Authors: Sally Berneathy
His eyes weren
’t the black pits she’d thought at first but the dark blue of the midnight sky…still not the bright blue she somehow kept expecting. His tousled hair was black, the wild shade of a raven’s wing.
He reached a hand toward her, and she jerked away, fearful, though she wasn
’t sure of what.
“
I want to look at that bump on your head,” he said. She gritted her teeth and remained motionless while he pushed the hair off her forehead. His touch—if she closed her eyes, she could surely remember…
“
That’s a pretty nasty bruise,” he said, and she flinched, more from the sudden anger in his voice than from the pain as he ran a gentle finger over her skin.
A bump on her head.
That explained her headache and perhaps her confusion. Like what had happened to her cousin Thad when they were ten years old and he’d fallen out of the carriage. He’d kept saying things that didn’t make sense, asking silly questions, calling people by the wrong names. But he’d been fine the next day. Maybe this was temporary, and everything would come clear soon.
The man muttered something under his breath, dropped her hair and lifted the quilt from her bare legs. She gasped, but he made no move toward her. His searching gaze roamed over her body, returning accusingly to her face.
“Analise, what happened to you?”
She looked down, noticed for the first time the bruises that were starting to darken on her legs and arms. She shook her head slowly.
“I suppose I must have fallen down the stairs.”
He raised one eyebrow, and his disbelief was obvious.
“You
suppose
you must have fallen?”
She tried to focus, to remember exactly what had happened, but it all seemed jumbled. She
had only a vague memory of tumbling downward…a suffocating, drowning, helpless feeling.
“
Analise?”
She shook her head in an effort to dispel the frightening
sensations.
“
You didn’t fall?” he asked, misinterpreting her gesture. His voice was ripe with anger and suspicion—suspicion of what, she had no idea. “Then where did you get those bruises?”
His words brought a dark, hurting memory swirling through the mists, tugging at her, but she pushed it away, unable to accept the pain that came with it.
“I don’t know. I think I remember falling.”
He studied her for a moment then nodded slowly, the action seeming to indicate a confirmation of his own thoughts rather than agreement with her comment.
“Why don’t I run you over to the hospital and let the doctor take a look?”
“
No!” She might be insane, but she wasn’t ready to die. Only dying people went to the hospital. Papa had gone and never returned.
Oh God!
“Papa’s dead!” The knowledge hit her with the force of a sledgehammer. How could she have forgotten that? He’d died in the winter… “What month is it?”
He scowled.
“It’s April. When did your father die? You didn’t mention it yesterday.”
“
It’s April? He died in January.” She raised a hand to her forehead as if she could physically wipe away the cobwebs from her brain and see things clearly.
He looked at her strangely, worry and concern mingling with the suspicion.
“Why don’t you throw on some clothes and I’ll drive you to your doctor.”
She shook her head, unable to manage a stronger protest. If only he
’d leave her alone for a few minutes, let her think, try to figure this out. Yet at the same time the idea of his leaving sent panic coursing through her. He was her only link to this world she no longer understood. He knew the blond woman in the mirror.
He rose abruptly
, grasping her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. “You’re hurt. How it happened doesn’t matter. What matters is that you didn’t know what month it is, and you think your father died three months ago when he was here last week. Obviously that head injury’s worse than it looks.”
His grip was so tight it was almost painful. But it was also solid, the only stability she had right now.
He released her, and she felt disappointed, fearful of losing whatever tentative touch with reality she still had. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He lifted one hand in front of her face.
“
Two,” she whispered, not understanding the abrupt change in subject.
“
That’s good. No double vision. Do you know what your name is?”
“
Of course. It’s…Analise.” That was what he’d called her, the name she’d seen in the picture of the blond woman.
“
Analise what?” he asked.
A few minutes ago she
’d have been able to tell him her last name without hesitation. But she was no longer certain of anything and didn’t want to admit to that uncertainty. If he knew the truth, he’d surely take her to the hospital, probably to an asylum where they’d lock her behind bars forever.
She backed away from him, drew herself upright, ramrod straight. As she gathered her courage, she tried to look indignant.
“I assure you, beyond a slight headache, I’m perfectly all right. I know my name. I’m fine. And now I must ask you to leave while I dress.”
