Time Stranger

by Elyse Douglas

  Anne stared off into space and was vaguely aware when their entrées were delivered. When her eyes returned to his, he looked uneasy. “What does it all mean, Miles?”

  Jon kept his eyes on her, thinking, evaluating. “Anne… What does this memory mean to you?”

  Anne looked beyond him. “What does it mean? I think it’s quite simple. It means I must be going insane.”

  Jon stared down at his salmon burger. “I think it’s time we seriously consider other options, Anne, because I don’t believe, for a minute, that you are insane.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Her name is Melly Pasternak, and she’s my mother’s odd friend,” Jon said.

  “What do you mean, odd?” Anne asked.

  They were in a horse-drawn carriage moving through Central Park, passing the famous Bethesda Fountain, listening to the clop, clop of the horse’s hooves. A woolen blanket lay across their laps, and Anne had her beret pulled down over her ears for warmth.

  Jon said, “My mother dabbles in occult things: astrology, transcendental meditation and tarot card readings. My father’s a doctor, a scientist through and through, so you can imagine how well they got along when I was growing up.”

  “Opposites attract, don’t they?” Anne asked. “Isn’t that what they say, although I was never entirely sure who ‘they’ were.”

  Jon thought about that. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. My father finds my mother baffling, curious and, how should I say this, quite sexy. She finds him stuffy, conservative and beguiling.”

  “So what were you going to say about Melly Pasternak?” Anne asked.

  “Oh yes, well, Melly is a psychic, or a clairvoyant, or whatever the term is for people who are telepathic, who seem to possess what you might call supernatural powers, abilities inexplicable by natural laws.”

  “Yes, I know the word.”

  Jon faced her. “Truthfully, I’ve never bought into the whole occult thing, Anne. I’m telling you that up front. I think it’s nothing more than imagination and wishful thinking. But… Melly did once predict I would marry a woman from a wealthy family when I was thirty years old. That happened. She also told my mother—not me—that my wife would not bear any children.”

  “That was not a sensitive thing to say.”

  “Yes, well, Melly is not so sensitive. She’s direct, honest and… well, my mother swears she is authentic and talented.”

  Anne stared out the window. “Constance said you are divorced.”

  “Yes, the marriage lasted less than three years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I was, too. It’s the old story. She fell in love with another man… an older man, which I suppose is a twist on the old story. Don’t women usually fall for the younger guy?”

  Anne looked at him, trying to read him, and she thought. Was he sorry? Was he happy about it? After a minute’s consideration, she decided to be bold and ask.

  “Did you love her?”

  “Yes, at least I did at first. Then, well, who knows about these things? It’s another one of life’s little mysteries. But I don’t want to talk about me and my boring personal history. Let’s keep the conversation on Melly. According to my mother, Melly told her two days after I was married that the marriage wouldn’t last, and she even predicted the week the divorce was final.”

  Anne held his eyes, waiting.

  Jon lifted a hand and let it drop. “My mother isn’t a liar. She’s as truthful as a saint. So, I’m caught somewhere between belief in the occult and disbelief, and I’m still leaning very skeptically against it.”

  Anne turned to look out at snow flurries dancing across the amber park lights. With a gesture, she said, “Oh, look, it’s starting to snow.”

  Jon peered out. “Yes. According to the weather, we’re going to get an inch or two.”

  “How pretty it is. Snow seems so magical, doesn’t it? I mean, how it seems to come from nowhere, and it falls so silently and covers the ground so completely.”

  “You’re a poet, Anne.”

  She shrugged, turning to him with a frank curiosity. “Do you want me to see Melly Pasternak, Miles?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and down his face. “Anne, I have seen people die, and I hate it. I always feel as though I’ve failed, even though I know we’re all going to die someday. I have also seen people almost die and then come back to life. They describe all kinds of experiences, from going to heaven, to meeting long dead family members, to running through fields of beautiful flowers and trees. I have also heard Melly talk about past lives. She claims that in some people, she can actually see a past life.”

