Time Tantrums (8 page)

Doc Samuels peered over the top of his spectacles. “Well, Missy, I see you’re still having problems rememberin’ things. Your husband tells me you’ve been acting a might bit stranger than before.”

 
“Strange?" Taylor huffed. "I’ll tell you what’s strange. I’ve spent an enormous amount of precious time in this... this hole in the wall. There are no conveniences. I can’t call home, I can’t call work, my clothes are gone, and some asshole dyed my hair red.”

The doctor’s eyebrows peaked. “Well I swear, Mariah, I’ve never heard you use such language. Calm down and let’s talk about this home you keep referrin’ to. You mention work? Where exactly do you think you work?”

“I don't
think
, I
know
." She lifted a defiant chin. "I’m an attorney for Fennster and Smith. I live in a three-bedroom townhouse with my husband, David Morgan. What else do you want to know?” She chewed on a ragged thumbnail, then glanced at her hands and frowned. "God, what happened to my manicure?"

Doc Samuel's brow arched as he cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“An attorney, eh?
My, my! This townhouse...is that a special kind of cabin or home?”

Taylor stood.
“Oh c’mon!
Everyone knows what a townhouse is.” The shrillness in her voice reflected her frustration as she glared down at the pudgy little man. “Honestly, are you
people
living in the dark ages here? It’s 2002. Get with the program.”

Frank’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “
What
year did you say?”

Chapter Eight

Mariah gasped. “It can’t be! What do you mean 2002? It can’t be
,
it just can’t be.”

David patted her shoulder.
“Honey, calm down.
What year do you think it is?”

“I don’t want to calm down. Tell me you’re joshing. It can’t be 2002. I know it’s May, but the year is 1872.”

His eyes widened. “Taylor, you’re scaring me. Tell
me
you’re kidding!”

“I’m serious, and I really am Mariah. Why can’t you understand that? It’s 1872. I was born on March 7, 1837. If it was truly 2002, I would be long dead and buried.”

“Tayl... Mariah. I don’t even know what to call you.”
 
The color drained from his face. “Listen to what you’re saying. There is no possible way that could be. Look at your hands and arms. Do you see the skin of someone over a hundred years old? Do I look like someone who lives in 1872? Look around you at all the modern conveniences. None of this existed in the 1870s.”

He made sense and that frightened her. Her stomached knotted. All the things around her
were
strange, including him. Tears welled. “I know that, David, but I’m from 1872, and all this scares me to death. If I am really your wife, why are all the things I remember about another time, another life and another husband?”

David rubbed her hand. “I don’t have an answer.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment. “But I do have an idea. If you really are Mariah, then describe yourself to me.”

“Why would you ask me to do that? You’re looking right at me.”

He shook his head. “No! I’m looking at Taylor Morgan.”

Mariah exhaled in a long sigh. Would this nightmare ever end?

“Go ahead, Mariah... if that’s your name. Describe yourself.”

His mocking tone bothered her, but what would it hurt to describe
herself
?
She decided to play along.
“All right.
I’m five feet, three inches tall. I have long red hair, green eyes, and a birthmark on my left shoulder.”

He didn’t speak, but stared at her and shook his head. “Wrong! You are totally wrong.”

“How can I be? I certainly know what I look like.”

David walked to the other side of the bed, removed the box of tissues and water glass from the tray table, and opened the top to reveal a mirror. He turned it toward her. “Look at yourself and tell me what you see.”

Mariah’s mouth gaped. There was some bruising on the face… but the eyes… the lips. She leaned closer and touched the cheek reflected in the mirror. She felt the touch, but it wasn’t her face. A small bandage on her forehead didn’t hide the fact that the hair she saw was not red like hers—it was brown with blonde streaks. Until recently, a huge dressing had hid most of it from her sight. As if willing the strange reflection to go away, she slammed the tabletop shut.
“Oh, my God.
Oh, my God,” she groaned.

David reached around and untied the back of her gown. Her modesty offended, she grabbed the neckline and held it tight. “What are you doing?”
 
Panic tinged her voice.

“Don’t worry. I only want to have a look at your left shoulder.”

She relaxed her grasp on the gown and leaned forward, certain she was about to be vindicated, but her mind still whirring from what she’d seen.

He pulled the material down and inspected her shoulder.

“You see it, don’t you? It’s almost a perfect clover shape.” She craned her neck, trying to see what she knew was there.

David shook his head and re-tied her gown.
“Nope.
No birthmark.”

Mariah covered her face and broke into sobs. There had to be an explanation, but what?
 
Whose face had she seen in the mirror?
 
It certainly wasn’t hers.

David perched on the bedside and took her in his arms. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed you. Please don’t cry, honey. We’ll get you better, I promise.”

He kissed the top of her head and rocked her back and forth until her tears ebbed. Finally, she relaxed in his embrace. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips. For the moment it didn’t matter who he was; she needed his comforting.

He leaned her back against her pillows and wiped the glistening tears from her cheeks. “Honey, it’s going to be all right. First you need to let your body heal, then we can get some professional help for you.”

Mariah pulled the blanket up to her chin, rolled away from him and stared at the wall. She pondered his reference to professional help. What kind of help was that?
 
Nothing made sense.

He patted her on the hip. “I’ll run along so you can get some sleep.”

Upon hearing the door open, she assumed he’d gone. She rolled over in time to see his face peeking back through the doorway. His eyes sparkled. “I forgot to tell you. The nurse said Doctor Shaw has cleared you to come home tomorrow. I’ll be back around ten in the morning to pick you up. Sleep well, darling.”

