Love Across Time (2 page)

Loneliness engulfed her. For a moment, her shoulders slumped in defeat then straightened. Self-pity didn’t accomplish anything. Mrs. Bixby would keep the desolation of her life from crumbling in on her. Keep her from drowning in a sea of nothingness. Determined to make new memories, new friends, she braced the crutches under her arms, and swung out the door, turned left, and hobbled down the hall.

The nurse’s station, a beehive of activity, always buzzed with the latest gossip. Several nurses waved and wished her luck with the hunk therapist during her afternoon session. Didn’t people realize that until she discovered her name, her background, her life couldn’t go forward? Nor could she begin a relationship with a man until she knew her past. The uncanny feeling that she’d be unfaithful to her phantom lover prevented her from desiring a connection to another man.

She tapped on the door at the end of the hall. When she heard a muffled “come in”, she pushed the door with the rubber tip of her crutch, and it swung open. The room had a cheery atmosphere. Get well soon cards lined the window seal. Fresh flowers and live plants, in brightly colored pots, littered the bedside table, the floor, and the top of the armoire.

“Good Morning, Mrs. Bixby.”

A history teacher for forty-five years, Mrs. Bixby sat propped up in bed, covers tucked under her arms. A recent fall that resulted in a broken hip
which hadn’t mended properly
had placed her in rehabilitation for therapy.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Maggie. I buzzed for a nurse several times but they must be busy.” Withered hands fidgeted with the call button. Short, gray hair stood on end as if her hands had run through the strands several times. Worry lines had deepened around her dark brown eyes, and a frown marred the thin lips typically turned up in a welcoming smile.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie rushed forward as fast as her crutches allowed.

“Will you hand me the book on the floor? I nodded off to sleep, and it fell. It’s my most cherished volume.”

Maggie limped around the end of the bed. The book laid splayed open on the floor. Braced on one crutch, she leaned over, and flipped the faded red book closed. The name stood out in bold relief;
Red Book of Menzies, Record of Genealogies
. Her hand closed around the covers spine.

Her fingertips tingled. Heat raced up her arm. Darkness became a living, breathing entity. A swirling motion engulfed her and whirled her into a massive vortex of sensations. Sounds of waves crashing against granite cliffs roared in her ears. Wind whistled through crevices on the cliff’s rocky face. A scream echoed in the murky shadows of her soul. Blackness surrounded her. She swayed.

“Maggie? Maggie, dear, are you all right?”

Mrs. Bixby’s voice reverberated in the dark hollow void, faded, and then grew stronger. The journey back to reality left her dazed and disoriented.

“Yes, I am fine.” Her voice quivered. Trembling, she handed Mrs. Bixby the large book. Silently, she vowed never to touch the large, heavy volume again.

“You look pale, dear. Sit down before you fall. What happened?”

“I must have leaned over too fast.” Hand to her temple, she eased into the only chair in the small room.

How could she explain the ephemeral span of time where she’d catapulted through a dark endless tunnel? A place where a spark of an event appeared as a tiny light at the end, but had slipped back into the darkness before it became a solid memory.

The familiar ache to belong somewhere, to someone, rolled in her stomach.

“Thankfully, your color has returned.” Mrs. Bixby wrapped her thin arms around the worn leather tome and clutched it to her breast. “Thank you, dear. My late husband found the book in an old bookstore, tucked away on a top shelf. Apparently long forgotten. He bought it just before he passed away. He knew I loved the history of Scotland.”

Laying the book in her lap, she opened it and read from the inside cover. “The inscription he wrote reads: “To my darling Elizabeth. My one true love. Forever, Harold.””

Mrs. Bixby eyes shone with more life at that moment, speaking of her late husband, than at any time since she’d arrived a month ago. Leaning toward the bed, Maggie patted the old woman’s hand.

Wrinkled lips lifted in a heartrending smile. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m just an old foolish woman reminiscing.”

