The Going Back Portal

by Connie Lacy

  I lifted my daughter into my arms.

  “We will walk you to the doorway, Old Grandmother, so you may return to your home.”

  When we stepped into the hut, she cast her eyes about uncertainly.

  “This is the door that leads you back where you came from,” I explained.

  “But you didn’t tell me your name.”

  “I am Forest Water.”

  I opened the small back door, plucking a fig from the bush, then handed it to her.

  “You want me to eat it?” she said.

  “That is what my own grandmother did, chewing the fig as she passed through the doorway.”

  She touched Betsey’s cheek, gave her a small wave, and placed the fig between her teeth.

  Betsey cooed, looking for Old Grandmother as she dissolved like salt in a boiling pot of beans. I stepped outside, searching the yard and the woods. She was gone.

  I thought of my own grandmother who was known as a powerful Medicine Woman who knew all the incantations and potions, how to heal a wound and decipher dreams. She shared much with me when I was a child. She told me how she fed strong medicine to her fig tree so it would have Special Powers. She called it Going Back Medicine. She did this to prepare for when the white man took our land, saying she wished to return to the time before the invaders. She fed the soil beneath the tree with her secret potions, burying animal bones and other totems in the earth. Until one day during the Drying Up Moon, she hugged me close, ate a ripe fig, walked through the door and vanished.

  That was the last of the pages she’d given me the first time I visited and was written only days before I arrived. The next translation from Nancy would be the new pages from the pouch.

  It amazed me that she thought Nana was a spirit. Then again, that made as much sense as time travel. I ached for her and her innocent baby, the children who would be born of that disgraceful union. For Degataga and Ginny, whose lives also hung in the balance.

  As I got in my car for the drive back to the station, I decided, despite my misgivings, I had to try to make Jonah a better man. I slid my phone out and clicked on the psychologist’s number to leave him a message. I was taken by surprise when he answered.

  “Dr. Vargas?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Kathryn Spears from the Channel Seven Watchdog Team.”

  “How can I help you, Ms. Spears?”

  He sounded skeptical when I told him I’d pay for his advice on how to counsel an abuser.

  “Ms. Spears…”

  “It’s not a ploy. This really is a friend’s husband. She refuses to leave him and I’ve got to help her. I’m going to talk with him myself. I could use some guidance and I’d appreciate your expert advice. I’ll pay your usual fee. I’m not looking for a freebie.”

  “I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow, spending the fourth at the beach.”

  “Can you spare half an hour today?”

  Silence.

  “Please,” I said.

  “Come by my office at five-thirty. But I have to tell you, I don’t like it.”

  After a long afternoon as Mallory and I avoided each other, I broke away promptly at five. But the atmosphere at the psychologist’s office wasn’t any more welcoming.

  We sat facing each other, both of us in arm chairs, a pad and pen on the table beside him.

  Now that I thought about it, my outfit was perfect for the occasion – a V-neck, sleeveless top and skirt. He could see there were no bruises on my arms, my legs or my neck. Perhaps subconsciously, I was making sure Mallory and Ray noticed that too.

  “Thanks for your time,” I began, since it was obvious he was keen on putting this meeting behind him. “First off, I’m not in any kind of abusive relationship. Never have been. Never will be. I told you recently about this friend I’m worried about. I’ve tried to get her to leave her husband, but she refuses. She’s afraid she’ll end up with nothing if she runs away. So, I’ve decided to try to make him see the light, you might say. What I need are some talking points, some strategies.”

  “The best strategy would be to convince him to meet with a counselor. If not me, then someone with training and experience dealing with domestic violence.”

  “He won’t do that.”

  “Do you have any indication he wants to change?”

  “No.”

  “It’s kind of like trying to force a smoker to quit. If he doesn’t want to quit, it’s not going to happen. That is, unless you lock him up and throw away the key until he’s completely withdrawn from the nicotine and the oral gratification. Even then, as soon as you let him go, chances are extremely high he’ll resume smoking first chance he gets.”

