The Time of Change

Hello Doctor

My hands tremble slightly as I attempt to carve the last edge of this little wooden car. The wheels have already been drilled into it. It's just this one side that I've got to do now. It's my gift to Barnable's son, Jeremy, for his tenth birthday coming up soon. The veins in my hands protrude in an unsightly way, and I don't like to look at them, but I have to. The firelight makes them look worse than they usually do. I sink deeper into the chair I'm sitting in, the back of my head feeling the cushions. I pause for a moment to scratch behind my ear, and, for the millionth time this week, I feel my scalp. So much of my hair has gone now, and what's left of it is wispy and white and gray. An old man. That's what I've become. Never thought I would live long enough to become one of those, honestly. Didn't think I'd make it this far. If I thought I was old before... well, that was a long time ago when I thought that. Too long ago to be thinking about it now. My shaking fingers go back to working on the car after a moment. Somewhere deep in my mind, I remember when Barnable himself was just a boy, as Jeremy is now, and the thought brings a doleful sort of smile to my face.

I hear the door open behind me, letting in the screams of the people outside. Yes, I know what's happening out there. No, I can't stop it. I've tried. For so many years, this is all I've done. Save them, time and time again. For weeks and years and decades and centuries, all I have done is protect this place, this one little town called Christmas. Do my hearts ache for them? Of course. I've grown to love each and every one of the townspeople. They're the only family I've got anymore. And here I am, letting another family die when I could stop it. But even the voices tell me that I can't stop this one. Even the voices are agreeing with me, that it's time. And when the voices agree... I wouldn't know how to end that statement. They've never agreed with me before.

Without turning my head, I call weakly, "Barnable? Come on in, son, I'm nearly finished." The sound of my voice still startles me a little because of how different I sound. I used to sound like a man-child, animated yet old, with not a break or tremor whatsoever. But now... now I can hardly get a few words out without having to clear my throat, or take several deep breaths. Old age, or at least, an age as old as mine, takes a toll on you that is beyond comprehension. Nonetheless, after getting over the initial, typical shock of hearing myself -- because I very seldom speak anymore -- I wait. I wait for Barnable's deep, warm voice to fill the room, for him to chuckle despite the daunting odds and sit and talk with me, his son sitting on his knee. I wait to feel him clap his hand on my shoulder and smile down at me, just as I always imagined my own son or daughter would do. I wait, and wait, but I don't hear him. What I do hear is a voice I nearly do not recognize.

"Clara," says a woman tentatively, her tone constricted. My hands fumble with the toy for a second before it goes clattering to the wooden floor beneath my feet. That voice. The name. I take deep breaths into my old, aged lungs, and slowly angle myself in the chair so I can see behind me.

There she is, looking the same. Her soft, shiny, curled brown hair. The pretty white face. Her black sweater and red skirt. Her thin hands, clenched together in front of her stomach. And her eyes, the intriguing, deep brown eyes that I've never been able to place under just one category. Hazel, brown, chocolate, woody -- they've been everything. Now, though it's been decades upon decades for me, they are youthful, but not bright. They shine in the light from the fireplace near me, but they look wet. Her eyeliner is still smudged, though it originally got that way over thirty years ago. A tear sneaks its way from her left eye and trickles down her cheek. "Hello, Doctor," she whispers.

I hold out my hand for her to take, and she does, striding toward me in a few steps. Her hand is so soft, unlined and dainty. It doesn't even look real. Her hand lying in mine looks like a picture. Something with so little years, so full of life and vibrancy, sitting in a spotted, shriveled palm. And she doesn't even look real. "Have you always been so young?" I ask hoarsely. A small smile curves her lips upward, and I feel a deep ache in my chest. Those eyes of hers bore into me, shining with something I'll never be able to place accurately, and the years that have grown between us, distancing her from myself, melt away. "Nah," she answers quietly. "That was you." I nod a few times, slightly, and kiss her hand. Another tear falls from her eye.

Now she sits across from me, in the chair usually reserved for Barnable and his son and wife, and we stare at each other. She's not aged a day since I saw her last, which is to be expected, I suppose. It's always hard to keep track of who I leave where, and when. And it's a painful thought, a reminder that I can't remember anything anymore. Things, memories, moments I should be able to remember, they all slip from my mind like sand through thin fingers, like trying to trap smoke in your hand. It's impossible to accomplish, and maddening to try, so somewhere down the line, I stopped trying. I'm not content with forgetting, not content with allowing myself to let the best and worst and in between times of my life slink from my head as if they were never there, but what choice do I have? One does not simply choose to go mad. It happens, whether you are okay with it or not.