Authors: Esther M. Soto
“I’m sorry?” I blink rapidly, confused beyond belief, my inner processing can’t compute. “I thought you said I’d been unconscious for two days.”
“You have,” Carol states, this time turning to grab the tray of food and bringing it to me.
“But, it’s May twenty-fifth?” Something is very, very wrong. It’s October, not May.
“That’s right,” she says, matter-of-factly. “It’s May twenty-fifth, nineteen forty-four.”
My hearing seems to be failing me as well. So, I ask again, this time, panic lacing my words, my chest heaving rapidly. “I'm sorry. It sounded like you said nineteen forty-four?” My voice is breaking. My throat feels tight; I’m hyperventilating.
She shoots me a puzzled look. “Yes, I did.”
Her puzzled look morphs into worry and concern. She shakes her head slowly, alarmed at my reaction. I can't move. I'm going to be sick. Cold sweat pours from my forehead to my neck as panic sets in and takes over.
“Dear, are you all right?”
Blood rushes to my head, making the room spin, even though I'm sitting up. Carol rushes to my side, as I lean over the edge of the bed and hurl all over the floor.
It’s been three days since I found out that I'm supposedly stuck in 1944. I don’t know what to think anymore.
After hurling all over Mrs. Shaw’s floor, I managed to stumble off the bed and down some stairs. When I entered the kitchen, I froze.
Holy hell
. It was like stepping into a 1940’s museum. I made my way around the house, not believing my eyes—antiques everywhere. From the furniture, wall hangings, curtains, and dishes to the big cabinet resembling a radio in the living room. No TVs that I could see, no modern comforts. I was so shocked, my legs betrayed me, and I had no choice but to comply with Carol’s pleas to return to bed.
Mrs. Shaw and her daughter Mary have already given up on trying to jog my memory, and I am convinced this place is some sort of compound. No sign of her so-called son. Carol says she has one more daughter whose room I’m currently occupying, but I’ve yet to meet her either.
I was able to go outdoors and confirm that I am actually on a real farm. The plain white house appears to be from the 1900’s era, complete with outbuildings, a barn, farm animals, and a tractor. I have no idea who is behind this, or for what reason they are keeping me here.
Over the last couple of days, I had time to think and strategize. As much as I hated it, I took a page from Sophia Harper’s playbook:
if you act like everything’s fine, then it is.
I didn’t learn much from my mother, but I have to give it to her, she was the great pretender. So, I complied during the day. I kept to my assigned room on the pretense of feeling weak and bedridden. While Carol went into town and her daughter was away at work, I did some recon since there was no one around. I went through every room, including the bedrooms. I did a complete sweep of the interior, checked for listening bugs, secret video recording devices, and even hidden cables. Nothing turned up. The place is clean.
What I did find was more alarming.
If this place is a set-up, they did one hell of a job. No modern renovations. Narrow, steep stairs are the only way to the second floor, leading straight to the only bathroom in the house. The layout is awkward, as if it was added as an afterthought. No bigger than a small closet, the bathroom barely fits a toilet, the tank attached to the wall with a chain hanging down. The small room is narrow, with white wooden walls holding a small sink with metal legs, and a claw foot tub flush with the wall, between the toilet and sink. A large ceramic jug sits next to the tub on a wooden shelf. A small window faces opposite the bathroom door.
I guess I should be grateful they have indoor plumbing.
From reading material to the contents of the drawers, the pots, pans, and appliances in the kitchen, and clothing inside the dressers and closets, everything seems to be authentic to the time period that Carol claims we are in. There’s even a vintage car outside.
Once I checked inside the house, I did an outdoor sweep. Last night I snuck out while the family slept. First, I circled the farm in the dark, unable to locate any familiar landmarks or signs of the field where I woke up. The Shaw house is square, made of wood and long, single-pane windows. The pyramid-shaped roof, like everything else, seems true to the times. What was the most surprising of all was that the doors and windows were unlocked.
After I did a quick search of the barn and outbuildings, I decided to venture for the road toward town. I managed to jog about ten miles, never spotting any signs of city lights in the distance. Then I saw it.
The same farmhouse I drove by that morning on our way to the scene.
