悲喜时间线（A Matter of Time）
翻译小说
“哎。我妈快不行了。你想跟我约会吗？”
嗯。这也不是一个我会用的开场白。所以，我没这么说。
反正，我妈跟我说过，别因为她生病，就对我自己的生活按下暂停键。
她说：“塔姆，记忆之渡鸦在宇宙中四处飞翔。它们不会栖息在塔楼里。”
她总是说些类似的话。
母亲看着她，说，她希望那些记忆之渡鸦周日还能来和我们一起吃晚饭。
母亲怀胎十月生下我。我们俩都不相信神话。
不过，十六年来，我听惯了我妈的睡前絮语，每天的鼓励，还有她自制的草药茶。即使我不会像她那样说这些话，我也能理解她说这些话的意思。
所以，我像往常一样，去了青年自然资源保护者协会。我的笔记本里已经准备好了对大型蝴蝶的调查记录（多亏了我妈的生态野化恢复工作）。调查内容包含六只暮眼蝶、三只红蛱蝶、两只大白蝶。
那一周，有一件事我完全没有料到。那就是怀文的出现。
我喜欢的人从来没有真正对我感兴趣过。我猜，他对我感兴趣，大概是因为我记录的蝴蝶数量打动了他。
说实话，我有点惶恐。
我：“好吧。你认为最适合时间穿越旅行的五个地方是哪里？”
（他打了一会儿字）
（我写了四遍“这是个蠢问题。别回答了。”然后，删了四遍。）
怀：“我有些问题……”
问题列得相当齐全。诸如，他能回来吗？他会改变什么吗？他是真人，抑或只是个幽灵？”
我把这些问题丢给了人工智能，让它生成一份旅行概要。然后，发给他。
我：“这些是给你的条件。希望你能接受。”
（他打了一会儿字）
（我用了不同的说法，写了五遍“我不是在嘲笑你”。然后，又删了五遍。）
怀：“好吧。我的答案可能有点自以为是。但还是列出来吧。第五，1999年，告诉大家千禧虫不会来。第四，1933年，去纽约看比莉•哈乐黛（Billie Holiday）在成名之前的演唱。第三，3.5亿年前，石炭纪时代（那时的蜻蜓跟乌鸦一样大！）。第二，500年前，我家所在的位置。第一，我现实中的选择——不去任何在我加入青年自然资源保护者协会之前的时间。”
（我给他的回复点了个爱心）
我：“‘自以为是’这个词，不过是别人让你为自己的喜好感到羞愧时才会用的。我永远不会这么说。而且，我会和你一起去石炭纪时代。”
我妈探头进来，手里拿着杯子。
我吓了一跳。
“哦，嗨。”我说。然后，“笑一笑！”我朝她举起手机。
她回以一个温暖的微笑。
“塔姆辛，这就像和狗仔队住在一起。”她嗔怪道，“虽然……”她清了清嗓子，“……是我爱管闲事。我听到你在笑？”
她在我身边徘徊，期待着我的反应。
“有个表情包很搞笑。”我说，假装要找给她看。
“现在又找不到了。”
“要是你故意不让我看，那肯定是个很粗俗的东西。”她说，“说实话，你还真挺自私的。明知道我最喜欢看那种东西。”
“你进来连门都没敲！”
她有点得意地笑了笑——没有恶意。那种表情只是在她想到那些不该跟自己孩子说的笑话时，才会露出的。她顾虑的不是体面——而是她作为妈妈的那个身份。大概是关于死亡的笑话吧。她一直试图拿这件事开玩笑。
她终于想出了个合适的词：“我忘了自己的界线。你的笑声像施了魔法一样，我被它迷住了。这并非我的错。不过，我就不打扰你了。”
她笑着离开，随手关上了门。
这两条时间线——我妈的，和怀文的——不该存在于同一个头脑空间里。它们并行不悖。但想象一下它们相交时的情景。就像看着两列火车全速地彼此相撞。
在科幻故事里，当时间线相撞时，世界就会爆炸。
我花了300英镑买了些摄像头。那是我全部的积蓄。安装之前我没征求过任何人的意见。
我妈走进我房间（这次她敲了敲门）。
“为什么我家楼下变成了星空之地？”她严肃地瞪着我，“塔姆辛，我感觉每个角落都有人在对我眨眼。你给我解释解释，这到底是怎么回事？”
“我只是想，”我开口说，“你小时候的那些家庭老旧录像带。它们连续不断地拍摄着，构成了你的一幅完整的肖像画。而有关我的只是一些零星的片段。”
“是啊。那些老旧录像带糟透了。”我妈说，“它们把我的生活拍得那么乏味无趣。其实，我的生活非常精彩。当然，除了那件显而易见的事。”
“也许，我就是想拍一些乏味无趣的画面。”我说。
其中有一台摄像头放在冰箱顶上，斜对着餐桌。我妈管它叫“松下的全景视眼”。
