STARTING OVER IN THE PAST

CHAPTER 1

Washington, D.C., 2005

Catharine’s first mistake was having her husband cremated, but she wouldn’t realize it until much later. She did it to please his two sisters, Akiko and Hana, in accordance with their family tradition.

Kenji Yamashiro’s unexpected passing happened on a cold January morning during his regular run near their suburban Washington, D.C., townhouse.

The urgent ringing of the doorbell awakened her. Startled, Catharine sat up. The sunlight coming through the bedroom blinds told her it was late. The green numerals on the clock showed 8:00 a.m. Then she heard the doorbell again.

“Kenji must have stopped to have coffee with Victor Hammond and locked himself out, Chiro,” she said to the smoke-colored cat beside her. Throwing on a terry cloth robe, she ran to the door and opened to a blast of frigid air. Two police officers stood in the doorway.

“Mrs. Yamashiro?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” said the tallest one, looking away. “It’s your husband. We think he had a heart attack while jogging up a hill.”

Catharine’s heart jumped in her chest. “Where is he?”

“An ambulance came. The paramedics did what they could, but it was too late. I'm sorry, ma’am. We’ll take you to the hospital.”

Catharine’s knees buckled.

The other man jumped to her side to keep her from falling.

#

Catharine barely remembered the days after Kenji died. His sisters flew from Tokyo and arranged the cremation and memorial service while Catharine moved in an eerie unreality. Their son, Matthew, came from California. Her numbness enabled her to get through the Friday memorial service.

After everyone left on Sunday, the empty townhouse enfolded her in deadly silence. It crept into her body, manifesting itself in wave after wave of panic. The waves flattened into continual anxiety followed by shaking sobs. The next day took her to work, moving her, robot-like, into the car, driving to the seminary, and into class, before students she didn’t see, speaking words she didn’t hear.

#

A week later, on Sunday afternoon, her husband’s assistant, Marti Gaston, from the Physics Institute visited. Not dressed to see anyone, Catharine wore a long yellow silk robe over her night clothes. She sat on her ginger-colored couch in a daze, wishing Kenji would pop out of the next room and awaken her from this nightmare. Stroking Chiro’s soft, fluffed coat, she went back to nine days ago when the three of them last gathered for dinner.

What was time, she contemplated, that it had the power to change life so drastically? Why couldn’t it be stopped, turned back, moved slower or faster? What kind of a monster was it no one could control?

In the midst of her grieving, the doorbell rang reminding her of the day the police came. Would she ever be able to hear the doorbell again without feeling panic? She did not want to answer it, but she did.

“Marti,” she said. “Come in.” He was a slim, well-groomed man in his late twenties, a bit stoop-shouldered, she thought, from bending over lab work and a computer board most of his days. Silky, white-blond hair, rosy complexion, and pale blue eyes contrasted with his dark-rimmed glasses. At first she thought he had come to support and console her.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Catharine. I know it’s Sunday, but I thought you would be home today. Dr. Kushner asked me to come by and retrieve Kenji’s work-related papers for the Institute.”

“So soon?” Catharine felt angry at the request. He must have noticed it in her tone, because he stepped back.

His expression softened. “I know this is hard for you. But he worked at home a lot, and the Institute needs all his research files. I want to check the PC too, but he probably copied work studies to his office computer.”

“Do you have anything in writing authorizing you to do this?”

“No, but I will ask you to sign a paper saying we retrieved his files from you. It’s institutional policy.”

She thought Marti lacked his usual friendly demeanor; he seemed aloof. I guess like a lot of people, he doesn’t know what to say under these circumstances.

“Follow me,” she said and led him to Kenji’s office. “I’m not sure what you have in mind. These two file cabinets hold his work papers, and I’ll start the computer when you’re ready. Call me when you want to look at the electronic files.”

She didn’t want to leave Marti alone; but went back to the living room and pretended to be reading a magazine. She felt violated by the presence of the Institute in their home.

Marti called from the study 30 minutes later, “I’m ready for the computer.”

It didn’t take long to find the files, and she stood by as Marti flew through them. She wondered how he could go so fast, unless he had something specific in mind. He ignored Chiro who sprang up on the desk to oversee the operation.

Catharine signed the form, and Marti started toward the door with a bulging briefcase. Suddenly he turned back and faced her. “When you’ve had a chance to recover, I’ll tell you about Kenji’s research. He had been working on something Kushner wants to get his hands on. Please keep it confidential that I shared this..”

“Of course,” she said, surprised. “Kenji didn’t talk much about his work. Keep in touch.”

“Thank you, Catharine.” He gave her a hug, and she saw tears in his eyes.

He left, and Chiro followed Catharine into the bedroom. She went to the closet and from behind some folded T-shirts took down a black Japanese teak box given to her by Hana. Inside was a sealed, letter-sized envelope.

Two months ago, Kenji asked her to keep it safe and directed her, “Should anything happen to me, please don’t give this to anyone, but keep it in a safe place. It has something to do with politics at the Institute. I want to hold it for a couple of years until some changes happen, then you or I will give it to the man on this attached card.” She shivered thinking about her husband’s ominous instructions, and how they might relate to Marti’s comments about the Institute’s director.

The name on the card and envelope was Miles Pollack, Esq.