The beautifully restored Victorian farmhouse, with the biggest wrap-around porch I’d ever seen. In front, there had been a massive maple tree, with a tire swing hanging from a thick branch. I remembered wondering who lived there, about that tire swing. The home screamed happy family. Red, orange and yellow, potted mums adorned the front porch, contrasting so beautifully against the white siding. The fall leaves covering the maple tree had made me nostalgic, made me long for something I’ve never had.
It was just as I remembered it, except, there were no mums. There was a bed of petunias up front, and the maple tree seemed recently planted, it wasn’t even eight feet tall. Green leaves filled its branches, and there was no tire swing in sight. The house was old and worn, the paint chipping, and an old tractor sat to the side of a barn. A white barn that hadn’t been there on that October morning.
But that was not what gave me pause.
About half a mile behind the farmhouse, the city’s water tower had been clearly visible in the early dawn. Bright spotlights shined at the base, illuminating the huge letters of the city’s name and giant violet flowers surrounding it.
It was gone.
The 200-foot water tower, a giant ball with the word
Bloomingfield
painted across it, was gone.
The dim yellow sliver of light peeking through the horizon snapped me out of my trance, and I ran back to the house as fast as my legs could carry me. I barely made it into the bedroom before I heard footsteps signaling the morning routine.
This morning, dread still sits in my stomach, weighing me down. I’m in way over my head. For the first time in my life, I’m facing something I’m completely unprepared for, and the only person that can help me, is not here.
Tommy.
My chest aches. I need him right now like I need oxygen. Does he know I’m gone? Is he looking for me? If I know Tommy, he’ll find me. If he ever went missing, I wouldn’t rest until I found him, even if it killed me. I need to get out of this house and get into town. It’s the only way to be sure all of this is real.
Trying to keep my wits about me, today I’m taking a walk around the farm. Carol agreed, telling me I needed the fresh air. Of course, I’ll use the time to scout the perimeter in the daytime.
There is nothing for miles but farmland, cows, and barns. It’s been three days, and I’m starting to think that maybe I
am
dead, because this is surely my hell. For a city girl like me, being stuck here is worse than purgatory. I’ve seen war and violence enough to break a commandment here and there, so chances are if there’s a hell, I’m going there.
I walk as far as I can without raising suspicion, wanting to see if I can recognize the spot in the field where I landed. After a while, I reach a clearing with a few trees, away from the sight and sounds of the farm. I head for the trees, figuring I should take a closer look for anything hidden: surveillance equipment, cables, cameras, anything—
“Hello.”
The small voice startles me. Cautiously circling around a large tree, I find a girl sitting on the ground, leaning against the trunk under the shade. Shadows playfully dance around her face, highlighting her blue eyes and freckles. She looks about ten, but I could be wrong. Her blonde hair is up in a ponytail, errant strands blowing in the breeze around her round face.
“Hi.” Although we haven’t met officially, I recognize her. She looks like her mother. As if reading my mind, she answers my silent question.
“I'm Margaret Jane, but everyone calls me MJ. You're sleeping in my room.”
“So, you live here, right? I haven’t seen you around much.”
She rolls her eyes at me as if I just said the stupidest thing.
“Yes. My mom took care of you? My brother found you in the road. He thought you were dead.” I take it back. She might be closer to being a teenager. I can smell the angst.
“We'll I'm not dead, I don’t think,” I respond as she gets up and walks toward me.
She studies me with her big blue eyes, examining me from head to toe. “You know, I can see you're not. I'm thirteen, not a baby. You were wearing really tight jeans. My mom thinks they’re the wrong size, your underwear, too. I heard her tell Mary she’s never seen such tiny clothes on a grown woman. I think that’s why she keeps sending me to the other room when you’re around.”
That makes me smile. “I hate to tell you this, MJ, but I’m pretty certain those are my clothes.”
So that explains it. Every time I ask Carol for my clothes, she makes up an excuse and hands me something of Mary’s, not to mention I had yet to lay eyes on MJ.
She doesn’t even blink. “So, did you find what you were looking for?” she says, matter of fact, her big eyes pinned on me. Before I can ask what she’s referring to, she continues, deadpan, “When you snuck out last night? Did you find what you were looking for?”
