Page 77 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘OK.’ She chuckles uneasily. ‘That’s quite something.’
‘It’s not a dream or a delusion,’ I tell her. ‘I have been kind of time-travelling around the universe and . . . well, I prefer it in 1942, so I’ve come here to sort a few things out before I leave for good.’
There is a long moment in which I am sure Dr Gresch is about to burst into horrified laughter at my crazy talk, and quite a lot of me still wonders if that is what is happening here. The parts of me that matter, though – the parts that aren’t tethered to just one reality – don’t care.
‘I’m not sure I would be willing to admit this to any of my peers,’ Dr Gresch says slowly, ‘or anyone outside this room, but I think I believe you.’
‘You do?’ I ask her uncertainly, not totally sure that she isn’t just humouring me while she waits for the men in white coats to arrive.
‘I don’t have any answers for you,’ Dr Gresch says. ‘This is the first time anyone anywhere has tried to study this theory outside of modelled simulations or on brain organoids.’
‘Brain organoids?’ I ask.
‘Little clusters of brain cells – you kind of put them together and they automatically wire themselves into mini-brains.’
I smile. ‘Mini-brains? That’s mind-blowing.’
‘It is,’ Dr Gresch says. ‘And, please, call me Selena. It makes all of this seem less world-changing somehow if you do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that it’s early days and we’ve only done one session, but . . .’ Dr Gresch – Selena – sighs. ‘Honestly, I’d rather go back to my friends the organoids than get theresults I have with you. But as a scientist, I can’t ignore that the brain activity we recorded during sleep wasn’t what we’d expect to see when someone is in a dream state. In those circumstances, large parts of the brain shut down – in order to stop you acting out your dreams, essentially. Your thought processes and decision-making take a holiday. But when I watched your scans last night, your brain patterns were those of a waking person – an active, waking person, someone experiencing joy, fear, sadness . . . love. It was . . . as if I was watching you live your life . . . elsewhere.’
‘I feel like that, too,’ I say. ‘I feel like I left a physical place that leaves physical evidence on my body – after all, my hair, my stitches are from 1942.’
‘Ah, yes. I’m going to take those mysterious stitches out for you right now,’ Selena says, reaching for a pair of narrow scissors. ‘I want to get them analysed, see if there’s a way to date them. The thing is, Maia, I must be so careful. After all, what are the odds that someone who has these profound, measurable experiences via consciousness might fall into my lap as I am studying that very field? I’m at risk of confirmation bias, trying to find evidence for what Iwantto believe is true. I don’t want my enthusiasm to turn my findings into a lie.’
‘It’s not just me, though,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not the only person who has vaulted out of one time into another. I’ve met someone else there in 1942, and he’s been there since 1909.’
‘Let me guess,’ Selena says, picking up a closed paper folder. ‘The gentleman you asked me to look for? Professor Salvatore Borg?’
‘Yes, yes – did you find him?’ I ask her, sitting up. ‘What happened to him? Do you know?’
‘I found him,’ Selena says slowly, holding the folder against her chest. ‘I found two of him. Not all that surprising, youmay think – there must be many Salvatore Borgs in Malta. If I go outside now and shout that name aloud, there is a good chance that someone will answer. But I think the two men I found might be one person . . .’
‘Tell me everything you found out,’ I say.
‘Tell me what you know first,’ Selena says with a smile.
‘He was born in 1962,’ I say, ticking off all the facts I know about Sal on my fingers as I go. ‘He worked and studied in Milan at the university – physics, but at the moment – in 1942, I mean – he teaches English and maths to schoolchildren and squaddies . . .’ I pause for a moment to recollect more of what Sal told me. ‘He came home to Malta in 1992 with his wife, Elena, who was expecting their first child. He had done something bad in Milan – something he wanted to get away from. They wanted to see his mother and take part in the celebrations commemorating the end of the 1942 siege. It was a big deal, loads of veterans attending – an air show.’ A vision of Danny in 1992 floats into my mind, elderly and gallant: a man who has lived a full life, worthy of respect.
‘Maia?’ Selena prompts me.
‘Well, he’d been in a car crash, just like me, and then in Malta, not long after, he went off on a bike ride and got knocked off, knocked out – though he was unhurt. He thought that might be important, Dr Gresch – Selena – that we’d both had accidents in the days prior to . . . Anyway, he passed out in 1992 and woke up in 1909. For a while, as he was – he calls it “settling” – he bounced around time just like I have, trying to leave a trail of breadcrumbs where he could. And then he stayed where he was. He made another life there – he has done for thirty years. He misses his wife and the child he has never known, but he helps a lot of people, teaches the kids and keeps the university going. Hevolunteers with the servicemen. He is really kind.’ I look at her sharply. ‘What doyouknow?’
Selena presses her lips into a thin line.
‘I found several Salvatore Borgs. I have a list here. But let’s just focus on this gentleman for a while. He was born in 1962. In 1992, he was visiting Malta and he was in an accident. He fell into a coma with no clear explanation.’
‘Oh!’ I cover my mouth, as if hearing bad news of a loved one. Because Iamhearing bad news of a loved one.
‘Sal died?’ I ask, faltering, wondering how I am ever going to break the news to him. ‘He died here? And there he . . . lives?’
‘He didn’t die,’ Selina tells me. ‘He is still alive.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
‘He has been cared for in a private facility, which is paid for by his wife and, latterly, his son, for the last thirty-three years,’ Selena explains. ‘I spoke to his doctor. His health is stable if not good. He still breathes and performs other basic essential-to-life functions without medical intervention, but essentially, he is not there in any meaningful way.’
