It was 1992 when I first sat down to write this. It seems so long ago, and yet it seems like only moments have passed.

Things have changed since then. My life has changed dramatically as a result, but that’s a whole other story.

Shannon and I were best friends. We became friends because of the Beatles. She was a devoted Lennon fan and I was the McCartney devotee. And in a way, we were like our counterparts. We used to joke that we were the female Lennon/McCartney. We were that tight.

Back then, we were both in our twenties and closer than even sisters could be. I loved her to bits, even though she got on my nerves occasionally. And I know I must have gotten on hers too.

Back then, I talked too much of McCartney. He was my teen obsession who got carried over into the early part of my adulthood. Shannon was forced to listen to it for nearly fifteen years. I corrupted her, she said. She never cared for McCartney before I came along. Then she started buying all his releases. Of course, she did the same to me. My Lennon collection easily equals hers.

When it came to John, Shannon could get a little nutty, which is what led to this whole thing. She told me endless times of what she was doing the night that he died. Where she was, what she felt, what she said. As big a fan as she is, I can understand her pain. I felt it too. Nobody wanted him to die. But after the thirtieth time, the story began to wear thin.

I know the story by heart. She had been in the city that night. She and several friends had gone in to go skating and to enjoy the tree at Rockefeller Center. She did not hear the news until they returned to campus that night. She screamed when she found out. A scream that echoed for an eternity. I know who she talked to that night, and the next day. How she wore black longer than Yoko. How she couldn’t get to Central Park, but was part of a smaller memorial ceremony on campus. How she made it onto the cover of a local paper; a photo that hung on her bedroom wall in her apartment. It’s a pretty hideous photo. After all, she is crying hysterically. But in some way it was her claim to fame, her fifteen minutes. It was fifteen minutes she claimed she never wished she had. I wished she’d never had them either. Like I said, I got tired of hearing about them. Over and over and over.

Her apartment was a Lennon fan’s dream. And a messy one at that. The walls were filled with photos of the Beatles and John. Movie posters, album promos – all very expensive and carefully framed. Her record collection was extensive, and I still shudder to think of what it must have cost her over the years. And then there were the boxes of clippings. Any article that ever mentioned a Beatle was carefully clipped and put away. Papers from all over the world, in languages that I can’t even identify.

Of course, back then, I was almost as obsessed. She used to call my bedroom the McCartney shrine. I don’t think it was quite that bad. There were only two framed posters. But there was the Hard Day’s Night album cover, autographed by Paul, which was framed along with a photo of him actually signing the thing. I sold it afterwards…but at the time it hung over my bed, and I was slightly paranoid that it might fall on my head while I was sleeping. But there are worse ways to go than having Paul McCartney fall on your bed. I paid a small fortune for it, and made all of it back and then some when I sold it – just days before I sat down to write this.

Back then, I figured I’d never get an autograph on my own. I thought it would somehow bring me closer to Paul. I was much more innocent then. Shannon thought it was sweet. And she told me that someday I might meet him. That as my best friend, she really wanted it for me. But she’d always conclude with "if only I had the same opportunity with John." It always came back to that. It drove me crazy and I got so sick of John, John, John! Enough! The man is dead! The end. I’m sorry.

And while our past times were a bit excessive, in the "real world" we were both respectable. She was the East Coast manager of a large corporation headquartered in Manhattan, and I was the marketing manager for a small manufacturer. We’d get together almost every weekend and we even did manage to discuss things other than the Beatles. But then things changed…

It was a Friday evening, and the two of us were sitting with glasses of wine, being philosophical after watching an episode of Quantum Leap. If you could change one moment in history what would it be? I was leaning towards Lincoln’s assassination. Shannon, naturally, immediately chose that fateful December night in 1980.

"If I had known," she said wistfully. "I would have gone to the Dakota that night, instead of wasting my time ice skating."

"What exactly would you have done?" I asked. "Alerted the doorman? Called the police?"

"Something along those lines. Or I would have taken the bullet myself." She was dead serious.

I tried to make light of the subject. "Dying in John’s arms?"

"Can you think of a better way to go?"

"Well, it’s impossible," I said with authority. "What’s done is done. You can’t change history. And even if you could, who knows what horrible thing might have been the outcome? World War? Famine?"

"Alison, you’re exaggerating."

"There’s no way of telling. If John had lived, maybe it would have been President Reagan who died."

"No great loss," she said sarcastically.

"Shannon, be real. Besides, would John’s message of peace and love have half as much meaning if he wasn’t dead?"

"Alison!" She stood up, anger written all over her face. The wine glass was clutched so tightly in her hand I thought it might shatter. Or perhaps she intended to throw it at me. At that moment, I thought she really might.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry," I said, trying to pacify her. "Let’s talk about something else. Something more tangible than time travel."

We changed the subject that night, but I knew she was still thinking about it. Shannon was never one just to drop something.

When I came into the city the next weekend there was a pile of books on the coffee table. Stories about time travel, books on Einstein. I was starting to get worried.