母亲说，至少，我该事先征求她的意见，选个和家里装潢风格配搭的品牌。
晚饭是至少被反复加热过两次的剩扁豆汤。我妈坚持说，这样才能把扁豆的味道激发出来。母亲说，她的脑子有病了。我妈今天比平时乖多了。而母亲则不停地对着烤箱上的黑色玻璃照镜子。
母亲问：“今天的症状如何？”
在吃饭的时候问这个问题很危险。
其实，我妈可以告诉我们更多的细节的。不过，她今天只是挥挥手，说：“罢了，罢了。没什么好说的。”
* * *
怀问我，我最想要的五个时间穿越的旅行是什么。
我：“第五，石炭纪时代。想和你，还有蜻蜓一起玩。第四，萨迦时代。想听听故事，看看渡鸦。我妈对萨迦时代很着迷。第三，聆听古老不列颠荒野中的鸟鸣。第二，去看望我妈和母亲小时候的样子。我知道，你会觉得这条有点虚假。但我们姑且称她们为‘2甲和2乙’吧。第一，我最后一次收到坏消息的前一天。”
怀：“坏消息？你还好吗？我感觉你今天有点不对劲。”
我：“当然是坏消息。记得吗？那天在公园里没吃到蜂巢冰淇淋。”
（他打字，停顿。打字，停顿。屏幕上没有出现任何信息。）
我听到我妈在走廊里的脚步声。片刻后，她就出现了——倚在门框上。她看着床头柜上闪烁着的摄像头。
“我跟女儿说话的时候，你别对我眨眼。”她假装责怪地说。
她拿出手机，递给我：“我找到这个了。”
屏幕上出现的是我——穿着水手服，是世界上最年轻的水手。我妈在我身后。我们一起坐在花园里的毯子上。周围散落着玩具：一条鲸鱼、一只螃蟹，一只至今我还留着的会叫的章鱼。
“五分钟。整整，五分钟。”她笑着说，“比那些零星片段长多了。我这就发给你。”
视频里，母亲正在拍摄我妈和我玩假扮游戏。毯子变成了一艘船。我们看到了鲸鱼、岛屿，遇到了波涛汹涌的大海。最后，我妈变成了海盗，把我从船上掠出，抱进怀里。
这段视频是用一台老旧的摄像机拍摄的。画面抖动得很厉害。与其说是在波涛汹涌的大海上，不如说是在颠簸的汽车旅程中。我妈把我搂进怀里的时候，她在镜头里停留的时间似乎比我预想的要长一些。摄像机的镜头静止了，比正常情况多停留了一会儿。
* * *
我已经存满了两个硬盘。我跟我妈说，这是为了“留给后代”。
我妈说，后代不该看到她忘了带毛巾去浴室的样子。
“留个光屁股给后代。”我说。
她勉强挤出一丝苦笑。没再追问。
我正在向她学习如何适可而止。
最近，她变得安静多了。现在拍照时，她时常笑不露齿。偶尔，只是抿一下嘴唇。
母亲说：“为什么你不去陪陪她？现在花点时间，总比以后来不及陪要好。”
说着，她朝镜头那边斜了斜头。
我去找她。不过，她躺在床上。我站在她的房门口，不确定她是完全沉睡了，还是暂时的静止。
当事情太安静了，安静的时间太久了，我就会有这种感觉，一种类似对低频音响的恐惧症。自然界中没有这种感觉。它就像是一种反作用力，一种人为制造的、失重般的静止。
两条时间线都在继续移动。怀不停地发来短信。一条语音留言把我从这种令人不安的恐惧中拽了出来。
我回到自己的房间里去听留言。
他照例在开玩笑：“这是你的每日极客播客。怀又在逃避作业了。今天我继续来聊蝴蝶。”
我笑了。
“我看了个你可能会喜欢的视频。有个科学家在讲帝王蝶的迁徙。夏末出生的帝王蝶被称为‘超级一代’。它们不像祖先那样只能活两周，而是能活长达九个月。这样，它们才能从加拿大一路飞到墨西哥。它们的迁徙是由日照时间变长，气温降低，乳草和花蜜减少等因素触发的。最佳的迁徙时机稍纵即逝，而且不可逆转。”
一阵沉默。
“我尽量不给人压力。只是……”
他笑了。
“我觉得，如果我是一只蝴蝶，那么，乳草就会越来越少了……”
他被逗笑了。笑声很有感染力。
“我原以为蝴蝶会很可爱。但现在感觉有点怪异，要是你用放大镜观察一只蝴蝶的话。我只想说，我喜欢你，塔姆。我觉得你跟我分享了很多。你知道，秋天快到了，以及诸如‘一切都会很棒’之类的。不过……我有点困惑，现在是不是适合你的时机？”
“那么，呃，极客播客就到此结束了！希望你喜欢我分享的这些小知识！”
如果我有翅膀，它们将会颤抖着，小心翼翼地试探着飞翔。我双手抱头，时间线在我体内嗡嗡作响。我和世界崩塌之间只隔着寥寥数语。