He dropped his hands to his sides, but his eyes held her, forced her to look at him, to submit her soul to his inspection
, dared her to look away or lie to him. She could do neither. “Analise,” he said, his voice grating, “what is your last name?”
For an eternity he continued to hold her with the force of his gaze. She longed to dive into those fathomless skies, find solace from this insanity, though at the same time she feared more insanity awaited her in their unknown depths.
“Dupard,” she finally said, though she knew somehow this would be the wrong answer. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs as she waited for him to do or say something, consign her to the attic or a mental asylum.
He blinked quickly, twice, gave no other outward sign.
“Do you know where you are, the state and city?”
Tell me!
She wanted to scream.
Tell me who I am and where I am and what’s happening to me!
“Holbert, Missouri.” Her voice came out a whisper. She knew, like the last name, that it was probably the wrong answer.
He nodded slowly, still watching her intently,
assessingly. “Yes, you’re in Holbert, Missouri. But your name is Analise Parrish, not Dupard. Do you know who I am?”
She searched her memory. He
’d told her his name when he came in the front door a confusing eternity ago. “Dylan?” she asked uncertainly.
“
But do you know me?”
She was almost able to catch the elusive memory,
then it fled into the darkness of her mind once again. She dropped her head, looked at the quilt piled at her feet on the floor. “I’m not sure. Maybe. I can’t quite remember.”
“
And Phillip Ryker? Can you remember him?”
She lifted her eyes to his, saw the suspicion had returned.
“Phillip Ryker?” she repeated. The name stirred the mists chaotically, but no clear picture came.
“
Your husband.”
“
My husband?
” She sank back down to the bed, her legs suddenly too shaky to support her.
Husband?
A face emerged from the fog, a dark face surrounded by dark hair.
She clutched the wooden bed frame, tried to steady
herself against the vortex that swirled around her, threatened to pull her under. She’d not only forgotten Papa’s death, she’d forgotten her marriage…to Blake Holbert, not to someone named Phillip Ryker.
“
But he’s your
ex-husband
now, isn’t he? The divorce became final last week.” Dylan’s voice came to her as if from far away.
Divorce?
What horrible thing had she done to cause Blake to divorce her?
She clasped both sides of her head as a raging whirlwind roared inside her brain. She remembered Blake. She remembered marrying him after Papa died. But she couldn
’t remember a divorce, no matter how hard she searched her memories. What was happening to her? Why was it happening?
Dylan crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, moving away from her, leaving her even more alone and lost.
“Are you trying to tell me you have amnesia? You’re bruised and battered, and suddenly, conveniently, you get amnesia? You don’t remember anything about Phillip?”
Amnesia?
She turned the word over in her mind. She didn’t think she’d ever heard it before, but somehow she knew he was referring to her confusion…to the fragments of memories that teased her then darted away like minnows in a stream.
He watched her, h
is eyes narrowed, and she sensed that he was unsatisfied with her response even though she had made none to his latest question.
She bit her lip, summoned all her determination. He wasn
’t going to help her. Somehow she had to get through this alone. “I’m feeling better now but I think I’d like a cup of tea and perhaps then we could talk. Will you wait for me downstairs while I dress?”
He hesitated, finally gave an abrupt nod.
“If you’re not down in ten minutes, I’ll be back to make sure you’re okay.”
“
I’ll be down as soon as I dress,” she assured him.
She watched his almost-familiar back disappear as he closed the door behind him. For a
moment she stood paralyzed, her mind so overloaded it couldn’t function. Now that she was alone, she had no idea what she should do next.
With one
final hope, she crossed the room slowly and stood in front of her dresser mirror.
It was no use. The stranger was still there. She was taller
than Elizabeth, had to bend slightly to see her face in the mirror. She pressed her hand to her lips, held in the despondent sob that tried to escape. Her blood ran cold through the unfamiliar veins, and she wanted to turn away from the image, to hide and refuse to look. Instead she forced herself to stare directly into the eyes that were and weren’t hers.
Amnesia.
Loss of memory. That’s what the word meant.
But she hadn
’t lost her memories. She just seemed to have the wrong set for this body. For herself, for Elizabeth Dupard, she had a complete set. However, she had momentarily forgotten about Papa’s death and her marriage to Blake. That was proof that she was just a little askew about things, wasn’t it? It would all come clear soon, just like with her cousin, Thad.
