Chapter 19
The padded room was claustrophobic, and Sam wanted nothing more than to get out of it once he was sent back in. It wasn’t filthy like it had been in the future, but it was just as uncomfortable.
It didn’t help that they’d turned off the lights and he was now in almost pitch darkness, without so much as a headlamp to light his way.
After all his lucidity and the help he’d given, he was still left to languish in the dark like this. These people might have believed they were helping, but they had no clue, did they? Even without conscious malice, they were treating him worse than a zoo animal. At least zoos tended to have enrichment for the resident creatures. Though, he supposed, here in the early sixties that wasn’t always the case either.
Without thinking about it, Sam had unclipped the razor from the shaving implement, and was now holding it in his hand, letting the dim light shine off it like a beacon.
Do it.
What…
End the pain.
No.
It’s your fault. All of it.
Sam felt a deep sorrow wash over him. It really was all his fault, wasn’t it? He’d made everything worse for Sam Beiderman. And it was too late to fix things.
Die with me.
The voice in his mind seemed to clutch at him, pleading.
My name is Sam Beiderman.
“I’m sorry…” Sam murmured.
Do it, damn you.
“I don’t want to…”
Then I will.
And the next thing Sam knew, his hands were sticky with blood, and there was pain in his wrists. How…?
“No!” he scrambled to his feet, hands pressing at the wounds. He ran for the door, but as he was about to pound on the window, everything went black.
* * *
A piece of sandwich dropped out of Sam’s mouth.
“Must you be so disgusting, Sam?” The woman was looking at him with intense disdain.
“Uh… sorry…” he replied, and placed down the ham sandwich on the metal tray in front of him. Where was he? Hadn’t he just—she’d called him Sam, hadn’t she? And this cafeteria looked awfully familiar, too.
Sam peered down at the tray, and saw the face of Sam Beiderman reflected back. That couldn’t be right. How did he get here? A minute ago he’d—he shivered, realising that the last time he’d jumped around one person’s life like this was Lee Harvey Oswald. Hadn’t there been a razor then, too?
“Would you just pay attention for five minutes?” the woman said, crossing her arms. “This is why I’m leaving you. You say you want to see me, and just—you hardly even look me in the eye! You’ve barely said a thing, and I don’t know if you’ve heard a word I’ve said!”
“Well,” Sam said quietly, “depression can make social interaction very difficult sometimes, and—”
The woman let out a groan. “I don’t think you’re depressed at all, you know. I think you just want to sit around all day in bed while the rest of us have to pay for your food and board.” She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. “Consider this the last time you’ll see me, Sam. Until you clean yourself up and make an effort.”
“Wait…” Sam stood, but the woman was already half way across the Mess Hall.
Your fault.
* * *
When Ben was finally returned to Sam Beiderman’s room, he saw that what had been a padded room in 2010 was not yet fitted out that way here in 1956. And as he entered, the repeated words scrawled on the floor were open and visible for all to see.
“I am Sam Beiderman.”
Ben now understood, to an extent, why the man would feel the need to repeat this mantra, after returning to his senses and finding he had apparently been switching between numerous personas, with no memory of it.
It had been way too long since Ben had come here without Addison showing up, and he had become quite worried that whatever had happened had not been the usual leap. He had just returned from another film session, in which he had uttered the phrase ‘Turtle Time’ in the hopes anyone back home might come upon the tape and be able to pinpoint his leap, assuming the reel survived. But now, looking down at the floor, he thought he might need to add another clue. So he fished out the marker from Sam Beiderman’s bedside, and added his name to the mass.
“So it’s true,” Doctor Masters said, standing in the doorway. “I was hoping Nurse Chatam heard wrong, but I suppose it makes sense as to why you’ve been acting unusual today.” He peered down at Ben’s writing, fingers on his glasses. “‘Ben Song.’ Is that who I’m speaking with?”
Ben climbed to his feet. “I’m Sam Beiderman,” he said with a shrug, putting away the marker.
“Then why did you write that name there?” Doctor Masters asked, eyes narrow.
“Posterity,” Ben said simply, and changed the subject. “Listen, do you think I could speak with my wife today, doctor?”
“Your wife? Oh, I’m glad you feel up to speaking to her today. Yes, I can set up a call for you. I’ll have the nurse come get you when the phone is available, alright?”
Ben nodded. “I appreciate that.”
As the doctor closed the door, Ben turned and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Addison pop into existence right in front of him.
“Oh my god, Addison!” he cried, silently thanking god that she’d finally arrived.
“Ben…” Addison’s eyes were shining with tears of relief. “God, I’m glad you’re okay. There’s some kind of crazy time warp happening in this place. Both you and Sam slipped into different times.”
“So it wasn’t a leap…”
“Not a normal one, by any measure,” Addison confirmed, her form flickering. “We got your message, by the way. Thanks for giving us the date.”
Ben smiled. “I’m glad you got it. Does anyone know what happened? Can we correct this?”
“We’re trying to get to the bottom of it. All we know is that there’s a film of Sam in 1955—in the same guy as you—and he seems to think he’s in trouble. He gave us some advice that helped Ian and Janis get a lock on you.”
“Well, thank you Sam.” Ben folded his arms. “What do you mean ‘in trouble?’”
Addison shook her head. “He said he thinks he’s gonna die, but he didn’t go into it. But he said we have to help Sam Beiderman. Which, for the record, is you.”
Ben gestured to the floor. “Yeah, I did pick up on that much, Addison.”
“Oh, yeah,” Addison conceded. “So here’s what we know: Sam Beiderman is—”
“Depressed and they think he’s got DID, right? Because of Sam’s leap.”
“Exactly. Wow, maybe you didn’t need me after all.”
“I’ve been talking to this guy, Tibby. He can see my real face.”
“Right,” Addison agreed, “You might find that true for a number of patients here.” She peered down at her handlink. “Anyway—there’s more,” she said, “because he’s going to slash his wrists with a razor in 1962.”
“I thought you said the Sam on the reel was in 1955. Why does he think he’s gonna die then?”
Addison shook her head. “We don’t know.”
“Okay, well, I’m already on the case,” Ben said. “Apparently last week, Sam had a visit from his wife and when she left, he was in tears.”
Addison tapped at the handlink. “Oh—I think I might know why. She and him get a divorce in three weeks.” She looked back up. “Ben, Sam said we need to help the guy. Maybe that could be a way?”
Ben pressed his lips together. “Okay. That helps. A call with her is being set up as we speak. Is there anything else I could do to help this guy?”
“I’ll get the others on it.” Addison gazed into Ben’s eyes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Ben.” And she was gone.