* * *
摄像头画面一片空白。
我重启了程序。没反应。走廊里空荡荡地。我朝角落里的摄像头眨了眨眼，没有任何回应。
我检查了电路。没问题。电池。也没问题。
原来，是后面的小开关关掉了。
这个关闭不可能是误触。
我妈在厨房里。双手抱头，胳膊肘抵在桌子上，像是在支撑着自己。
我检查了每一个摄像头。
关了，关了，关了。
“是你关的？”我问。
她缓缓抬起头，眼睛泛红：“是的，塔姆。我关了它们。”
“可是，如果我不录下来，我会……忘记的。”我说。
我能说的，只有这句话。
“我知道你的感受。”她说，“可是，我再也忍受不了了。这不是你的错，亲爱的。我希望你能得到你需要的。但是……我觉得还有更好的办法。”
“我本来打算这个周末做个备份的。”我说，声音提高了一些，“关之前你应该先告诉我的……”
她伸手握住我的手：“对不起。我是应该先告诉你的。我本来想说的。我真这么想的。但你不需要记录下我的每一分钟，每一个位置的。”
我想尖叫。真想，真的想。
“我确定我有更好的素材。”她拍了拍自己的脑袋，“就在这里的某个地方。”
如果我动一下，我就会尖叫，或者哭泣。所以，我像只遇到狐狸的小野兔，站着没动。心跳如擂鼓。
她拥抱我。告诉我，她爱我。让我去睡觉。
她关灯离开。厨房骤然陷入黑暗。摄像头依然关着。
* * *
怀正在解释他从一个播客里听到的事。想法可以同时出现在不同的地方，即使相关人员从未谋面。比如，微积分、望远镜、进化论、《淘气阿丹》。
他说，也许，精神世界的运作方式和物质世界的生态系统一样。
我：“所以，这不是人和，而是天时、地利？”
怀：“既是人和，又是天时、地利。”
我：“你什么时候能给我发一条关于‘天不时、地不利’的语音留言？”
怀：“就像子弹比枪先发明出来一样。这事千真万确。”
我：“像是千真万确。”
我：“我妈快要去世这事也是千真万确。”
（打字，停顿。打字，停顿。）
他给我打电话。
“塔姆，你是认真的吗？”
“是的。”
“你刚知道？”
“不是。”
“我尽然没意识到。我怎么会不知道呢？”
我用鼻子哼了一声。
“抱歉。对不起。我只是……当然，你不会知道。我费了好大的劲才瞒着你。”
“我真的很抱歉。”他说。
我知道他会这么说。这不算错，但也不算对。
时间线在这里相撞。
我偶尔会听到我妈和别人谈论这件事。在无法回避的情况下，我偷听到了她要死的这件事。
“我知道，你可能不知道该说什么才好。”我说，“说实话，你现在说什么都不合适。所以，随便说点什么吧。”
又是一阵沉默。
然后，他生气地说：“我简直不敢相信，你竟然想剥夺我见你妈的机会。我听说她是个神奇的人物。”
随着一句告白和一个玩笑，两条时间线在同一片天空下相撞。
世界并没有爆炸。
于是，我继续说下去。
我告诉他那些摄像头。它们在家里的每个角落、每个房间，闪烁着亮点，注视着她。而我以为，我能一直那样坚持录影下去。结果，她一声不吭地就把那些摄像头全都关了。
我说完后，他问：“那她后来找你了吗？有没有给你更好的选择？”
“没有。”
“你知道吗……”他假装刚想到这这句话，但语气却像个儿童电视节目主持人似的那么夸张，“……我觉得记忆并不是那样运作的。”
“那么，它该是怎样运作的呢？”我问。
他犹豫了一下。
“我以前看过一个‘技术、娱乐、设计大会（TED Conferences）’关于这个主题的演讲。记忆不是摄像头。我觉得它更像是你在重述的一个故事。每次重述都会将这个故事印在你的脑子里，形成记忆。”
“谢谢您，教授。”我说，“但这听起来更糟。好像我们根本就记不住任何人似的。”
“也许……呃……你就别理会我发给你的那个TED大会的视频链接了。”他说。
“我很高兴你给我发来这个链接，”我说，“即使我可能不会去看。”
“也许，我可以去你家。”他说，“看看那个关于帝王蝶的节目。然后，跟你妈唠叨些我知道的那些事实。”
* * *
吊唁的人都走了。但屋子里仍然弥漫着花香和焚香的味道——蕨类、洋甘菊、芒草。每个台面上都摆着花瓶。
母亲累坏了。怀主动提出帮忙善后。她就上楼去睡觉了。
怀盘腿坐在客厅的地毯上。我躺着，把头枕在他的腿上。他用手指轻轻地在我的头发上画着圈圈。
