Now she answered, annoyed. “Jon…” she said flatly.
“For God’s sake, Constance, why haven’t you called me?”
“Because I didn’t want to. Because I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“All right, just tell me if Anne has been found.”
“In short, no. She’s just… vanished.”
“I can’t believe it,” Jon said, sadly.
“Well, believe it, or don’t believe it. Maybe we both dreamed up the whole thing. Maybe Anne was some hallucination. Maybe she was swindling us. Maybe the joke’s on us. What the hell do I know about anything.”
“You know she wasn’t swindling us.”
Constance slumped back down into the chair, dropping her head forward. Her voice fell into sorrow. “All I know, Jon, is that I miss her, and I’m frightened for her, and I want her back. I can’t bear losing her, not after losing Ashley. It’s just too cruel a thing. Too cruel.”
Jon said, “When will you come home?”
“Not until I know something. I have to know what happened to her.”
“And what if you never know?”
Constance pushed up again, and she was restless, and her left hand strayed to her neck, feeling the gold necklace she’d forgotten was there. “How can I go back to New York without her, to be alone? How can I face myself knowing I lost her? I was going to care for her, for God’s sake, and I lost her.”
“Constance, go easy on yourself,” Jon consoled. “It wasn’t your fault. Wherever Anne is, she’s strong. We know that. Maybe she ran off because she wanted to begin again, and begin again on her own, with no one knowing her past or who she’d been or what had happened to her. She’ll be okay, Constance, and I believe, with all my heart, that someday she will get in touch with you. If it’s at all possible, she will get in touch. Of that, I’m certain.”
CHAPTER 34
New York City 2008
Late in the evening of December 22, 2008, Constance arrived in New York. She’d stayed in London for as long as was reasonable. Since the bomb blast, Anne had simply disappeared without a word, and there was no need to remain any longer.
Weary and defeated, Constance entered her New York apartment, followed by the stout doorman, Julio, who carried in her bags. She tipped and thanked him and, when he was gone, she left the bags in the hallway and moved into the living room.
Putting on the lights, she stood unmoving, listening to the quiet, staring at the wall clock. It was 11:24 p.m. She stared at the clock intensely, as if it held some secret code of meaning.
Her thoughts seemed weirdly silly and foreign to her, as if new wheels and gears had been installed in her head while she was in London. Was the time early, or was it late? Was time a fact or fiction? Was it a made-up thing, depending on where you were in the world?
They were five hours ahead in London. Three hours behind in L.A. In Australia? They were nearly a day ahead. So what was time anyway? Sometimes an hour is short, sometimes long, and one incident, late or early, can disrupt everything else around it. It can change a life forever.
Where was Anne? In what time?
A dizziness came over her. Constance shivered, then lowered onto the couch, peering down at her hands that were cupped in her lap. Loneliness seemed to blow across her like a cold wind, and she felt weak, deflated and helpless. Where was her usual strength and determination? Where was her iron will, her confidence that she could solve every problem and answer every challenging question?
Constance lifted her head and cast her eyes about the room. It didn’t look familiar. Floor plants had been moved. The room’s color scheme was wrong. There were accents of forest green, not the blue tones she’d chosen.
And where did that jade figurine of the goddess Guan Yin come from? Constance was familiar with Guan Yin, having traveled to China with her husband years ago. She was said to embody the totality of mercy, compassion, kindness and love. But where did the thing come from?
Constance churned with uneasiness and confusion. “You’re exhausted,” she said aloud, her voice rusty and low. “Go to bed.”
With effort, she removed her makeup, showered, slipped into a cotton nightgown, tossed back the comforter and climbed into bed. In the bleak darkness, she wept, and she hadn’t wept in a very long time.
CONSTANCE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the distant sound of children; there was a squeal of laughter; footsteps outside her bedroom door. Sure she was still on the edge of a dream, she settled back down into the pillow, keeping her eyes tightly shut. It was a day she didn’t want to face, even though sunlight was breaking through the half-closed, pleated, beige curtains.
