Finally my headache started to dull.  I inhaled the pizza fast enough to win any type of eating contest, then turned my thoughts back to what I had witnessed so far.

    I wasn’t really me, and my sister was now my brother.  But my parents were the same, as was Nelson.  Nelson had no discernable physical differences based on my cursory inspection of him, which should mean that absolutely nothing had changed regarding his conception.  Was Nelson’s father not the father I stopped his Mom from marrying?  That would have been a good thing to know before I started meddling.

    If Nelson had the same parents, why were both myself and my sister/brother different?  Same parents should give the same results.  Or would they?  The best theory I could come up with is the following.  I call it my simplified dissertation on sex ed as it applies to time travel. 

    A woman is born with all of her eggs readymade, whereas a man makes his sperm on the go and as needed.  Individual sperm cells contain randomly selected bits of genetic code designating the specific traits that will be passed on, as do the eggs.

    Factoring time travel into the equation, let’s suppose that every woman releases her eggs in the same order with each menstrual cycle in all possible replays of the timeline.  Let’s also assume that a man will generate his individual sperm in the same order.  If conception occurred at the same time in two different versions of a timeline, the egg would still be the same.  The sperm would also be the same, but there are millions of the little guys.  Since only about one thousand actually reach the egg, we can assume that the fast ones will still win the race and select the proper path to reach their destination.  Chances are now only one in one-thousand that the same sperm will fertilize the egg.  These aren’t very good odds that the same child will be born, but it’s probably safe to extend our time travel induced leap of faith and assume that if the same single sperm makes it to the final destination, it will again claim victory.  Thus you end up with the same offspring every time…theoretically.

    Now let’s assume the sex life of the male was thrown off track somewhere previous to the conception of his children.  (For example, maybe his idiot son set him up with an extra partner somewhere along the way, and possibly even eliminated other lovers during the same period.)  If the sperm creation remained on the same cycle, but the male in question was either running ahead or running behind his original schedule at the time of intercourse, then the correct sperm isn’t even running in the race and thus can’t win. 

    And that would mean different kids!

    One extra ejaculation along the way could have been all it took to erase the real me from existence.  If Nelson was exactly the same person, it meant that there would have been no changes to the sex schedule of his father (whomever that may be), and the same timing for his coupling with the mother.  So much for keeping Mom and Dad’s first meeting on track.

    This theory explained most of the changes to my physical characteristics, but not why I knew that I was the same person.  And since I was still the same person mentally as far as I could tell, would my sister still be there in my brother somewhere?  My head was spinning in both confusion and anger for not thinking this through before setting my father loose as an American gigolo.  I had to track down Dad and have a very bizarre version of “the talk” in order to figure this out.

    Outside, the shed and the surrounding dog shrine area were empty.  Digging around at the corner of the doghouse for my stash proved unsuccessful.  The dirt was tightly packed, as if the hole was never there to begin with.  I decided to have a peek in the tree house.  After climbing the ladder and lifting the trap door, I was greeted by the sight of my brother and Nelson entwined in a full on make out embrace.

    I slammed the trap door shut and ran like hell down the ladder, kicking the roof of the doghouse in frustration before turning back towards the house.

    What had I done?  What could this mean?  Was Nelson gay all along, and his repressed feelings were taken out on my sister causing her suicide?  Or was this fate telling me they were star-crossed lovers, meant to be no matter what happened to the flow of time?  At least (s)he was still alive.  That could mean that the out of the closet Nelson was new and improved, kinder and gentler, a lover not a fighter. 

    I found it ironic that I hadn’t actually changed the sexual preference of my sibling, as it was the same right down to the significant other.  I had only changed the gender, appearance, and longevity.  But was the conclusion of this relationship inevitable regardless of the form taken by the participants?

    I wished that I could move forward and check, but I had no memories of a future beyond this present.  My future didn’t actually exist as of yet.  Perhaps if my older self were to tell me something that would happen to me in the future I’d be able to blink to it, but if he was still three thousand miles away a trip west seemed unwise at the moment.  Not to mention more than likely unnecessary, since that presumed there still was an old me to meet up with after the changes I’d made.