“有件事我没告诉你。”我说，“最后，她还是想出了一个办法。”
“哦？”
“几周前，她来过我的房间。她说：‘我想到一个更好的主意。’”
我深吸一口气，努力不让自己回到当时的场景。我想讲完这个故事。
“她拿过我的手机，放到一边。她坐在我的床沿，让我躺下，闭上眼睛。
“她说：‘我们要去星空之地。’然后，她低声说，‘这只是个比喻。’
“我笑了，睁开眼睛。她却说：‘好了。现在认真点。’
“我能感觉到她的声音在我体内流淌——温暖、酥麻。
“她说：‘当你迷失方向时，抬头看看，并记住这个比喻。这是一幅黑色的、闪光的画布。我们都在从这些记忆的闪光中体会意义，寻找方向。和我一起漫步星云。你看到了吗？你脑海中的声音、画面、文字——它们会闪烁，也会消逝。时而浩瀚无垠，时而又归于虚无。你拥有的每一个记忆都是真实的。即使是那些在你伸手去抓时溜走的，那些模糊不清的，那些后来你编造的，那些即使我不在场，你也能知道我会说什么的。’
“她说话的时候，我看到了它们——那些闪烁的光点。每一个都是她的化身，在时间中穿梭。
“‘那些都是我。’她说，‘就像摄像机里记忆卡上的我一样真实。每一个影像都是。你需要的那个版本永远都在那里。’她说，‘而你不记得的那个——她也在那里。而且，她并不介意你不记得。’
“我完全沉浸在那片天空中——沉浸在她的话语里，沉浸在她的声音里。我明白了。我对她而言是谁，她对我而言是谁，可能比我用镜头拍下来的任何东西都更加真实。
“‘你感觉不到重量。’她说。
“而我确实如此。被拥抱着，安全地置身于宇宙中那个被吹开的广阔时空里。
“‘我现在对你来说是谁，’她说，‘比我自己对我来说是谁更重要。’”
我不再说话了。我们什么也没说。他用套头衫的袖子轻轻拭去我的眼泪。
“她没有给你讲故事。”他说，“她本身就是故事。”
几天前，我和怀一起上了山——就是她曾经散步、唱歌、思考的那座山——去撒她的骨灰。
母亲把时间安排得恰到好处。那时，正值日落时分。最先出现的几颗星星正闪烁着挂上夜幕。蝴蝶们则倒挂在树叶下。
（完）
作者：[英]艾弗里•斯帕克斯（Avery Sparks）2025年11月13日发布于瑞德西网站（Reedsy.com）
译者：鸭绒2026年2月1日完成于洛杉矶（Los Angeles）
译者注：
小说原名《A Matter of Time》，讲的是一个16岁的英国少女，在失去妈妈的同时，收获爱情的故事。痛苦和甜蜜的两条本不应相交的时间线，在伤感和浪漫中相撞。
小说中的“妈妈”以两个不同层面的形象出现，形成一种虚实交织的叙述结构。原文中分别用“Mum”和“Mama”来表示。其实，她们是同一个人。本译文用“我妈”对应“Mum”，“母亲”对应“Mama”。
附： 原文
A Matter of Time
By Avery Sparks（UK）
Hey. My Mum’s dying. Wanna date me?
Yeah, it’s not one I’d start with either. So I haven’t.
Mum told me, anyway, not to put my life on hold just because she’s ill. She said Tam, the ravens of memory fly around the universe, they don’t roost in the tower. She’s always coming out with stuff like that. Mama looked at her, said she hoped the ravens of memory would still be interested in Sunday dinner. Mama carried me, gave birth to me, and neither of us deal in myths. Although, after sixteen years of Mum’s bedtime chats, daily affirmations and homemade herbal tea infusions - I understand the language, even if I don’t speak it.
