by C J M Naylor
Sunlight was creeping in through my bedroom window. It seeped under my eyelids, and while I didn't want to, I peeled them open. I was in my room in the comfort of my bed. I looked down at myself and saw that I was in my nightgown. I had a terrible headache, and my face hurt. I lifted a finger to touch my cheeks and immediately withdrew it. Upon touching my cheek, there was a horrible, piercing pain.
The door to the room creaked open, and Bridget peered in. Upon seeing that I was awake, she turned to someone behind her and whispered something. The door opened wide, and Bridget came into the room, followed by Dr. Aldridge. Bridget sat at the foot of my bed, and Aldridge sat in the same chair as he had a few weeks ago.
“I was hoping you would make an appointment to see me,” he said. “We might have been able to avoid some things.”
“What happened?”
I looked at Bridget and saw she was starting to cry.
"Abby," she whispered. She took a brief moment and then started to explain. "You went into some sort of fit. I came out of my room, and you were in the living room screaming. You were on your knees. Your hands were covering your ears. You kept screaming, and crying, and shouting. You were saying, ‘Shut up! Shut up!' over and over again. You…you even ripped out some of your hair."
Dr. Aldridge stepped forward. “Abigail, Bridget contacted me, and I came as quickly as I could. When I got here, you were still in the same fit. Because you were not in your right mind to make decisions regarding your own health, I quickly administered a sedative. One injection of amobarbital and you were sleeping like a baby. You've been going in and out of consciousness for the last twenty-four hours."
"You drugged me?" I gave them both a look of shock. I couldn't decide if I was angry with them or angry with myself. I never thought that I would need to be… to be… sedated. I felt ashamed of myself. Why was this happening?
“I’m sorry, Abigail,” Aldridge said. “It was in your best interest. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself any more than you already had.”
I nodded and looked down at my hands. My hands had ripped out my hair while trying to stop the voices; because the voices were mine. Yes, I could hear voices because I was a Timekeeper, but this was something else entirely. It was the voice that had been speaking to me directly, since my eighteenth birthday. But it was different too. It had been accusatory.
“Abigail, have you ever heard of combat stress reaction?”
My eyes drew away from the weapons—my hands. I looked at Dr. Aldridge confused. Why was he talking about combat?
"Combat stress reaction, or sometimes called shell shock," he began, "is an illness that we have been treating soldiers for. After suffering traumatic conditions, they tend to have nightmares, maybe visions, hallucinations, panic attacks, you name it. While the term shell shock was used for soldiers who were involved in explosions of some sort during World War One, there is a link between the trauma that you have suffered and what is happening to you now. You were in the house that collapsed on you and your parents. You saw your father’s body. You saw your mother’s body. And then, only a week later, your fiancé—”
“Stop,” I say firmly. “I don’t need you to repeat what happened to me. I know what happened. I was there. I’d rather not have the images painted in my mind again today. Are you trying to say that I have shell shock…or this combat stress reaction?”
“Yes,” Aldridge said. “And I’d like to propose that you come and stay somewhere else so that we can guarantee your safety.”
Bridget looked at him, shocked. Apparently, this had not been in the discussions they had been having.
"Doctor," Bridget said politely, "do you think that is necessary? I mean she is perfectly capable of staying here. I'm here, and so is Ian."
“Miss Ward,” Aldridge said, “I understand your concern. But my ultimate concern is for the safety of Abigail, and the safety of you and Mr. Cross. If you had not been here yesterday, I fear the worst could have happened. And even if you had been here, if you had not been quick to call me, well, anything can happen when a person is not able to comprehend the difference between hallucination and reality.”
“Are you going to force me?”
Aldridge smiled a smile that seemed poisonous to me. I don’t know why. I liked him—I think. But there was something off about him that I couldn’t put my finger on.
"I can only force you," he said, "if you are deemed as a danger to yourself and society. I cannot make that decision on the evidence of one incident. But if you did come to the point of being dangerous, then you could be involuntarily committed."
“She’s not dangerous!” Bridget looked at the doctor with wild eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Aldridge said. “I’m not trying to upset either of you. I only want what is best for Abigail. The hospital I work out of, St. Ignatius’s, is located here in San Francisco. We would be able to house Abigail there and monitor her until she gets better. But it is your decision, Abigail. But I would strongly recommend that you choose it.”
“I think it would be a good decision.”
I looked up at Ian. He was standing in the doorway. He had come out of nowhere.
Bridget looked at him. “Ian!”
I could tell Bridget was changing sides now—how convenient. She only wanted me to see someone, but lock me up and throw away the key? How dare they?
Ian walked over to Bridget and pulled her into his arms. She was visibly shaking now. He held her and rubbed her lower back.
“I only want what’s best for her,” he said softly. He then looked at me. There was something in his eyes that…
“Ahem.”
Dr. Aldridge had cleared his throat. I assumed this was an awkward moment for him. Bridget and Ian were embracing, and I was sitting here as confused as ever.