The weekend after that she came out to Connecticut to visit me. As we always did, we watched Quantum Leap on Friday night. When it was rainy and miserable the next day, she suggested we rent some videos. But all she’d let me rent were Somewhere in Time, The Time Machine, and other time travel movies.

Halfway through the second movie that Saturday afternoon, I snapped. "Shannon, why are we watching all of this time travel shit? You don’t really think…"

"It’s not shit," she interrupted.

"Oh come on, get serious."

"Alison, time travel is very possible."

"Right," I said sarcastically. I turned off the television. I’d had enough.

"I mean it," she insisted. "If you would only open your mind."

"And if it were possible, where would you travel to?" As if I didn’t already know the answer.

"You don’t travel to, you travel through. That’s what’s wrong with Quantum Leap. You can leap through time, but you can’t leap from place to place. You stay in the same location, but in a different time." She rambled on and on about how simple it all was to do. It was just a matter of opening your mind to the possibility and really wanting it. She went into great detail about how someone could travel through time, but by then my head had started to pound and I could barely listen to a word she said.

After fifteen minutes of her gibberish, I finally interrupted her soliloquy. "Enough, Shannon. Enough! I need some Tylenol." I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and downed two pills. "So when are you going to make this giant leap?" I asked as I returned to the living room.

She eyed me suspiciously. "Soon, very soon," she said.

"How soon?" I pressed.

"Probably Friday. If all goes well."

"Friday? Good planning. Have a whole weekend for this little experiment of yours. I guess we won’t be hanging out together then. I’ll make other plans."

"It’s going to work," she said defiantly. There was no question that she was convinced that she would be able to do this.

"Shannon," I said, trying to reason with her. "Even if it is possible, and I do mean if, you do realize that you can’t change history."

"Says who?"

"It’s in all the books. It’s in all the movies. You could alter the whole course of the universe."

"But you don’t think it’s possible, so why worry about it?"

The way she said the words made a shiver run down my spine. "Because maybe it is possible," I lied. "And I know what you intend to do. Throwing yourself in the path of a bullet meant for John Lennon isn’t the most brilliant of ideas."

"That’s not exactly my plan."

"But you do intend to go back to that night, don’t you?"

"Yes, yes, I do," she said firmly.

"Don’t you think that’s a little foolish? There’s got to be another way. Go back to the 50’s. You could be his ‘Cynthia’. Or you could go to the 60’s. If he never meets Yoko, he’ll never come to live in New York."

"It’s not that easy. John loved Yoko. I couldn’t take that happiness away from him. And what about Julian? And Sean? I’ve thought about it long and hard. There’s only one way."

"And what is that way?"

"It’s very complicated. Besides, you weren’t even listening when I was explaining it all to you before."

"I was," I protested. "I just have this really bad headache. Maybe if you explained it again…"

"If you’re not feeling well you should lie down, and I should head back to the city."

"Don’t be silly. Stay. Tell me what you plan to do."

"Alison, don’t get all upset. You just rest now. I’ll write it all down for you someday."

"Promise? Promise you’ll write it all down?"

"Of course," she assured me.

I was reluctant to let it drop, but I didn’t know what else to do. My head was killing me, and the Tylenol was doing nothing. I lay down on the sofa and closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up Shannon and her things were gone.

I tried calling her at her apartment, but the machine picked up. I hung up without leaving a message.

She didn’t call me Sunday. I left a message on Monday and again on Tuesday. By Wednesday I was getting really worried and called her office, but they said she wasn’t in. By Thursday I was getting really panicky. But what could I do? Call the police and say that my friend wasn’t answering her phone and that I was worried because she planned to travel back in time and save John Lennon? I just kept telling myself that everything was going to be all right.

Friday morning I tried her office again, only this time I couldn’t get through. The operator kept saying that the number was not in service. And when I called her at home, the phone just rang and rang and rang. No answer and no answering machine.

And then, just as I was at my wits’ end, the phone rang.

"Hey, Alison, what’s going on?"

"Shannon! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and calling! I’ve been worried sick!"

"Alison, calm down! I’m fine. I’m in my office."

"I tried calling you there. I kept getting a recording saying the number wasn’t in service."

"Good old Bell Atlantic! I’ve been here all day. Listen, I’m sorry. Things have been a little crazed around here. I know I should have called you. It’s just that…"

"Shannon, just tell me you’re okay."

"Alison, I’m fine. Listen, why don’t you come into the city tonight and see for yourself?"

"Tonight? I thought…"

"Yes, tonight. I know that I haven’t been a very good friend lately. I really am sorry. Please come in and visit for the weekend. I promise I’ll make it up to you. You’re one of my dearest friends."

"You’re sure you want to see me this weekend? I thought you…"

"Of course I want to see you. I’ll even meet you at Grand Central. Okay?"

"Okay, sure." Maybe she’d given up this time travel crap. Maybe I had overreacted. She sounded so normal on the phone, calm and composed. Maybe she had needed the time alone to get herself back together. "I’ll see you around seven. Is that good for you?"