So I went to Youth Conservationists like everything was normal, my contribution to the Big Butterfly Count primed in my notes (thanks to Mum’s rewilding: six Gatekeepers, three Red Admirals, two Large Whites). One thing I hadn’t been counting on, that week, was Wyvern.
No one I like has ever actually been interested in me. I guess he was impressed by my enormous butterfly count.
Honestly, I’m terrified.
Me: Ok, top 5 places to time travel. What’s yours?
(He types for a while)
(I write ‘It was a stupid question, forget about it’ four times, and delete it four times)
Wy: I have questions –
The list of questions is quite comprehensive. Can he come back? Will he change anything? Is he a real person or just a ghost?
I chuck the terms into AI and ask it to produce a contract, which I send to him.
Me: These are your terms. I hope you accept them.
(He types for a while)
(I write ‘I wasn’t making fun of you’ five times, in some variation, and delete it five times)
Wy: Okay, mine are probably pretentious but here they are anyway. 5. 1999, to tell everyone the millennium bug isn’t coming. 4. 1933, New York, to see Billie Holiday sing before she was famous. 3. The Carboniferous period (dragonflies the size of crows!). 2. The place where my house is, five hundred years ago. 1. My choice in reality - no times before the day I joined Young Conservationists.
(I heart the message)
Me: Pretentiousness is just a word used by someone when they want to make you feel bad for what you like. I’d never say that. And I’ll be right there with you in the Carboniferous period.
Mum pokes her head in the door, mug in hand. I jolt.