  Anne listened intently. “Is that what you think I saw in my session with Dr. Weiss?”

  “I don’t know, Anne, but if you’re willing, I can arrange for you to meet Melly. It’s against my better judgment and my core beliefs, but then again, who knows? Maybe she can help you, and if she can somehow shed some light on what it is you’re experiencing, it might be worth a try.”

  Anne lowered her eyes, assessing his words, probing the possibility. “Where do you think I came from, Miles? Why hasn’t anyone come forward to identify me? Why do I feel like a stranger from another world, because this world doesn’t seem like home to me?”

  Jon stared earnestly. “I don’t know, Anne. This morning, I called the detective in charge of your case. They don’t have any new information. Nothing.”

  Anne’s eyes slid away from his direct stare. “This afternoon, Constance typed my name into her computer, my full name, Anne Billings. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There were so many, from all over the world, but none of them were me. I just don’t understand.”

  “Do you want me to set up a meeting with Melly?”

  Anne took in a breath, letting it out at once. “I’m so scared, Miles. I’m scared all the time and I’m so sick and tired of being scared. This morning, while I was drifting in and out of sleep, I saw the face of a little boy. He was calling out to me. Reaching for me. I knew him. I knew who he was, but before I could recall his name, I woke up. He was gone, and his name, which had been on the tip of my tongue, was also gone.”

  When the carriage came to a stop near Fifth Avenue, there was a long moment before either said anything.

  Anne finally broke the silence. “Yes, Miles. Yes, please contact Melly Pasternak. Maybe she’ll be able to tell me what is happening. I’m desperate.”

  THAT NIGHT, ANNE COULDN’T SLEEP. She tossed back the comforter and left the bed, walking to the windows. She peered out into the night at the muted lights of the city, while snow flurries drifted, while a wobbling siren below filled her with sudden, mystifying terror. Instinctively, she glanced up into the sky as if anticipating some approaching disaster.

  And then she shut her eyes. A movie began to play, projected onto the screen of her inner vision. She was walking along a dirt path with a man beside her; a man dressed in uniform, a pilot’s wings pinned above his left breast pocket, and he was wearing an officer’s hat.

  The sun was warm, the day bright. The path had shrubbery. There were curves and turns past a flower garden, a wrought-iron gate and a pond. There was a public space with wooden benches where a woman sat feeding pigeons; where a young couple sat close, he in uniform. They held hands, their faces somber, their conversation low.

  The man beside Anne reached for her hand and held it gently.

  “Can you meet me next weekend, Saturday? I’ll get another leave.”

  They walked into a sheltered grove and paused in the shadows. He looked at her with soft, loving eyes. “Did I tell you today that you’re the prettiest girl in the world?”

  Anne thought him the most handsome and dashing man she’d ever seen, with his lantern jaw and considerable breadth of shoulder.

  “This morning, you only said I was the prettiest girl in London,” she joked.

  He pretended to be stricken. “Did I say that? Forgive me, Anne, I’m just a dumb American from Chicago. This morning I must h
ave been blind. This afternoon, I see you a lot more clearly.”

  And then he kissed her, a warm, gentle kiss that stirred her desire and left her wanting for more.

  As they strolled, Anne felt a loving warmth in her chest that swelled and pulsed. “Of course, I’ll meet you next Saturday, First Lieutenant Kenneth Cassidy Taylor.”

  He looked at her with amusement. “Holy smoke! My full rank and name. You make me sound as important as General Eisenhower.”

  “Oh, you’re much more important than he is,” Anne said, with a little laugh. “And you’re more handsome, and you’re smarter, since you think I’m pretty, and you’re, oh, much younger than General Eisenhower.”

  And then they heard it—the piercing howl of the air raid sirens. They turned their anxious faces skyward, tension and fear twisting Anne into a hard knot.

  She saw German bombers approaching, bursting through the high clouds, the angry drone of their engines chewing the air, the bombs already raining down. Anne’s heart jumped into her throat, as racing footsteps, honking horns and piercing cries of terror filled the air.