"It’s fine. I’ll see you then. And Alison, I know I’ve been a bit, well, difficult, over the past few weeks. I’ve been under a lot of pressure. And I’ve behaved badly as a result. I’m sorry."

Shannon and I had fought many times during the years, but I couldn’t recall her ever apologizing to me. "No problem," I assured her. "Just make sure you’re at the station on time, okay?"

"I’ll be there."

I was relieved when I hung up the phone. I had, as I often did, overreacted. Maybe Shannon had only been joking. She’d always had a warped, sick sense of humor. Maybe she’d been setting me up, and had realized that she had gone too far. Whatever the case, I went back to work feeling a great deal less stressed.

I left the office early and went home to pack my bags for the weekend. There was a letter from Shannon among the bills. I thought that it was rather odd, but I threw it aside, anxious to get to the train station.

The ride into the city was surprisingly quick, and we reached Grand Central ahead of schedule. Still, to my surprise, Shannon was already there waiting for me. She was smiling, and I thought she looked prettier than I’d ever seen her before. It wasn’t her clothes or her make-up. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but she was really beautiful. And it was the first thing I commented on when I reached her.

"Thanks, Ali. You’re not too shabby yourself. Hurry up now, I’ve got a cab waiting."

"Waiting? Being a bit indulgent, aren’t we?"

"For my friend, only the best."

She ushered me into the cab. I shut my eyes. I was tired. The week had gotten to me, and I figured the drive to her apartment might take a while in the traffic.

"Come on, Alison." Shannon’s voice brought me out of my reverie. " Don’t fall asleep, we’re here."

I grabbed my bag and got out while she paid the driver. It took me a minute to realize that we weren’t at her apartment building at all, but in front of the Dakota. I was in no mood to do Lennon worshipping that evening and was just about to say so when she grabbed my arm.

"Don’t just stand there." She pulled me past the doorman with an air of authority. I waited for him to come running after us and drag us to the closest precinct, but he didn’t. I was still shocked as we entered the building—up a few flights, past several doorways. She finally stopped, pulled out a key, unlocked the door, and called out, "John, I’m back."

A chill went down my spine when I heard that unmistakable voice reply, "Good! Is Alison with you?"

"Of course," she called lightly.

My arms went numb and the bag I was carrying dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. My legs went weak and I felt like I was standing on Jello. I had to be dreaming. This had to be a dream. This could not be happening. This was not possible.

"Alison?" Shannon put her arms around me to keep me from falling. "Are you all right?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was chilled down to the bone, yet I could feel sweat dripping down the back of my neck.

"Is everything all right?" His voice seemed to echo, coming at me in waves, washing over me and drowning me in a sea of emotions.

"Come on," Shannon said, dragging me into another room and forcing me to sit down. "Put your head between your legs." She pushed it down. The blood rushed to my head. I gulped in air.

"You’re going to be okay," she said, rubbing my back.

"I am okay." I lifted my head. The world whirled around for a minute. I shook my head to try and focus. And then I saw him. He was across the room, sitting in a wheelchair. His hair was thinner, his face was visibly wrinkled, but it was HIM. And he was smiling. Smiling at me. "John," I whispered.

"Jesus Christ, Alison, you look like you’ve seen a ghost."

He held out his arms to me. Without thinking, I ran to him. I fell to my knees, burying my head in his lap as I sobbed uncontrollably.

He stroked my hair, chuckling softly. "Alison, I know we haven’t seen each other in a couple of months, but I never expected something quite so dramatic. You were calmer the first time we met, and you were pretty hysterical then."

It was all so overwhelming. John Lennon was alive. Alive! John Lennon knew me. And he obviously cared about me. It was all too amazing. Shannon had been right. It had been possible. She’d saved his life that night. He was here in front of me, stroking my hair, and everything was all right. So right that I hadn’t even noticed that anything had changed. Altering this bit of history hadn’t changed the course of the universe.

"God, Alison, if you’re going to act like this over nothing, I shudder to think what you’ll be like later," Shannon said.

"Later?" I pushed myself up.

"I thought you weren’t going to tell her, " John chided her.

"Well, if she’s going to act crazed..."

"What happens tonight?" I asked.

"Should I tell her or should you?" he asked.

"He’s your friend."

John turned to me. He spoke gently, yet teasingly. "Alison, in all the years you’ve known me, what have you always been after me to do?"

All the years? I’d known John Lennon for years? My head was spinning again. I didn’t know what to say. Having no clue what he was talking about, the first thing that came to mind popped out. "Write a song for me?"

"Besides that," he groaned.

"I don’t know, " I whispered.

"He’s coming!" Shannon shrieked, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Who?"

"Paul," John said simply. "Paul McCartney is coming here to meet you."

I’d never passed out before. It was a curious sensation, which I tried to fight at first. But I was suddenly plunged into darkness and then I was dreaming. Dreaming of flying high above the clouds. Then, with a jolt I was awake again, lying the floor, my head pounding. I was staring up at the ceiling. With my mind still reeling, all I could focus on was the ceiling—it must have been more than ten feet high. They don’t make them like that any more. Where the hell was I? What kind of crazy dream was I having?

