by Kc Wheeler
“Mrs. Hughson. Mrs. Hughson,” a voice whispered. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Groggily, I opened my eyes. For a moment I felt confused again, then with a pang of emotional agony, I realized where I was. I must have fallen asleep.
“Your son is here to see you,” Mrs. Dutch told me, assisting my stiff body into a sitting position.
“Huh?”
“Hey, Mum.” I turned towards the voice. A man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties dragged over the armchair and took a seat facing me. He was tall, clean-shaven, and had a head of receding, greyed, brown hair. His kind, green eyes crinkled up in the corners as he smiled at me. He reminded me of someone; but I didn’t know who. I simply stared at this stranger, lost for words; my mind temporarily blank.
“How have you been doing?” he asked me.
I hesitated. Maybe this man could help me.
“Look, I’m not your mum.” The man’s smile dropped, and the creases at the corners of his eyes eased off. “Well, I mean, I probably am,” I added quickly. “But listen, I’m twenty-three!”
The man stared at me. Then the crinkles at the corner of his eyes deepened once more as he began to chuckle. “How does that work? I’m your son and I am fifty-six.” He laughed again, then placed his large, warm hand over my own-- shriveled and arthritic. “Have they been treating you alright in here, Mum?”
“Listen to me. Uh, what’s your name?” I croaked, desperate for him to listen.
“Mark,” he answered. His hand left mine, and he appeared hurt once again.
I ignored the guilt that stabbed at my heart. “Mark. Just last night I was twenty-three. Brodie proposed to me!”
Mark studied me, his expression unreadable. “Dad?” he asked.
“Of course,” I replied slowly. How had I not realized? It was Brodie who Mark reminded me of, with his kind, green eyes and wonderful smile. Brodie was Mark’s father!
I stared hard at Mark in amazement, seeing him under a brand new light. Brodie and I had made this man. This man was our son. He would be our future son when I got back to my time.
I felt a pang of sadness as I pictured the way Brodie’s face lit up the night prior when I said the one word he had so hoped to hear. In this terrifying time, I longed to be in his presence. “That’s it!” I hissed excitedly. “Brodie will be able to help me!” I reached for Mark’s arm. “Mark! Where is Brodie? Where is your father?”
Mark began to fiddle with his hands. He glanced away quickly, brushing a tear from his eye. “I’m sorry, Mum.” His voice cracked. “It’s just so hard seeing you like this all of the time.”
“Where is he, Mark?” I demanded to know.
Mark sighed, burying his face into his hands. He sighed again, and gazed at me through tear-filled eyes. “Dad is dead. You know that, Mum. He’s been dead for six years.”
I froze as his horrible words sunk in, stunning me. “No,” I murmured under my breath. I choked, as I realized with me being ninety-years-old, both of my parents would be dead too. “No!” My stomach turned over. Suddenly, the ache in my muscles intensified. Sharp, hot pain shot repeatedly down my spine. My head pounded, and my hands and feet throbbed. Above all, my heart hurt the very most, in a way no words could ever describe. I pictured the faces of my parents, panicking as they blurred in my head. I couldn’t visualize them clearly! Then Brodie’s face flashed into my mind; not him as an old man, but the young Brodie-- the only Brodie I knew. All at once, overlapping memories of him and I overwhelmed me, suffocating me; my love for him immerging with the worst pain I could refer to in my lifetime. “Noooooo!” I howled. I screamed hysterically, sending the bed pillows flying to the floor.
Mark stood up, stepping back in surprise.
“The nurse, get the nurse!” I heard someone cry from the hallway.
Mrs. Dutch and a nurse rushed into the room. “It’s okay; it’s okay Mrs. Hughson,” Mrs. Dutch spoke soothingly, holding onto my thrashing body. “Quick, give her something.”
I shrieked, swung, and kicked, ignoring the physical pain every effort endured. But I was a little, old lady who was much too weak to resist the nurse from injecting my arm. I felt a small prick. I got one last look at Mark’s sad face; one last look at the pain in his eyes. My body, unable to fight the drug, relaxed. My eyelids felt so heavy.
Just as I began to drift off, Brodie’s face in my mind, I heard an unrecognizable voice. “What’s wrong with that lady?”
It was Mrs. Dutch who responded. “She’s a poor soul. She wakes up each morning thinking she is twenty-three and has no re-collection of her life after that age, nor memory of her husband’s death. Dementia is a horrible thing.”
