4  Jan’s Calendar Reminders

[displayed on screen]

“Soooo quick. Can we go again?”

“Thought it would never end.”


“One of these quotes comes from my ten-year-old daughter after getting off a rollercoaster,” says the professor. “The other is me after the same ride. Can you guess which is which?” Jan squints at the screen from the side of the hall, wishing she could shuffle a few places closer. She remembers back to when her Steven was ten – thirty-odd years ago. They’d had a rollercoaster ride all right.

“Time perception shortens with pleasure or reward, so we underestimate the duration. In fact, I conducted an experiment with my daughter by setting a stopwatch on said rollercoaster. Afterwards, we guessed how long it had taken. She swore it couldn’t have been more than one minute.”

Jan makes a mental note to go on a rollercoaster. Every day, something new. Besides, she might get a discount now she’s a pensioner. She can even do the professor’s time experiment. “Perception after trauma is lengthened. At the time, I estimated fairly accurately, ninety seconds, but when I think back to my stomach turning upside down, it felt like it was ninety hours.”

Jan knows all about trauma. Suffering in silence through the lies, the stealing, and the failed interventions until she turned Steven in. Returning to finish the degree she started all those years ago was supposed to breathe new life into her, but she comes home each night so tired.

“And it’s not only pleasure and pain. Time quickens as you age. To my daughter, a school day is still quite a new experience and feels long, whereas I’ve done a few.”

He’s showing off now, displaying photos of him receiving certificates and awards in a gown. “Without novel experiences, the years fly away.”

A lump forms in Jan’s throat. Mr Luca is right. Steven was locked up three years ago today. She can’t keep her life on hold any longer. “Sometimes,” says Cangemi, “a change really is better than a rest.”

Daily Reminders

Weekly

End of Term List

Goals


Time elapsed: one eighteen-millionth of the jail sentence a son never finished