  “Still, I have to try.”

  “Let me ask you this,” he said. “Is your friend’s life in danger?”

  “Well…”

  “Is the baby’s life in danger? Is she or the baby at risk of severe injury? Think hard about those questions. It’s possible the time has come to call the police.”

  Picturing Amadahy talking with the local sheriff about Jonah beating her was beyond absurd.

  “A word of caution,” he said, giving me a fatherly look. “You need to consider whether your friend’s husband might react violently to your intervention. That’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

  We talked about counseling approaches and he gave me a stack of literature as I left.

  Sprawled across the bed that evening with Pixie beside me, I skimmed the brochures Dr. Vargas gave me, realizing the enormity of what I was proposing. It would be like trying to transform the devil into an angel.

  16

  Mid-morning the next day the boss stopped by our office reminding us to clear out before the protesters arrived. The unexpected afternoon off gave me time to swing by the local Salvation Army store to find some more pseudo nineteenth century clothing. I left with a passable outfit that made me look like an extra in a Jane Eyre movie.

  On my way home, I picked up cat food and a few other items. After parking the car in front of my apartment, I was about to hoist the bag from the trunk when a familiar voice called out.

  “Let me get that for you.”

  It was Eric. He carried the bag to my door, me trailing behind, feeling trapped.

  “I tried to reach you at the TV station but they said you were off this afternoon,” he said, following me inside and setting the cat food on the floor of the pantry.

  I put the smaller bags on the counter and was trying to think what to say when Pixie flounced into the kitchen, meowing loudly to announce her arrival.

  “I haven’t met your roommate yet,” Eric said.

  “This is Pixie.” I scooped her up.

  He stepped close and scratched her behind her ears. She purred like she was in kitty heaven. But I needed to put some distance between me and Eric. I set her down and unloaded the groceries, turning my back on both of them.

  “Okay, here goes,” he said. “You have every right to be angry with me. I shouldn’t have spouted off like I did. If I could rewind the tape, that’s what I’d do. Either that, or turn back the clock. Funny, those are both out-of-date technology expressions.”

  I finished stashing my few items and folded the reusable bags.

  “I have to admit,” he continued, “having a bullet chase me through the time portal scared the hell out of me. Being attacked and held prisoner by that nineteenth century Neanderthal shook me up. I’m used to thinking of myself as an athlete. But I didn’t understand what a modern-day milquetoast I am until I came face to face with the gritty, smelly summer of 1840. And then, as my mind was coming to terms with our dangerous – and futile – time-travel caper, I took it out on you.”

  My eyes were glued to Pixie as she stepped on Eric’s sandal, rubbing against his ankle.

  “I hope you can forgive me,” he said. “Because I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been about anything. Except possibly the time I intentionally ran my sister into the carport wall on the wagon. I got a spanking for t
hat and fortunately she wasn’t scarred. So, all things considered, I guess I am sorrier about what I said to you.”

  He was hoping I’d laugh. I sighed instead. Our brief romance had felt so good, so right. But it really bothered me that he dismissed my deep concerns about Amadahy and accused me of being frivolous.

  “I accept your apology.” It sounded stiff, but I couldn’t help it. “And I apologize for putting you in a dangerous situation, for not fully realizing what I was asking of you.”

  “Kathryn…”

  He closed the distance between us and was about to wrap his arms around me. But I stepped back, pivoting toward the pantry. I ripped the cat food bag open and scooped a cup of dry food into Pixie’s dish. Then I opened a can of Fancy Feast and spooned it on top, like ice cream on a slice of apple pie. She rushed the bowl before I finished.

  I could feel his eyes on me as I washed my hands.

  The thing is, there was no way I could be close to Eric if I couldn’t share my passion for helping Amadahy. If I could never talk openly about my visits to the past, I’d be hiding an important part of myself. Plus, it was a huge disappointment that he was perfectly comfortable abandoning her.