Please
, God, it would all come clear soon. Otherwise, she would surely go mad, was already mad, and they would have to lock her away in one of those places.
She lifted her hair off her forehead and studied the painful lump that was already turning dark, felt again the sensation of falling, of cold, wet blackness closing over her.
She frowned and shook her head at the inappropriate mixture of sensations. Why should the blackness have felt cold and wet when she fell downstairs in a warm house?
Alone and frightened, she moved shakily over to the wardrobe and opened the door. She wasn
’t surprised to see that none of the clothes were familiar. Most of the skirts were immodestly short. She selected one of the longer, fuller ones, a blue one from the same fabric as the man’s pants. She located a white cotton waist but tried in vain to find appropriate under garments.
Finally giving up, realizing she had to make do with what was available, she donned the skimpy, frothy articles she found in the dresser drawer.
Surprisingly, she felt quite comfortable in the completed outfit, as though she’d worn it before.
Trembling, but knowing she couldn
’t hide forever, had to find some answers, she made her way down the stairs.
The man who called himself Dylan waited in the kitchen. He sat in a ladder-back chair that was much too small for him at a wooden drop leaf table almost identical to the one Mama owned. A kettle of water boiled on a cook stove that bore absolutely no resemblance to Mama
’s.
He looked up when she came in, his expression appraising…skeptical.
She joined him at the table, averting her eyes from his. Wordlessly he poured water into two cups containing paper squares, and amber tea magically appeared. Was this another secret the
amnesia
had stolen from her?
She picked up the newspaper he
’d been reading, grateful for somewhere to look besides into his dark, accusing gaze. But her gratitude was short-lived. While the masthead still proclaimed it to be the news for Holbert, Missouri, the print was a different style.
She took a deep breath and scanned the page. Her gaze froze on the date at the top.
Monday, April 12, 2013
That was impossible! That would make her more than a hundred years old!
“No!” Analise dropped the newspaper as though it had burned her hand, then stared at it in horror.
Dylan leapt to his feet, snatched it up and scanned the front page. But he didn
’t see anything to cause Analise’s odd reaction. Stories about the new Holbert City Hall, an upcoming church bake sale—nothing that should upset her—nothing that pertained to the guilty secret he felt certain she carried.
“
Analise? What’s the matter?” She looked so genuinely distressed, he automatically laid a steadying arm across her shoulders.
S
he turned and collapsed against him, clinging desperately, huge sobs racking her body.
He almost staggered backward, overcome with surprise. This wasn
’t at all like Analise. She was self-contained, independent, aloof. Was she really this upset, or was this all just a damn good act? He had to remind himself forcibly that it was most likely an act.
Something had happened yesterday afternoon. When he
’d seen her yesterday morning she’d been the same as always…friendly but reserved. Some of that reserve, he suspected, could be in response to his own reserved, insincere friendliness. He’d been on the verge of admitting defeat, accepting that she might be as innocent as she acted. But then yesterday evening she’d seemed agitated, evasive and apprehensive…not to mention frightened. Had she somehow figured out who he was and what he wanted? He supposed he hadn’t been very subtle in his attempts to pry information out of her.
To his unexpected regret, her actions yesterday had pretty much confirmed his suspicions of her. He
’d been right, but the knowledge brought no joy.
He
’d kept a close watch on her the last couple of months, followed her to her ex-husband’s office in the middle of the night, watched her use her key to get in. Now today she’d come up with this cockamamie story…and all those bruises.
She was guilty. No doubt about it and only he could see to it that she was punished.
Nevertheless, she was in his arms—something he’d fantasized about and fought against since he’d first met her. He couldn’t resist wrapping his other arm around her slim body even as he told himself he shouldn’t. She felt even better in the flesh than in his imagination.
“
What is it? What did you see in the paper?” he asked, dragging his mind back to the issue at hand, to reality.
She pulled away
, swiped at her eyes, sank into her chair and picked up her cup of tea with trembling fingers.
A damn good act
, he had to admit.
“
I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He slid his chair next to hers, the action
making a grating noise on the hardwood floor. Her hands still shaking, she sipped her tea then sloshed a few drops of liquid from her cup as she rattled it into the saucer.
He sat beside her.