"Alison?" It was his voice again.

This was not some crazy dream. It was real. The sore spot on my head told me how real it all was. I sat up and rubbed my it. "Bet a girl hasn’t done that to you in 25 years," I joked.

He smiled. "About that. Back in the days when I could use these," he indicated his legs, "and just looking at a girl would bring her to her knees."

I smiled sadly at him, wondering what had happened. If I’d really known him for years I should know. It was then that I noticed the colostomy bag discreetly tucked between himself and the chair. He was paralyzed, I finally realized. Probably from the waist down. Shannon might have stopped the bullets from killing him, but she hadn’t stopped him from being shot.

"Here," Shannon said, reappearing and shoving a glass into my hands.

I took a sip and sputtered. "What is this stuff?"

"Blackberry brandy."

"It’s awful."

She laughed. "Just drink it. Does your head hurt?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you suppose we should call the doctor?" John asked.

Shannon carefully inspected the back of my head. "It doesn’t look bad. Do you think you need a doctor, Alison? I mean, you’re not really ill, are you?"

"Are you pregnant?" John asked.

"No! I’m fine, really." Or as fine as I could be under the circumstances. There were just so many questions running rampant in my head. So many things I didn’t know. Things that I should know. Or shouldn’t I? It was all too confusing.

"I suppose we should keep an eye on you," Shannon said, smiling slyly. "Or maybe we should have Paul do that."

I took another sip of the brandy. It burned, and I made a face. "Is he really coming?" I asked.

"Yes," John said, "he’s really coming."

"Alone?"

John laughed. "Well, I don’t think he’s bringing his ex-wife along, if that’s what you mean."

"Ex-wife?"

"Finally," Shannon said. "That had to be one of the longest, most drawn-out cases in the history of mankind. If I had a nickel for every time he was on the cover of one of the tabloids, I’d be a wealthy woman."

"You are a wealthy woman," John reminded her. "But that’s what he got for marrying a lawyer’s daughter."

"Well, nobody deserves what he got."

What did he get?!?!? my mind was screaming. And what had happened to the others?

As if he had read my thoughts, John said, "’Course, he’s not coming to see you, really. He likes to come visit his cripple friend once in a while."

"John!’ Shannon said sharply.

"Well, it’s true. Here I am, 52 years old, confined to a wheelchair."

"You want sympathy, John?" Shannon asked sarcastically. I was surprised that she spoke so harshly to the man who was her idol. But perhaps he was no longer so. "You’re alive, you’re mentally active. Think about poor George."

‘Poor George?’ Again my mind was screaming. What was she talking about? What had happened to George?

"I don’t want sympathy," he snapped back. "I was just making a statement. And I’m grateful that it isn’t me locked up in the loony bin. It would have been very easy to go over the edge after Sean died. Do you really have any idea how hard it was to watch him waste away, knowing that there was nothing I could do? It damn near killed me. Forget about the bullets lodged in my spine, knowing that my son had an inoperable brain tumor was the worst thing I ever faced. Even worse than losing my first son to a drug overdose. But I was strong, and so was Yoko. Until it was over. The damned doctors may have called it a heart attack, but I call it heartbreak. To see her only son die killed her. Sometimes I wish it was me. What use am I after all? An old man in a wheelchair. I should have died that night. Maybe then they’d be alive."

I began sobbing again. What had Shannon done? She’d saved his life, only to let him watch his wife and sons die? To feel nothing below the waist? What kind of life was it for him? And George, locked away somewhere? What horrible thing had pushed him over the edge? And what had driven Paul and Linda apart? I didn’t even want to think about Ringo. I didn’t want to know any more. I just wanted this nightmare to end.

"Now look what you’ve done!" John yelled at her.

I didn’t care that he was angry. I couldn’t stop crying. John should have died that night. As unfair and cruel as it was, he should have died.

He reached out for me. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. It’s just that there are times when I wonder what it’s all for."

"There’s a reason," Shannon interrupted. "There’s always a reason."

But I knew what the reason was. Shannon’s selfishness was the reason. She’d saved one life, but she had destroyed it as well, and the lives of countless others.

"That’s what I keep telling myself," John said. "Keeps me going. That and the royalty checks. Best thing I ever did was buy back my music. Can’t imagine what it would have been like if that guy had outbid Paul and me."

"Speaking of which," Shannon interrupted, "Paul will be here soon. Perhaps you’d like to shower and change.

She was right, of course. My face was red and puffy from crying. My clothes were crumpled and dirty. While I was still upset and confused by the reality that Shannon had created, I still wanted to look presentable when I met Paul McCartney.

"Yes," I said sniffing.

"Your bag is out in the hall. You can use the guest room you always use. Matter of fact, we think of it as your room." Shannon said.

Panic set in momentarily, but I tried to quickly regain my composure. "I’m still a bit disoriented," I lied.

