Time of Departure (37 page)

“Three of us? You mean Rebecca?”

“She's part of our story, and I nearly lost her today.”

“Lost her? How?”

“Two ways…” I rubbed away my tears. “I'll tell you the first part later. Right now, I need to see a doctor.”

“No kidding.” He showed me the gauze in his hand. It was red with blood.

“No, not that.” I told him about the cramping attacks that had almost felled me.

“Do you have cramps now?”

“No.”

Marc wasted no time. He called Nonie. She joined us. I reached out and took her hand. “Thank you for bringing him. And I'm sorry.”

“Least I could do, girl,” Nonie answered with mock gruffness. “You and your secrets! Have 'em from me if you want, but not from your man!”

If you only knew, dear Nonie …

It wasn't difficult for me to look seriously chastened. “He's about to hear all my secrets,” I told her.

“Good! Now, get moving and find a hospital!”

“On our way!” Marc replied. He hugged her and then circled the truck to the driver's door.

“See you back at the Creek,” Nonie said as she shut the door.

We drove at high speed to Ocala. Knowing we'd need a feasible story to account for my torn flesh and multiple bruises, we concocted a fable that I'd been attacked at work by a jealous female barfly who thought I was making a play for her boyfriend.

It was after dark when we reached the ER at Munroe. Dr. LaPierre was on call. A nurse cleaned and dressed my wounds, and then I had to endure a physical while Marc paced outside the curtain.

The doctor's enormous hands hadn't gotten any smaller. When he snapped on the surgical gloves, I cringed.

“Any bleeding?” he asked.

“A bit of spotting. Nothing to speak of.”

“Let me be the judge of that. How long have you been spotting?”

“Just for a day, then it stopped.”

“Tissue or clots?”

“No.”

While he conducted the exam, he peppered me with more questions—was I having any backache, were my breasts sore, was I having morning sickness? To my relief, his touch was gentle.

“You've lost weight since I saw you last. That's a bit worrying. You should be gaining weight.”

“I've been under a lot of stress. But that's over.”

“What's over?”

“The stress.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Your friend there…” He jerked his thumb toward the curtain. “Is he honorable?”

I suppressed a smile. “Yes. Don't worry. We both want this baby.”

He sighed and peeled off the gloves. “Okay, baby's probably okay. Have you seen the ob-gyn I referred you to?”

“Not yet.”

He didn't look happy. “I want you to start seeing Dr. Frost. I'll make the arrangements. No arguments! In the meantime, call me right away if you have any of the symptoms I just asked you about. You have one job, Claire—carrying your baby to term.”

And don't I know it …

“Her name is Rebecca.”

“We don't know the gender yet. We probably won't know for several weeks.” He smiled. “So I hope you have an alternative name for a boy.”

“No. She's definitely a girl.”

He stared at me. “I'd like to know where you get your information.”

“There are certain things I just know, Doc. This is one of them. Am I good to go?”

“‘Good to go'? Now, there's a space-age expression. Yes.” He paused, regarding me appraisingly. “May I offer a word of advice?”

This time, I smiled. “You will anyway.”

“This is your first pregnancy and we don't know how your body will handle it. You need to take better care of yourself. If you must work, I recommend you find a job that's less … boisterous. Consider finding something where you can use your brain.”

“Care to tell me what's really on your mind?”

“You're clearly an educated woman. I don't know why you've exiled yourself to Cross Creek of all places, and I guess that's your business. But you shouldn't be working in a low-life tavern where you risk being assaulted. You owe it to your baby to be more careful.”

I didn't think he'd appreciate me telling him that I'd started the day intending to erase both our lives, so I just nodded and tried to appear suitably chastened.

“Based on the nature of the fight you were in, I'm ordering a tetanus shot. It won't harm the fetus.” He was about to yank the curtain back.

I stopped him. “Before you go…”

“Yes?”

“Could you pass me my jacket? I have something for you.”

Puzzled, he plucked my jacket off the chair next to the bed. I dug in a pocket and found my watch. I handed it to him.

“A watch?”

“Not just any watch. It's like my appendectomy.”

“I don't follow.”

“It's the only one on the planet. Keep it to remember me.”

He stared at me, then examined the watch. “It's not running.”

“Maybe you'll get it fixed one day.”

He looked perplexed. “Thanks, I think.” He yanked back the curtain. Marc was standing there. “Claire will be getting a shot,” the doctor told him. “After that, she's all yours. But for God's sake, young man, take better care of this girl!”

“I will, if she'll let me,” Marc replied.

Dr. LaPierre shook his head and left. I saw him examining my watch as he walked away.

Marc moved to my side. “I heard that. You gave him your watch. Why?”

“I'm a mystery to him. I thought I'd give him a new puzzle to solve.”

“That watch will drive him crazy.”

“If he keeps it for twenty years, he'll be able to get it fixed.”

“Which will make him even crazier.”

“At least he'll remember me.”

Marc understood. He stroked my hair, kissed me, and helped me get dressed.

 

54

“How could you think you were Jane Doe?”

We'd been sitting in our usual places on the veranda since we got back from the hospital. Now, hours later, the eastern sky was brightening with another dawn. Those hours had been filled with a monologue from me … long, emotional, and utterly necessary. We were both drained and ready for bed, but neither of us was ready to surrender.

“She was pregnant, and I'm pregnant. Your mother's locket was found in her grave. The crab's eye pea inside the locket was obviously a clue. It only made sense if it was a clue I'd left for myself, because it was that clue that led us to the killer. It all pointed to one conclusion: I was Jane Doe.”

“But you stood in that morgue with Terry Snead and examined her body! How could it be
your
skeleton if you were looking at it? That would mean two of you would be existing at the same time. You've already convinced me that that's impossible!”

