REWIND
CHAPTER NINE
“AND IN THE END, THE LOVE YOU TAKE, IS EQUAL TO THE LOVE YOU MAKE.”

OCTOBER 27th, 1979

October of 1979 was a slow descent into hell. 

Kelly breaking up with me? Who cared? That seemed so insignificant all of a sudden. Though I’ll admit that it would’ve been nice for her to be around to help get me through this.

Stan bucked me up. As did some of my other pals. Kara made sure to call me a few times a week, more than we ever had. 

I made sure I kept updated. Mom got the news from Lydia and passed it on to me, because I made her. “Anything you hear, let me know,” I told her. Though I already knew--still, I couldn’t let on to Mom about that. 

So, Mom told me, “They’re throwing everything they’ve got at her. So far, she hasn’t gone back into remission yet.” This went on for a month. On this day, I knew it was time.

Beth had told the world at large that she didn’t want any visitors outside of immediate family. I was about to disregard her wishes.

This was a Saturday. I woke up and said to my Mom, “Can I have a ride to the train station?”

“What for?”

“I want to go into Boston.”

“OK, what’s in Boston?”

I took a breath. “Children’s Hospital.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table. Mom had been flitting around the kitchen. When I said that, she sighed, and sat down across from me. “Eddie, Beth requested no visitors in the hospital.”

“I know she did. I’m ignoring her.”

“She doesn’t want people to see her like this, Eddie. She’s probably got tubes and stuff stuck into her. They’ve been bombarding her with chemo so I’m sure she’s lost her hair. She’s probably lost weight and she didn’t have much to spare to begin with. She doesn’t want anyone to see her that way.”

“She should know me better than that. Like I care what she looks like?”

“Yes, but...”

“Mom,” I interrupted her, “Let’s face facts. Beth isn’t ever coming back out of that hospital.”

She looked shocked for a moment, then resignation settled onto her face. “Most likely not.”

“Right. So I’m getting on a train and going to Boston...so I can say goodbye.”

She looked at me for a minute. Then she said, “Get your coat. I’ll meet you in the car.”

-----------

I got into Boston, took a subway to the hospital, then found Beth’s room. She had a private room. I stood in the doorway for a minute.

Mom was right. She looked horrible. But I knew that’s what she was going to look like. It didn’t matter. She was lying in the bed, hooked up to all kinds of tubes and machines. She looked weak and wasted. The buckets of chemo they were pouring into her had actually managed to make her slightly pale--though, amazingly, she hadn’t lost her hair. Still, it was heartbreaking.

And it still didn’t matter.

I stepped into the room. “Beffy?” She had been reading. She looked over from her book and gasped. 

“Eddie? What are you doing here?”

“I had to come see you.”

“I told Mom I didn’t want any visitors. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“I know,” I said, and walked over to the bed. “Do you think it really matters to me?”

“It matters to me.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Eddie. I don’t want you to remember me like this.”

“I won’t,” I said with a smile. “Remember that dance we went to last Christmas?”

She smiled a little. “How could I forget it?”

“Well, I’ve got pictures. That is how I’m going to remember you. Don’t worry about that. But I had to come, and you know why.”

She looked down. “Eddie, the treatment is not working. They can’t stop it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“You know?” I nodded. That’s when she realized it. “You came to say goodbye.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

She looked at me. “I have been thinking about this for a while. I’ve known you your whole life. I always loved you, you know that, but you worried me. You’ve always worried me. And I didn’t think you were going to be able to deal with my illness at all. I thought you’d go to pieces. But you didn’t. You’ve been more mature than anyone. And it started right after I came back to school. It didn’t start right after I’d been diagnosed, because I know you had a breakdown at Boy Scout camp right after. Something happened to you, Eddie, right before I came back to school. An epiphany, or something.”

“Yes.”

“What was it? Was it just me?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

I took a breath. “You’d never ever believe me even if I told you.”