“No,” Bridget said, pulling away from Ian. “She will stay here. We can work through this together.”
Dr. Aldridge appeared annoyed.
“Um,” I said, “I thought this was still my decision?”
Bridget looked at me, shocked. Dr. Aldridge and Ian’s faces lifted a bit.
“Of course,” Aldridge said. “It is your decision entirely.”
“Right,” I said, “well I mean it’s still no, but I just wanted to make a point.”
Aldridge looked annoyed again and excused himself. He spoke briefly with Bridget and Ian out in the hall. Why couldn’t he speak to me? It was my decision. Maybe it wasn’t anymore? Maybe he was telling them to record all dangerous activity I did from here on out? Any further evidence and he could easily have me involuntarily committed. I mean, I could hurt people after all. I laid back on my pillow and stared angrily up at the ceiling.
It was hours later. My room was dark, but there was moonlight coming in through the window. I hadn't slept. It amazed me how you could lie in one spot and contemplate everything, and how time would pass. Time didn't stop to allow you to think things over. Either you made good use of the time you had, or you let it go to waste. I didn’t think I was wasting it though. Sometimes, you just needed to lie in your bed and think about the world, right?
The familiar creaking sound signaled to me that someone was coming in. “Abby?” I heard Bridget calling into the darkness. “Are you awake?”
I thought about ignoring her, but I needed someone right now.
“Yes.”
She entered my room and closed the door behind her. I was still staring up at the ceiling. She came around to the other side of my bed and lifted back the covers, crawling in next to me. I gave in and turned over onto my side so that we were both facing each other.
“Hi,” she said.
I smiled. “Hi.”
“Do you think our relationship is poisonous?”
I raised my eyebrows at this question and thought about it. The past year, and maybe even longer than that, it was constant arguing between Bridget and I. When we had grown up as children, we had never argued. We had always gotten along. But after I had met Phillip, that
changed for some reason. And then after that, it was over and over and over again.
“I don’t know,” I said. I really didn’t. “I think we’ve argued too much, and that we are both equally guilty.”
"I agree," Bridget responded. "It's hard for me to agree but I do. I have this problem with myself. I think that everything I do and say is the right thing, and that other people are simply wrong."
“Really?” I laughed. “I never noticed.”
She smiled at the sarcasm.
“I think I have a problem trusting the wrong people,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I trusted Bessie,” I said. “I trusted her instead of trusting you. I just needed answers and I let myself believe everything she said. I didn’t trust Mathias. I didn’t trust you. But in the end, who was the manipulator? It was her—always her. And now she haunts me. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. You have no idea how sorry I am after everything else that has happened.”
"I do," she said. "And I'm sorry for everything I did to you. Everything I said to you. You've been through so much, and I feel like I wasn't there for you. I should have been there for you."
"Thank you." I whispered it softly, and she scooted closer to me and pulled me into her arms. We held each other for a long time.
“Do you think I’m insane?” I whispered into her ear. “I did throw a dish at you once—unintentionally that is.”
She pulled away and looked at me.
“You are not insane,” she said. “You are grieving. And you will probably be grieving for the rest of your life. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with that. And as far as I’m concerned, you are going to stay right here with me.”
I smiled, and we continued to talk. We talked about the war, about her relationship with Ian, about Timekeeping. We just talked. And for a while, I was okay.
The water from the shower cascaded over my body, and I wanted to stay, but didn't. Today, I was going to leave the apartment. It was going to be hard, and I didn't want to. I really, really, really didn't want to. But I was going to. I owed that to Bridget. We had both opened up to each other the night before in a way that we haven’t in a long time. I was going to go out into the world today.
I looked at myself in the mirror. The dress I wore was simple, white. It fell to just below my knees. I had a pair of black heels on, and my hair was pulled up into a bun. Small strands of it fell around my face. I put some powder on my face and a little red lipstick. And as my mother had taught me, I pinched my cheeks to get some red into them. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. And then I left my bedroom.
Bridget was at the table reading the newspaper and sipping on coffee. Ian was making eggs on the stove, and when I entered the room, he looked up, taken aback. Bridget looked up from the paper at Ian’s reaction and then saw me. She smiled.
“You look lovely!”
I smiled and probably blushed. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry?” Ian said, sounding confused. “Did I miss something? Are you going out?”
I smiled at him. “Yes.”
Bridget stood up and walked over to me and began prepping me for the world as a mother would. She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled at me. “You’ll do great,” she said.
"Bridget," Ian said, "do you think this is a good idea?"
Bridget looked up at him aghast. “What are you talking about Ian?” She laughed at him as she said it but then added more seriously, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”
“I mean, sweetheart,” he said to her, “she hasn’t been out there since we arrived here. She’s been in her room since day one. She hasn’t even gone to the bloody mailbox to mail her letters.”
"Well," Bridget said, "I'm taking the day to go with her. And I'm not her caretaker Ian; she can manage herself just fine."