A tear fell onto the back of her hand from the older woman’s red, rheumy eyes. Her frail hand snatched a tissue from the box on the bedside table and dabbed at her eyes and nose.

“There now. All better.” Mrs. Bixby grinned.

She smiled and leaned back in the chair as Mrs. Bixby used the remote to adjust her bed to a more comfortable position.

Opening the book, Mrs. Bixby asked, “Did you know some Scottish clans disappeared from the annals of history because the heirs were either killed in battle or murdered by greedy relatives?” The old woman flattened her lips, shook her head, and gave Maggie a mournful look. “Scotland has a poignant yet romantic history.”

Mrs. Bixby closed the book and held it to her chest. “Why don’t you stay, dear, and I’ll tell you the sad tale of the Battle of Culloden.”

Mrs. Bixby’s stories always made her feel special, as if she had somewhere she belonged. Maggie shifted to a more relaxed position in the orange vinyl chair. Engrossed, she listened again to the former-history teacher pour her emotions into her recital of the tragic account of Bonny Prince Charles and the Scottish Clan’s heroic battle for Scotland’s throne and their defeat at Culloden.

“Seven-thousand Highlanders and French recruits came against the British army of eight-thousand on the moors of Culloden. Scottish loses were horrendous. The Duke of Cumberland didn’t even allow the Scots an honorable surrender. He had the wounded slaughtered on the battlefield. Many clan names disappeared after that.”

“That must have been a desolate time in Scottish history.”

“Yes it was, dear. Although many of the clans survived because they didn’t join in the rebellion, Scotland was never again the same.” When Mrs. Bixby finished, a wistful expression crossed her weathered features, and she reopened the book.

“One of my favorite clans is mentioned on page one-hundred-and-forty-six.” Her wrinkled hand caressed the book’s page much like a lover would. “The young Menzies laird traveled to a neighboring castle, married, and brought his wife home. The last entry mentions she fell down the stairs that very night. Without further recordings, I don’t know whether she lived or died.”

“How sad.” Maggie’s eyes burned with unshed tears.

“Yes it is. I can only assume the laird’s wife died, but if she’d just been seriously injured and had received the excellent medical care available today, she could have lived and had children.”

Maggie grinned at Mrs. Bixby’s determination to find a joyous outcome to the mystery.

A poignant smile crossed Mrs. Bixby’s wrinkled lips. “We are all romantics at heart, my dear? We dream of a love so strong that it transcends time and not even death could break its bonds.”

“Like with your husband?”

Did her phantom lover love her so much that he’d rather die than live without her? In her dreams, gentle fingers would stroke hers as salty tears dampened her hand, and a man’s deep voice repeated the name “Margaret”. The name echoed in the murky shadows of her mind, but she always opened her eyes to a dark and empty room.

“Yes. I know my Harold is waiting for me to join him.” An angelic smile lit her face as she stared into the distance. Her head slowly rotated toward Maggie, and her eyes grew round.

“Oh, Maggie, what if the laird joined Bonnie Prince Charlie’s army in the Battle of Culloden, because his wife died, and he died also, and that’s what prevented him from updating the entries? Both incidents happened around the same time.” She shook her finger at Maggie.

“Don’t look at me that way, dear. Perhaps one day I’ll discover another journal and learn the true ending.” Her gaze drifted out the window. “As it is, I’ll never know.”

“Probably not. But no matter what, we cannot alter destiny,” she said thinking of her situation. ‘What ifs’ couldn’t change what happened to her on that dark, lonely street in Tulsa, the night of her accident.

“True, but it would be pleasant to change history to suit ourselves.” Hope mingled with the unattainable in the old woman’s eyes.

The indulgent smile she favored the elderly dreamer with was one born of her own wishful thinking. If only a person could transcend time, go back and change the future. She’d go back to the time before her accident and be home with her family, not in this therapy center trying to learn so many things she’d forgotten.

“I may never know the clan’s history, but you will keep me informed of your situation won’t you dear?”

