear into their volunteer guide about the perceived insult to him that there was no meat at the festival.

Where were the sixties? Flowers in the barrels of guns? The only similarity was ditching their bras.

Where was her love? Holed up in a hospital bed, fading.

Sarah gathered her face in her hands and took a deep breath. Tropical watermelon was replaced with the bitter smell of disinfectant. She lifted her head. To her right, the green diffuser was replaced by a solid white urinal cake with a swirl of yellow piss circling it.

“Hurry up, Sarah,” said a familiar voice. “We’ve got to get away from here. I think they saw us come in.”

Around her, white tiles were chipped and cracked. The familiar plastic of the port-a-loo gone. “Jon?” she said, in disbelief.

“Well, I hope so. I don’t want anyone else taking a piss next to my wife especially when she’s taking a piss too. Come on, Sarah.  Get your knickers up.” He laughed. It was usually the other direction he was interested in.

Sarah scrambled up. Jon grabbed her hand. The sinks were more broken than the tiles. She looked for a hand-sanitizer dispenser.

“Dream on,” said Jon, tugging her. “We need to get past them and to the lab. I have a plan.” Outside she heard screams and shouts.

Jon always had a plan. His current plan to dodge the draft was time travel. Sarah laughed when he first suggested it until she saw the H.G. Wells contraption in his laboratory. This was where they were headed. Except they had to pass a mob of angry protesters. She remembered the sixties. Where there were protesters, there were troops with bullets, hopefully rubber, possibly live ammunition. Sarah was scared enough to hope for rubber.

They stepped into the bright light of a full moon. Jon pulled her into the shadows. Ahead, men with long black sticks, vests and guns poked into door wells and bushes. Jon pulled her into a gap she could not see, sliding his hand over her face. He hissed a warning. He stepped backwards, pulling her with him. One arm brushing the wall. “Found it,” he said. They paused, waiting for the armed men to pass them by.

“Shit,” Jon said. The men did not pass them by. He pulled at the door, flooding the alley with light. Shouts went up. Jon dragged Sarah inside. Slamming the door shut.

“Run,” he bellowed. She recognized the university buildings. Jon’s lab was six floors up. She bounded up the stairs, thrilled at her new found energy. Jon bolted the alley door and raced after her.

As they passed a glass door, she caught sight of herself. Long brown hair. It was then she noticed her clothes. Shaggy cropped jean shorts. Tanned legs, no veins visible. Jesus sandals, well worn. A blouse of thinnest cotton, and heaven help her, no bra.

Lightly panting they made it to the lab. In the middle of the lab, covered in old sheets, was the time machine.

He turned, “Who won the Blue Jays game today? Toronto or Boston?”

“No clue,” she said to his obvious disappointment.

“It’s important, Sarah.”

“The Browns beat the Jets. That surprised everyone. Does that help?”

“Perfect, thanks,” he said.

He pulled away the sheets, dragged a cable to the wall and plugged in the device. It whirred into life.

“I’ll be back,” he said, grinning as if he’d made a joke. He disappeared. A moment later, he was back. “I need to get you home,” he said. “You’ll be missed. You look great by the way. I forgot how long your legs are in shorts. Come here and give your old man one of your hot kisses.”

Sarah climbed up onto his lap. After a long kiss, he snuggled his face into her shirt. “No bra. I forgot what that felt like,” he said, wistfully.

“Right, baby, hold on tight. Oh, and two things.  Don’t close the credit union account, ever. Promise?”

She nodded.

“Second, don’t trust Dr. Hansen. Get a second opinion.”

She nodded again.

She blacked out somewhere and when she awoke, she was back in the port-a-loo. The smell of tropical watermelon filled her nostrils.

Cute dream, she thought.

Later, after her folk festival volunteer shift, she headed to the hospital. Jon was in bed propped up on pillows, his breathing ragged and shallow.

The doctor came in, “Hello, I’m Dr. Hansen. May I have a word?” He laid out the prognosis. It was brutal. “What questions do you have?”

“I’d like a second opinion.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Dr. Hansen, menace in his voice.

“A second opinion,” said Sarah, forcefully.

Jon stirred on the pillows, the tone of her voice nudging him out of his slumber.

“If you insist. But you’ll have to find it.” Dr. Hansen stormed out.

A nurse came in. “Everything alright? Only I noticed Dr. Hansen leaving…”

“Who is the best doctor in the country for my husband’s condition?” asked Sarah. 

The nurse came closer. “Dr. Armitage.” She pulled out her phone and found her. Armitage, Sarah’s last name before she married Jon. She hoped it was a good sign. The nurse dialled. “One minute. I have Sarah Windsor for Dr. Armitage.” She passed the phone to Sarah.

“Sarah?” said the voice.

“Dr. Armitage?”

“Where are you?

“Don’t you want to know why I’m calling?”

“I already know. Where are you, Sarah?”

“West Mount Catholic on…”

The doctor interrupted her. “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.” And she hung up.