“Analise, what’s wrong? You saw something in the paper that relates to this, didn’t you?” He lifted the strands of pale, silken hair from her forehead and touched the lump gently.
She looked at him, her sea green eyes wide and still shiny with tears,
her expression unguarded and vulnerable.
The
Analise he’d known for two months had been friendly enough, but distant and reserved, traits that had made it easier for him to lie to her.
But now he could see fear and vulnerability in her eyes
and on her face, as if she’d suddenly forgotten how to conceal her emotions.
His finger on her forehead lingered, tracing around the lump, over her eyebrows, and she just sat there watching him, her lips slightly parted, her clear eyes becoming hazy.
“Who are you?”
He dropped his hand, scooted his chair away from her.
“Dylan Forrest,” he lied, looking away from those translucent green depths that threatened to suck him in, swallow him, make him forget everything. “I live next door to you,” he added. Was she really having memory problems or was this all part of her act?
She frowned.
“In Rachel Waller’s house?”
He dipped his head in a slow nod.
“That’s right. Rachel Waller was the previous owner. So you do remember some things.” He waited tensely for her answer—an admission, a new ploy?
“
I remember that Rachel’s family sometimes takes in boarders.”
She was consistent in her story. Convincingly consistent, he might have said, if not for her actions yesterday.
She looked down at her cup, drew her fingers around the rim. “What’s…?” She hesitated, cleared her throat and started again. “What’s today? I need you to tell me the exact date.” In spite of her casual gesture, the question sounded important.
He told her the month, day and year.
“What day did you think it was?”
She swallowed hard, her eyes lifting to his
, widening even more. “I don’t know. Papa died in 1910, I married Blake in 1911, and that’s the last I remember.”
That did it, he thought
, anger rising. It was barely possible she’d suffered a concussion, forgotten who he was, what day it was. But this nonsense of having a different name, and now talking as though she thought she’d gone back in time…
“
That’s one hell of a case of amnesia.” He hung onto the anger, welcomed the way it drove out everything else—his growing desire for her as well as the pain of loss that had taken over a corner of his heart at her guilty actions yesterday.
In frustration he slapped both palms onto the tabletop. She jumped, staring at him in unmistakable fright and
, in spite of his attempts to hold onto it, his anger retreated.
“
Okay, okay.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You think you’re Analise Dupard, and the year is 1911.” There was no point in pushing her. He’d have to try another tactic.
He wasn
’t very good at this. Two months of failure proved that. Tom would have known how to get the job done. But Tom was dead. And because of that, he wouldn’t give up—
couldn’t
give up.
She clenched her hands in her lap, her expression becoming so intense it was almost painful to watch…or would have been if he believed
she was sincere. “I’m Elizabeth Dupard.” The words sounded like a confession. “I only said my name was Analise because that’s what you called me. And I’m not sure about the year. It’s just that I can’t remember past my wedding.”
“
Fine. Have it your way. I’m not going to argue with you about that right now. But I am going to insist you have a doctor look at those bruises. You can tell him you fell down the stairs, that you have amnesia, that the year is 1911—I don’t care. But you will see a doctor.” Maybe her story was transparently phony, but the injuries were real. And perhaps once they’d healed, he might be able to persuade her to
regain
her memory, to give him what he needed.
She looked at him for a minute with that big-eyed, helpless stare then straightened her spine in the scared but determined way she
’d done a couple of times that morning. “Very well. Perhaps a doctor can help me get everything straight. As long as you don’t insist that I go to the hospital, I’ll agree to see a doctor. You may fetch him.”
He leaned back, away from her, crossed his arms over his chest and smiled grimly. She was making things easier, feeding his ire, her story becoming so ridiculous he couldn
’t believe she’d expect him to buy into it. “
Fetch
him? Oh, I see. In 1911 doctors made house calls, didn’t they? Well, they don’t do that anymore. We have to go to them. I’ll take you in my car. Did they have horseless carriages in 1911?”
She lifted her chin defiantly and
stared straight into his distrust. He had to fight a feeling of admiration for her courage, had to remind himself again that this was all a scam.
“
Automobiles?” she said. “Of course we had them. I saw them in Kansas City last summer.”
“
Last summer? Let’s see…that would be just over a hundred years ago. Right?”
