December 15, 2000
Jason Treborn, lying down on a gurney, is unloaded from an ambulance by a team of paramedics and rushed inside a hospital. He is barely aware of what is happening as the gurney's wheels squeakily roll. One of the paramedics places a mask over his face, which is connected by a rubber tube to a squeezable plastic container.
He is rushed into an emergency operating room. The doctors and nurses lift him up and place on the table. One of the doctors inserts a plastic tube in his mouth even as an electrocardiogram is attached to his chest.
"Okay, it's in," says the doctor. "I've got breath sounds."
"Blood pressure is at sixty Pel," says a nurse.
"Clothes off," says a medic.
"Pressure's dropping."
Jason's mind shifts from the operating room.
It is Saturday morning. He is in the living room of his old home in Harrison, New York.
"Pressure is forty Pel."
"Look at that," says Evan, watching the television show Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. "That is cool."
The doctors watch the blood pressure monitor.
"Damn it, his pressure's still dropping!"
Jason's bedroom. His wife, Andrea, appearing to be in her early thirties.
"I really have to tell you something," she says.
"He's fibrillating," says a doctor.
An emergency nurse straps tape to his chest.
"Clear!" a doctor says as the paddles are applied to his chest, delivering an electrical shock.
Images flash by. Of his life, memories of the current timelines and of timelines that once were.
"Flatline. Get me epinephrine."
A doctor takes a syringe full of epinephrine, sticking the needle right into Jason's heart. "It's in," he says.
"No pulse," says another doctor, looking at the flat line on the electrocardiogram.
"Let's shock him one more time and then quit."
The paddles are applied, and Jason's chest convulses. More images flash by in his mind. Sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and touches.
"We have a pulse."
Oooooooooooooo
A telephone rings, and a three hundred pound spiky-haired young man going by the name of Thumper answers the telephone.
"Yo, Evan!" he calls out. "For you! It's your mom."
"Okay," replies Evan Treborn. He walks to the desk in the dorm room he shares with Thumper and places the receiver by his head.
"Hi, Mom," says Evan. "When are you coming to help pick up my stuff here."
"Evan," says his mother, Andrea. "Your dad, he's in the hospital."
"What? Why's he there?"
"I don't know. He collapsed in his office. He's in intensive care now."
"Mom, I have to get there."
"I'm here at the hospital. Your Aunt Meaghan can go help you unpack your stuff. I'll call you if something comes up."
"Okay." Evan hangs up the phone and sits down on his bed. He looks out at the landscape of the dormitory buildings. Some of the residents are moving their belongings to their parents' vehicles.
He bends down his head and places his hands on his face.
Oooooooooo
"The financial world was rocked today when Jason Treborn, chairman of Temporal Financial Services and one of the leading experts on the securities markets, collapsed in his office this afternoon," says a C-NBC reporter. "Doctors have not yet determined the cause of Treborn's collapse. We will bring you up to date as we get news on his condition."
Ooooooooooooooo
December 16, 2000
Jason lies on the bed in the intensive care unit, watched over by a nurse. Machines monitor his heartbeat and breathing. Tubes are attached to him intravaneously.
Just outside in an observation room, Andrea and Evan peer through a window. Both of them wear heavy coats over their sweaters.
"Let's go, Evan," says Andrea. "Nothing more we can do here."
They leave the intensive care unit and head through hallways and elevators to the exit.
In the lobby Andrea sees a man wearing a heavy coat over his torso and a hat on his head. She recognizes him as Bob Schnaufer, the CEO of Jason's company.
"Mr. Schnaufer," says Andrea.
"Hi, Mrs. Treborn," says Bob Schnaufer. "I know this is tough. How is Mr. Treborn doing?"
"Only immediate family is allowed," says Andrea. "Please, Mr. Schnaufer."
"I only ask that you contact me at my office if something comes up. I've worked with your husband for twelve years now."
"Okay, Mr. Schnaufer. Evan or I could do that."
"Thank you, Mrs. Treborn. May God bless you."
Schnaufer turns around, leaving through the main entrance.
Ooooooooooo
December 17, 2000
Jason awakes, and the first thing he sees is white. He notices something firm pressing on his back.
He knows that he is not home.
"Hi there," says a nurse, clad in white. "You're awake. You're at a hospital in White Plains."
"How did I get here?" asks Jason. Last thing he remembers, he was in his office.
"You collapsed in your office. You were in a coma for over a day."
"How?" asks the forty-one-year-old business magnate.
"We need to run some more tests. I can go get the doctor."
Minutes later, a man wearing a white coat enters the hospital room.
"Mr. Treborn," he says. "Dr. Weltman."
"So what happened?" asks Jason.