She mustered up a bit of her spunk, which took some effort. “Eddie Bovilas, you have never lied to me in your life, and I know it. I wouldn’t expect you to start lying now.”

“It’s pretty fantastic.”

She snorted. “Eddie. I’m 15 years old and I’m dying. And I believe in a just and merciful God. I’ll believe anything at this point.”

I thought for a minute. I’d never planned on ever telling anyone. I was afraid I’d be locked up or laughed at or something. I planned to take my secret to the grave.

However...there had been other things in my life that I’d never planned on telling anyone. Other secrets I aimed to keep. However, I always made an exception--and the exception was Beth. I told her everything.

If I was going to tell anyone, it would be her. And, besides which, she was in the hospital, on her deathbed. She’d be taking my secret to the grave by necessity.

“It did start before you came back to school in eighth grade, yes. It happened on October 3rd, 1977. I woke up that morning in my room with my mother calling me to get up for school. However, when I had gone to bed the previous night--it had been October 2nd, 2007--and I was 42 years old. I went to bed that night thinking I was having a heart attack. I thought I might be dying. I hadn’t taken good care of myself. But, instead of dying, somehow I got pushed back in time 30 years.”

She just gaped at me. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I just said you’d never lie to me. I know that. But how is this possible?”

“You got me.”

“So you’re really, what, 44 years old, not 14?”

“Somewhat. It’s kind of a mixture. I have both sets of memories. I react more often like a teenager, but there’s the other set of memories that sort of act as something like a restraining device.”

“Did you welcome this?” she asked softly.

“Not at first. Eight grade, the first time around, was a nightmare. Eventually I figured out I could change some things, so I’ve come to see it as a blessing. Nobody else knows, by the way.”

“I can see why,” she said with a little laugh. She was becoming more alert now; she’d sat up in the bed, obviously interested. “What’s changed?”

“Well, the first time, there was no Kara, no Kelly. I was a complete washout with girls. I got beat up a lot more. That’s one thing I resolved when I got sent back, to get in shape. I actually did go to the Prep the first time around.”

“Why not this time?”

“Because it stunted me socially, especially with girls.”

“That makes sense,” she said, “but wasn’t it better academically?”

“It didn’t help in the long run. I never made it out of college. I was working in retail when I got sent back.”

“YOU?”

“I fucked up a lot of things,” I admitted. “Then, there was you.”

“Me?”

“We went to a dance then, too, it was just at the Prep and not Cabot East. Then you started pushing me away. Because I was a confused, self-absorbed, 14-year-old kid, I let you.” I took a breath. “I didn’t see you for the last 8 months of your life.”

“Oh, Eddie,” she sighed. “And that haunted you, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“Yes. And that’s why I confronted you about pushing me away.”

“Good. Then I’m glad I gave in on both of those. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt you. On the contrary.”

“I know that,” I told her. “I never blamed you, I blamed myself.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have done that, either. I’m actually glad you’re here today, and was even before you told me this. I could use the company. My parents had something to do today.” Her voice got very small. “I’m not in the mood to be alone.”

“Good.”

Just then, she got a stricken look on her face. “Oh, jeez, Eddie--you already lived through my death? And now you have to do it again? Damn.”

“Hey, at least I’m handling it better. Unfortunately, leukemia, especially your strain of it, hasn’t been cured in 2007. If it had, I would’ve thought of something, even if it got me locked up in the loony bin. But it hasn’t, so there wasn’t anything I could do.”

“You know, that’s depressing. That they still aren’t going to cure this miserable thing in thirty years.”

“Well, they’ve made progress. They can cure some of the less virulent strains more easily. There are more treatments. But people still die from it. I’m no doctor, so this is a layman speaking. I’m guessing you might have been able to squeeze out another six months or a year. Maybe. But they don’t have a cure for it.”

“That really does suck.”

“It’s not a sexy disease.”

“A sexy disease?”