Her rigid posture dissolved, and she slumped in the chair.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Over a hundred years ago.” She looked at him, and her eyes begged for his help.
He didn
’t believe her, didn’t dare believe her.
He turned away, headed across the room to the phone.
“I suppose your doctor’s name is on your list of things forgotten. Never mind. I’ll call mine.”
Analise
watched as he stalked away from her, crossed the room and picked up a dark, shiny object. Suddenly, somehow, she knew the device was a telephone, though it didn’t look like any telephone she’d ever seen, wasn’t attached to the wall, didn’t even have a cord.
As he talked to the doctor, he stood at the kitchen cabinet, his back toward her—his back that seemed, like the telephone, familiar yet strange.
She touched her face, felt her cold fingers on her warm flesh. She was really here—wherever
here
was—and all this was really happening. She was trapped in a nightmare. Her heart pounded erratically as the swirling, choking mists of confusion threatened to drag her down. She had to hold onto control tightly, not give in to panic. If she gave in for even an instant, she’d be lost forever.
*~*~*
The rain had stopped, but the clouds were low and gray, the air heavy with the threat of more storms when Dylan guided her outside to the street. As they walked across the wet grass, she studied the sky and shivered, wishing for the brightness of the sun, for something to illuminate whatever lay hidden in the dark corners of her mind.
At least she felt no surprise, only dismay, when the automobile he led her to bore no resemblance to any vehicle she remembered. He opened the door to the shiny black machine.
“Go ahead and get in. I need to put on a shirt. I’ll just be a minute.”
She shook her head in a futile effort to clear it. On second glance, the vehicle looked almost fa
miliar, but the space inside appeared small, and she already felt closed in by strangeness. She could feel the humid air pressing against her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. “I’d rather wait outside.”
He looked exasperated.
“Will you stay right here? Not go anywhere?”
“
Where would I go? Where would I dare go in this strange place?”
Though he scowled disbelievingly, he turned and strode toward Rachel
’s house. He was big, his steps determined and heavy. In that respect he reminded her of Blake.
No, she corrected herself. He was big like Blake, yet it wasn
’t Blake he reminded her of. But it was someone. In spite of his obvious hostility, in spite of the fact that he knew her but didn’t seem to be a close friend, in spite of the fact that she’d never seen him before this morning, she knew him. She was somehow tied to him. He scared her, but somewhere outside that feeling, he evoked memories of happiness and laughter.
The front door closed behind him, cutting off the flow of those evanescent memories.
She took an automatic step forward, started to follow him, to go inside the house and find Rachel, see her, talk to her, tell her about this insanity. But even before logic had a chance to halt her, the changes in the once-immaculate house pulled her up short. The porch had loose boards, a couple of rotten ones. Roots from the oak tree in the front yard pushed their way through cracks in the sidewalk. That oak tree should be only a sapling, planted by Rachel’s father to replace the one struck by lightning. But it was massive, a hundred years old.
Elizabeth—
or was she
Analise?
—turned slowly, fearfully, to look back at her own house, the house she’d just walked out of. In her mind’s eye, she saw it light blue with trim of darker blue and brick red. But even as she turned, she knew it wouldn’t be so.
And she was right. It was gray now with white trim.
The colors she’d always wanted it to be.
“
Analise?”
Dylan had returned. In hopeless resignation, she faced him, the only person she knew, the only person who could possibly help
her, the person who had frightened her with his dark, distrustful gaze then drew her to him in a comforting way she didn’t understand.
“
It’s true, then,” she said, her voice coming to her own ears as alien and disconnected. “It’s the future, and I’m not me…I’m her…I’m in somebody else’s body.”
He gripped her shoulders, his touch amazingly gentle for someone so big.
No, he didn’t remind her of Blake. Blake wasn’t gentle. But this man’s touch was familiar.
“
You’re in your own body and your own time. You were in this body yesterday and the day before—two months before that I personally know of.” He spoke sternly, almost harshly, his words a contradiction to his touch. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but shook his head and turned away to open the car door again.
This time she slid inside.
As they drove at a dizzying rate of speed along smooth ribbons of road, she clutched the dash so tightly her knuckles turned white. At first she worried that they would run over a carriage or a traveler on horseback or afoot, but they only encountered more of the strange automobiles, all speeding along as fast or faster than they were.