A gentle knock on the door irritated her, and she ignored it. Another rap opened her eyes.
“Yes…?” she called, sharply.
“It’s Clarisse, Mrs. Crowne.”
“I don’t want to be disturbed.”
There was a pause, and then Clarisse said, “But they’re here.”
Constance pushed up on elbows. “Who’s here?”
“The kids.”
Constance sat up. “Kids? What kids? What on earth are you talking about?”
Clarisse’s voice was meek. “Avery and Oliver are here, Mrs. Crowne.”
Constance whispered hoarsely to herself. What in the hell is going on?
“Clarisse, who are Avery and Oliver?”
Another long pause. Constance again heard the spontaneous cries of children coming from what was surely the living room.
In a huff, Constance flung back the white comforter and swung her feet to the carpet, her feet finding her emerald slippers. She shouldered into her silk robe and padded to the door. Annoyed, she opened it, and Clarisse stood before her, contrite.
“You told me to tell you when they arrived, Mrs. Crowne.”
Constance stared at her maid, searching her eyes. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
Clarisse stared down at the floor.
At that moment, a young, pretty woman, all smiles, appeared beside Clarisse.
Constance felt a hammer blow to her heart, and she nearly collapsed. She knew this woman. The face was older, yes, but she knew her! She was a mature woman in her early thirties, with sparkling eyes, rich black hair that rested on her thin shoulders, and a lovely, full mouth. Yes, she knew this woman.
Constance’s pulse shot up. It was a lie. A lie of the eyes. A terrible and cruel lie. Her mind careened out of control, and she staggered.
The woman called out, concerned, reaching for her. “Mom, what’s the matter?”
Constance felt herself go; felt every bit of muscle strength, mind strength, and spiritual strength rush out of her, and she wilted and dropped. Before losing consciousness, she heard Clarisse say, “Ashley, call 911. I think your mother has had a heart attack.”
CONSTANCE AWOKE IN HER BED, hearing voices floating down to her. It was a woman’s voice, and a man’s voice. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Ashley and Jon Miles standing above her with strained, worried faces.
“Mom, how are you feeling?”
Constance stared at the woman. She tried to speak but failed.
Jon Miles said, “You gave us a scare, Constance. EMS came, and they were going to whisk you off to the ER, just as I got here. Your heart’s fine. Pulse is good. Your blood pressure was a bit high, but its normal now. You just fainted.”
Constance’s head was pounding. “Fainted?” she said, weakly.
Jon said, “Yes, Constance. Now, as your son-in-law and sometimes doctor, I’m going to explain what fainting is. Fainting occurs when your brain temporarily doesn’t receive enough blood supply, causing you to lose consciousness. The question is, why did your brain not receive enough blood supply? Ashley said that the second you saw her, your face went as white as paper. What happened?”
Constance couldn’t pull her eyes from the woman, from Ashley, from her daughter, and the more she gazed at her, the more her mind tightened up.
“Mom… what happened?”
/> Ashley’s voice seemed to come from far away. Constance forced out, “… Mom?”
Ashley took her mother’s hand and kissed it. “Can I get you anything? I’ll make you some breakfast. When was the last time you ate?”
“No… food…”
Jon cut in. “We need to talk about your medications, Constance. We can’t have this happen again. The next time you fall, Ashley and Clarisse may not be there to catch you. You could seriously hurt yourself.”
“Water?” Constance asked, and Ashley reached for the half-drunk glass on the night stand.
After Constance swallowed some, she handed the glass back to Ashley, her eyes never wavering from Ashley’s face. Her eyes narrowed, then warmed, then searched again. “Ashley?”
“Yes, Mom… You’re starting to worry me. Maybe you had a little stroke or something?”
Ashley glanced at Jon, anxiety rising in her. “Jon?”
