Something hard and cold pressed against Allison’s forehead. Her back ached. Slowly, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. In front of her stood an old-fashioned sewing machine, its metal body crouched before her on its wooden stand like a giant black cricket. Allison’s head had been resting on its cold metal back. She rubbed the painful dent the metal had left on her forehead. Still dazed, Allison glanced around.
The room was silent. A musty odor mingled with the thick, greasy smell of cooked lamb hung heavily in the air. Her eyes took in the rough wooden table and four chairs pushed under a tiny window framed with ragged curtains. A black cast-iron stove squatted next to a wooden counter that supported an iron water pump. To Allison’s left, a curtain had been pushed back, exposing a bed covered with a faded quilt. Above it, a crude ladder led up to a shadowy loft.
Her heart began to pound. Where was she? She spun around to look behind her. A stone fireplace covered most of the back wall. In front of it, an old wooden rocker sat between a woodpile heaped on the hearth and a basket brimming with coarse yarn. The only source of light was the single window in the kitchen.
Allison felt as if she were a wax figure in the museum display of a log cabin she’d seen last year when her eighth-grade history class had taken a field trip to Sacramento. Was this another of those bizarre dreams she’d been having? One minute she’d find herself in a hospital bed unable to move, her mother sobbing at her side, and the next minute she’d be in another time and place—a time and place totally alien to her—and in another girl’s body. Nightmares from which there was no escape.
Allison looked down. She groaned. She was wearing Becky Thompson’s faded calico dress. She looked at her feet: They were bare and propped on the wide wrought-iron pedal of the sewing machine. She lifted a trembling hand to her hair—it was braided—two long, blond braids. Allison was a brunette with chin-length hair, and she didn’t own a calico dress.
Then it hit her—this must be the rough cabin in the woods she saw the first time she was in Becky’s body. And if it was, Becky’s horrible mother would be back any minute.
Allison jumped from the chair and bolted for the door. The latch was awkward, stiff. She fiddled with it. Her heart pounded fiercely. Her whole body shook. Finally, the latch let go. Allison threw open the door and froze.
She was staring into the angry eyes of Becky Thompson’s mother.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” The heavyset woman shoved Allison back into the room and placed a basketful of eggs on the table. She turned to the sewing machine. “You ain’t going anywhere till you finish that dress we promised Miz Teresa for next week. How far have you gotten?”
The woman lumbered to the sewing machine, boots hitting clomp! clomp! clomp! beneath her long cotton skirt. She picked up the piece of rose chiffon that was still attached to the needle, eyed it with displeasure, and let it drop. Then she sorted through other pieces of the same fine fabric folded in a large straw basket next to the sewing machine.
“That’s it?” Mrs. Thompson turned, her face contorted with rage. “One sleeve—that’s all you’ve done this morning?”
Allison stared at the woman in confusion, her eyes wide with terror. In one mighty leap, the woman was towering over her. Drawing back her arm, she struck Allison across the face with the back of her hand, propelling her against the wall. Pain shot through her entire body; her mind was a blur. Allison could taste blood. Her knees quivered.
“You stupid, lazy girl! I’ll teach you to daydream when you should be working!”
Mrs. Thompson pulled back a closed fist, aimed directly at Allison’s face, and let go. An explosion of pain and colors and flames burst inside Allison’s head. Then the burning pain and brilliant colors faded to black, and Allison was back in the wind tunnel, whirling toward a voice.
At first, the voice seems muffled and far away, as if it’s in another room and I’m listening through the wall. Slowly, the voice clears, and I can make out the words.
“... The nurse brought me a cot so I can stay with you at night. And I brought your boom box so the nurses can play your favorite music for you when I’m at work.”
Mom! Oh, Mom, help me out of this nightmare! I’ve got to get out of here.
I can hear Mom moving around the room as she talks. Paper crackles. Now she’s next to my bed. “And look what else I brought. Feel.”
Mom places something soft and light on my arm, resting it against my shoulder. “Recognize it? It’s PoPo, your old teddy bear. I found him in the back of your closet. Remember how you always made me drag him out when you were sick?”
Thunder crashes outside the window.
PoPo? Good old PoPo ... Can you keep me safe?