“Yeah. In a couple of years there will be this thing called AIDS.” I explained to her what AIDS was. “And that gets a lot of attention. First it gets negative attention because it’s a ‘gay disease’. Then the scientists figure straight people can get it, too. The chances of that, they find out years and years later, are way overblown--but that starts the panic. AIDS gets a lot of attention--and a lot of attention paid to it by the researchers. It’s not cured when I came back in 2007, but the lifespan of people who get it are a lot longer. But it’s a ‘sexy’ disease. Probably partially because it’s sexually transmitted. Tell people that something as fun as sex can kill them, and they react.”

“Yeah, but other diseases languish in research,” she said sadly.

“Yeah. Breast cancer is another one that gets a lot of attention--because the women’s groups push it. Now, I’m grateful for that, actually. My mother will get breast cancer about ten years from now, and survive it.”

“Wow. That’s right, you know the future!” she laughed.

“Well, what of it I can remember. It has come in handy when laying down a wager on the Super Bowl.”

“You brat,” she laughed. Then she gave me a wicked little grin. “So, you got sent back thirty years in time. And you have no idea how it happened. Doesn’t this give you a little bit of a doubt about that atheism of yours?”

“Sure does,” I agreed. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that. But it also sheds doubt on the traditional Biblical God-concept, too.”

“How so?”

“Well, why aren’t I in heaven? Or hell? I mean, there’s nothing in the Bible about time travel, is there?”

“Hmmm. Good point.”

“Another thing. Let’s assume that there was some being called ‘God’ that did this to me. Which is probably what you’re thinking.” She nodded. “Well, remember that talk we had a while ago, after my first time with Kara, where I told you that I didn’t think God, if he existed, cared who we screwed?” She nodded again. “Well, now I know I’m right.”

“What makes you think that?”

“If it’s God, he’s omniscient, right? Well, he had to know that one of the biggest things I’d want to correct after being sent back in time is being a virgin until I was 22. He had to know that. He knew I’d be looking for sex.”

She cracked up. “Well, I guess I can’t argue with that, can I? But, wow, Eddie--from 22 to 13? I think I’m impressed!”

“I was stunned.”

“I’ll bet!” 

I realized something, with a shock. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any choice. Like I said, you’ve never lied to me. I’m willing to consider that maybe it was a dream or something, the 30 years you say you lived, but you clearly don’t think so. Neither, quite honestly, do I.”

“I have a lot of memories from those 30 years. It would be one hell of an elaborate dream. And a lot of it has already happened again. Sometimes the circumstances changed, but all the circumstances that change happen because of changes I’ve made. And I can see where the paths diverge. So, if it was all a dream--it was very elaborate and clairvoyant.”

“Yeah. Well, I have to tell you,” she said, “you telling me this now probably makes me more open to it. Let’s face it. Whatever’s out there--whatever happens after death--I’m about to find out. And faith is wonderful. Faith helps me out. But, at this point? I wouldn’t mind a bit of certainty, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Look, here’s a story. This is pretty horrific, but I’m telling it to make a point. In 22 years, Islamic fundamentalist terrorists from the Middle East are going to highjack four passenger planes leaving American airports. They’re going to fly two of those planes into the World Trade Center, and one into the Pentagon. The fourth, the passengers take it over and crash it into a field in Pennsylvania. Thousands of innocent people died.”

“My GOD,” she hissed.

“I know. But, like I said, I’m telling you this to make a point. Those hijackers left behind writings; and, of course, the mullahs that trained and led them were still alive to talk about them. Evidently, these guys truly believed that Allah told them to fly planes into buildings, and that they would be rewarded by going to heaven where 70 virgins were waiting for them.”

Beth snorted. “70 virgins. That figures.”

“Right. But, think about this--is that any more ludicrous than some of the other heaven-concepts out there?”