  “Come on, Anne,” Ken said, seizing her hand and tugging her across the lawn. “Let’s get to an air raid shelter. Those Heinkels and Stukas are coming in fast.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The following Saturday, Anne sat in Melly Pasternak’s parlor, her hands twisting nervously. In concise, halting words, she recounted her entire story to Melly, who listened attentively, as still as a block of ice, her big, bold eyes not moving.

  No one in the room moved. Any detail that Anne overlooked was provided by Jon or Constance.

  Melly had a wrinkled, unpleasant face; an old woman’s scowling face, with lean features, sharp angles, and high cheekbones. Her tight line of a mouth expressed a permanent “No,” and her eyes were crafty, her body thin. Her dress was a patchwork of styles, long to her ankles, covering her arms, the colors black, red and green, with a high lace collar. Her hair was a shiny gray and piled on top of her head, expertly molded into a snug, pugnacious bun.

  Anne concluded her story and then felt utterly intimidated and frightened. She was about to shoot up from the heavy Victorian sofa and rush out of the room, certain that Melly was a lunatic who was going to attack her, when, suddenly, Melly’s countenance underwent a sudden and drastic transformation. Her face relaxed with a wise smile, and her features softened, revealing depth and clarity in her large, dark eyes.

  Constance and Anne had taken a private limousine for the two-hour drive to Hudson, New York. Melly’s Victorian house sat on a snakelike road not far from the town, with its mid-century antique shops, old-school diner, upscale brasserie, and lively, contemporary art scene.

  Melly’s house was an amalgam of decorating styles, mixing glamor with kitsch; mixing bright colors with muted ones; mixing traditional landscape paintings with squiggles, skewed perspectives, distorted shapes and clashing bursts of color.

  Constance sat stiffly next to Anne on the sofa, her eyes narrowed, her expression sullen, her arms crossed, as if she were trying to shut out the entire despicable experience.

  To Jon, it was clear that Constance had taken an immediate dislike to Melly. Constance stared at Melly with a challenge, like a mother bear ready to protect her cub from a hunter.

  Jon stood meekly behind the sofa, his hands in his pockets, his cell phone vibrating every few minutes. He was castigating himself for arranging the meeting. Melly was more eccentric, unpredictable, and intimidating than he’d remembered. Or maybe, as she’d aged, she’d grown even more bizarre.

  Melly sat in a tall, austere, high-back chair, her arms resting on the broad wooden arms. When she spoke, she had a slight accent, although, for the life of him, Jon could never figure out what the accent was. Not quite Russian or German or Slavic. Her voice was surprisingly low, sonorous and pleasing to the ears, and Jon had often thought that she would have been a perfect late-night DJ on some jazz radio station.

  “My grandfather was Russian,” Melly said bluntly, “and he was proud of it. He was a rough, roaring man who was killed in a duel, if you can believe it. My grandmother was a gypsy, and one did not cross her.”

  Melly held up a warning finger, leaned forward, and waggled it. “No, you did not, ever, cross my grandmother. She performed incantations and curses, and she possessed little trinkets that jingled and jangled in the night whenever she was casting dark spells.”

  Constance rolled her eyes, fighting a towering impatience.

  Melly kept talking. “But she had gifts, didn’t she? Yes! Gifts that were inherited from her mother and her grandmother. My own mother did not possess these gifts, nor did she want to. Her nature was mild, dull and distant. My father played the violin and was an excellent musician. He played on the street; he played in restaurants; he played in symphony orchestras. He died playing his violin. When he keeled over on the stage, he was giving a recital in New York, playing the Violin Sonata No. 7 in C minor by Ludwig van Beethoven. The circumstances of his death were reported on the second page of The New York Times.”

  Melly fixed Anne with a stare. “Do you know that Beethoven sonata, Ms. Billings?”

  Anne gave a little shake of her head.

