If We Could Do It Over Again

Recently, I've often pondered the question, "What if you could live your life over?" Many works of science fiction and fantasy explore this provocative idea, such as the 1986 movie PEGGY SUE GOT MARRIED. Peggy Sue, disillusioned with her marriage, gets transported back to her senior year in high school. Her second chance, however, ends with her making the same decision as before, becoming engaged to her future husband just as she did on the first go-round. Would I take such a chance if offered? The prospect of avoiding so many past mistakes is attractive. OTOH, there are many things I would dread living through again, such as the hard work of getting through college and grad school And live one's life from what date? If I had to start over as a child (say, at the age of eight when my father remarried) with full memories of my first life, it would sound more like a nightmare than a gift. The idea of reliving childhood with an adult's mind -- and being treated as a child, with no significant power to affect events -- would be frustrating and depressing, I think. If I had to pick a "reset" point, I would probably choose to start over on the day after our wedding. But how could I convince my husband to make the desired changes? He'd think I was joking or crazy.

Anyway, in practice the memories would get fuzzy and confused after a while, so that one would eventually lose most of the advantage of hindsight/foresight (which would it be?). Maybe writing a detailed letter to oneself at an early age would work better; there's a country song about what advice the narrator would include in a message to himself at seventeen. With everything in writing, one couldn't forget the details with the passage of time. (How granular should one get, anyway? "Don't let that salesman in Albuquerque talk you into buying a sewing machine; it will be a waste of money.") But -- as soon as a few significant alterations were made, the past as I remembered it would go off the rails anyway. A shift in a day or two would mean different children would be conceived, rendering a lot of the memories moot. And changes might end up making things worse instead of better. Science fiction provides an abundance of cautionary tales about time travelers who try to "fix" the past and precipitate disasters instead (e.g., the protagonist of Stephen King's 11/22/63, on a mission to prevent President Kennedy's assassination).

On the whole, it may be better we can't do that. There's a TWILIGHT ZONE episode (based on a short story) about a rich man who wants the fun of returning to the prime of life and building his fortune all over again, so he strikes a deal with a demon. It turns out he doesn't enjoy the early 20th century as much as he thought he would on the basis of his rose-colored memories. Also, he keeps waiting to turn young again, which doesn't happen, so he dies of a heart attack (no modern medicine available). The demon appears to him and points out that he wanted to travel back to the time he remembered -- "Can we help it if your memory is lousy?" -- and he never mentioned having his youth restored. I'd probably tell the demon or genie, "No, thanks," and play the hand I've been dealt.

Margaret L. Carter

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Do-Overs

A vintage short story that was filmed as a TWILIGHT ZONE episode features an elderly millionaire who wants to relive his life, with his memories intact, for the thrill of making his fortune all over again. He stikes a deal with a demon and is duly returned to his home town in the early 20th century. Unfortunately, the past turns out to be less golden than he imagined, and, most important, he forgets to specify having his youth restored. Therefore, he suffers a heart attack and dies for lack of modern medicine. As he faces death, the demon taunts him about his request that he keep his memories: "Can we help it if your memory is lousy?"

The hypothetical question often arises, "Would you live your life over again, knowing what you know now?" Occasionally pondering that fantasy, I definitely would not accept a do-over from childhood or even my early teens. Go through all that again, with the added horror of being treated like a dependent child while having the mind and memories of an adult in my seventies? No, thanks! In the movie PEGGY SUE GOT MARRIED, a middle-aged woman reverts to her high-school self with her memories intact, faced with the decision of whether or not to repeat the choices that led to marrying her present-day husband, from whom she's currently separated. After reliving part of her senior year (spoiler), she reawakens to her reasons for loving her husband and, upon returning to the present, decides to stay with him.

Would I repeat my life starting from, say, my marriage at the age of eighteen? In T. Kingfisher's latest horror novel, A HOUSE WITH GOOD BONES, the narrator returns to her grandmother's house (now her mother's), where she lived for part of her childhood and teens. Upon waking up in her old bedroom on the first morning, she experiences a disorienting moment of terror that her entire life since the age of ten has been a dream, and she'll be condemned to repeating high school, college, and graduate school—and writing her PhD dissertation all over again. I can identify with that nightmare. I'm not sure I'd have the stamina to struggle through all my university courses and the rewriting of my dissertation from scratch, although I might perform better in my advancement-to-candidacy oral exam with the memory of my previous blunders. On the other hand, I would have a fair chance to avoid most if not all of the worst mistakes and wrongdoings of my first lifetime. And yet, knowing I'd have to relive some painful events that are outside my control, would I want to face them again?

A further concern: If I repeated my life from my wedding day on, we might end up without all the children we've had in this timeline. Alternate history novels often include real people from the primary world but in different roles from the ones they played in our version of history. Although that's an entertaining trope I enjoy reading, in fact it's a vanishingly remote possiblity. A minor change in the timing of a sexual act could more likely than not result in the conception of a different individual. A difference of a month would, of course, definitely do so. Given a point of departure in the 19th century—say, the familiar scenario of the South winning the Civil War—virtually none of the people alive today, at least in this country, would ever have been conceived. On a lesser scale, the same result would happen in a family after a point of departure in one couple's married life. In Jo Walton's novel MY REAL CHILDREN, the protagonist faces a moment of decision in early adulthood when she decides whether or not to marry the man whom she's been dating. That decision splits her life from then on into two separate timelines, one in which they marry and one where they don't. In her final years, she remembers both lifetimes and families she's had. One interesting aspect of this novel, by the way, is that neither timeline is our own history. One alternate world turns out worse, the other better; in a further intriguing twist, the protagonist's personal life is happier in the dystopic world than in the optimistic one.

So if a genie offers to grant me a wish to re-do my adult life, I think I'll turn it down. That scenario would hold too many risky variables.

Margaret L. Carter

Carter's Crypt