Read Online The time traveler's wife by Audrey Niffenegger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Audrey Niffenegger
Tags: Fiction, General, Reading Group Guide, Science-Fiction, Romance, Fantasy fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fantasy, Domestic Fiction, Fantasy - General, Time travel, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Fiction - Romance, Married People, Librarians, American First Novelists, Women art students, Romance - Time Travel
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get hit in the head with a hockey puck at Indian Head Park. It
was horrible. I found out later that she died in the hospital. And then I
started to time travel back to that day, over and over, and I wanted to warn
her mother, and I couldn't. It was like being in the audience at a movie. It
was like being a ghost. I would scream, No, take her home, don't let her near
the ice, take her away, she's going to get hurt, she's going to die, and I
would realize that the words were only in my head, and everything would go on
as before. Henry says, "You talk about changing the future, but for me
this is the past, and as far as I can tell there's nothing I can do about it. I
mean, I tried, and it was the trying that made it happen. If I hadn't said
something, you wouldn't have gotten up "
"Then why did you say anything?"
"Because I did. You will, just wait."
He shrugs. "It's like with Mom. The accident. Immer wieder." Always
again, always the same.
"Free will?"
He gets up, walks to the window, stands looking
out over the Tatingers' backyard. "I was just talking about that with a
self from 1992. He said something interesting: he said that he thinks there is
only free will when you are in time, in the present. He says in the past we can
only do what we did, and we can only be there if we were there."
"But whenever I am, that's my present.
Shouldn't I be able to decide—"
"No. Apparently not."
"What did he say about the future?"
"Well, think. You go to the future, you do
something, you come back to the present. Then the thing that you did is part of
your past. So that's probably inevitable, too."
I feel a weird combination of freedom and
despair. I'm sweating; he opens the window and cold air floods into the room.
"But then I'm not responsible for anything I do while I'm not in the
present."
He smiles. "Thank God."
"And everything has already happened."
"Sure looks that way." He runs his
hand over his face, and I see that he could use a shave. "But he said that
you have to behave as though you have free will, as though you are responsible
for what you do."
"Why? What does it matter?"
"Apparently, if you don't, things are bad.
Depressing."
"Did he know that personally?"
"Yes."
"So what happens next?"
"Dad ignores you for three weeks. And
this"—he waves his hand at the bed—"we've got to stop meeting like
this." I sigh. "Right, no problem. Anything else?" "Vivian
Teska."
Vivian is this girl in Geometry whom I lust
after. I've never said a word to her. "After class tomorrow, go up to her
and ask her out." "I don't even know her."
"Trust me." He's smirking at me in a
way that makes me wonder why on earth I would ever trust him but I want to
believe. "Okay."
"I should get going. Money, please."
I dole out twenty dollars. "More." I hand him another twenty.
"That's all I've got."
"Okay." He's dressing, pulling
clothes from the stash of things I don't mind never seeing again. "How
about a coat?" I hand him a Peruvian skiing sweater that I've always
hated. He makes a face and puts it on. We walk to the back door of the
apartment. The church bells are tolling noon. "Bye," says my self.
"Good luck," I say, oddly moved by
the sight of me embarking into the unknown, into a cold Chicago Sunday morning
he doesn't belong in. He thumps down the wooden stairs, and I turn to the
silent apartment.
Wednesday, November 17/Tuesday, September 28,
1982 (Henry is 19)
Henry: I'm in the back of a police car in Zion,
Illinois. I am wearing handcuffs and not much else. The interior of this
particular police car smells like cigarettes, leather, sweat, and another odor
I can't identify that seems endemic to police cars. The odor of
freak-outedness, perhaps. My left eye is swelling shut and the front of my body
is covered with bruises and cuts and dirt from being tackled by the larger of
the two policemen in an empty lot full of broken glass. The policemen are
standing outside the car
was horrible. I found out later that she died in the hospital. And then I
started to time travel back to that day, over and over, and I wanted to warn
her mother, and I couldn't. It was like being in the audience at a movie. It
was like being a ghost. I would scream, No, take her home, don't let her near
the ice, take her away, she's going to get hurt, she's going to die, and I
would realize that the words were only in my head, and everything would go on
as before. Henry says, "You talk about changing the future, but for me
this is the past, and as far as I can tell there's nothing I can do about it. I
mean, I tried, and it was the trying that made it happen. If I hadn't said
something, you wouldn't have gotten up "
"Then why did you say anything?"
"Because I did. You will, just wait."
He shrugs. "It's like with Mom. The accident. Immer wieder." Always
again, always the same.
"Free will?"
He gets up, walks to the window, stands looking
out over the Tatingers' backyard. "I was just talking about that with a
self from 1992. He said something interesting: he said that he thinks there is
only free will when you are in time, in the present. He says in the past we can
only do what we did, and we can only be there if we were there."
"But whenever I am, that's my present.
Shouldn't I be able to decide—"
"No. Apparently not."
"What did he say about the future?"
"Well, think. You go to the future, you do
something, you come back to the present. Then the thing that you did is part of
your past. So that's probably inevitable, too."
I feel a weird combination of freedom and
despair. I'm sweating; he opens the window and cold air floods into the room.
"But then I'm not responsible for anything I do while I'm not in the
present."
He smiles. "Thank God."
"And everything has already happened."
"Sure looks that way." He runs his
hand over his face, and I see that he could use a shave. "But he said that
you have to behave as though you have free will, as though you are responsible
for what you do."
"Why? What does it matter?"
"Apparently, if you don't, things are bad.
Depressing."
"Did he know that personally?"
"Yes."
"So what happens next?"
"Dad ignores you for three weeks. And
this"—he waves his hand at the bed—"we've got to stop meeting like
this." I sigh. "Right, no problem. Anything else?" "Vivian
Teska."
Vivian is this girl in Geometry whom I lust
after. I've never said a word to her. "After class tomorrow, go up to her
and ask her out." "I don't even know her."
"Trust me." He's smirking at me in a
way that makes me wonder why on earth I would ever trust him but I want to
believe. "Okay."
"I should get going. Money, please."
I dole out twenty dollars. "More." I hand him another twenty.
"That's all I've got."
"Okay." He's dressing, pulling
clothes from the stash of things I don't mind never seeing again. "How
about a coat?" I hand him a Peruvian skiing sweater that I've always
hated. He makes a face and puts it on. We walk to the back door of the
apartment. The church bells are tolling noon. "Bye," says my self.
"Good luck," I say, oddly moved by
the sight of me embarking into the unknown, into a cold Chicago Sunday morning
he doesn't belong in. He thumps down the wooden stairs, and I turn to the
silent apartment.
Wednesday, November 17/Tuesday, September 28,
1982 (Henry is 19)
Henry: I'm in the back of a police car in Zion,
Illinois. I am wearing handcuffs and not much else. The interior of this
particular police car smells like cigarettes, leather, sweat, and another odor
I can't identify that seems endemic to police cars. The odor of
freak-outedness, perhaps. My left eye is swelling shut and the front of my body
is covered with bruises and cuts and dirt from being tackled by the larger of
the two policemen in an empty lot full of broken glass. The policemen are
standing outside the car
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