"Okay, okay. I’ll carry the bag. You should really leave more stuff here so you don’t have to cart so much when you come visit." She took my arm and walked with me, picking up the bag as we went down the hall. I silently counted the number of doorways we passed in my head so I would be able to make my way around later. She stopped in front of lucky door number six. I was amazed at the number of rooms. This wasn’t an ordinary apartment, it was a mansion!

"That dress I borrowed from you is in the wardrobe," she said. "Maybe you’d like to wear it. You always look great in it. It would make a good first impression." She patted my arm gently. "Dinner will be at 9:00, as always." With that, she walked away.

When I opened the door, I gasped. I understood why this room was considered "mine." It was everything I’d ever wanted, but could only dream of. The walls were covered with wallpaper depicting pale pink roses with green stems. There was a vanity in one corner and a chest of drawers in another. But the room was dominated by a king-size four-poster bed, covered by a quilt that matched the wallpaper.

The bathroom door was to the left of the wardrobe. I opened it, and gasped again. It was beautiful. There was a huge claw-footed tub which would have comfortably fit at least three people. On a shelf were various bath oils and crystals, and I was sorely tempted to fill the tub with steaming water. Instead, I undressed and climbed into the shower stall in the back. It, like everything else I had seen thus far, was extravagant, and I had several expensive shampoos and soaps to choose from.

I must have stood under the spray for at least twenty minutes. As I washed and conditioned my hair, not once but twice, I tried to figure out what I should do next. And if I had been here before and met John, why did I not remember anything? Why could I remember what was supposed to be, when no one else seemed to? I lathered up every inch of my body until I was squeaky clean, stepped out and grabbed a fluffy warm towel. I still had no answers. For now, I thought I should just go along with it. What else could I do?

I opened the medicine cabinet, knowing it would be stocked with toiletries. It was, but the contents were not new. I must have stayed here many times before. But if I had, why did I have no memory of it? If Shannon had truly changed the course of history, why was my mind still on another track?

I tried not to think about it. Instead, I concentrated on me. I powdered and perfumed myself, and carefully styled my hair so that it cascaded down my back, looking soft and touchable. I used the make-up that I found to cover my flaws while still trying to have that "natural" look. Finally, I went and put on the pale blue dress that Shannon said was mine. It fit me perfectly, but I had never seen it before.

I wandered out into the hallway. It was time to do some investigating. Curious, but cautious, I opened door after door. Some of the rooms were locked. Some of them were bare. Some were simply guest rooms.

But then I opened one and knew immediately it must be Shannon’s. It was obvious from the mess – clothing scattered here and there. Every inch of wall space was covered with framed photos. John, Yoko, Sean and Shannon all smiling broadly. John in the wheelchair, Shannon standing behind him, both looking solemn. That one had been taken in Central Park. I looked closer and saw that there was a sign next to them which read, "Strawberry Fields – Dedicated to the memory of Sean Taro Ono Lennon. ‘Close your eyes, have no fear/ The monster’s gone, he’s on the run and your daddy’s here." October 9, 1975 – January 17, 1982." There were other photos – John, Shannon and Paul; Shannon and Ringo; John, Shannon, Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey.

But what really caught my eye was a framed copy of the cover of the New York Daily News, dated December 9, 1980, the headline of which declared, "College Student Saves Lennon’s Life." Underneath was a photo of Shannon, looking confused and disheveled. But there was a slight hint of a smile on her face. A satisfied smile. She must have known at that moment what she had done.

"Are you looking for me?" Her voice startled me, and I whirled around. "I didn’t mean to scare you," she said.

"Well, you did. You really did it, didn’t you?"

"Did what?"

I gestured toward the headline.

"That? You know that’s my shining moment.. Talk about fate! I often wonder what would have happened that night, if I had gone with the others."

"Others?"

"Ali, you’ve heard the tale a million times. A bunch of us decided to take a break from exams. So we came to the city to see the tree and go skating at Rockefeller Center. But I, as always, wanted to go check out the Dakota, in the hopes of seeing John Lennon. And boy did I see him! But I also saw that man with a gun. If I hadn’t seen him and yelled out, maybe John would have died. Or maybe, if I had seen him a little sooner, John wouldn’t be in that wheelchair."

"You really do believe that," I said.

"I don’t know. You can’t change the past."

Oh, but you can, I thought to myself. And you did. But you don’t even remember, do you?

A buzzer rang and Shannon said, "That must be Paul. You go back into the living room and look pretty."

Not knowing what else to do, I followed her instructions. I sat down and admired the place. From the hall I could hear Shannon greeting someone. My heart jumped when I heard him reply. There was the sound of the wheelchair and John’s voice. More pleasantries exchanged. I looked out the window, down onto the lights of the city, trying to calm myself. My insides were leaping about and I felt like a teen on her first date. I took a few deep breaths as I heard footsteps and the wheelchair coming closer.

It was John who spoke. "Paul, I’d like you to meet a friend of Shannon’s and mine, Alison Rogers."