“No, it’s why they thought they were going to go there. It’s that God would want them to kill innocent people. Doesn’t a loving God make more sense?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, didn’t God spend half of the Old Testament wiping out half the enemies of the Israelites? Half the OT is smiting. God smote these guys, then he smote these guys, and so on.”

“True. But Jesus did preach love,” she pointed out.

“Yes, he did, but the OT is still part of the Christian canon. And all the adherents of this stuff claim it’s all divinely inspired.”

“OK. So what’s your point?”

“My point is, if there is a God and a heaven and all that--we have absolutely no clue as to the nature of it.”

“And your experiences do bear that out,” she mused. “Of course, I have just always believed that Christianity was right and all the rest of the religions were wrong.”

“I know. But I would think an all-powerful omniscient God would’ve cleared some of this shit up at some point.”

“I see your point. Oh, well, I’ll find out soon enough. I just hope there’s something.”

“I do, too,” I agreed. 

“Though I’m not sure I’d want to be one of the 70 virgins.”

“Might be fun,” I said with a wicked grin.

“Too much competition,” she giggled. 

Just then, the nurse came in to check her over. They also brought her lunch. The chemo made her nauseous but she was able to eat a little. I went to find something for myself to eat. “Are you coming back?” she asked.

“You betcha.”

-----------------

When I came back, she was sitting up in the bed. They’d taken out her tubes and stuff. “I don’t have to have them in the whole time,” she told me.

She was staring out into space. “Eddie, I’m scared.”

“Of course you are. You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t.”

“I’m not allowed to be scared,” she snorted.

“What do you mean?”

“All I hear is how I’m facing this with so much ‘dignity’ and ‘courage.’ Sometimes they don’t realize I’m listening, but I hear it. So, I feel like I’ll let them down if I show how scared I am.”

“I see. I still think you shouldn’t be held to such a high standard.”

“Eddie--my mother is falling apart. Dad’s decently OK, and he does know how scared I am, but my mother’s a basket case. My brothers aren’t much better. Especially Mark.” Mark was her youngest brother. He was only 8, and had learning disabilities--dyslexia, plus what in my time would’ve been called ADHD. Beth absolutely doted on him. And now she was leaving and poor Mark at his age could barely understand why. “I feel like I constantly have to be the strong one. I mean, my mother’s the one that’s going to have to pick up the pieces after I’m gone.”

“Yeah. But you’re still allowed to be scared, in my book.”

That’s when she started crying. I looked at her, a look of welcome. She caught it, and she got off the bed and walked over to the chair next to the window where I was sitting. I opened my arms, and she curled up on my lap, crying.

I had promised myself I was not going to cry while I was in this room. I managed to keep to that. Barely.

“This just sucks,” she sniffled as her tears eased off some.

“That it does,” I agreed. 

“Tell me about the future,” she said. So I did. I told her about computers and CDs and cell phones and all that stuff. Just chatting about what I knew about the next thirty years. Generic stuff, really. She enjoyed it.

Afterwards, still in my lap, she said, “You know when I’m going to die, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Do you really want to know that?”

She thought for a minute. “Well, if it’s soon, yes. If I go back into remission and last another year or so, no, I don’t want to know. But if it’s soon....”

“Beffy. You requested no visitors. Would I have ignored that if you were coming back out of this hospital?”

“No. You wouldn’t. So, it’s soon. Tell me.”

I did.

“Was it quick?”

“As far as I know, you were conscious right up near the end. You lost consciousness, then died quickly thereafter. You didn’t linger.”

“Do you know what my last words were?”

“Everybody knew what your last words were. They were carved on your tombstone.”

“That good?”

“That good.”

She looked up at me expectantly. I grinned back at her. “Well?” she said.

“Well what? I’m not going to tell you. You found them all by yourself the first time--you’ll do it again.”

“Fine,” she snorted, but with a little grin. “Well, this is one conversation I never thought I’d be having.”

“Me either. I didn’t come here planning to tell you.”

“I’m glad you did. Tell me, I mean. I’m also glad you came.”