‘Oh, hey,’ I say. Then, ‘Cheese!’
I hold the phone up, she returns a warm smile.
‘It’s like living with paparazzi, Tamsin,’ she chides. ‘Although -’ clears her throat, ‘- I’m the one being nosey. Heard you laughing?’
She hovers, expectant.
‘Funny meme,’ I say, pretending to look for it again. ‘S’gone now.’
‘Must have been especially rude, if you want to hide it from me,’ she says. ‘Selfish I have to say, when you know those are my favourites.’
‘You didn’t even knock!’
She smirks slightly - not unfriendly, just this face she makes when she’s thought of some joke she shouldn’t really say to her own child. Her filter is not decency - it’s Mama. It was probably something about death. She keeps trying to joke about it.
She finally lands on something appropriate. ‘I’m forgetting my boundaries. Your laughter cast a spell, and I followed. Hardly my fault. But I’ll leave you to it.’
She leaves, smiling, closing the door behind her.
These two timelines - Mum and Wy - don’t belong in the same head. They run alongside each other, but the thought of them meeting is like watching two trains tilt toward each other at full speed. In sci-fi stories, when timelines collide, worlds explode.
I’ve spent £300 on cameras. All my savings. I didn’t ask before I put them up. Mum comes into my room (she knocks this time).
‘Why has my downstairs turned into a land of stars?’
She gives me a hard stare.
‘I’m being blinked at from every corner, Tamsin. Explain this madness.’
‘I just thought,’ I begin, ‘that in those old family videos of you, when you were a kid, they go on and on, don’t they? It’s like a whole portrait. I just have little snippets.’
‘Yes, the old videos are awful,’ says Mum. ‘They make my life look tedious and dreary. When it’s been extravagantly wonderful. Except, well, the obvious.’
‘Maybe I just wanted a bit of drear,’ I say.
One is on top of the fridge, angled toward the kitchen table. Mum calls it ‘the all-seeing eye of Panasonic’. Mama says I could have at least consulted her on a brand that matched the décor.
Dinner is leftover dhal that’s been reheated at least twice. Mum insists it brings out the best in the flavours, and Mama says that’s just the bacteria getting into her brain. Mum’s a bit better behaved than usual, and Mama keeps checking her reflection in the dark oven glass.
Mama says: ‘How have the symptoms been today?’
It’s a dangerous question to ask at dinner. Mum could spare us more detail than she does. But today she waves her hand, says ‘Fine, fine, nothing to report.’
* * *
Wy asks me about my time travel top five.
Me: 5. The Carboniferous period, to hang out with you and the dragonflies. 4. Saga times, to hear the stories and see the ravens. Mum’s obsessed with it. 3. Birdsong in ancient wild Britain. 2. To see Mum and Mama when they were children. I know you’ll think this one’s cheating but let’s call it 2a and 2b. 1. The day before the last time I got bad news.
Wy: Bad news? You okay? I thought something seemed off today.
Me: Bad news for sure. No honeycomb ice cream at the park, remember?
(He types, pauses. Types, pauses. No message appears.)
I hear Mum’s footsteps in the hallway and a moment later there she is - leaning against the doorframe. She looks at the light blinking on the bedside table. ‘Don’t you blink at me while I’m talking to my daughter,’ she says, mock-scolding.
She holds out her phone, brings it over to me.
‘I found this.’
On the screen I can see myself - I’m dressed up in a sailor suit, the world’s youngest mariner, with Mum behind me on a blanket in the garden. Toys are scattered around us: a whale, a crab, a squeaky octopus I still have today.
‘Five. Whole. Minutes,’ she says, beaming. ‘Leaves the snippets in the dust. I’ll send it to you.’
In the clip, Mama’s filming Mum playing pretend with me. The blanket was a boat: we saw whales, islands, met stormy seas, and at the end Mum became a pirate, sweeping me off the boat and into her arms. The footage had been uploaded from an old camera which jolted and jerked, more like a bumpy car ride than the high seas. And when Mum swept me into her arms, it seemed like she was still in frame for a moment longer than I expected. The camera hung on, just a moment longer than it should.
