Time Transfusion

Time Transfusion

by Y. Len

Y. Len’s spoken English is barbed with foreign accent and writing needs second look due to often missing/misplaced articles and imposter words from several other languages. 
In 2020, Y. Len received an honorable mention from the Writers of the Future contest and, in 2021, saw the first story published on paper in the Wight Christmas: Holiday Horror and Seasonal Subversion collection. In 2022, another short story appeared in The Bull magazine. Five more short stories appeared in the Some Things Are Universal, Trigger Warning: Cursed and From the Yonder Volume IV anthologies as well as the Reader Beware and Twenty-two Twenty-eight magazines in 2023.

 

 

Joe. In the near future.

Blink once for yes, two times for no, the doc said.

I can do that.

That’s pretty much all I can do now. Every other muscle in my body has been impo … tempo … what’s the fancy word? Immobilized. Yes! That’s what the doc told me and even repeated several times. I’m always game to learn a new word and then use it when no one expects me to. Makes me look smart. So here I am, immobilized.

And every time she said that word, the doc also added temporarily. As a necessary part of the procedure, she explained. Since we’re going to mess with your time—that was how she put it—let’s keep your spatial characteristics fixed in the space-time continuum. Or something like that. More fancy words.

Not that I’ve been “talking” too much with my eyelids, but they keep drooping and then all I see is a semi-transparent, corrugated ventilator tube taped to my upper lip and another tube, bluish in color, that goes into my mouth. Just in case, the doc said. The procedure is new and if it takes more time than expected, it would be wise to be prepared for feeding.

She didn’t mention it, but I suspect there must be one more tube that I don’t see. Just in case I need to go. And I suspect that’s where the damn itching comes from. And I can’t scratch it. Where is that nurse that keeps asking how I feel on a scale from zero to ten? I’d just stare at her. And if she asked if that meant zero, I’d blink. Once. Damn itch.

Think happy thoughts, the doc said. They are recording my thoughts—with my permission, of course—together with my vitals and a whole bunch of other stuff. For the advancement of the procedure and just in case something goes wrong and they need to … I better not go there. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts . . .

Easy to say. I scratched; it feels good now. It doesn’t itch anymore … Nope, didn’t help. Damn itch. What else? Jo! I need to think about Jo. Where is she now? What is she doing? Did she talk to Bob already?

Bob, my fishing buddy and long-time racquetball partner, was the first to rush to the rescue. Take a fiver, he said, and let’s hope the science will come up with something in time for both of us. I said no. It was the right decision. With his recently diagnosed kidney problems, who knows how much time Bob has left? And his twins, Zoe and Chloe, are only four years old. No way am I taking his five years. That’s what I told Jo, just in case Bob would try to go around me and donate anyway. Knowing good ol’ Bob…

I prefer “old” spelled with an apostrophe instead of a “d”. Easy on the eyes and rolls—like roll, oll’, ol’—better off the tongue. I know, I know. I shouldn’t waste time on inconsequential—I like that word too—things like spelling words when I have so little time left. I’d better worry about my will and power of attorney—just in case, as the doc keeps saying. But those are also words, aren’t they? And I’m still a living human being, am I not? And this is a free country, and I can damn well kill whatever time I have left any way I want. Damn, that itch … Where was I? Oh, yes. Good ol’ Bob…

Bob mentioned he’d run into Stan Kowalski. We went to junior high together but lost contact for two decades after his parents divorced and he had to go to another school. Stan’s a bigwig now, a hedgehog manager—no, that’s not right, not a hog—a hedge fund manager. He told Bob he’d love to pitch in, but all his time had been frozen because of the high-profile insider trading investigation at his company. Bob also made a joke. Something about Martha Stewart; I didn’t get it but laughed with him anyway.

Now, as I think about Stan and his frozen time, it all makes sense to me. Who knows how that investigation will go? Stan may have to do some time … then, who knows how much would be left to give away?

Then Garry came, my little brother. Offered six months and shed a tear, apparently moved by his generosity. Ruth, his girlfriend, looked like a wounded she-wolf. Those “thrown away” months, though not even hers, cramped her stomach so badly the ripples reached her face. But she also brought some good news from the office where we both work. Well, she does. I used to work there until … I ran out of time. Anyway, everyone chipped in a day. Forty-three co-workers; forty-three days. No one “forgot the wallet.” Thank you, peer pressure. And thank you, guys and gals too.

Uncle Quincy from Australia plunked down a whole year. You need it more, his text said. I tried to call to thank him, but he never answered the phone. He’s ninety-seven, has never been married and lives in a home. Thanks heaps, mate! Even after the 28% customs duty, his was the single biggest donation I got.

The rest was just peanuts, so to speak…

I don’t like peanuts; I prefer almonds, roasted. Slo-o-o-ow roasted. I used to buy them raw, a big bag from Costco, and roast them myself. The whole house smelled of roasted almonds and the whole family knew what we were going to snack on in the evening, watching “The Voice.” Now I wish I’d done it more often and not just when I had spare time on my hands. Where was I? Oh yeah, peanuts…

Red Cross donated three days flat. I also got twelve hours forty-three minutes from the Salvation Army for volunteering at the soup kitchen. Plus nine hours and two minutes from my personal time-is-money-box, where I used to deposit ten or fifteen minutes every time I came to an appointment earlier because traffic turned out to be lighter than I’d expected.

Jo cried whenever we tallied the donated time or talked about the procedure. This time transfusion thing is still at the experimental stage and the rejection rate, statistically speaking, is high. I laughed and kept telling her that “lies, damned lies and statistics” joke, but, honestly, I was worried too. I still am.

