This week we have a wonderfully touching story by Laura McCorry.

Laura McCorry (she/her) is a writer, yoga teacher, and baking enthusiast who lives outside of Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in Poetry Quarterly. Connect with her at lauramccorry.com or on IG, @lauramccorrywrites

This piece has been [mistakenly] rejected by the following publications:

• Analog Science Fiction and Fact
• Kenyon Review
• LCPL Short Story Contest
• Intrepidus Ink
• Haven Spec

When I asked her what she loves about this story this was her response:

The desire for more time with our loved ones is universal and it hits the hardest after loss. I really love the question in this piece–what amount of your own life would you give up in order to have another hour with someone who has died? I like that there’s no right or wrong answer. But I also like when magic work-arounds have limits and consequences because death is the one rule we all must obey.

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Time is Relative

by Laura McCorry

The baby cries. I roll over, ready to ignore her before I remember Sal’s not here. He won’t change her diaper and bring her to me ever again. I stumble to her bassinet. The room is bathed in silvery shadows from the streetlight outside. The wind whips around the house and the oak tree’s bare knuckles rap against the window pane.

I hold Pearl close to my chest. It’s not supposed to be like this. She cries harder and cries escape my own mouth, a rip tide to her waves. Pearl screams while I change her diaper, screams while I wash, screams as I bring her back to bed with me. She only quiets when I feed her. 

If I close my eyes, it feels like before. Pearl is nestled in the center. I can pretend our two bodies curve around hers. I can pretend there was no car crash, no knock on the door, no carousel blur of days I don’t want to remember, but do.

#

Someone is knocking at the door. I’m grumpy about being woken, even though it’s light outside. I pull on a robe, hurrying to get there before they wake Pearl. But it’s not a neighbor or one of the church ladies. 

It’s a man in a grey suit who doesn’t take off his hat. He holds a tan suitcase horizontal to the ground and shakes down four collapsible legs.

“I’m not interested,” I say, already closing the door.

He opens the suitcase. Four rows of gleaming brass watches and jewelry catch the sunlight, but it’s the sign inside the lid that’s caught my attention: Time is Relative.

My biggest regret is that I didn’t meet Sal sooner. I spent so many years alone, or with the wrong person, which is worse. And Pearl was our miracle baby. Whenever I complained about those lost years, when we didn’t know each other, before we had Pearl, he always told me, “Time is relative. I’m here now, aren’t I?” 

It feels like a sign.

There’s a gleam in the salesman’s eye when I open the door wide.

“Aha, for the young mother with sleepless nights.” He lifts a locket off the blue velvet and holds it up. “Put a picture of your little one on one side and read every upcoming scrape or illness on the other.” 

I try to imagine Pearl running on the sidewalk and falling down. Pearl when she’s school-age, lying on the couch with a fever. But all I see is Pearl clutched in my arms in our dark room, crying as if she’ll never stop. And why should she? I shake my head, retreating.

The man holds up a finger. “No, I see now. It’s not the future that troubles you.” 

He picks up a long chain. At the end is a golden disc, encircled by a golden band. He flicks the disc and it spins freely inside the band. He stops it and slides his long fingernail along the edge to open a latch. It’s a pocket watch.

“For the lonely heart that wants more time,” he says, holding it out to me.

A bird calls from high in the tree. My eyes stay riveted on the watch. It sways at the end of the chain and I think maybe it pulls toward me. Then it’s in my hand.

“Now, this piece is special indeed.” His voice is honey over cooled magma. “It works just like a regular watch, see? And you never need to wind it.”

The metal backing feels warm in my palm, as if I’ve held it a long time already. As if it belongs in my hand.

The salesman leans forward and indicates a knob on the side. “But if you turn the hands backwards, you can bring back someone you’ve lost for a night.”

My fingers clench it tight, the metal biting into my skin.

“Why one night?” My heart gallops, ready for night even as the sun climbs higher.

