“Hold this in place for me,” said Sam, his hand gripping the power plug. Professor LoNigro, still perplexed by the situation, obliged the request. Sam climbed out from under the bed and knelt beside it, not quite game to attempt to stand.
He peered at the machines for a moment, unsure whether they would still be functioning correctly – but if they weren’t, he couldn’t tell. He’d once known all about this equipment, but that knowledge was gone. So he did the only thing he could think to, which was to hold his fingers against his younger self’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. It seemed steady.
The machine was only off for a few seconds, nothing could have happened, right?
He sighed with relief, and looked around for something heavy he could place against the plug so it couldn’t be pulled out again. Spotting a box of latex gloves on a shelf, he ducked under the bed, taking the Professor’s place.
“Could you grab me the box of gloves over there? We can shove it up against the outlet.”
“Okay…” said the professor, “but I’m a little spooked about what just happened, Sam. Are you telling me a ghost pulled this plug?”
Sam gave him a defeated look. “It’s sure looking that way, isn’t it?”
“If you believe I’m a ghost, why are you still refusing to believe the things I’ve been saying?” Young Sam was sitting in the corner of the room, sulking.
“Because I’m scared, dammit!” Sam barked. He peered out, making eye contact with the ghost. “I… don’t wanna die.”
Professor LoNigro slid the box under the bed, towards Sam. He pushed it up against the plug tightly, before crawling back out to the open room and against a wall a few feet from Young Sam.
“We’re already dead,” Young Sam mumbled, his eyes cast downward on his fidgeting hands. “You just haven’t accepted it yet.”
Sam had no counter to this, so he just sat in silence, head resting against the wall.
Professor LoNigro approached him, extending a hand. “Need some help?”
Sam grasped the hand, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
“Do you want to get some lunch?” he asked the professor, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but this room that held a mirror to his mortality.
* * *
A 19-year-old Sam Beckett watched his older form walk away, hand grasping at the walls for support, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his ghostly stomach.
He turned in the other direction, and began passing through wall after wall, navigating his way to the operating theater where his father slept.
And there he was: under a bright light, his chest cavity exposed to the air, and a red beating heart shining in the light.
“Oh, Dad…”
He was crying, and as tears dripped from his face, they dissolved into nothing.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, Dad. I was never meant to die. And you…” he swallowed hard. “You were.”
Sam put a hand against his father’s face, as the hands of surgeons moved in and out of his form.
“Dad, I wanted my life support turned off before I knew whether or not you’d live through this operation, because if you do survive, I won’t want to leave this timeline knowing you’ll die if I do.”
“I love you Dad, but…” His voice began to break. “But if I break the paradox, then lots of other people will be saved. Even Tom. So you see why I can’t wait to see your prognosis. I can’t let that stop me from doing what’s right. I’m sorry.”
He dropped to his knees. “But the other me is messing up everything I try. I just need for him to understand. How can two people with the same damn soul be at odds like this?”
The same soul?
Sam looked down at his hands, mind racing. They did have the same soul, albeit at different stages of development. What would happen if…?
Sam planted a ghostly kiss on his father’s forehead before taking a step back from the table. In a flash, the scenery changed around him and he was behind his older self. Old Sam was sitting at a table in the hospital cafeteria, across from Professor LoNigro, Katie, and his Mom.
“What did I miss?” he asked in a nonchalant tone, strolling to the table.
Old Sam, as usual, gave him no more acknowledgement than a momentary glance of disdain.
“Listen, I had this crazy idea…” He leaned in to Sam. “And I say crazy, because it might not work out the way I expect, but… humour me. Can we talk in private?”
Old Sam flicked him a nervous glance. “Uh, excuse me,” he said to the table, and unsteadily climbed to his feet. Katie stood and grabbed him.
“Hey,” she said, putting on a show for her mother, “I was wondering about that, um… flask I saw you drinking from earlier. Let me help you there.”
She heaved his arm over her shoulder. “Where to?”
“Bathroom.”
Young Sam followed the two of them. As they entered, Katie frowned at Sam as he clutched at the sink. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“It’s nothing. You can go back now, Katie.”
“Well, I won’t. You obviously need help getting around. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam looked like a trapped animal for a moment, as Young Sam offered him a sympathetic smile.
“It’s okay – I don’t mind Katie seeing this,” he murmured, moving ever closer to his older self. “We’re not so different, so this shouldn’t be that weird. Just… hang on tight.”
And Young Sam stepped inside Old Sam.