  I met his gaze, taking in the frown. There was a touch of surprise in his eyes, like he’d expected to charm me into taking him back with a shallow apology and a joke.

  “I can work on the translation again as long as I…” he said.

  “No need. I hired another translator. She’s fast, plus she’s a native speaker.”

  There was an awkward silence before he spoke again.

  “So you don’t need me professionally and you don’t want me personally.”

  “We can be friends,” I said, struggling to remain cool on the outside.

  “Right.” He pulled on his earlobe.

  He stood there as if considering what to say, then strode from the kitchen, through the living room and let himself out.

  I dashed to the living room window in time to see his car exit the parking lot. Pixie meowed behind me.

  “I know I told you I liked him, but it’s over,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  Why was I having mixed feelings? I reminded myself how he caved when his boss threatened to cut his funding the moment our names appeared in that silly newspaper story. How he chastised me for trying to save Amadahy from Jonah’s clutches – like I should chop down the fig bush and turn my back on her. And now he was calling it a time travel caper! I marveled at how cavalier he was about her life. Screw him!

  ~

  My mom called as I microwaved a veggie burger for supper.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “New York. Meetings to attend, hobnobbing to do. I’ve got a big Fourth of July party I’m attending tomorrow night.” She chuckled lightly. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you again. Mother was supposed to tell you about having dinner with us. I thought she had.”

  “More important for the two of you to have time together.”

  “We did. Had a fun dinner at Harold’s. That place hasn’t changed a bit in twenty-five years! Still has the best fried chicken and mashed potatoes. And we spent some time at the cottage. She took me down to the river to introduce me to her new neighbors, but I think we went the wrong way. She says the woman is a Cherokee Indian, which, I have to admit, I found hard to believe. There was no house there. But I didn’t let on. Anyway, we did find some fig bushes.”

  I held my breath.

  “We picked some figs so Mother and Jeannette can make some preserves. She went on and on about how her grandmother used to make them when she was a little girl. About how she’s been dreaming of her grandma lately.”

  “Yeah, she told me about that.”

  Mom spoke to someone else for a moment, then returned to the phone.

  “Where was I? Oh yes – I agree with you, she’s becoming more forgetful. But she seems happy overall. Except for not being able to spend more time at the cottage. I’ll contact the agency that found Jeannette for us and hire a second companion to relieve Jeannette more often. We can work up a schedule to give her regular time off. Then the new companion can drive her to the cottage. I did mention to Mother that I’d like for her to be tested for Alzheimer’s.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She dismissed the whole idea. I’ll let it simmer a bit, then talk with her again. I also mentioned that Jeannette could take her to visit her former neighbor who lives in an assisted living home in Athens. You remember Louise Johnston?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve read it’s a good idea to get someone with dementia ready bit by bit before you make any dramatic changes. Like visiting a facility so they’ll see how nice it is.”

  I agreed, but without enthusiasm. Mom didn’t notice. She had to get on with her hob-nobbing.

  It was past midnight when I finally lay down, hoping sleep would deliver me from my frustrations. But my eyes wouldn’t close, focusing instead on strange shadows on the ceiling. When I heard my phone vibrate, I found another translation from Nancy – the first from the new pages I sent her. She said she’d be with family at the beach for a couple of days for the fourth and not to expect another translation right away. I opened the attachment immediately.

  Amadahy’s Journal – Part 8 (June 1840)

  Before the time of Bad Brother, rain was a gift that quenched the thirst of our crops so there would be plenty to eat. Now, dark clouds made me dread the raindrops, knowing that when Jonah was forced inside he became like a trapped animal, snarling and biting.

  It was during a rainstorm in the Green Corn Moon that he kicked me as he would kick a dog, using his heavy shoe to strike my good leg.

  “You hear me?” he shouted.

  “Yes.” I rubbed my thigh to ease the pain.