I turned to face him. He was wearing khaki slacks, docksiders with no socks, and a long-sleeve white button-down shirt that was open slightly at the neck. His hair was short and speckled with gray. All I could think was that this was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Any other questions, doubts or troubles were instantly wiped from my mind as he walked towards me, extending his hand, a smile playing on those incredibly sexy lips.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice clear and strong.

Shaking nervously, I stood and took his hand. His grip was firm and I couldn’t help but think what it would be like to have those hands caressing me. "The pleasure’s all mine." My voice came out huskily, and I didn’t sound like me at all.

"Sit down, both of you," Shannon said politely. "Can I get anyone a drink before dinner?"

Both Paul and I requested white wine and while Shannon went off, John quietly asked how Ringo as doing, only he called him Ritchie.

"Good," said Paul. "Or as good as he can be. He’s clean now."

"That’s good," John replied, nodding. "He’ll be out soon, won’t he?"

"Up for parole in nine weeks."

I was quiet and John noticed it. "We shouldn’t talk about such things. It upsets Alison. Besides, it hardly makes for good cocktail conversation."

Paul laughed, obviously amused by John’s careful choice of words. He turned to me. "So, Alison, what do you do for a living?"

My mouth went dry and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to speak. But Shannon had just re-entered the room, and upon hearing his question, answered for me.

"Alison’s Director of Marketing for a local non-profit organization in Danbury. But she really isn’t being used to her full potential. She should be looking for a better, more challenging position. She’s incredibly talented. She even helped out with the layout for the cover of John’s last album."

"I did?" I asked incredulously.

"She did," echoed John.

"I’m impressed," Paul said.

"You should be," Shannon continued. "She’s very talented. The company that snatches her up is going to be very lucky."

"How much do you pay her to say all those nice things?" Paul asked me.

I blushed, saying nothing.

"Alison’s modest," Shannon said.

"And shy," John added.

I was finally able to speak after I took a sip of wine. "Actually, I’m humbled in the presence of greatness."

"And she’s very perceptive," John went on.

"And very beautiful." Paul concluded.

I blushed again.

"What’s the matter with you?" John asked. "You seem to be continually turning various shades of red."

"It seems to be what I do best," I replied shyly.

"It’s very becoming," Paul said.

I was melting, visibly. My heart was pounding, my palms sweaty. I took another sip of wine, hoping no one would notice how my hands were shaking.

"You always did go for blondes, didn’t you?" John asked Paul.

Paul laughed. "Must be my weakness."

"I think dinner’s ready," Shannon said, sensing my discomfort.

I stood to follow her, but felt Paul take my arm.

"Can I escort you to the dining room?" he asked.

No woman in her right mind could ever turn down those deep brown eyes. "Thank you," I said, slipping my arm in his.

Dinner was a formal affair. I was still rather stunned by my surroundings. I ate carefully and slowly, feeling as if every move was being watched by those soulful eyes. I listened as John and Paul spoke endlessly of music. John had made five albums since 1980, all of which had shot straight to the top of the charts. His latest album, Watch Me Now, for which I had helped design the cover (and when I later saw it, was justifiably proud of), was resting comfortably at #5. Paul, on the other hand, had not done so well. There had been no Tug Of War, Give My Regards to Broad Street, World Tours, or MTV Unplugged sessions. His marriage had been falling apart, and it seemed as though his creativity had been drained as he fought to retain what was his from Linda.

"Perhaps," I said softly over coffee, " you should do something simple. Small acoustic sets of your favorite songs."

Paul smiled at me. "I’ve been wanting to get back to my roots. That’s quite an extraordinary idea."

"Thank you." Of course, it wasn’t really my idea. Or was it?

We retired to the music room where Paul and John took turns at the piano. They played songs of their youth, their voices often blending in carefree and happy vocals. I felt unique, being able to witness it all. It was all so warm and homey. Watching every little nuance fascinated me, and I began to forget the tragedies and the should-have-beens.

Shannon wheeled John off to bed a little after midnight, but encouraged Paul and me to stay up and enjoy ourselves. We were definitely clicking. He sat at the piano, softly playing a tune that I recognized. I found myself softly singing along.

"Used to be an early bird, but how was I to know, you would leave without shedding a tear. I only want to love you. I make a wish and suddenly, I’m glad that I have you here..."

My voice trailed off, as I realized he had stopped playing and was staring at me. "Gee, I’m sorry. I should have never...an amateur shouldn’t...not in front of a professional."

"That was lovely. Have you written lyrics before?"

"Written lyrics? But I was just..." Then I realized what he was saying. It was a song that hadn’t been written.

"I really liked it," he continued, "although I don’t know about the early bird part. Of course you’re starting in the middle of the song. How would you start off?"

"I...I...I’m not the one with the talent.," I protested.

"Oh, I don’t know about that," he said, standing and putting his hands on my shoulders. "John and Shannon seem to be pretty impressed."

"There’s no accounting for taste. Besides, they’re my friends."

"I’d like to be your friend." He leaned over and kissed me.

Is it possible that one kiss could make you forget a lifetime? With his lips on mine, the past disappeared for me. The only reality I knew was Paul, here and now, holding me in his arms and kissing me.

"Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve kissed a woman? Really kissed a woman?" I shook my head. "Two years? Three years? Much, much too long. The past five years have been hell. But I guess any man who’s been through a divorce would say that. It’s been lonely too." He looked into my eyes, his own pleading with me. "Alison, would you let me spend the night with you?"

I nodded and he took my hand. We walked down the hall together and into my room.

I expected nothing more than a one night stand. I would have treasured that one night. I would have wished for more, perhaps, but I would have been satisfied with only one night. But that wasn’t how it was to be. He held my hand for most of the next two days, and Shannon and John must have noticed the looks that we gave each other. Or at least noticed the fact that Paul never slept in the room they had provided for him. Yet, they didn’t say anything. John didn’t even tease, as I thought he might.

On Sunday night, I was going to take the train back home. Paul wouldn’t hear of it. Before I knew it, he had a limo picking us up, and we drank champagne all the way to Connecticut. The driver went home. Paul stayed. I called in sick on Monday.

The celebrity lifestyle was very seductive and very easy to enjoy. Paul set up an office/apartment in New York City and on the weekend he would send a car for me. Or he would come up to me, bearing flowers and wine. Eventually he did have to return to England. He had taken my advice and was planning to do some small shows. He needed to get a band together. I missed him, even though he called every day. AT&T must have loved him. And the letters we wrote. Full of crazy romantic notions. I saved them all and read them over and over again.

The first concert took place three months later in a small club just outside of London. I was there, sitting in the front row. He had flown me over first class and I was quickly getting used to the life of luxury. The concert went exceedingly well. He dedicated "And I Love Her" to the beautiful blonde in the front row. The critics loved it. So did I. And although I kept my apartment in Connecticut, I quit my job and moved into Paul’s London flat.

For my 28^th birthday he wrote me a song. He handed me a gift-wrapped package. Inside was handwritten sheet music, and at the top it said, "The Loveliest Thing, by Paul McCartney. Dedicated with all my love to Alison Rogers." He played it for me. I cried. I cried even harder two months later when he released it as a single and it went to number one.

Life couldn’t have been better. I had never been happier. Paul said he’d never been happier. My life—our life—was golden.

I was the one who suggested we go to New York to celebrate John’s 53^rd birthday in October. Paul agreed. The flight over was miserable. Despite massive doses of Dramamine, and much to my embarrassment, I was continually airsick.

"Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea," I moaned.

"Of course it was." Paul patted my hand. "I think I know something that would make you feel better."

"Nothing would make me feel better, except being on solid ground again." I closed my eyes, hoping this would all end soon.

"Alison, would you marry me?"

I slowly opened my eyes and turned to him. He was looking at me, and in his hand was a small opened box that contained a diamond ring. "Did you just ask me what I think you asked me?"

"I asked you to marry me."

"Yes," I whispered. And I let him slip the ring on my finger.

Shannon squealed with excitement when I showed her. John shook his head and told Paul he was making a big mistake, but insisted we all go out to celebrate. Shannon phoned a restaurant that was a favorite of John’s and arranged for a private room. Then we all piled into John’s van, which had been specially designed to accommodate his wheelchair, and headed off.

Shannon and I got out first, while Paul helped John. We had already started to go into the restaurant when I heard the squealing of brakes. There was a horrible sound. Metal scraping and people shrieking. Shannon was screaming. I stood there, not looking, for what seemed like an eternity. But I knew that I had to look.

Why it happened, I don’t know. The truck must have been going sixty, seventy miles an hour, jumping the curb and riding on the sidewalk. It had hit Paul first, then John. Shannon was on the ground, holding the mass of flesh and metal that had once been John Lennon. Paul was nearly twenty feet away. I knelt down beside him. He was still alive, but I knew not for long.

Suddenly, everything came flooding back to me. I cradled him in my arms, watching him suffer, knowing that it was only a matter of minutes before he would be gone. And there was nothing I could do.

"I’m so sorry," I whispered. "I should have stopped it long ago. I’m sorry. I love you Paul."

"I love..." But he never finished the sentence. He was dead.

I snapped, whirling to face Shannon. "It’s all your fault!" I screamed at her. "You had to save him! But you didn’t, did you? He died anyway! You selfish bitch! And now Paul’s dead too! John’s dead! Paul’s dead! Sean’s dead! Julian’s dead! Yoko’s dead! How many more are going to die? Are you happy? Are you happy now?"

They said I was hysterical. I was. I’d let this happen. I’d been selfish too. And I was just as guilty as Shannon was.

I went home. Back to my own apartment. And I cried. For days I cried. If I had only done something. But I’d let my own wants get in the way. How could I have forgotten? How could I have let myself get sucked into the reality that Shannon had created? How could I have forgotten what should have been?

I stared at the sheet music that Paul had given me. It should never have been mine in the first place. It wasn’t meant for me. I took off the ring. While it once was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, now I saw it only as a symbol of my own greed.