    Back inside, I snacked on some leftovers and noticed that my stamina was just about back to normal, albeit still a little weak.  My brother eventually joined me at the kitchen table.

    “How’s the pizza?” he asked.

    “Fine.”

    “Look.  I’m sorry you had to see that.  I know it makes you uncomfortable.”

    “No it doesn’t.  What makes you say that?”

    “Well, your reaction for one.  Plus you’ve always addressed me by feminine pronouns, especially growing up.  And we haven’t been very close since I came out.”

    Was this new me a homophobe?  Real me never would have acted that way.  It was time to nip this in the bud.

    “I don’t have any issue with the life you choose to lead.  It’s more in who you choose to lead it with.  I mean, I’m sure there’s a better man for you than him.”

    My brother got angry in the same way my sister did when we had our similar conversation.  “You’re unbelievable.  You live in your own little world where you get to spin things however you want.  Nelson’s great.  He understands me and I feel like I’ve known him forever.  And no matter what you think, he isn’t the reason I am who I am, he just helped me realize it.  I’m so right about this.”

    He stormed out of the house before I could reply.  Searching for him would be a waste of time, so I decided to let him cool off.

    Downstairs in my makeshift living quarters I noticed that the room had changed.  It was now a shrine to my father’s musical legacy.  Three gold records for Local Boy adorned the wall where the clocks once hung, framing the poster from the record store mounted between them.  On top was the Done Good record with the LBDG hospital logo I had found.  To the left was Live At The Barnstormer, and the one on the right was entitled Quits and contained most of the live songs I had helped him work out that did not appear on the first release.

    A photo album was left on a shelf just below the wall hangings.  Inside were the original lyric sheets Dad had taken from my dictation.  They also had chord annotations he must have added on his own to help remember his guitar parts.  Subsequent pages included magazine articles (he was on the cover of Newsweek and on the cover of the Rolling Stone), photos from the road, reviews, ticket stubs, and other memorabilia.  The critics gave consistently high praise, honing in on the diversity and eclectic mix of topics and styles covered.  One even called the songs “ahead of their time” and “from a future age.”

    The most amusing of the clippings was an angry letter from Harry Chapin’s lawyer asking that Mr. Chapin’s wife be given proper credit and royalties for writing “Don’t Know When,” along with a title change to “Cats in the Cradle” on future pressings.  This was followed with some pompous and sarcastic lawyer speak insinuating that if this was more than just a simple oversight in citations there would be further damages sought.

    The last page had an article chronicling Dad’s final show and sudden announcement of retirement.  It included quotes from his resignation speech, with his handwritten text of the same on the facing page.

    “Ladies and gentlemen, you have just witnessed my final performance.  I have decided to retire from the music business and try my hand at real life.  I might even raise a family and have a couple of kids.  Something tells me now is the right time, and I’d like to go out on a high note.  It’s been great fun making the albums and playing for all of you, and I sincerely appreciate the support you’ve given to me.

    “Although this is my swan song, I hope that the spirit of my music will live on with other artists.  To facilitate this, I will be donating all of my royalties to up and coming musicians whom I deem worthy.  My hope is that these artists will perform and record these songs as their own.

    “Thank you again for your support.  Here’s one more for you to remember me by, and for me to remember you by.”

    Though missing from the handwritten notes, the article said the speech ended with:  “Harry, you can have this back after I play it one more time.”  Then he closed with a rousing version of “Cats in the Cradle,” with the final line about the return of the narrator’s son being repeated over and over at the ending, becoming more powerful each time.  He never played another show or gave another interview again.

    “Since when do you care about my musical past?”

    My father had entered without me hearing him.

    “Since always.  I made it happen, remember?”

    Dad slowly sat down on the couch.  A look of distress overtook his mouth as the smile ran away from his face.  Eventually he found words to speak again.

    “So it was real.  Oh boy.”