  “Shelling them beans can wait. They’re laughing at me in the saloon.”

  “I must bathe myself.”

  “Be quick about it!”

  My injury forced me to move slowly as I took Betsey with me to the hut where I kept my herbs and elixirs. I did not mind the rain, which cooled my skin.

  After preparing myself, I crept into the smokehouse for the secret bottle of whiskey I hid there – whiskey I stole in small portions from bottles Bad Brother did not finish before blacking out. Upon entering the house, I fetched his mug from the shelf, but he greedily snatched the bottle from me, taking a long drink as he sat down on the bed.

  “Where’d you get this?” he said.

  “I found it under the hammock.”

  He did not reply, lifting the bottle to his mouth again.

  “I will feed her so she will sleep,” I said, then moved to the baby’s blanket on the floor. Sitting down with her on my lap, I bared my breast for her to nurse, knowing Jonah watched me. As Betsey drank, he did also. I let her suckle for a long time, sitting so he would see as I lifted my other swollen breast from my dress. By the time her thirst was quenched, Jonah had drunk half the bottle and his eyes were closing.

  On my hands and knees, I gently lay Betsey down, facing away from Bad Brother. The pain in my thigh made me wince, but I remained silent except for my soothing whispers to my daughter. When, at last, I stood to present myself to him, he had passed out on the bed, only the bottle standing tall between his legs.

  Ginny spoke her mind when she greeted me the next morning, which is her way.

  “He done kicked you, ain’t he?”

  I did not answer.

  “I see you can’t hardly walk. Mister Jonah is Satan’s seed, for sure.”

  “You must not speak those words,” I said, fearing Bad Brother was nearby.

  “He’s snoring up a storm by the river while you do all the chores.”

  “I must pick beans,” I said, bringing her dangerous talk to an end.

  “Your mama need to rest her body, Little Butterfly,” she said to Betsey. “Come on with Aunt Ginny.” And she wrapped my daughter onto her own back as she spoke to me like a sister. “You can finish weaving t
hat new basket you been working on while me and the baby pick them beans.”

  17

  Jeanette spent Independence Day with her family, so it was just Nana and me hanging out together. I thought she’d enjoy the neighborhood cook-out and pool party. But she only recognized one person – the woman who lived across the street whose name she couldn’t remember. I told everyone who paused long enough to speak with us that she and my grandfather bought their house when the neighborhood was brand new. Which seemed to impress them for about fifteen seconds.

  Thursday and Friday were slow as snails at work, mainly grunt work with a skeleton crew in the newsroom while everyone else was having fun at the beach. For once, I didn’t mind the hours dragging because the prospect of facing Jonah again filled me with apprehension.

  When Saturday morning arrived, my stomach felt like I’d eaten eggshells instead of eggs for breakfast. Dr. Vargas might be right that I was asking for trouble.

  But this time I was prepared. I had a pocket-sized can of pepper spray hidden in my dress.

  It was sprinkling when I headed toward Athens. Me and the windshield wipers had something in common – we were both intermittent, off and on. One moment I wanted to turn around and go home, the next, I was anxious to get there faster. The sky grew darker as I traveled up Highway 316. By the time I reached the Athens loop, it was raining cats and dogs, as though Mother Nature was trying to send me a warning. I sipped coffee from my thermos, hoping caffeine would give me courage.

  Opening my umbrella, I made a dash for the cottage. Jeannette said Nana wasn’t pushing her to spend time here, knowing my mother would hire another companion soon. Thus, the cottage was empty.

  Once I’d donned my long dress, I rummaged in Nana’s hall closet to retrieve her giant UGA golf umbrella – red and black with the Georgia bulldog emblazoned on it. Nana’s blue-flowered gardening boots were in their usual spot on the back porch. I slipped them on, tucking my black shoes under my arm. Before stepping off the porch, I gathered my long skirt in my free hand, lifting it above my knees so it wouldn’t drag in the mud, and set off down the path.