Less than thirty minutes later, as Sarah dozed, her face resting on Jon’s hand, she heard a familiar voice. It was Jon from her dream.  At least a dead ringer for him. Behind him, a bigger shock, a woman in a white coat, introduced herself as Dr. Armitage. Dr. Armitage was a doppelganger for Sarah’s twenty something self. The man with her was also Dr. Armitage, her husband as it happened. 

The two doctors placed themselves either side of Jon. Sarah’s face was a sea of confusion.

“I’ll let my husband explain. Please call him Jonathan it will be less confusing. He’s more an engineer than I,” and the doctor winked at her husband.

“Quantum entanglement,” Jonathan said.

“Pardon?” said Sarah.

Jonathan continued, “We are who you think we are. We are you and Jon. Do you remember waking up in the toilet?”

Sarah was shocked, “Yes. Today you mean?”

“Yes, today,” said Dr. Armitage.

Jonathan picked up again, “I know you’re more soft science.” 

Dr. Armitage nudged him in the belly. “Medicine is not a soft science.”

“Oh,” said Sarah, “My husband and I argue about that all the time.” And her hand came to her mouth smothering a cry. Dr. Armitage took Sarah’s hand, brought it to her mouth and kissed it.

 “If it’s alright with the Sarahs, now you’ve been properly introduced in the matter of how your husbands feel about soft science, I’ll continue,” said Jonathan. “The key science in play is gravitational waves, fields with a nice blend of chance and the wheel of fortune. Many instances of time are sliced together. Like slices for an electron microscope. The key is to keep the entrance to the field open. This is where you come in.” He nodded at Sarah.

Sarah scrunched up her face.

“It’s time travel, Sarah,” said Jonathan.

“But we can’t exist in the same place. Won’t it cause a …”

Jonathan jumped in, “Paradox? No. You see us and we see you. It’s fine. This is not science fiction. There are no consequences to time travel because there are always consequences, to everything. Time travel is a tiny wave in an ocean of waves. Chance is a crap shoot. There are many lives within a lifespan. The trick is to maximise the lifespan. This is where you come in.”

Dr. Armitage stepped in to the conversation. “Dr. Hansen has just given you terrible news. We can reverse Jon’s condition. In one of our lifespans, Sarah, we got you to develop a cure for Jon. We have the cure with us. We can extend his life by about twenty years. This means we have a possible ninety-four years to play with in time travel. We believe we only need one live Jon at a time and we can’t lose this one.”

“But that works for Jon, but what about you? For the Sarahs?” and Sarah pointed at Dr. Armitage.

“In every scenario we have seen, you fall ill the day after Jon dies. I think we both know that without Jon we will die of a broken heart.”

Sarah nodded. “How did you discover time travel? Jon was just playing with it at university. Did he really get it to work?”

Jonathan answered. “We didn’t know we couldn’t so we cut across the research and found a way. A few well-placed bets like the Browns beating the Jets helped us load up the credit union account to fund our experiments.”

Dr. Armitage approached the drip leading into Jon’s arm. Sarah grabbed her hand to stop her. “You won’t last forever, Sarah, but this is the only chance.  Isn’t that why you called me?” 

Sarah released her hand. Dr. Armitage injected a bright green fluid into the IV. “If anyone asks, tell them we were just passing through and provided some guidance. They don’t need to know about the injection.”

Jonathan patted the sleeping Jon on the head, “Good luck, old man.”

Sarah took Dr. Armitage into a hug. “Thank you.”

“Watch out for the port-a-loos,” says Jonathan. “But if one of us does stumble across each other again, know that you will know your Jon.”

Sarah remembered what the Jon she met earlier in the day had said, “No bra. I forgot what that felt like.” 

The doctors left, but before they did, Jonathan whispered, “Red Sox beat the Yankees in the 10th inning on Saturday. Good luck.”

Sarah sat holding Jon’s hand. She felt it stir. 

Another nurse came into the room. “Oh, I’m glad he’s back. We thought we lost him earlier today. He disappeared for a while.  But he’s back now. That’s the main thing.” And she scurried away.

Jon opened his eyes. “I did it, Sarah. I got the time machine to work.”

“I know,” she said, “and you like me without a bra.”

He laughed, his first laugh in a month.

“Now that you know how it works. Can we go on our own adventures? Surf our own gravitational wave? And also, how did you find me?”

“That we can,” said Jon, “I may need a couple more days in this place, but then I’ll be ready for action. Besides there is the matter of the lifespan travel restriction. I’ve already got an idea how to fix that.

“As to how I found you in that port-a-loo, your cell phone.”

“But I left it in my bag?”

“Did you?” and he winked.

“Oh yes, you’re right. I always shove my phone in my bra at festivals. Habit.” 

Sarah kissed his hand, pushed her hands behind her back and slid off her bra. Her phone fell out. Jon watched as she laid her body across his chest.

“Oh, I have missed that,” said Jon, wrapping his free arm around her shoulder, pulling her tight to him.

Two days later, Jon was discharged. Misdiagnosis claimed Dr. Hansen. 

Sarah took out her phone and placed a bet on the Red Sox game due to start later that day. Just enough of a bet to fund their next set of research, breaking the lifespan travel restriction.