“Not
exactly
two of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something I remembered from high school biology … the human body is constantly replacing itself. The person you are today is not identical to the person you were yesterday. Your body replaces around two million cells every day. It happens at different rates. Some cells are replaced every few days. Blood cells, every few months. Bone cells take years.”

“Years? How does that—?”

“Those are just rough replacement rates. It's a constant process. I figured the skeleton I viewed in the morgue was just a
later
version of me—at least at the cellular level. It would have been about six months older than my living skeleton. Most of the bone cells would be the same, but millions of them would be newer. I thought Jane was me, just not the
same
me that stood there looking at her.”

Hope flashed across Marc's face. “So you're saying there can be two of you?”

“It was just a theory. She wasn't me. She was Doris.”

“A theory that almost got you killed.”

“Yeah.”

Marc went quiet. Then he asked the question I'd been expecting: “Okay, what changed your mind? In that basement.”

“The entry wound on Jane's skull was close to her right temple. Tribe was about to shoot me in the
left
side of my head.”

He was thoughtful. “So … the future actually saved you.”

“Or I saved it. What about your gun? What will you tell them?”

“That it was stolen from the cabin while I was out fishing. I'll make the report to the state police and give a copy to my boss. He'll give me hell, and they'll issue me a new weapon.”

I was quiet.

“What are you thinking?” Marc asked.

“We need to plan. We have less than a year.”

“I wish you'd stop reminding me of that.”

“We both need to be strong, but you need to be stronger. For a long time.”

“I know.” His voice sounded steady, but I knew it was a struggle.

“Have you started copying files?”

“I've filled a Bankers Box. It's in my apartment.”

“Has anyone noticed?”

“Not yet. I'll take my time. You said I've got a year.”

“You told me you resigned in April of '79, but because of accumulated leave time, you actually left the job sometime in March. You didn't tell me the date.”

“I'm still trying to get used to the way you talk. You say I told you something that I haven't told you yet, and I'm supposed to nod wisely and file that away so I can remember to tell you thirty years from now.”

“All I know is that it did happen, so it will happen.”

“I think you should write it down. All of it. Not just for me. For Rebecca. How will I ever explain it to her? She'll think I'm deluded!”

He was right, but he didn't know I was one step ahead of him.

“I already have.”

“What?”

“The manuscript's in your desk.”

He looked shaken.

“I'll keep writing,” I added. “You're going to need it.”

He let out a breath. “Because I'm going to need a script.”

I kissed him. “Yes, my love. You're going to need a script.”

“Make sure it's all there. From the beginning.”

“Which beginning?”

“The courtroom one, when I dropped into your life.”

“Instead of the hospital one, when I crash-landed in yours?”

He managed a desolate smile.

“Rebecca will need time. Time to take it all in. Time to adjust to the impossible. You'll need to prepare her long before you come to sit in the back of my courtroom.”

“Why?”

“Because she'll be driving you around in a white SUV.”

“A what?”

“A ‘sport-utility vehicle'—like a Bronco, or a Blazer. Pretty soon there'll be one in every driveway.” I hesitated, distracted. Something was lurking on the ragged edges of my memory.

Realization slammed home.

“Oh God!”

“What?”

“One day Rebecca will stop me outside the courthouse and ask for directions. I didn't know her!” I felt my throat constrict. “Marc! I didn't know my own daughter!”

He took me in his arms.

“She was beautiful! She was beautiful and she didn't even know it.”

“That's the best kind. She'll be just like her mother.” He held me tight for long seconds.

But when he released me, I could see something was bothering him.“What is it?”

“Where will Rebecca be while I—” His voice caught. “—while I watch you grow up?”

“You'll just be visiting. Maybe she'll be with a nanny. Or your wife.”

“I
have
a wife. And I'll soon have the papers to prove it.”

“Thirty years is a long time.”

“There won't be another wife.” His voice was adamant.

“Okay,” I said. “Then, what about money?”

“I've been meaning to ask you about that.”

“Let's analyze it. You quit the police and moved away so you could raise Rebecca somewhere where no one knows you. If you stayed here, people might start asking questions. But raising a child will cost money. According to Lipinski, you quit before your pension locked in. You never mentioned where you went or what you did for a living. All I know is that when you showed up in my life, money wasn't a problem.”

“Then I must have found another job.”

I thought for a moment. “The answer is staring us in the face.”

“What do you mean?”

“Where am I from?”

His eyes narrowed. “The future. Two thousand and—”

“—eleven! Right! Do you own any stocks?”

“No.”

“There are certain names you should know. I'll write them down for you.”

“What kind of names?”

“Names like Steve Jobs … Bill Gates … Warren Buffet. Geniuses who made themselves and a lot of other people very rich. I'll start racking my memory, and you start learning about investing.”

 

55

I gave birth to Rebecca Claire Hastings on November 28, 1978.

Which meant she was almost a year older than me.

Marc and I had obtained a backdated certificate of marriage, and I had a wallet full of ID. Everyone in The Yearling knew, or thought they knew, that I had been Marc's “top secret wife”—as Nonie put it—since October 1977.

Before my pregnancy began to show, I arranged for one of my workmates at The Yearling to take a Polaroid photograph of Marc and me sitting at the bar. That night, I dutifully cut the photo in half and explained to him what use he would make of my side of the picture in the future.

Around the same time, I persuaded Marc to take some time off and drive us to Mexico Beach. With its red board-and-batten siding, pine furniture, and cedar paneling, the Driftwood looked a lot different from its successor hostelry of later decades, but we spent an idyllic time reading, walking the beach, and making love—just as we had on our first visit.