| |
I woke up ravenous and achy from the twisted position I’d fallen asleep in. My father appeared just as if we were at home and he had innocently fallen asleep on the couch. His face was slightly contorted, however, and I could only hope that he wasn't in pain.
I checked out his bandages, but they seemed to be intact and dry, so I left them in place. I had cleaned his wounds as best as I could with the water, but with no soap or antibiotic ointments, what if my efforts hadn’t been enough?
And why wasn't he waking up? If he had a concussion or something even worse, there was nothing I could do. Maybe I should try to get a doctor?
I laughed bitterly to myself, considering my father was a doctor. He would probably laugh too if I had a physician from this era treat him.
“Dad,” I squeezed his arm, “please wake up. Please. I can't be stuck here.”
I was so tired and cried out, that his lack of response hardly fazed me. I sat there for a time, staring at him, then at the wall, and then back at him again. I could see everything that made up Julian Greene in his face; the laugh lines that showcased his humor, and the tucked-upward lips that highlighted his sharp tongue. I discerned maybe a touch of arrogance residing there too, which probably had something to do with the fact that he was a master of time itself.
The idea tickled me, and I felt warm pride for the man who was so much more than I'd ever imagined.
My stomach growled, jarring me from my thoughts, and I cursed. How was I to get anything to eat here? I had no money! I jumped up, my feelings shifting to rage. “Dad! How could you just be so...careless! You went off alone like that! It was stupid! Now I'm stuck here!”
Maybe it was careless, but what else would a time traveler do when he visited other times? He roamed around and explored. I couldn't fault him for that.
Sighing, I crumpled back down into the chair. “You should never have listened to me, Dad. You shouldn't have taken me here.” My parents had always been careful not to play favorites. Yet deep down, I suspected my father had always wanted to spoil me silly, but my mother held him back. After all, I was his only child. He loved Daniel and Matthew as if they were his own children, even though he disliked their father. But he was so proud of me, and now that I knew how extraordinary he was, I think he was enjoying showing it off.
My stomach gurgled again. I had to act.
“I wish I'd had another future-dream last night,” I muttered. “Then I'd know if Dad was going to get better.”
Resolutely, I stood up and walked across the room. Removing my clothes, I washed myself as best as I could with the basin full of cold water. I don't think it helped much. Then I realized I had no deodorant. Dad would probably tell me not to worry about that, but I didn't want to smell bad – no matter what year it was.
When I came out of the room, the woman at the desk looked at me with pity. “How's your pa?” she inquired.
“Still not awake...I mean, not conscious yet.” My stomach made its discomfort known, and I rubbed it with embarrassment. “Sorry. Can I have some water?”
“Pump's out back,” the woman answered. “You know, you ought to fetch Doc Vervain.”
Doc Vervain. Great. The name sounded like something from a 1950s monster movie.
“He can help your pa. You sound like you're hungry, child.”
I cast my eyes down in shame. “I have no money to pay for food. They stole all my father's stuff. Even his watch.” The watch part honestly irked me the most. Someone had the audacity to steal a time traveler's timepiece. That bothered me.
“I can give you some bread, honey. Sit yourself down and I'll be right back.”
I settled into a rickety chair, nervous to leave my father alone. But I had to eat, and I had to get help. I just hoped this Doc Vervain wasn't a quack.
The woman returned with a cup of water and a chunk of leftover cornbread in a piece of yellowed cloth. I took the bread and chomped at it hungrily. It wasn't half bad, even though it was very stale.
“I made that one last weekend,” she boasted. “It's one of my best.”
“Delicious,” I mumbled between bites. Hopefully I wouldn't get food poisoning from it.
***
DOC VERVAIN'S HOUSE was only a mile or two from where I was, but once I got off the main road, there was a long, overgrown path to traverse. Fighting my way through the tall prairie grass in the sweltering sun weakened me. My dress seemed to be getting heavier and it smelled moldy. With each step I grew more parched, and my head was throbbing. I wondered if I'd get ticks, and if they had Lyme disease back in the 1860s, and then I cried.
But I kept going. For Dad. For me. I wanted my own room, my own bed, and my own century. Time travel would never be as exciting-sounding and rosy as it had always seemed in literature. Now that I'd experienced it, I understood what Dad had been saying. Life was life, wherever you lived it, and being in a different time didn't change anything. In fact, it was becoming evident that surviving in the past was far harder than living where you belonged.
A small cottage came into view, with “DOCTOR” painted over the porch. When I finally pushed open the front gate, my knees gave out from under me, and I collapsed to the dirt. Lying on my stomach, the sun beating mercilessly at my back, I began to dry-heave. Then I tried to sob, but it seemed like I couldn't because my tears had all dried up.
Just when I thought I would pass out, someone cried out, “My dear, you're going to burn up out here!”
Strong hands hoisted me up, and I was vaguely aware of being taken inside and placed on something soft. “Get her water, Marie,” I heard. The words, spoken in a male voice, bobbed above me. Then everything went dark.
***
WHEN I CAME TO, THE coolness of night was setting in, and a breeze wafted from the window above my head. It smelled sweet, unlike the stinky smell in the town. I lay on a cot in a small, neat room. A stack of towels and a basin of water sat beside me on a table.
For a blessed few seconds, all was calm and well. Then I remembered what happened to Dad.
