Prologue (Camille, Age 25)

Prologue (Camille, age 25)

I remember the first time I saw myself. I was a little older a little less... perky. It’s one thing to think of yourself in the future, but, like certain abstract theorems of particle physics, there were certain realities of middle age that I could never truly picture in my time as a graduate student. My attention was elsewhere, on wine, and love, and detecting tachyon particles.

The thing about aging, and time in general, is that it sneaks up on you: one day you’re a child, then you’re an adult, and you have no idea when it happened. Time moves unseen. Gradually, you become a bit bigger, your breasts start to come in, boys begin to look at you, and you at them, but not all in one day. Puberty is traumatic enough over the course of years. Can you imagine if it took place overnight? I figured becoming a woman of a certain age would be even more subtle: a gray hair here, a little line about the eye. I didn’t expect to wake up in a cold and unfamiliar metal room, and see my aged reflection.

In a way, it was the greatest moment of my life, when I looked into the mirror-side of what I assumed to be a two-way glass, to see myself, to recognize myself. That brief moment when I realized we had done it. We had discovered the key to time travel. Why else would this woman who looked so much like me – and thankfully, not too much like my mother – be here, if we hadn’t done it? Sending matter through time we thought too improbable, but we thought we could find a way to cheat the speed of light, to send information to different points in time.

In the next moment, I had a few more realizations. First, I realized and accepted my own vanity. Rousing from an unexpected bout of unconsciousness, coming face to face with yourself with crows feet would do that to you. I was beautiful, and I wondered what my middle-aged self was doing in my body, and if I would return to it. Second, I felt my throat go dry when I understood that she would only have gone back if something had gone terribly wrong. I wouldn’t have taken the risk, and I doubt myself twenty – hopefully more like twenty-five – years on would have done if something terrible wasn’t on the horizon. Or had already happened, to her if not to me.

I peered into the mirror to see if I could catch something on the other side. An outline, perhaps, but no.

“What happened? Tell me what happened, and I can help! Who are you? Who are you?”

Next Chapter: Chapter 2 (Camille, Age 27)