* * *
I’ve filled two hard drives. I tell Mum it’s for ‘posterity’. She said posterity shouldn’t be involved when she forgets to take her towel to the shower.
‘A posterior for posterity,’ I say. She manages a wry smile and asks no more - I am learning from her.
She’s been quieter lately. When she smiles for photos now, sometimes she doesn’t show her teeth; occasionally it’s just a stretch of the lips.
Mama says, ‘Why don’t you go and sit with her? Spend the time now instead of later?’ She motions her head towards the cameras.
I look for her, but she’s in bed. I stand in the doorway, not sure if she’s very still or just paused. I get this feeling when things are too still, for too long, this kind of bass dread. Impossible to get in nature. It’s like the opposite of a force, a kind of human-made, un-gravity of stillness.
The two timelines keep moving. Wy keeps messaging. I’m nudged out of this dread moment by the arrival of a voicenote, which I take to my room to listen.
The usual caveat - ‘Here’s your daily GeekCast. Wy’s been avoiding his coursework again. I’m back on butterflies today.’
I smiled.
‘I watched a video you’d like - there was this scientist talking about the Monarch butterfly migration. The ones born in late summer are called a ‘super generation’, and instead of living two weeks like their ancestors, they can live up to nine months, so they can make a journey from Canada all the way to Mexico. It’s triggered by day length, cooler temperatures, less milkweed and nectar - the right moment is fleeting and irreversible.’
There’s a pause.
‘I’m trying not to sound pressure-y, here. It’s just -’
He laughs.
‘I feel like, if I’m a butterfly, then like, the milkweed’s getting low -’
He gets the giggles. It’s infectious.
‘I thought butterflies would be sweet, but it’s gone a bit weird. Bit like when you look at one up close. I just want to say I like you Tam. I feel like you’ve shared so much and, you know, autumn’s getting closer and all that, and - and I’m confused about whether it’s the right time for you.
‘So, er, this is the end of GeekCast! I hope you enjoyed my facts!’
If I had wings they would be twitching, tentatively testing flight. I held my hands to my head, the hum of the timelines running through me, only a few words lying between me and the breakdown of worlds.
* * *
The camera feed is blank. I reboot the programme - nothing. The hallway feels empty. I blink up at the corner, and nothing blinks back.
I check the wire. Fine. Battery. Fine.
The little switch at the back is turned off.
Can’t be done by mistake.
Mum’s in the kitchen with her head in her hands, elbows on the table like she’s holding herself up. I check the cameras. Off, off, off.
‘Did you turn them off?’ I ask.
She looks up, slow, eyes pink. ‘Yes Tam, I did.’
‘But if I don’t record it I’ll … forget,’ I say, and that’s all I can say.
‘I know how you feel,’ she says. ‘But I couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s not your fault, love. I want you to have what you need, but - I feel like there are better ways.’
‘I was going to back it up this weekend,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘You should have told me -’
She reaches for my hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you. I meant to, I did. But you don’t need every second, everywhere.’
I want to scream. I do. I do.
‘I’m sure I’ve got the ingredients for something better,’ she taps her head, ‘somewhere in here.’
If I move, I will scream, or cry. So I stand still, like a leveret before a fox, heart hammering as she embraces me, tells me she loves me, and to go to bed.
She turns off the light as she leaves, the kitchen abruptly cast into dark, the camera’s eye still dead.
* * *
Wy is explaining this thing he’s heard about on a podcast - how ideas appear in different places at once, even when the people involved never meet. Calculus, telescopes, evolution, Dennis the Menace. He says maybe thought works like ecosystems.
Me: So it’s not genius, it’s right time, right place?
Wy: It’s genius AND right time, right place.
Me: When will I get a Wy voicenote about wrong time, wrong place?
Wy: Like bullets which got invented before guns. True fact.
Me: Like that.
Me: And the fact my Mum’s dying.
(Typing, pause. Typing, pause.)
He calls me.