  “No? You should listen to it. You’d like it. It has force, passion and mystery, and that is what I feel about you. I felt it right away, as soon as I looked into your eyes.”

  Constance cleared her throat, shook her head in annoyance, and looked away toward the fireplace.

  Jon began to sweat.

  Melly pushed to her feet. “Ms. Billings and I need privacy now. We’ll go to my back room. I use it only for my sessions.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Constance said tartly.

  Melly was unfazed. “It has nothing to do with ideas, madam, and everything to do with why you came to see me. Since you came all this way, don’t you think it is sensible that I spend time alone with Ms. Billings so I can fully scrutinize the young woman, without the interference of the outside? That room is soundproof, and it holds years of energy from my communion with the unseen, mystical worlds.”

  Constance could feel her blood pressure shoot up, and she was about to speak when Jon jumped in before she could. “Since we’re here, Constance, why not let Melly at least examine Anne?”

  “I can speak for myself,” Anne said, candidly.

  Constance shot her a glance. “Are you well enough for this, Anne?”

  “We’ve already been over this, Constance. Yes… and now that we’re here, I’d like to see what Mrs. Pasternak has to say.”

  Melly didn’t miss a beat. She extended an arm to Anne. “Come with me, darling, and let us get started. Time and tide are all about us. Let us explore your mystery and see what my guides have to say about it.”

  After they were gone, Constance boosted herself off the couch and walked to the front picture window. “I don’t like the woman, Jon. I wish you’d never mentioned her to Anne. And Melly? What kind of name is Melly, anyway? She’s unbalanced, crazy. I can see it in her eyes. I have another therapist ready and waiting to see Anne whenever she says the word.”

  It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Jon that Constance was becoming increasingly protective, controlling and possessive of Anne. He was concerned that she would try to choreograph Anne’s every move and decision, for although Anne had a stronger will and personality than he had originally thought, she was weakened by confusion, ready to try anything that might help show her the way.

  “I want to take Anne on a cruise to the Greek islands, on my friend, Blake’s, private yacht. I called him yesterday. I think it would be the best thing for Anne. A complete change of scenery and culture will help quiet her mind and heal her body.”

  Jon wanted to ask, “Are you doing this for Anne or for yourself?” But he didn’t speak his mind.

  “Have you asked Anne?”

  “Not yet. I will tonight.”

  “You haven’t asked how our date went a few days ago.”

  �
�I asked Anne. She said she had a good time.”

  “I had a good time, too.”

  “Good for you, Jon.”

  “I’m going to ask her out again.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Wise? That’s an interesting choice of word.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. What is it with this yoyo change of mind over me and Anne? First you don’t want me to see her, then you do, and now once again, you don’t.”

  Constance turned to face him. “I’ve been thinking things over. I’ll admit that, at first, I thought it might be good for Anne to go out with you and have a good time.”

  Jon spread his hands. “And now?”

  “Now, I don’t. She’s moody, unpredictable, and frightened. I don’t think any sort of romantic relationship will be helpful at this point. She’s too emotionally vulnerable and confused. What if she forms an attachment?”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It could be, if the relationship turns sour or if you find another, less troubled and emotionally damaged woman. You are quite handsome, you know, and handsome men often get bored easily.”

  Jon shook off the insult and decided to be direct. “Constance, Anne is not Ashley.”

  Constance’s face flushed red; her eyes flared. “How dare you say that to me? What a cheap and awful thing to say.”

  Jon didn’t back down. “You know what I mean, Constance.”

  She glared at him.

  “All I’m saying is this: let Anne explore all the ways she needs to explore. Whatever happened to her, it has deeply traumatized her, and she’ll need time and gentle hands to help her along until either her memory returns, or she can reconcile herself with the life she must learn to live in the present.”

  Constance’s expression was cold, with the flat, hard eyes of a competitor. “And you think you’re the one to touch her with your gentle hands? They weren’t enough for your wife, were they? Otherwise, she wouldn’t have run off with another man.”