“Yes, I will. If I find my family you will be the first one I notify.”

An angelic smile creased the old woman’s wrinkled lips. Head leaned back, eyes closed, Mrs. Bixby drifted off to sleep. Maggie slipped from the room as quietly as her crutches allowed.

Two days later, she limped toward Mrs. Bixby’s room. The physical therapist had told her to walk short distances without crutches. Each day she’d walked the hall to visit her friend. Today would be the last time she would see the history teacher, and she wanted to say goodbye.

When she entered the room, the elderly woman sat in a wheelchair to await the arrival of whoever would take her home.

“Mrs. Bixby, I hear you are leaving today.”

“Yes, the nurse has gotten me ready, and my son will be here in a few moments. He’s found a nice facility where I can recover until I’m able to move back into my apartment.”

“That is wonderful.” Maggie said, although she doubted Mrs. Bixby would ever live by herself again.

“I have all of my things packed.” She rummaged through the bag she held in her lap. A look of bewilderment crossed her face. “It’s not here!” Dark eyes scanned the room. “Where could it be?”

“What is not there?”

“My book! I can’t leave without my book. Would you please check the closet and the dresser drawers?”

“Surely, the nurse packed everything in your bag. Look again,” she encouraged the distraught woman.

“It’s not here.” Old eyes filled with tears.

Maggie cautiously placed her hand in the large bag and searched the contents. When she didn’t find the book, she glanced around the room.

Talon-like fingers wrapped around Maggie’s wrist. “Please find it,” Mrs. Bixby said and released her grip.

In horror, Maggie gazed at the near frantic woman. No way did she want to touch that book. She’d barely recovered from the last time. Since she’d come in contact with the book weird images had sifted through her nightmares with unrelenting frequency.

Mrs. Bixby’s gnarled fingers plucked at the bag in her lap. Tears that had threatened to fall moments ago now ran down her pale cheeks. The seams of Maggie’s heart ripped apart. A sandy shoreline had better resistance against the ocean’s angry tide than she had against Mrs. Bixby’s pitiful plea.

“Yes, I will.” How could she refuse to search for the kind woman’s beloved book?

The armoire was the most likely place to find the missing volume. Shaking fingers curled around the closet door handle. The door screeched in protest and refused to open. With each fearful tug, trepidation wormed its way down her spine. She glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Bixby. The hopeful expression on her wrinkled face wrenched at Maggie’s heart. After a hefty yank, the door popped open. A quick fleeting glance to the bottom shelf revealed nothing. Her trembling fingers made an exploratory search of the overhead shelf.

“Is it there?”

“Uh...no.”

“Check the dresser drawers. I don’t remember the nurse opening them.”

“Okay.” Could the elderly woman detect the fear in Maggie’s voice?

The short distance from closet to dresser took on the proportion of miles. Her ears rang, her stomach churned. A tug on the first wooden handle revealed nothing but empty space inside. A heavy sigh of relief whizzed past her compressed lips. She nudged the drawer closed and reached for the second handle. The drawer slid open. Inside laid the book. Heat rose from the faded red cover in waves.

Don’t be stupid Maggie, the sun shining through the window has made it warm and appear to glow.

Pick it up. It’s only a book. A voice in her mind demanded.

Her hand crept forward.

No, don’t touch it! Remember what happened the last time, her inner-self screamed.

She yanked her hand back.

Mrs. Bixby needs her book, the voice of reason scolded. Pick it up.

Sweat beaded on her forehead.

Let her son retrieve it.

Maggie, this is ridiculous. Pick it up.

Okay. Okay.

Her fingers trembled. Two more inches and she’d have it.

“Did you find it?”

Startled by Mrs. Bixby’s question, she jumped and jerked her hand away.

“Yes.” Before she could dwell on what her body’s reaction might be, her hand snaked out and snatched the book. No sound of thunderous waves. No roaring winds. Relief washed over her.

See, it was just your imagination.