[ IP ] I 'm Done As Promised < 3 Mom [ possible NSFW ]

My mother disappeared two thousand years ago. We were in the Jerusalem, trying to catch a glimpse of the Christ in person, when we were separated during a riot. We were mixed in with the locals when the Roman soldiers broke up the crowd. I went one way, she went the other. 
 
 At the time, I did n't fret. We had been separated before, sometimes intentionally, and we had a routine when we visited a new time. Our *safety blanket* rules, my mother called them. 
 
 *First rule: do n't panic. * My mother used to say, `` the only thing dumber than a girl in a panic is a man.'' ( My dad left when I was five. Which is fine, really, because he was an asshole. The last thing he said to me? `` I wanted a son.'' Wow, dad. Wow. ) 
 
 *Second rule: meet at our primary safe space. * We have limited control over the locations of our landings, so we often end up in less-than-ideal spots ( like an American CIA-controlled black site in the late 1990s ). Whenever we landed from a jump, our first step was to locate a safe space that we could use as a fall-back point. In Jerusalem, we had chosen a peaceful copse of almond trees just outside the town. 
 
 After the riot, I had followed the crowd away from the soldiers until I could slip down an alleyway and get out of town. I made it to the trees at dusk. My mother had n't arrived yet, so I made camp and waited. I counted the stars that night, trying to find familiar constellations in a time so different from mine. 
 
 When she had n't shown up by morning, I moved on to our third rule. *Read the signs. * My mother was adept at leaving traces of her passing—a twisted branch here, an abandoned shoe arranged just so, a scrap of fabric caught in a window, little bits of trash that I could read like a map. When we would sit at night, she would braid my hair and explain her system to me. Anything broken indicated a change in our plan. Anything soft and flexible indicated that she wanted a little alone time. Shoes meant a long distance. A line of chalk on a wall could mean many things, depending on the angle, the curvature, the color. 
 
 She had been captured once before, in France during World War II, and I spent three weeks tracking her to an Allied prison camp. I'm no fan of the Nazis, but twice in my life I've been a prisoner of Americans and I do not recommend it. 
 
 There were n't any signs in Jerusalem. Nothing in the town square where the riot started. Nothing in the town jail nor the soldiers' garrison. I searched the market and the temple for weeks. One night, as I lay among the almond trees and stared up at a night sky untouched by the light pollution that always accompanies modern times, I felt touched by the empty vastness of space, as though a cold finger had run its tip from my neck to my navel. I gasped. My stomach felt hollow and my throat clenched tight. 
 
 I knew it, then, the truth: I was alone. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A few points about time travel. 
 
 First off, `` time travel'' is a misnomer. Really, I'm hopping between multiverses. There are an infinite number of multiverses, and every time you ( or any other sentient creature ) make a decision, more little multiverses spawn. When I switch times, I'm really switching to another multiverse as well. 
 
 Second, my interdimensional transtemporal teleporter can only access a very small number of those multiverses—about 1.7 million. Each multiverse is coded with a combination of four letters or numbers. My mother had a little journal where she tried to keep track of the codes and multiverses, but it was a hopeless task. Even 1.7 million possibilities is incomprehensible. I stopped caring about the codes a long time ago. 
 
 Third, jumps are available every three days ( subjective time ). Once I jump, I have to keep myself alive for 72 hours before I can jump away. Remember I mentioned a jump into a CIA blacksite? Those were three *very* difficult days. 
 
 Finally, my teleporter's quantum crystals are synced with the crystals in my mother's teleporter. This keeps us locked to the same time and location, although we must select the same multiverse to travel together. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It's been ten years of subjective time since I saw my mother in that crowd in Jerusalem. I'd like to say that I spent that time searching for her, but I'd be lying. I spent the first year looking for my mother before I gave up. There are too many possible multiverses, how could I ever stumble across the right one? 
 
 The night I decided to stop actively looking for her, I threw an impromptu wake. I was in 1960s Last Vegas, so I rented a car and drove out into the Mojave desert with a shovel and a bottle of whiskey. I dug my mother's grave that night, and I threw in an old dress of hers. Most of my clothes were once hers, to be honest, so I had plenty of options. I built a bonfire, drank some booze, and howled. I must have looked like a fever dream to a local: a drunk young woman, wearing clothes with unrecognizable fashion, ranting about memories of my mother the time traveller. 
 
 When I woke up the next morning, I discovered two things. One, my head and whiskey are not friends. Two, I did n't need to find my mother. A weight had lifted from my shoulders. I was n't a bad daughter for saying goodbye. I was just a young woman, independent and alive and ready to make my own life. 
 
 That was nine years ago. Nine years of wandering, of living, of loving. And leaving. I've made many friends and left every single one. Perhaps I'm more like my father than I knew. Perhaps I should be worried about the growing coldness in my heart, this numbness that lets me smile and laugh and giggle and then walk around a corner and disappear forever. 
 
 Today, something touched that numbness in my chest. 
 
 Today, I found a sign from my mother. 
 
 Her handwriting was unmistakeable, even after a decade apart. The words—'' I'm Done, as promised'' —were meaningless, but my mother's simple code revealed her true message: 
 
 I D A P 
 
 Four letters. 1.7 million possible multiverses at my fingertips, coded into the teleporter on my wrist, each represented by a combination of four letters or numbers. Four letters, scratched in chalk on the sidewalk. 
 
 I D A P 
 
 Love, Mom. 
 
 ***** 
 If you liked this story, you might like my other stories at /r/hpcisco7965 or /r/TMODAL. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