I had to help him! I jumped out of the bed to find I was only wearing a shapeless, scratchy nightgown. “Oh, God! They took off my clothes?” I squeaked.
Needless to say, I was mortified.
“Miss, you're up?” a pasty-looking woman of perhaps sixty poked her head in the door.
“Um, yes?” I answered confusedly.
“Sam, she's awake!”
“Coming.”
The woman entered the room slowly, as if not to startle me. Approaching carefully, she encouraged me to sit back down. “Take it easy, you're still recovering. The sun did a number on you.”
“No, no,” I pushed her away. “My father needs help.”
“Shh, it's okay. Take some water.” She offered me a pewter cup of tepid liquid, and I worried at how clean the water was. But I had to drink it. My throat felt like it was made of sandpaper.
The water made me feel immediately better, and I drank another whole cup. When I was offered more, I shook my head. “Please, you have to help my dad. He was attacked over by the bank, and he's hurt. I have no money, so if there's any way I can repay you...”
The man that was apparently Doc Vervain came into the room. “Your father is the rich man that was attacked?”
“Yes?” I said, although it was more like a question.
“Then we'll get him better. I'll be wanting payment for my services.”
I didn't know whether to laugh at this or not, because his weather-worn face did not display the least amount of mirth. He didn't laugh, so I didn't either.
He grabbed a medicine bag and roughly aided me outside. I climbed into his wagon as he hitched it up. Having never been in a horse-drawn vehicle before, I felt extremely awkward. For a moment, I found myself looking for a seat belt.
Even though I had no idea what to say to him on the ride back, I was thankful I didn't have to walk through all that grass – especially in the dark. I'd have to check myself for ticks later.
***
THE DOCTOR STOOD OVER my father in the candlelight, clicking his tongue. He didn't bother to look under the bandages. “Bad concussion,” he simply said. And for a moment, I had hope. There had to be some good doctors. They couldn't all be quacks. Maybe he could really help.
He placed his hand on an area slightly below the bandage on Dad's forehead, and I cringed. The man's skin was dirty from holding the reins of the carriage. I wasn't expecting him to wear gloves, but surely he could wash before touching a patient?
As he fished through his bag, I knew I couldn't remain silent about the dirt. I took a moment to muster up my courage and finally asked, “Could you please wash your hands?”
He held them up and rubbed them together, which resulted in a puff of dust. “If you say so.” He dipped only his fingers into the basin on the dresser, which turned the water brown. Then he set back to his tools.
Well, that was a little bit better...maybe...
“So, can you help him?” I queried, curious as to what he was looking for in the bag.
“Yes.”
“How?”
He pulled a clumsy scalpel from the satchel. “With this.”
“What are you going to do with that? Surgery?” I cried.
“Oh, no,” he chortled, fishing a porcelain canister out and setting it down near Dad's arm. “We're just going to take some blood.” He pushed up Dad’s sleeve and poked around his skin.
A blood test? Well, maybe they had chemicals they could mix with the blood for some kind of rudimentary diagnosis... I was hardly an expert in post-Civil War medicine.
When he sank the scalpel into Dad's arm and the blood issued forth, it dawned on me what the man was doing. He was planning to drain some of Dad's blood, which people used to believe was a cure for many illnesses...
A bloodletting.
“No!” I screamed, yanking Dad's arm away from him. I grabbed up the nightgown I’d worn and twisted it around Dad’s wound while applying pressure. How could I be so stupid not to understand? “You can't do this! It'll make him worse! I didn't know people still did this now! It's like...medieval!”
Doc Vervain recoiled, sizing me up. “Miss, if you deny treatment, I can't very well help him.”
“I deny treatment! Go! I can't have you kill him!”
“As you wish.” He gathered up his belongings, tossing Dad's collected blood into the dirty basin. Then he placed the unwashed canister back into his satchel.
The blood must have gotten all over everything in that bag. And, for that matter, how clean had that scalpel been?
“Miss, I–”
“Go! Go! Go!” I started sobbing, and, delivering me a doubtful glance, he left.
***
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TIME it was when I got up. I had obviously wept myself to sleep again, which I was getting to be quite good at. The moon was low in the sky, and the new candle the desk lady had put in my room was about to go out. Luckily it hadn't fallen over and set the place on fire.
Past crying, I examined the scalpel cut on Dad's arm. It had clotted up, but it hadn't been cleansed. And the basin was full of dirty, bloody water.
“Oh, Dad,” I choked out. “I can't even...clean your cut... I'll have to go out and get new water at the pump...”
The anger rose in me once more, but it was now aimed at myself. Why did I have to ask my father to do this? Why couldn't I have let things be?
“Dad, Dad...please, I want to go home. Please wake up and get us out of here! Please, damn it, please!”
I gripped Dad so hard that I created welts in his skin. All I wanted was to be safe in my own room, in my own house, and my dapper time traveling father healed...
My room, with its soft carpet, my bed with its ruffles and smooth sheets that smelled of Mom's laundry detergent...
I...need...home...
Something lurched. The ground gave way underneath me. The light of the room changed; for a moment, daylight blinded me.
The sheets Dad lay on were smooth, and the floor under my feet was soft...
“I'm home,” I gasped, my eyes focusing on my own room. “Oh, my God, I'm so...home...” I crumpled to the floor.