Time doesn’t have a type like, for example, blood does. It can’t be tested beforehand and a single incompatible minute—even a second—may abort the transfusion process. And who knows where the time donated by the Red Cross and Salvation Army came from? And why doesn’t Uncle Quincy answer the phone?

Take mine, Jo kept saying, it ought to be compatible since we’ve spent so much time together and we are still together, so it must’ve been good for both of us. I couldn’t agree more with everything Jo said, but I wouldn’t take even a minute from her.

I gave her the past-performance-is-no-guarantee-of-future-results argument and if-it-goes-wrong-you-won’t-get-your-time-back argument, but we both knew that two key arguments were—and still are and always will be—Samantha and Tommy. Sam’s only five and has asthma and Tommy keeps getting Ds in algebra.

Eighteen months doesn’t seem like a lot. But it’s better than nothing. I will take Sam to her first day of school, help Tommy with math. I’ll fix the porch, which I’ve been planning to do for so many years. I’ll buy Jo a bunch of those Stargazer lilies for no other reason that she admires them. And we’ll get a dog. A German Sheppard. They all kept asking, but I wouldn’t agree because of the slobber and hair in the house. Now I think I’ve been a fool about that and not only that. I’ll—

Finally! A nurse wheels in an IV stand with a matte black metal sphere instead of a wobbly plastic bag that normally hangs from a double-hooked pole. It’s about time! The nurse asks if I’m ready, and I blink once. The damn itch will have to wait.

The sphere looks impressive with a large, roundish dial on its side, two digital readout gauges and a red-and-yellow “DANGER! High Pressure” sign. The clock on the sphere says 12:32 pm. Time flies. Like an arrow, they say, not like a banana. I don’t get that banana thing. But I do get the arrow part: Time really flies. It’s not a cliché.

Since Einstein, everybody knows that time defies gravity …

Or was it this—what’s-his-name—another guy? With a beard and John Lennon glasses. Yeah, I think it must’ve been the other guy. All Einstein did was “em times cee-squared,” I remember that from high school. But times in Einstein’s equation really has nothing to do with time I’m talking about. Anyway, time flies. And that, the doc said, may complicate the procedure. Even when liquefied, time wouldn’t drip like any other liquid. It has to be pushed under pressure instead. The higher the pressure, the more time could be infused per—well, per unit of time. Like hours per second or days per minute or even months or years per whatever.

That’s a bit confusing. At first, it didn’t make sense to me. I needed time to think about this time thing. But it makes sense now, I think. Like pumping air into a tire: It only takes a minute or two and then you can drive on those tires for months or even years. I know, I know. It’s not a perfect simile or metaphor or whatever the fancy word is. The liquefied time transfusion procedure pumps time instead of air and it requires anesthesia but neither time nor air would drip and both need pressure but air in general doesn’t require anesthesia … general … ane … steee … zee … zee …

* * *

Jo. About four hours earlier.

“IT’S ABOUT TIME!” a poster cramped with all capitals yells at me from the office wall. Above it, a more austere black font on a clean, white background reads “Avery S. Econd Memorial Hospital. We’re just in time. Now. Always.” The clock on the wall shows 8:13 am. A deep breath does little to calm my racing heart. The red-headed clerk keeps talking.

“… it’s a once in a lifetime benefit, ma’am.” He lifts his smiling face from the computer screen and in a low, well-trained voice confirms what I already know. “And yes, your insurance does cover the cost of all necessary equipment. So it’s only a matter of time. Do you have any more questions?”

I shake my head. The clock advances to 8:14 am.

“Very good, then!” The red-head springs to his feet. “I’ve prepared all the paperwork in advance. Ahead of time, so to speak.” Slinking around the desk, he spreads papers in front of me. “Please initial here … here … and one more time here. Excellent! Now date and sign at the bottom … what was that? Yes, ma’am, today’s the eleventh … perfect! That’s all for the donor’s part. I’ll get the recipient’s signature and—“

“Actually, I’ll do that too. Here’s the power of attorney.” I pluck out of the beige manila folder a sheet of crisp linen paper with a square stamp at the bottom. Joe’s signature looks crooked, but who cares when time is of the essence, right? I slide the sheet across the desk and proceed to scribble my signature over the remaining document. Prickly heat of embarrassment creeps from my neck up to my ears as I keep signing my name in place of his. Joe left me no choice. Wouldn’t listen to me, just kept pontificating about his eighteen months, nine days, six hours and twenty-two minutes. Okay. And then what? What would I … all three of us do then?

“Done!” I get up and stride into the next room. It has no windows and smells like chlorine bleach. A contraption in the middle resembles a hybrid of a gas pump and a dental chair stuffed together into an oversized telephone booth. “Let’s do this. No time to waste. I want my husband to receive the transfusion this afternoon. Take a half.”

“Yes, ma’am, to a minute.” The technician gives me a long look as his boyish face grows solemn. “Piece of cake. All it takes is the right pressure. Ever been pressed for time?” He smirks, turns the dial and taps the gauge on the matte black metal sphere. “Right here, see? It says ‘Equilibrium.’ We’ll keep filling till it stops flowing. That’ll be the equilibrium between what’s left for the donor and what we have pumped into the sphere.”

I nod.

“We’ll have to immobilize you, ma’am. Temporarily. That’s part of the procedure. You’ll blink once for yes, two times for no.”

The chair is warm and soft; my head gets heavy; my thoughts slow down to a crawl, some words are missing, . . . happily ever after … on the same day—

“Are you ready, ma’am?”

I blink once.