Read Online The time traveler's wife by Audrey Niffenegger - Free Book Online Page A

once,
feel again the feeling of losing the edges of my self, of seeing the admixture
of future and present for the first time. But I'm too accustomed, too comfortable
with it, and so I am left on the outside, remembering the wonder of being nine
and suddenly seeing, knowing, that my friend, guide, brother was me. Me, only
me. The loneliness of it.
    "You're me."
    "When you are older."
    "But...what about the others?"
    "Other time travelers?"
    He nods.
    "I don't think there are any. I mean, I've
never met any others."
    A tear gathers at the edge of his left eye.
When I was little, I imagined a whole society of time travelers, of which
Henry, my teacher, was an emissary, sent to train me for eventual inclusion in
this vast camaraderie. I still feel like a castaway, the last member of a once
numerous species. It was as though Robinson Crusoe discovered the telltale
footprint on the beach and then realized that it was his own. My self, small as
a leaf, thin as water, begins to cry. I hold him, hold me, for a long time.
Later, we order hot chocolate from room service, and watch Johnny Carson. Henry
falls asleep with the light on. As the show ends I look over at him and he's
gone, vanished back to my old room in my dad's apartment, standing sleep-addled
beside my old bed, falling into it, gratefully. I turn off the TV and the
bedside lamp. 1973 street noises drift in the open window. I want to go home. I
lie on the hard hotel bed, desolate, alone. I still don't understand. Sunday,
December 10, 1978 (Henry is 15, and 15)
     
    Henry: I'm in my bedroom with my self. He's
here from next March. We are doing what we often do when we have a little
privacy, when it's cold out, when both of us are past puberty and haven't quite
gotten around to actual girls yet. I think most people would do this, if they
had the sort of opportunities I have. I mean, I'm not gay or anything. It's
late Sunday morning. I can hear the bells ringing at St. Joe's. Dad came home
late last night; I think he must have stopped at the Exchequer after the
concert; he was so drunk he fell down on the stairs and I had to haul him into
the apartment and put him to bed. He coughs and I hear him messing around in
the kitchen. My other self seems distracted; he keeps looking at the door.
"What?" I ask him. "Nothing," he says. I get up and check
the lock. " No," he says. He seems to be making a huge effort to
speak. "Come on," I say. I hear Dad's heavy step right outside my
door. "Henry?" he says, and the knob of the door slowly turns and I
abruptly realize that I have inadvertently unlocked the door and Henry leaps
for it but it's too late: Dad sticks his head in and there we are, in flagrante
delicto. "Oh," he says. His eyes are wide and he looks completely
disgusted. "Jesus, Henry." He shuts the door and I hear him walking
back to his room. I throw my self a reproachful glare as I pull on a pair of
jeans and a T-shirt. I walk down the hall to Dad's bedroom. His door is shut. I
knock. No answer. I wait. "Dad?" Silence. I open the door, stand in
the doorway. "Dad?" He's sitting with his back to me, on his bed. He
continues to sit, and I stand there for a while, but I can't bring myself to
walk into the room. Finally I shut the door, walk back to my own room.
    "That was completely and totally your
fault," I tell my self severely. He is wearing jeans, sitting on the chair
with his head in his hands. "You knew, you knew that was going to happen
and you didn't say a word. Where is your sense of self preservation? What the
hell is wrong with you? What use is it knowing the future if you can't at least
protect us from humiliating little scenes—"
    "Shut up " Henry croaks. "Just
shut up."
    "I will not shut up," I say, my voice
rising. "I mean, all you had to do was say—"
    "Listen." He looks up at me with
resignation. "It was like.. .it was like that day at the ice-skating
rink."
    "Oh. Shit." A couple years ago, I saw
a little girl