Jesus. Nothing gets past this girl. I was careful. Quiet. Did anyone else notice?
“I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk,” I say, but she’s not buying it. She rolls her eyes at me again.
“Why does everyone think I don’t know anything? Nobody ever wants to tell me anything. They’re always sending me away. I saw you, you know? You ran up the road, and then came back before everyone woke up.” Her high-pitched voice and animated gestures are sprinkled with attitude.
Shit. “Who else knows?” I look back toward the house and all around, the light breeze and the rustling of leaves the only witness to our exchange.
“Nobody.” She leans down to pluck a long blade of grass, then holds it up against the wind, her bright blue eyes glued to what she’s doing. “I get it, you know.”
My head is spinning.
“Get what?” I’m still trying to figure out how she saw me.
“You’re lost. You’re trying to get home. That’s what I would do, if I ever got lost,” she says, like it’s the most rational thing in the world.
I don’t know what to say, so I stand there, gaping at her.
“Don’t flip your wig, I’m not gonna rat you out.” She tries to sound nonchalant, but her eyes find mine and we exchange a mutual understanding. A small smirk escapes my lips. I like this kid. Before I can say anything, she trudges on. She’s a talker this one.
“I know my mom doesn't like me wearing pants, only when I’m doing farm work.” She sighs, shoulders slumping. Her gaze lowers; a look of longing blankets her. So, we’re back to the jeans. She's wearing overalls, but I guess she feels she’s doing something wrong?
“Well, I think you look great. I love your overalls. I'm not a big fan of dresses,” I say, looking down at the dress I'm wearing. It's a simple button-up, cotton dress with a flower collar. She whips her head up in a sharp motion, her whole face smiling.
“Really?” she squeaks. “I really liked your pants.”
“Thanks, I like them too,” I reply, sincerely. We stand there smiling in silence at each other, enjoying the airy afternoon. “Wait, I thought you said you were supposed to be doing farm work. Is sitting under a tree farm work?” I give her my Agent Harper look. She eyes me worriedly, so I let her off the hook. “Don’t worry. You were working very hard when I pulled you out and kept you busy talking, right?”
Again, a look crosses between us and a grin takes over her pretty face, her bright blue eyes gleaming with mischief. I reciprocate her gleam, and we come to a silent understanding.
Well, at least I've made one new friend.
قلب
As MJ and I walk back to the house, she fills me in on her family’s history. Her father passed away about a year ago, leaving his wife and daughters to fend for themselves on the farm. Her big brother, William—or as she calls him, Will—didn't want to end up a farmer. William and their dad had a falling out when he went off to college, instead of staying home and becoming a farmer. When their dad died, William not only ended up running the hundred-fifty plus acre farm, he ended up taking care of his mom and sisters. He was wounded in the war, which is why he's home and not off fighting like most of the men in town. Apparently, William was engaged and working at the town bank before he shipped off to war. His fiancée left him for the bank owner’s son, sending him a Dear John letter while he was overseas. Seriously injured during battle, he returned home to the house he’d purchased as a wedding present for his future bride. A short time later, their father died.
Will’s home is closer to town, and he has been away for the past few days helping with another family farm. She says their farm is in Bloomingfield, as well, so at least I’m still in Illinois. I’ll know for sure once I venture further into town.
Her sister, Mary, is twenty years old and her husband, Danny, is away fighting in the war. The Second World War. According to MJ, Mary works in the local candy factory, as do most of the young women in town. Apparently, this year the U.S. is fully invested in the war against Germany and American servicemen love their candy. The Bloomingfield factory is one of the many suppliers for the troops.
I've met Mary in passing, but haven’t met William, the person I need to see and speak with most. Hopefully, he can help me get to the bottom of what’s going on.
Walking alongside MJ, I get lost in her stories. I have to say, while talking to her, I’m having serious doubts whether this is some elaborate plan to keep me contained in one place. It’s one thing to suspect this is all a set-up, but involving a child in such an elaborate operation? It’s puzzling to say the least. I need to get to the bottom of this and soon. We are almost to the house, laughing at something I said about the lovely smells of manure, when I glance up and see him. My step falters and my breath catches in my throat as our eyes meet, and I’m unable to look away.