Constance’s eyes slid to Ashley and then back to Jon. “Jon… What was that you said?”
“I said, we may have to adjust your medications. Once you’re up and around, let’s make a list, and then call your real doctor.”
Constance lifted a weak hand. “No… You said, son-in-law?”
Jon studied her, then nodded, suddenly concerned. “Yes, Constance… Okay, so maybe we need to get you to the hospital and run some tests.”
“No… No… I’m fine. I’m… just…”
She was distracted by the low sounds of children’s laughter outside. Her mind went into feverish thought. It leaped up and fell down; it searched the depths for reasons and connections. Had she had a stroke? No. Then what the hell happened? Was she hallucinating? Dreaming? Had she snapped and lost her mind? She kept hearing the word “time” tick in her head, like the swinging pendulum in a grandfather’s clock. “Time. Time. Time. Time.”
No, her mind was fine. She was fine. But something strange had happened. She’d sensed it the night before, when she’d seen the statue of Guan Yin and noticed the changed living room color scheme. But what? What had happened?
When the name Anne Billings shot into her head, she blinked rapidly, her brain lighting up, her face opening to something unthinkable. She felt suspended in space, and time melted away.
Constance worked to sit up, as all the flying pieces in her head began to coalesce into a new and stunning thought; a new and impossible reality. Her mind forced out ideas and theories, as she molded, arranged and rearranged the past and present into a brand-new thing—into a brand-new reality.
Ashley placed two pillows behind her mother’s back, and Constance leaned back uncomfortably with a deep sigh.
“Bring me a Cognac,” Constance said, her voice stronger.
“A Cognac? Mom? Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Jon said.
Constance gave him a stern glance. “Jon… Don’t argue with me. Get me the damned Cognac.”
Ashley and Jon traded glances of relief, as if to say, “She’s all right. This is the Constance we know.”
Jon smiled. “All right, Constance. I’ll be right back.”
Constance called after him. “Oh… Avery and Oliver…”
He turned back. “Yes?”
“My grandkids?”
Ashley lowered her eyes on her mother. “Mom… they’re going crazy out there waiting to see you. They both bought you Christmas presents. I was going to put them under the tree, but there is no tree. What’s going on? You always have a tree up two weeks before Christmas.”
“Then go out and buy a tree,” Constance demanded. “What are we waiting for? Go out and buy a tree this morning. Right now. Tell Jon. I’m ready to celebrate.”
Ashley stepped back, her smile starting small, then growing. “Well, a Merry Christmas to you, too, Mom.”
When the tears sprang to Constance’s eyes, Ashley crouched down and took her hand.
“Everything is fine, Mom. You just fainted, but now you’re fine. We’re all here for Christmas, and I guarantee it will be the best Christmas of our lives.”
EPILOGUE
New York City 2008
Early the next morning, December 24, while Ashley slept in her old bedroom, Constance sat at the kitchen island sorting through stacks of mail. Although Jon and Ashley lived only fifteen blocks away, Ashley had stayed over to ensure her mother was alright. Jon and the kids had gone home the evening before but would return by early afternoon to celebrate Christmas Eve.
Constance and Ashley had talked late into the night and, for Constance, it had been the most joyful day of her life. She was still adjusting to her new reality—the golden reality of having her thirty-three-year-old daughter alive and happy, married to Dr. Jon Miles, with two lovely children.
Ashley had said, “When you introduced me to Jon, I knew he was Mr. Right. We just got along, and we still do. Even when we argue, most of the time we end up laughing or slipping off to the bedroom.”
Constance kept her secret to herself—a secret that seemed tenuous and precious. She had few answers to the myriad of questions that this new reality had brought. She could only speculate, but not too much. Too much speculation might shatter the new heaven she was living in and send her crashing back to earth.