"We are not sure yet. I suspect it's stress from your job. There are some tests we can do right now." Dr. Weltman waves a Bic pen around. "So you can see, at least."
"And hear and talk," replies Jason. "What about my personal belongings?"
"Your wife picked them up. Now I want you to wiggle your fingers. Can you do it?"
Jason extends his arm, and then moves each of the fingers of his hand. "Okay."
"Do you feel any numbness?"
"No."
"Now wiggle your toes."
Jason extends a foot, moving each of his ten toes.
"At least you still have basic motor functions."
"What now?"
"We've drawn blood and sent it to the labs for analysis," replies Weltman. "I think a CAT scan is in order."
"CAT scan?"
"Computed axial tomography. We take X-ray images from various angles to create a 3-D image."
"Sure," says Jason.
Twenty minutes later, Jason is wheeled in a wheelchair to a huge room with all sorts of huge, fancy equipment.
"Just lie down here, Mr. Treborn," says the doctor. "Stay still, please."
Jason lies down on this bed-sized platform, which moves him until his head is inside the apparatus. A technicians then presses some buttons on a console, and there is this humming sound. Jason lies inside the machine for a few minutes.
"We're done, Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Weltman. "You can check out of the hospital now. I do advise you take a few weeks off."
"A few weeks off?" asks Jason. "I have my company to run."
"I'm sure it can run without you having to be there every day," says the doctor. "Besides, the Christmas season is coming up."
"Sure," says Jason.
Oooooooooooo
The black Lincoln Continental pulls up to the driveway of the Treborn home. Andrea Treborn shuts off the engine of the car.
"You haven't said a word since we left the hospital," says Andrea.
"It's just that I've been through a lot," says Jason. "and now I'm being told that I have to take leave from the company."
"The doctor's right, you know. Besides, Christmas is next week."
"You know how it is, Andrea. I don't start my Christmas break until Christmas Eve."
"Well, you're starting your Christmas break right now."
"Sure," says Jason, pulling the inside handle of the car door.
"I know that this coma has something to do with your flashbacks," says Andrea.
"Why would you say that?" asks her husband. "It could have been stress from work, like the doctor said."
"Who else can travel back in time by looking at pictures?" says Andrea. "And who knows exactly what that can do to a person?"
"It's how I make a living," stresses Jason.
"We have enough, Jason. I think we can get along fine for a few weeks without you trying to give yourself tomorrow's stock prices."
"You..you're just trying to hinder me."
Andrea steps out of the Continental. "Evan just got back home from college. I think we should spend at least some time with him."
"Okay," says Jason, stepping out of the car and walking towards the house.
Ooooooooooooo
December 21, 2000
Jason and Andrea enter the hospital in White Plains. An orderly tells them where they can meet with Dr. Weltman.
The two of them enter a small office. It has stuff typical of doctor's office – a personal computer, a Rolodex, diplomas hanging on the office walls.
And there is a CAT scan picture on the desk.
"So what is this about?" asks Jason.
"The CAT scan picture," says Dr. Weltman, sitting behind the desk. "We found something unusual."
"Yeah, I heard that over the phone. Why couldn't we discuss this over the phone?"
"I thought it best for you to see this. Don't worry; I'm not charging extra for this visit."
"What's wrong with him?" asks Andrea.
"We've compared your husband's brain scan with that of other patients. Take a look."
Jason looks at the scan of his brain as well as that of other CAT scans. "I notice something different."
"What we've discovered, Mr. Treborn, was hemorrhaging of the outer lining of the cerebral cortex."
"You mean…you mean I had a stroke?" asks Jason.
"It would seem like it. It is unusual, since your cholesterol count is actually below average. We could do another test on the blood drawn from you, in case the lab missed any toxin. However, I do not have the expertise to know exactly what happened. I do know of a specialist. Dr. Harlon Redfield, at the Sunnyvale Institution up north."
"I know him. He treated my grandfather. I…I remember visiting there when I was younger."
"I see," says Dr. Weltman, curious. "I'll send a copy of the CAT-scan to him. It might take a while for results to come back. Anyway, enjoy the holiday seasons."
"We're visiting his brother in California," says Andrea. "Have a nice Christmas."
"You too, Mrs. Treborn and Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Weltman.
Ooooooooooooo
December 25, 2000
"If there's one thing that's great," says Evan Treborn, holding a cup filled with ice and Coca-cola, "we don't need any damn snow chains here."
He sits on a couch in the living room of the home of his Uncle Scott and Aunt Dana in Tustin, California. It is spacious, thought not as spacious as the living room in his parents' home. He, his parents, his grandfather, and his Aunt Meaghan are gathering here to celebrate Christmas. A Christmas tree with lights and decorations.
"You want snow, Big Bear's two hours away," says his cousin, Nick.