“I am, too. I love you, Beth.”

“I love you, too. And, yes, I’ve always known that. So you didn’t have to come here to tell me. But yeah, again, I’m glad you did.”

“It’s always nice to hear,” I grinned.

She got off my lap and wandered back over to the bed. “Look, I need to ask you a favor. Can you disappear for twenty minutes or so? I need to do something and I can’t be distracted. Can you go get something to drink or something?”

“Sure,” I said tentatively.

“Don’t worry, you’ll understand when you get back.”

“OK,” I said. I went down to the gift shop and got the newspaper, then went to the coffee shop and got a cup of coffee. I drank the coffee and read the Boston Globe for about twenty minutes. Then I went back up. When I got up there, Beth handed me an envelope.

“This is a note for Olivia. I had to write something to her. That’s why I wanted you to take off for a bit. Could you please give it to her? After I’m, you know, gone.”

“Will do. Damn, Livvie’s gonna be a basket case.”

“Tell me about it. Eddie, you’re gonna have to take care of her. Will you do that for me?”

“Who’s gonna take care of me?”

“You seem to be handling this very well,” she said.

“I’m a good actor,” I snorted.

“Yeah, I know. But, as to your question--you’ve built up a good group of friends. You are going to have people to support you. Livvie’s got nobody.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll help her out.”

“I knew you would.” She looked outside. It was late October, but it was a pretty nice day--sunny and in the high fifties. Your basic New England Indian Summer. “I want to go outside.”

“Can you?”

She snorted. “They’re going to stop me? What are they going to do--yell at me for going outside? I’m too weak to walk very far, though.”

“Do you have clothes?”

“Yeah. In that closet there.” I fetched her some clothes and went to find a wheelchair. If she wanted to go out, I was going to take her out.

While she got dressed, I flagged down a nurse. “Can I borrow a wheelchair?”

“Why?” she asked me.

“My friend wants some air.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Elizabeth Trovini.”

“The leukemia patient? I don’t think she’s approved to go out.”

“She’s going out,” I said firmly. “She wants to go out, so I’m going to take her out.”

“Look, your friend is a very sick young lady. What are you going to do if something happens to her while you’re out gallivanting around?”

This was one point where I was glad I was what I was. I wasn’t cowed by this like a normal 14-year-old would be. “Beth isn’t a ‘very sick young lady.’ She’s dying.” The nurse looked at me, stunned. “She’s never coming out of this hospital. She knows it. So, what if something happens while we’re out? Who cares? Heck, I’d rather die outside on a nice day than cooped up in a hospital room anyway. Besides which, that’s why I want a wheelchair. She won’t be exerting herself. She’ll be fine. Well, as fine as a dying person can be,” I said pointedly.

The nurse blinked at me, then walked around a corner. When she came back around, she was pushing a wheelchair. “Thank you,” I said sincerely.

“Just bring her back.”

“You got it.”

I got back into the room and Beth was dressed. She saw the wheelchair. “You did it!”

“The nurse was resistant, but I managed.”

I helped her get her coat on, then into the wheelchair. “Hold on,” she said, and reached for a notebook on her table. She left a note, just in case her parents showed up, and left it on the bed.

We headed out. Children’s Hospital was in an area of Boston surrounded by hospitals and educational institutions. In other words, there wasn’t anywhere nearby where we could go window shopping or anything like that. It was an institutional area. Beth was just happy to be out. We started walking, then found a place.

Right down the street from Children’s Hospital was Harvard Medical School. The main buildings of the school were arranged around a quad. The quad was a large grassy area, cut through with concrete walking paths, filled with trees. There were benches. We found one and I sat down on it, Beth in her wheelchair next to me. Even though it was a weekend, there were plenty of Harvard Med students scurrying by. They didn’t take too much notice of two teenagers, one in a wheelchair, sitting on a bench and chatting. I’ll bet it wasn’t all that uncommon.