Mariah stared at the closed door through blurry eyes. She wondered if she had gone completely mad. She’d heard stories of people who’d lost their minds. Was this what they felt like?
 
She wiped away her tears, sat up and reached for the rolling tray next to the bed. She’d watched the nurse open it before and place something inside. With a deep breath, she lifted the lid and exposed a mirror. Her gaze drifted to the foot of the bed and her heart pounded. How could she bear to look upon a face she didn’t recognize a second time?
 
 
She slammed the table top closed and kicked the
metal stand
away, then curled into a ball.

But the woman’s image haunted her. Brown eyes and hair that shone like sunshine nested within the strands. What had happened to her long red tresses?
 
And what of her birthmark?
 
She’d had it her whole life. Frank often kidded her about being his lucky charm. She raked her knuckles across her forehead and moaned. She had to look again.

Her arm ached when she supported herself on it—the one that still bore a pierce mark surrounded by an ugly black circle. Her whole body still hurt when she moved… or was it her body. She didn’t know anymore.

 
With a grimace, she pushed herself off the edge of the bed and nabbed the corner of the tray table.
 
She pulled it closer, and supported herself against the mattress edge while steeling
herself
with courage. Her breath seized when she revealed the mirror again. She stooped for a closer look.

The eyes reflecting back at her blinked when she blinked. The lips moved when she opened her mouth, and she felt the fingers trailing along them. The hand belonged to the arm she moved, and the brow crinkled with the worry she felt. But who was this person?
 
It wasn’t Mariah Cassidy, she knew that for certain.

Chapter Nine

“2002?” Frank stared wide eyed from his wife to the doctor and back again. “I don’t know what to say. You’re joshin’, aren’t you? You know its May 28, 1872, right?”

“
Right
,” Taylor answered. “I’m your visitor from another dimension!”
 
She pulled her mouth into a sneer. The man was a psycho.

“Mariah, and yes you are Mariah until you prove me wrong, I have no explanation for your strange behavior. I certainly can’t understand why you believe you are in the year 2002.” Frank’s tone revealed his frustration. “I can’t even imagine that far in the future, but I believe there would be some newfangled things invented by then. Don’t you? Can’t imagine how they could make things better than we have it here, but…” He spread his arms and indicated the decor as if it didn’t look like a throwback to what she imagined her great grandmother’s bedroom resembled.

Taylor pondered his ridiculous point. She glanced around the room. The patchwork quilt, the pitcher and wash bowl, his story about the horses and wagon, and the clothes hanging in the armoire—they certainly were relics from another time.
She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. You operate a dude ranch where you try to replicate the Old West, right?”

Frank’s shoulders slumped and he glanced at Doc Samuels. “Doc, help me out here, would ya?
 
Tell her.”

“Mrs. Cassidy, Frank here speaks the truth. I—”

“No, I don’t believe it. If I’m wrong, prove it to me.”

Frank massaged the back of his neck,
then
stopped. His face brightened. “I’ve got it. You think someone dyed your hair red, don’t you?”

She tugged on a lock and gave it a sideways glance. “Yes, and I hate it. That was a nasty thing to do to an injured person.”

“What color eyes does Taylor have?”

“What a stupid question. Here I am. Have a look for yourself.”
 
She leaned forward and stretched her eyes as wide as they’d go.

“Fine, I will.” He stood toe-to-toe with her.
“Green.
I see the same beautiful green eyes you’ve always had.”

She stepped back and stared at him.
“Green?
Okay, besides being absolutely clueless, you are also colorblind. My eyes have always been brown.” She crossed to the mirror and leaned in. The bruises around her eyes had diminished and the swelling had cleared. “See, I told y…you… Oh, my God, my eyes
are
green!”

She felt as though the air had been sucked from her lungs, and with no explanation, she sank onto the bed.

“What color eyes did you say you have?” Frank asked in a teasing tone.

Still denying what she’d seen in the mirror, Taylor gulped. She gazed up at Frank. “What’s happening here? I know I have brown eyes.”

She walked back to the mirror for verification, this time focusing on the entire face and not just the eyes. She gasped. Her head pounded. The room spun. She felt herself falling,
then
total blackness enveloped her.

* * * *

Taylor clutched at consciousness, sensing someone bathing her brow. “Ummm, where am I?” Afraid to open her eyes, she grabbed the air and locked onto an arm.
 
“David, is that you?”

A sigh of disappointment sent warm breath across her face. “No, it’s me, Frank. You fainted. Doc Samuels said there’s nothing more he can do, so he’s gone back to town. How are you feeling?”

She opened her eyes. Mariah's husband sat on the edge of the bed with a pan of water nearby. He removed
the
 
cloth
from her head and dipped it into the liquid. After wringing it out, he spread the cool compress back across her brow. She blinked a few times.

Memories from their conversation flooded back and desperation returned. She flung the damp material from her forehead and sat up. “How am I feeling?
How
am I feeling? What do you think? I just saw a complete stranger in the mirror.”

Silence ensued for a few minutes while Frank retrieved the compress and reimbursed it in the water. His eyes narrowed beneath the visible stress lines creasing his brow. “Mariah, I don’t understand this anymore than you do. I wish we could just go back to the day it happened and start all over. The only thing I can tell you is that you look like my wife and you sound like my wife. Until I believe you aren’t, I’m going to treat you like the Mariah I love.”