He pulled Bridget by the shoulder over to the side and started berating her quietly.
“Excuse me?” I said softly. He continued to chastise her until I spoke up. “Ian!”
He stopped talking to Bridget and looked up at me. He looked all puffy as if he was out of breath. What was his problempredicament? I didn’t understand why he was acting this way.
“If you have a problem with something I am doing you can politely bring it to my attention,” I told him. “As Bridget stated, she is not my caretaker. It isn’t necessary to speak as if I’m not standing directly in front of you.”
“My problem,” Ian said, trying to remain calm, “is your health and well-being. Abby, I don’t want something to happen to you out there. You aren’t stable.”
“Well thanks for the concern,” I said, “but I’ll manage just fine.”
“Goddammit!" Ian's cursing reverberated off the walls of the apartment, and he grabbed his jacket and left. The door slammed shut violently behind him. A picture on the wall fell off its hook and to the floor from the vibration of the walls.
Bridget and I looked at each other. I worried she would get upset, but she just looked confused.
“I’m not sure he should go out there,” I said to her, “he doesn’t seem stable.”
We both started laughing, and I was ready to take on the day. I would leave Ian's problems in the back of my mind.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bridget and I had lunch at Tadich Grill, an older seafood restaurant in the San Francisco area. As I sipped my water, we silently waited for our orders to arrive. We had left the apartment and come straight here, and after my little joke about Ian, we hadn’t talked much. I didn’t know what to think about his outburst—it wasn’t like him. He was off lately, and I was concerned about him. He used to be nicer, but over the last six months, he had started to change. It was like he was growing tired of something, but of what, I didn’t know. I honestly did not know much about him. From what he’d told us, his parents were dead. He had studied with Mathias, but other than that, his life was shrouded in mystery.
“I’m sorry about Ian.” I looked up from my water, my thoughts disappearing at Bridget’s words.
“There’s no reason to be sorry,” I said. “Ian isn’t your responsibility.”
“I know.” She was biting her lip. She was nervous. She wasn’t the type to be nervous. “It’s just, I feel like he is trying to protect me from being hurt again. And because he’s saying these things for that reason, I guess I feel responsible.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “And I can understand why he wants to protect you. If you two are going to be in a relationship, he should protect you, and you should protect him.”
Bridget looked especially nervous now. She looked as if she was fighting something internally. Her hands were placed in front of her on the table and she was rubbing them together.
“Abby… there is something I need to tell you,” Bridget said. “But I can’t yet. I’m not ready.”
“Then why tell me that?” I giggled at her. “Now I’m going to want to know.” I took another sip of my water and then looked at her. She was more nervous and slightly agitated. Something was bothering her—really bothering her. “Bridget, you can tell me anything.”
“I know,” she said. “I just wanted you to know, but I’m not ready yet. I’ll let you know when I am.”
“I won’t force you. Tell me when you’re ready. But don’t let it eat you up.”
"I feel like a hypocrite. You didn't tell me things, and I was upset, and now I won't tell you anything, and you're fine with it."
I put my hand over hers, and something came into her eyes. She looked briefly shocked and looked up at me, but then looked away. "Don't worry," I said. "Tell me when you're ready. And we are different people. We do different things. There was nothing wrong with you wanting to know, and I should have told you. You're fine."
She gave me a hesitant smile, and we waited in silence for our food.
After lunch, Bridget and I decided to spend some time shopping around town. I could feel myself wanting to return to the safe confines of the apartment
, but I pushed myself to want to stay out and continue our shopping trip. We were currently spending some time in a dress shop and I found myself enthralled in the various gowns that were lined up along the back wall of the shop.
I walked alongside the dresses and let my hand touch the soft fabric. I stopped at one dress in particular; it was black taffeta.
“If you like it,” Bridget said, coming up behind me, “I could buy it for you. Maybe we could go out to one of the clubs in town some time and you could wear it.”
The thought of buying a new dress and wearing it around town sounded wonderful. I let myself imagine the luxury of forgetting about all my problems, and all the pain that had surrounded me lately, and simply allowing myself to be happy.
“Maybe,” I told her.
“No maybe,” Bridget suddenly said. She pulled the dress off the rack and announced that I was trying it on. I let her pull me back to the dressing rooms, wondering what I had gotten myself into.
It was well after midnight, and I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, running a brush through my hair. I remembered when I was a little girl, and my mother used to brush my hair. She loved doing it—I could tell. And I loved it when she did. There was something about it that was peaceful, I suppose. But she was gone now. It was just me.
“It’s starting to happen more often.”
I stopped brushing and looked up. It was Ian’s voice. I hadn’t realized he was still awake.
"She had an episode the other day," he said. "Aldridge came by. No, I tried. She refused."
My breath became shallow when I realized he was talking about me. It couldn't be to Bridget. I set the brush down and tiptoed across my room and opened the door to the hallway. I peered out and saw Ian down the hall, on the telephone.