“Well, you can have as many nights as you choose,” says the man. It’s hot, but he doesn’t remove his jacket and his brow is dry. A rivulet of sweat rolls down my neck into the too-thick robe I threw on over my breastmilk-stained shirt.

“What’s the catch?” I ask.

“The catch?” He raises both eyebrows, feigning innocence.

“Yeah, the bait and switch, the hidden cost.” I’m holding the watch but it can’t be real. It can’t be what he says it is.

“There’s no catch,” he says, almost laughing. “It’s an exchange.” He taps the sign, Time is Relative. “We can’t go around breaking the laws of physics.”

I narrow my eyes at him. I should put it back. Go inside and shut the door. I should pick up Pearl who is awake now, babbling in her crib. I don’t do any of that.

“You can wind it up to six hours backwards each night. Your loved one will come back to you for that many hours,” he explains.

The watch glints gold beneath my fingers. Pearl starts to cry, wondering where I am. She’s not desperate yet.

“In exchange,” he stresses the word, “you will lose a year off your own life.”

“A year each night?” I ask, calculating.

“A year for every hour,” he says, his voice a loosed arrow.

My heart falls like a stone, crashing against my ribs. It’s hard to breathe. Pearl is crying in earnest now. The man holds my gaze, pretending to wait for my answer, as if he doesn’t already know.

“I’ll take it,” I say. My hand closes around the watch and I hold it to my chest.

The man touches the brim of his hat and shuts the suitcase. I don’t wait to watch him leave.

#

Sal’s place is empty at the dinner table, the watch nestled on its chain on his placemat. Sometime today I became afraid of it. I don’t want to touch it, but I can’t tear my eyes away. Outside the window, the sky is a blaze of orange. Pearl isn’t eating anymore, just throwing her food on the floor. 

Inevitability hangs in the air as if I am watching a movie about my own life. I’m waiting for darkness and wondering when it will be night—the question I should’ve asked. I settle Pearl for sleep, knowing she’ll be up again soon.

I walk away from her crib, holding the watch by the chain. The mattress sinks beneath me as I turn on Sal’s bedside lamp. I open the latch. My fingertips grasp the knob and I turn the minute hand backwards. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine. I’m so careful not to go past the hour mark that my hands are sweating. Then I drop the watch onto the nightstand like a hot coal. 

How long do I have to wait? Should I unlock the front door? 

Then a weight settles next to me on the bed. I turn and fall against him. My hands on his face, in his hair. His mouth on mine, a magnetic pull I’m powerless to resist. And it’s the same as it’s been a thousand times before. And it’s new because I’m sobbing the whole time.

“It’s okay,” Sal says, his eyebrows drawn together.

He doesn’t know he died, I think. 

He smooths back my hair. “It’s okay,” he says again. He always hated to see me cry. But it’s not okay and it’s never going to be okay. His words can’t change anything.

Pearl wakes with a hiccough and a cry. Sal goes to her and she settles on his shoulder. I take a picture with my phone even though it’s dark. Desperate to save something that can’t be saved. Then I go to them and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my head on Pearl’s small back, breathing in her clean scent, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. 

It has to be enough. It will never be enough.

#

Sunlight streams through the window when I wake. There’s a delicious moment before I open my eyes when I’m aware of being well-rested for the first time in months. I stretch my legs under the covers, luxuriating in the swipe of cotton against my skin. My body feels lithe and strong, like it used to be before I had Pearl.

I reach for my phone and check the photos. But the last photo is of Pearl in a baby swing yesterday afternoon.

It’s so quiet. Too quiet.

I fling back the covers. The crib in the corner is empty. She just learned how to climb out of it last week. My heart thuds outside of my chest. Panic swells behind my eyes. There’s a noise in the kitchen and I run down the hall. 

Pearl is sitting in the middle of the tiled floor. Her chubby feet are touching each other, knees bent for stability. She has a look of intense concentration on her face. Gold flashes against the ceiling. I clutch my chest, panting. She’s holding the watch and her tiny fingers are turning the knob backwards.