"So, you all right?" asks Scott. "Andrea called me about you ending up in the hospital."
"I think so," replies Jason, stabbing at a slice of roast beef with a plastic fork. "It was a mild stroke. The doctors want some more test, you know how that's like."
"Definitely. You know, you were right about getting out of those Internet stocks months ago."
"Of course."
Scott then walks across the room, holding his eight-month-old grandson, dressed in a red outfit and a red pointed hat.
"So how do you like your first Christmas?" he asks the baby boy.
"I can take the picture," says Jason. He then takes the picture with a Nikon digital camera.
A few hours later, Jason goes to the bathroom. Flushing the toilet and then washing his hands at the sink, he hears the door open.
"Dad," he says.
"I know what caused the stroke," says Chris Treborn. "It happened after you had a flashback, right?"
Jason looks into his father's eyes. "Well, yeah. I had to do it, though. My company was going to lose almost a billion dollars. Two thirds of my net worth was at stake."
"Your life and sanity are at stake every time you flash back," says Chris. "Not only that, you could erase everything you've built. The next time you go back, you could die of a stroke in the past, possibly erasing your life up to now."
"I'm not going to go that far back," says Jason. "I haven't done so since my initial test flashbacks."
He leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
One minute later, Chris stands in the hallway. He starts pondering if he should flash back and warn Jason back when Jason started using flashbacks.
No, Jason's life is okay now.
Chris watches the party, sipping on a Corona beer. Jason and Andrea stand under a sprig of mistletoe, Scott and Dana sit on a couch together, and his granddaughter Chrissy plays with her son as her husband Roland watches.
He can feel the temptation to use a flashback to return to his beloved Lucinda.
And yet, he knows flashbacks have too great a price.
I can dream of you, though. I can see you, hear you, smell you, and touch you there.
Oooooooooo
January 9, 2001
The Sunnyvale Institution looks pretty much the same as it did back in 1948, when it was first opened. Only this time, snow covers the ground and the trees are bare with leaves.
"Thank God there wasn't a snowstorm," says Jason.
"Remember that blizzard a few years back," says Andrea. "We were stuck in that mansion?"
"How could I forget?"
He enters the place where his grandfather spent the last years of his life. He is immediately led to Dr. Harlon Redfield's office.
"These results are interesting," says Redfield.
"Dr. Weltman told me that I had a stroke," says Jason. "A hemorrhage in the part of the brain where the memories are stored."
"There's more than that, Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Redfield. "It seems that there is massive neural reconstruction."
"Reconstruction?" asks Andrea. "His brain's healing?"
"It seems that a lot of memories are jammed into your husband's brain," says Dr. Redfield. "Many, many more memories than that typically found in a man about forty years old. Which is remarkable, since your husband had been a patient here during his childhood due to memory problems."
"Are there any cases like this?" asks Jason.
"Your grandfather. We've taken scans over the years, and that his scans look just like the one Dr. Weltman sent me. Take a look."
Jason and Andrea look at the scans. One is labeled "TREBORN, J., the other is labeled "TREBORN, M."
"I see," says Jason.
"This could be some sort of genetic neurological disorder," says Redfield. "Is there any history of mental illness in your family, aside from your grandfather?"
"I think so," says Jason. "There were a couple relatives and ancestors who were committed."
"Then I suggest that you contact as many of your relatives as you can, urge them to have a CAT-scan."
"Could our son Evan have this disorder?" asks Andrea.
"I can't rule it out, Mrs. Treborn," says Redfield. "Mr. Treborn, we would like to run some more tests in our laboratories here."
"Sure thing, Doc," replies Jason.
Ooooooooooooo
January 29, 2001
Hearing some footsteps, Renee Dobson, executive secretary at Temporal Financial Services Headquarters, looks up from the screen of the Power Macintosh.
"Mr. Treborn?" she asks, seeing a man in his early forties, wearing a long, heavy winter coat over a business suit.
"That's me," says Jason Treborn. "Good morning, Dobson. Is Mr. Schnaufer available?"
"Yes, sir, he is in his office."
Jason walks along the corridor, entering the office of the company's CEO. He enters the office, which is a little smaller than his own, with the same black tiles on the floor.
"Mr. Treborn?" asks Bob Schnaufer, sitting behind his desk.
"I'm back, Schnaufer," says Jason. "Let's organize a staff meeting to keep me up to date."
"Good to see you back on your feet, sir."
Jason then meets with his staff for over forty minutes. After that, he walks into his office, turning on the computer. He had not sat here on this chair, behind this desk, in this office for six weeks now.
He takes a Nikon digital camera from the drawer of his desk. He looks at it, mulling if he should take a picture and upload it into the Power Macintosh.
What the hell; I'll only use this in case of emergency.
Jason takes the picture.