A Window of Opportunity

That little black notebook was my grandmother’s most precious treasure. It was never too far from her side. I visited her as often as I was able, in the house she and her husband built. She was getting weaker, but refused to spend her last days in a hospital bed. Not when she had a perfectly good one at home. Bed bound, she could do little, without the help of her nurse; yet, she clung to that notebook with more strength than her frail body should have been able to muster. It was on my last visit that she told me why that notebook was so important. It belonged to her grandfather Robert, and written in it was the secret to time travel.

Robert fell in love with a woman named Elizabeth, a waitress at a diner. Every Saturday morning Robert would get up early to have breakfast at the diner. Behind the guise of reading the morning paper, Robert would watch Elizabeth dance around that crowded dining room. When it was slow, Elizabeth would sit in the booth across from him and they would talk. She had dreams of leaving their small town behind.

One gloomy Saturday morning, Elizabeth saw fit to make her dreams a reality. She sat in the booth across from Robert and insisted he go with her. Robert was hesitant, he needed more time. Elizabeth could not wait any longer, and when she left, she without him.

Robert continued to get up early Saturday mornings to have breakfast. It was partly out of routine, but he hoped one day Elizabeth would come back. Sit across from him in that booth one last time. Weeks turned into months, and then years.

One gloomy Saturday morning, after ten years of waiting; a young woman sat in the booth across from Robert. He looked up to see Elizabeth, just as beautiful and radiant as the day she left. She insisted that Robert leave with her that night, as if the span of a decade had not separated them. Robert had been given a second chance. Without hesitation, he accepted it.

For years, Robert expected to wake up, to find himself back at that diner. He never did. He and Elizabeth had three children. By the time the third was out of diapers, Robert was spending most evenings in his study. He became obsessed with understanding what happened that day, keeping a record of his work in his notebook. Robert lost track of how much time he was spending in the study. He did not even realize when Elizabeth took the children and left. He just came out one day, to find that they were not there.

Months passed with Robert alone in his study. He was not making any progress in understanding what happened that day at the diner. He just could not focus. He was haunted by thoughts of Elizabeth, their children, and the knocking, that insistent knocking. He was not sure at first if he heard it. There it was again. A light tapping at the door. Robert rose and crept over slowly. He threw open the door, half expecting to confront his demons. Standing there was his eldest daughter, Eleanor. Eyes wide, startled by the force in which Robert greeted her. She asked in a timid voice if he would take his dinner in the study that night. Robert was astounded; somehow it happened again. He had gone back.

At the table, with his family oblivious to the last few months, Robert was sure his ability to leap backwards in time was caused by his longing to return to the past; but not his longing alone. Robert routinely visited the same place, always at the same time. This went on for months, years, like clockwork. He believed that this routine created a rule, a loop in time where he was always expected to be. Propelled by his strong desire to return to the past, Robert was allowed to slip outside of that loop, unnoticed. Time continued to move forward, losing track of him.

That little black notebook contained Robert’s notes. He gave it to Grandma in hopes that she could use them, but she was never able to create her own loop. She gave it to me as I was leaving for the day. I tried to refuse. It was much safer with her, but she was adamant. The next morning her nurse called to tell me she passed in her sleep. After the funeral, I started to plan.

My routine was simple. I did not have a lost love to wait for in a diner booth. I did not even know where a diner was in the area. I would hardly call my tiny studio apartment, a study. I did have a window. From the fourth floor in the middle of the city, there not much of a view; but it was all that I had. I taped a square on the floor, and stepped inside. I waited at the window for fifteen minutes in the morning the first week. I would have my coffee, and gaze down at the street below. I even bought a calendar to hang on the wall. I crossed out each day before standing at the window. By week two, I increased that time to thirty minutes, and when I was a month in, I was standing at the window for an hour every morning.

The challenging part was deciding on when I would return. It was March 4th, when I heard it. An advertisement on the radio for the lottery, a jackpot of $20,000. It was decided. I would wait until after the drawing. The winning numbers would be announced, then I would just go back and enter. I stopped at the next gas station and grabbed a ticket. Folded, and placed it in my pocket, then rushed home.

The drawing was held the following week. The winning numbers were posted online. I read them from my phone, over and over again. 8, 11, 25, 30. The street was still alive, at nearly midnight. I had been standing here since I got home from work earlier that evening, just after six. Thirty more minutes, then I would call it a night. With the winning numbers, the $20,000 was now more mine than ever. All I had to do was go back.

I continued to cross days off the calendar without fail. They all started to blend into one. Lines of red without a day unmarked between. Weeks passed, and there were other lotteries. Prizes larger than the $20,000, but I had my numbers. I had my routine. I knew that this would not be quick process, but I had not expected it to take so long. I started sleeping only three hours a night. Any time I was not spending working, I was at the window.

It made sense for me to stop going to work. It did not matter that I lost my job. I would just go back. Standing at this window was a much better use of my time, anyway. When I went back, it would be as if none of this ever happened. I would have my job and I would have the $20,000. I just had to keep waiting, I just had to go back.

Each month on the calendar marked a new milestone. April, I had gone through my savings. Trash had started to pile up on the floor, empty bottles, wrappers and plastic food trays. I had not paid the rent and was afraid to leave the apartment. I did not want to run into the land lady.

May, the eviction letter was stapled to the door. I could not understand why it was taking so long to go back. I was more than desperate for the money. Why was I not going back? I had no other choice at this point. I could only continue to wait. If I waited, I could go back. If I went back, I could win the money. With the money everything would be fine. All I had to do was go back.

The knocking started one evening in June. Not my demons, but the land lady and the sheriff, announcing themselves loudly. I would not move to open the door, or to brace it. I would not move to run, or to hide. I would only stand there, and wait.

The knocking eventually stopped. I thought they had given up. Then I heard the key. Of course, the landlady had a key. I could hear it then, turning in the lock. They would not know that I was waiting, what I was waiting for, nor how long I had been waiting. If they moved me, I might miss my opportunity. It might be another six months; it might be another ten years. No, it had to be now. I could not be moved. I grabbed the closest thing I could find without leaving my box, a pen. With my back to the door, I clutched it close to my chest and waited. I waited and waited, but they never came.

Soon, I could not wait any longer. I turned to face the door. Facing away from my window. Stepping outside of my box. There was no one, nothing. Even the trash, that had once carpeted the floor was gone. I peered out into the hall, no one there. I closed the door and leaned against it, exhausted. I reached into my pocket and sure enough it was there. A folded slip of paper. I rushed to check the last day crossed off on the calendar, March 4th. I unfolded the ticket, and marked the only numbers that came to mind. 8,11,25,30. I would drop the ticket off in the morning. For now, I would get some rest.

With the $20,000 I started my own notebook company, modeled after the durability of my own. It has taken months to get to this point, but business is good. I keep my little black notebook close, though I find myself thinking about it less often. It sits now on my desk, next to the offer letter. A popular notebook brand wants to purchase my company. Contained in that offer, is a figure so large I would not be able to spend it in a dozen timelines. This deal promises me more than I could ever want, but my pen has remained poised over that line all week.

A strong breeze blows through the open window, scattering the pages. There is a chill in the air. Summer will be ending soon. Dawn begins to break over the horizon. My juts out over the coastline, surrounded by windows. Nothing but water for miles. The comparison to that tiny studio apartment is stark. With my new view, I watch as the sun emerges from the ocean, and wait.