Sadly, I sifted through the letters. The words meant nothing now that he was gone. It was then that I stumbled on an unopened letter among the others. I looked at it curiously. It was in Shannon’s hand and postmarked from New York City, but the return address was not the Dakota. And I remembered that Saturday afternoon when Shannon had first let me know of her plan. How she’d told me how to do it, but I hadn’t listened. And how she promised she’d write it all down someday. This was that letter, written before she’d gone back to 1980.

"Dear Alison: I know you think I’m crazy. But I’m going to do it. I’m going to save John Lennon’s life. And this is how..."

I read it slowly, carefully. And then I re-read it two more times. This time I had to listen. I had to follow her instructions, although it all seemed so simple. Too simple. But I had to do it. If she had done it, I could do it too. I had to. I had no choice. I had to go back. It had to be as it was meant to be.

I let several days pass. I needed to keep a clear head if I was going to do this right. I needed time to think it all through. To prepare.

I walked to the train station on a cold, clear night. I knew it was going to get colder. And I knew it was going to be bitter.

I prayed on the train. I’d never been a big believer in prayer or even in God, but now...I needed every bit of help I could get. Someone, something, had to help me to make it all right again.

At Grand Central I grabbed a cab to the Dakota. I stood outside the doorway, shivering. The doorman recognized me and went to buzz me in. But I shook my head sadly. He looked at me curiously and I thought he might come over and give me his condolences. But I’d had enough condolences, enough sympathy. It was time to make a change, to make things right.

I walked over to Central Park. I knew it wasn’t the best place to be in the middle of the night, but I had no choice. It was deserted, and I went straight for the sign that announced the entrance to Strawberry Fields. I stared at it and I knew it was time. I knew what had to be done.

I wrapped my arms around the pole, hugged it close to me. I closed my eyes and prayed.

I don’t know how long I was there, but I suddenly stumbled. The pole that I had been holding onto no longer existed. I knew it had worked. Now all I had to do was find Shannon.

It wasn’t hard. She was on the corner, heading towards the entrance of the Dakota.

"Shannon!" I shouted.

She turned and looked at me. She paused only for a moment before continuing on. I started to run after her. She wasn’t walking fast; actually, she was walking slowly and deliberately. Like a woman with a mission. And it was a mission I had to stop. I grabbed her arm and spun her around.

"You can’t do it."

She looked at me, hatred in her eyes. "I can, and I will. I don’t know how you managed to get here too, but your being here isn’t going to stop me."

"Shannon, you told me how to get here. You wrote it down and mailed it to me."

"I just mailed that letter."

"And I’ll get it. I’ve been there, Shannon. I’ve been in your reality. I’ve seen John Lennon in 1992, alive."

Her eyes lit up. "So I do it."

"At a cost."

"I don’t care about the cost."

"Even if he dies 13 years later?"

She looked unsure for a moment. "If I’m just buying time, it’s still worth it. Think of all the music he’ll create in that time. Think of all the things he’ll do."

"From a wheelchair. That’s where he’ll be. You stopped him from dying, but you didn’t stop the shots."

She stared at me, then smiled maliciously. "That’s when I didn’t know. But I do now." She pulled away from me.

A car pulled up in front of the building. I grabbed her again.

"You can’t do this."

With her free hand she swung around and slapped me. "Just try and stop me!" She took advantage of my shock and pulled away again.

Two figures were getting out of the car.

Her slap had stunned me, but I hadn’t come this far to fail. "Shannon!" I screamed, and threw myself at her. Both of us smashed into the concrete sidewalk.

"Bitch!" she snarled.

I could see a figure turn and glance our way. For a moment I thought he might come over to us, and I shook, thinking I might have ruined it all. But it was only a glance. He continued on his way into the building.

I couldn’t look. I knew what was going to happen and I ached inside with that knowledge.

I heard the voice say his name. I heard the gun.

"No, no, no!" Shannon was crying.

I moved and let her go free. But she stayed face down on the pavement, crying. There was nothing else to do.

It’s been years since I looked at those words that I wrote. It was painful to write, yet I had to write it. And all these years later, it’s still painful to read.

Life has not been easy. And what happened, what I did, has brought about consequences. Painful consequences at times. But, as I said in the introduction, that’s another story. And perhaps some time I’ll have the courage to sit down and write that as well.

When I first let some very close friends read this, they all said the same thing. That I should have gone into more detail on time travel. That I had to let them know how it was done.

I have refused to do so. It’s much too dangerous. I will not play God again.

If someone else figures it out, and anyone could, then let it be on their head. I have finished what I had to do. And I will never attempt to do it again. The dangers, the consequences are all too frightful. All too real.

And so I go on with my life. Surviving, and still mourning. But knowing what I did had to be done. And praying that no one else ever tries to do something quite as foolish as what Shannon and I did.

Alison Rogers has been writing since she was ten years old. She is the author of five plays, ten short stories (including one for children), and countless unfinished novels. She hopes one day to complete writing a novel, have it published, and become a bestselling author, thereby having enough money to go to Disney World! In the meantime, she is training to be a massage therapist and trying to learn how to relax.