‘Tam - are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘You just found out?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t realise. How did I not know?’
I snort.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just - of course you didn’t. I’ve worked very hard to keep it from you.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. I knew he’d say that. It’s not wrong, but it’s not right, either.
This is where the timelines collide.
I’d heard Mum have conversations, occasionally, with people about this. In the absence of anything else, I stole from her.
‘I know you probably feel weird about what to say,’ I said. ‘There’s honestly nothing right you can say in this moment, so say anything.’
There’s another pause. Then, offended, he says, ‘I can’t believe you were about to deny me the chance to meet your Mum. Who, by the scraps I’ve heard, is a magical being.’
And with a confession and a joke, the timelines meet under the same sky, and the world keeps its shape.
So I keep talking. I tell him about the cameras. The blinking lights in every corner, every room watching her, and how I thought I could hold on that way. How she turned them off, without even telling me first.
When I finish, he says, ‘And did she come back to you? With something better?’
She hadn’t.
‘You know - ’ he made it sound like it had just occurred to him, but with the theatrics of a children’s TV presenter, ‘- I don’t think memory works like that anyway.’
‘How’s it supposed to work then?’ I ask.
He hesitates. ‘I watched a TED Talk about it once. Memory’s not a camera, I think it’s more like a story you’re retelling, every time you bring something to mind.’
‘Thank you, professor,’ I say. ‘But that sounds worse. As if we never truly remember anyone at all.’
‘Maybe - er - just ignore the link I sent you,’ he says.
‘I like that you sent it,’ I say. ‘Even though I might not watch it.’
‘Maybe I can come to yours,’ he says, ‘watch the one about Monarch butterflies. And bore your Mum with my facts.’
* * *
The mourners are gone but the house still smells of flowers and incense - ferns, camomile, miscanthus, vases on every countertop. Mama was exhausted - Wy offered to do the clearing up, and she went up to bed.
Wy sits cross-legged on the living room rug. I’m lying with my head in his lap, he’s tracing circles in my hair.
‘There’s something I didn’t tell you,’ I say. ‘In the end, she did come up with something.’
‘Oh?’
‘Few weeks ago. She came into my room. She said, “I’ve thought of something better”.’
I take a steadying breath, trying not to put myself back in the moment. I want to get to the end of the story.
‘She took my phone and put it aside. Sat on the edge of my bed, told me to lie down and close my eyes. She said, We’re going to the land of the stars. Then she whispered: it’s a metaphor. I laughed, opened my eyes, and she’s like - Okay serious now.
‘I could feel her voice move through me - warm, anaesthetising. She said, When you get lost, look up and remember this. It’s a black, glittering canvas. We’re all making meaning, seeking direction, from these blinking lights of memory.’
‘Walk with me through a nebula. You see it? The sounds, the pictures, the words in your head - they’ll flare and fade, now immense, and then nothing at all.
‘Every one you hold is real - even the ones that slip away when you reach for them. The half-remembered ones. The ones you make up later. The ones where you just know what I’d say, even though I’m not there.
‘I saw them as she spoke - flickers of light, each one a version of her, darting across time.
‘Those are all me, she said. Just as true as the me on the microchip, all of them.
The version you need will always be there, she said. And the one you can’t remember - she’s there too, and she’s okay with it.
‘And I was totally in that sky - in her words, with her voice. I got it. Who I am to her, who she is to me, might be more real than anything I could ever put in front of a camera.
‘You’re weightless, she said, and I was. Held, safe, in the blown-open space and time of the cosmos.
‘Who I am to you now, she said, is more important to me than who I am to me.'
I stopped speaking. We didn’t say anything. He wiped my tears gently on his jumper sleeve.
‘She didn’t tell you a story,’ he said. ‘She got inside the telling.’
Earlier we’d all gone up the hill - the one where she walked, and sang, and thought - to scatter her ashes. Mama had timed it perfectly for golden hour. Just when the first few stars would be blinking into the evening, and the butterflies hang upside down underleaf.
Posted Nov 13, 2025