“God, Eddie, I feel so much better. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I was getting awfully tired of lying in a hospital bed waiting to die.”

“Hey, if you asked me to smuggle you out of here and take you out for a gourmet dinner, I would.”

She laughed. “I think that’s a little beyond my capabilities. You’re the best friend I could ever have, so I wouldn’t want to do something to you like collapse face-down into the roast beef.”

“Good point. Are you OK now?”

“Fine. The fresh air actually helps.”

“Good.” We just sat there for a minute, watching the world go by. “Can I say something that might upset you?”

“Very little you could say to me would upset me,” she said. “Shoot.”

“I think you’re underestimating your mother. I think you can lean on her more that you think you can.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure I want to, though. You’ve been good about letting me let it out. I think that’s enough. Look, it’s all the people that I’m leaving behind that are going to have to pick up the pieces. Not me, I won’t be here.”

“True. I think you can tell her you’re scared, though. I don’t think that will break her.”

“Maybe. Dad knows.” She was silent for a minute. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” I told her.

“Will you get up and talk at my funeral? I’ll make sure Mom knows that’s one of my wishes.”

I barked out a string of laughter. “I don’t know if that’s a very good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Me? Speaking at a Catholic funeral? I don’t like Catholic funerals. They’re all about ‘she’s in a better place’ and ‘God called her home’ and all that. I wouldn’t conform to that. I couldn’t get up and talk about you and stick to the Catholic Party Line.”

“I never thought you would. What would you talk about?”

“How much you meant to me.”

“Good. And you’ll probably be the only one strong enough to do it.”

“I think you’re overestimating my strength,” I said wryly. “But if that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”

“Good.”

We sat there for quite a while, just chatting. A lot about generic stuff. Just sharing with each other. At one point, she started talking about, of all things, my love life.

“I wish Kelly hadn’t broken up with you. You two were great together.”

“Sore subject,” I admitted.

“I know. It would just make it, you know, easier. On you, afterwards, I mean.”

“I know, but I have friends I can lean on, like you said.”

“OK. Just, if she approaches you....”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

She sighed a little. “I think I’m getting cold.”

“OK. Back to the hospital for you, then.”

“Yeah,” she agreed sadly.

I got up off the bench, and got behind the wheelchair, and started pushing. “This was wonderful, Eddie,” she said. 

As we got back into the hospital and back up to her room, things got less wonderful. There were people in her room, and they were freaking. Her parents, a nurse--not the one that had given me the wheelchair--and a doctor. We turned into the room and they pounced. “Where have you been?” her mother hissed.

“I left you a note,” Beth said.

“Young lady, you’re not supposed to be leaving the hospital,” the doctor said.

“What difference does it really make?” Beth asked softly, which stopped everyone in their tracks. 

After things settled down a little, I went outside so Beth could get back out of her clothes and into her nightshirt. Her mom stayed in with her. Her dad came out with me. “Look, Eddie, Lydia’s frantic.”

“For good reason.” I agreed.

“Yes. But, for what it’s worth--I’m glad you took her outside.”

“Thanks.”

We went back in, and chatted for a while. Her parents then left, promising to be back in about an hour, after they’d found some supper.

“I have to go soon,” I said with great reluctance. “I have to catch a train.”

“I know. A few minutes?”

“Yeah.”

She was still unconnected from the tubes and IV’s. She slid over a little in the bed. “Get over here.” I did, and climbed in next to her, and held her in my arms. She snuggled her face into my chest.

“I love you, Eddie. You’re my best friend.”

“I love you, too. The difference you’ve made in my life is so great I don’t even think I could describe it. Twice now.”

She giggled a little at that. “That’s pretty good for me, I did it twice. Thank you for not letting me push you away.”

“This time, at least.”

“I’m quite sure the other time, I knew. I always knew, Eddie.”

“Yeah, but it’s better that I came here and said it.”

“And got me out of this place for a bit.”

“Yeah.” 