While Constance sipped coffee in the early morning light, her attention was drawn to an envelope near the middle of the pile. It wasn’t a bill or junk mail. It stood out: it was a letter. Constance removed it from the stack and held it up. Her name and address were handwritten, in a neat and clean script. The return address read:
Claire Anne Edwards
2483 Edgecliff Road
Chicago, Ill 60076
Constance didn’t open it right away. She couldn’t. A feeling of dread crawled through her, a feeling that somehow the letter might smash her new and joyful life. The letter might reveal the truth, or a lie, or even worse, a joke. So she stared at it, her insides twisting.
After several sips of coffee and a bite of toast, Constance talked herself into opening the envelope, but she took her time, her shoulders stiff, her body tense, as if expecting a blow.
She drew the letter from the envelope with slow, anxious fingers. It was four pages, folded two times, handwritten. The first page’s handwriting was distinctively different from the rest. Constance’s eyes lingered over it; she swallowed, and then she read the first page.
Dear Mrs. Crowne:
My name is Claire Edwards, and I am Anne Billings Taylor’s daughter. Before her death, my mother asked me to send you the following letter and ensure that it arrived after December 20, 2008. You will find my mother’s letter enclosed.
My mother passed away in 1999, when she was eighty-one years old. In the last month of her life, she shared her fantastic story with me; the story of her time travel adventure from 1944 to 2008. She assured me she told no one else, including my father, who passed away in 1994. I will keep the secret as long as I live. Who would believe me anyway?
My mother wanted to live long enough to see you again and explain what happened but, as she said, “It wasn’t meant to be.”
My mother spoke of you often, with fondness, appreciation and love. The letter enclosed will perhaps be a helpful illumination for you.
I want to personally thank you for all you did for Mom. She was a great lady and a wonderful mother.
Yours sincerely,
Claire Edwards
Constance gazed sightlessly for a time, finally turning the first page over and reading the letter from Anne Billings.
Dearest Constance:
If you are reading this, then I have moved on to the next world of mystery. I wanted to live long enough to visit you in 2008, but it wasn’t meant to be. I would have been ninety years old. Wouldn’t that have been a reunion to celebrate, my dear friend?
The doctors tell me my heart is weak, as are other parts of the machinery, so I must write to you now while I am still strong enough, so I can tell you the rest of the story. Perhaps you know it, or most of it
.
First, I want to say that without your determined and loving support, I would not have survived my time travel experience. I was as lost and forlorn as any orphan lamb, and so very confused, and so very troubled. But then you came into my life and unselfishly, with loving support, brought me back to life. I knew I could lean on you and trust you, and that got me through.
In London, when I ran from Reese Patrick’s car, I felt a desperate sense of hopelessness. I couldn’t think or feel. I just wanted to run. And run I did. When that young, earnest policeman told me about the bomb in Hyde Park, something in my head snapped, and it was as if I felt the call of—for lack of a better word—the call of destiny.
Like a mad woman, I ran toward Serpentine Lake, miraculously dodging the police, knowing full well that I might be about to meet my death. Still I ran, feeling a beckoning, an inexpressible urge to find that bomb.
When it went off, the force of the explosion tossed me into the air, and I lost consciousness. Upon awakening, I was in a London Hospital, crying out in pain and crying out for my son, Tommy. Miraculously and mysteriously, I had returned to 1944.
Days later, my mom and dad found me. Well, you can imagine how I felt. Completely and utterly confused, elated and very beaten up by the bomb blast.
Some days later, my Dad found Tommy at a separate hospital and, thank God, he’d not been fatally hurt. To boil it all down in a concise way, he and I survived the war, although it took some time for me to heal.
As luck would have it, Lieutenant Kenneth Taylor finished his ten missions, and he had to return home to the United States. He vowed he’d come back for me and, when the war was over, he did come back to England and we were married in 1946.
It took some months before we were able to leave for America with Tommy, but it all eventually worked out and I have spent my life in Chicago, married to a lovely man, a good and kind man. He became a lawyer and worked for his father’s firm, eventually taking it over when his father died.
Time Stranger Page 19