We lay there, just holding one another, for a while. “Eddie? You’re getting something most people don’t get...a second chance. Do something with it, please? I mean, really. Retail! You’re the smartest person I know. You can do anything you want.”

“I know.”

“Well, this time, do it. Do something worthwhile.”

“Yes, mistress,” I joked. She giggled.

“Or at the very least, get filthy rich and have a harem of beautiful girls,” she teased, cracking me up. “And love somebody. That’s important.”

“I know.”

“Have a good life, please, Eddie. For me?”

“I will. I promise.”

We stayed there for a few more minutes. But I had to go. As much as I wanted to stay, I had to go. I disentangled myself from her, and stood up next to the bed. She smiled at me, her eyes full of love, and sadness, at the same time. I’m sure mine looked the same.

I leaned over, and kissed her. “Goodbye, Beth,” I said.

She shook her head. “Until we meet again,” she corrected.

“Until we meet again,” I agreed, hoping against hope. She smiled. I leaned over and kissed her one more time, and then I stood up. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you too. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” I said softly. Then I turned and walked out of her room. 

NOVEMBER 1st, 1979

The first time around, when I went to the Prep, November 1st was a day off from school. It was All Saint’s Day, a holy day in the Catholic Church, and the Prep was a Catholic school. I had taken that day as an opportunity to go Christmas shopping. Mom dropped me off at the mall at about 11 in the morning, and picked me up at 3. When I called her for the pick-up and as we drove home I could tell that something was wrong, but it wasn’t until we got home that she told me that she had gotten the call while I was out, and that Beth was gone.

This time, I was at Cabot High, and there was no day off. So, I was in school. 

And I felt it.

I don’t know if it was because we were closer at the end, or because I knew that it was going to happen today, or what--but I felt it. It was right around noon, I had just sat down at lunch with the gang, when I felt it. It was like a chill, a wind, that ran right through me and made every hair on my body stand on end.

And I knew.

Goodbye, Beffy.

-----------------------------------

Author’s note:

On my intro page to this story, I tell you that all characters are fictional.

Technically, that’s true. I never knew anyone named “Kara Pocharsky”. Or “Kelly Cullinane”. Or...you get the idea. So, the characters in Rewind are fictional. Technically. My name’s not “Ed Bovilas,” either. So he’s a fictional character, too. Technically <G>.

I never knew anyone named “Beth Trovini,” either. 

In her case, however, I’ll admit it--there’s not much there that’s fiction about her character besides the name.

Well, I tweaked a few things. I made “Beth” a little bit more talkative and outgoing than she really was. I also changed, a bit, the nature of her relationship with “Eddie”. In real life, her relationship with me was big-sister-ish/bordering-on-maternal. She was far more mature than I was, and worried about me. (I’m sure that’s part of what was behind her pushing me away.) I kept some of that in, of course--but, because “Eddie” was a different person due to the time-travel, there was less of that by necessity. 

Outside of that? It’s as true a portrait as 25 years of memory will allow.

Rewind’s a lot of things, but one of those is--it’s a tribute, to one of the greatest people I ever had the pleasure to know. I hope that I, in some small way, brought her back to life, just a little bit, so that you all could get to know her a little. 

This is NOT the end of Rewind. Not hardly. Eddie’s still here, he’s got a lot to do, and he’s got a lot to deal with. And he’s going to find he’s dealing with it from a very different place than he did the ‘first time around.’ I’ve got a lot more of his story to tell. It goes on.

However, it goes on without Beth. Just as real life did.

Rewind is dedicated to the memory of a young girl who died too soon, who, in this story, I chose to call Beth Trovini. I loved her very much, and I miss her terribly.

And yes, it is true that her last words were carved on her tombstone. What were they?

“Don’t cry too much, keep the family together.”

15 years old, about to die, and she comes up with that one? I can’t give you any better insight into who--and what--she was.

As always, thanks for reading.

--Frank