by Nancy Loyan
“Come on, Faith, Just tell the police the truth. I never laid a hand on you. You know I didn’t.” His voice was getting high pitched as it did when he was annoyed.
“Maybe you just hired someone else to do your dirty work, as usual.”
He stared at her in silence, his eyes growing darker.
She looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. What she had seen as ambition was really greed in disguise. What she had seen as pride had been selfishness. He didn’t inquire as to her welfare or her whereabouts. He didn’t ask why she was wearing a hat when she had never worn hats. He was only concerned about saving himself. One would display more concern for a pet than he displayed toward her. After all those years of marriage “Come off it, Faith. What have you been doing, reading detective novels? Why would I want you dead?” He rested his elbows on the table.
“A new wifey, for starters and how about the insurance money?” She was stone-faced.
“Oh, that. If you look into it, I also purchased a policy for myself at the same time.” He snickered.
“With a double indemnity clause?”
“Both policies are the same. I swear it.”
“What hood did you hire to sabotage my car?”
He made a fist and banged it on the table. “You want the truth, I’ll give you the truth. I didn’t hire anyone. Dammit, it was meant for me.”
“What are you saying?”
His face went scarlet. “They thought it was my car.”
The revelation made her feel a bit better, if he was telling the truth. The truth and Brad were an oxymoron. Maybe his mobster clients had a bone to pick with him and decided to take matters in their own hands. Both she and Brad drove identical cars. Mistakes could happen. If that were the case, she surmised that he was probably better off in jail. If he were released it would be open season again. She knew that Brad had more to worry about than a divorce and an attempted murder rap. Not only was his comfy existence at stake, but his life as well.
“Faith, tell them the truth and I’ll be free.”
“Free, huh?” She shook her head.
“I need to get out of here,” he said, lowering his voice.
“What about me, Brad?”
“The divorce settlement will take care of you.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Faith, stop this nonsense. You know I never wanted to see you dead.”
“Do I?” She stood, her gaze focused on him.
Brad jumped out of his chair so fast it fell back to the floor with a thud.
“Come on, Faith!” he pleaded.
As she turned her back to walk away, the door to the office opened. An armed bailiff entered in time to see Brad’s lunging hands poised at the back of Faith’s neck.
Chapter 12
“I’ve never been so confused in my entire life,” Faith lamented over a cup of cappuccino. She glanced across at Clarice who sat sipping mineral water as the conversations buzzed around them in the cramped coffee shop.
“Honey, we go back quite a ways. You’ve been confused a lot.”
“I know.” Faith cracked a smile. “You were my first friend when I arrived in San Francisco.”
“You needed a friend. No one in their right mind would have chosen to teach in the Tenderloin.” Clarice arched her thin brows.
“The pay was good.”
“You were young, white, and all wrong.”
“I thought I was right.”
“It turned out that way. I couldn’t believe your determination and the way you stood up to those hoodlums and gained their respect. I thought, surely, you’d be beaten to a pulp or worse. I wasn’t gonna see it happen.”
“It didn’t. Thanks for being the first staff member and black person to stand up for me. Here you are, standing up for me again.”
“Because I know you’d do the same for me. You did help me. Remember how you talked me out of that abusive relationship? Without you I never would’ve met Reggie.”
“He’s a good guy, solid like an oak.” Faith grinned. Reggie was built like a tree, too. Pumping iron was part of a fireman’s routine and he was one of San Francisco’s finest. While speaking to her class on fire safety, Faith introduced him to Clarice. The sparks ignited and after five years and two kids, they were still a loving pair. Faith sighed. If only she was so lucky.
“You know, one day you’re gonna meet Mr. Right. Maybe you already have and don’t know it.” Clarice cupped her hands around her glass.
Faith laughed. She hadn’t laughed in a long time and it felt good.
“One thing’s for certain, I met Mr. Wrong,” Faith said, her smile fading into scorn.
“I still can’t believe Brad would want you dead.”
“Brad denies it. Claims he was the intended victim. With some of the low lives he deals with I can almost believe it.”
“With Brad, anything’s possible.”
“Brad wouldn’t kill me?” Faith looked into Clarice’s eyes seeking some assurance.
“He would divorce you.” Clarice’s gaze was a steadfast as her manner. “You know, silly as it seems, isn’t it rather just revenge having him sit in jail after all the hell he’s put you through?”
“I’m not a vengeful person.” Faith folded her arms on the table in front of her. “Clarice, what are you driving at?”
“If he was my man, I’d keep him in jail for a while. He’s an attorney, after all, let him change places with his clients. Make him sweat.”
“Unless I step in and prove otherwise, they’re holding him as a suspect in my attempted murder.”
“And wouldn’t you be afraid having him out and about? If he did mess with your car, what could he do next?”
“Clarice, you are so bad, you’re good.”
Clarice laughed, tossing her fluffy hair over her shoulder. “Been there, done that.”
“I do need some time, time to research this belief that I’ve been back in time.”
“You really do believe it, don’t you?”
“What did you think?”
“That it was the head injury, but now that you’re back to normal — ”
“Don’t say it. I need to research this stuff.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“What if I’m right?”
• • •
Faith gathered a spiral notebook, pencils and pens in her leather attaché and made a visit to the Main Public Library. She hoped that among the heaving shelves of musty old books, yards of microfilm, and yellowed archival photographs she would find the answers to the questions that nagged at her mind.
A craggy librarian, who looked old enough to have experienced the great earthquake firsthand, was eager to offer assistance. Harry considered himself an expert on “the big one” and “the great fire” and was more than willing to share his knowledge and research. He and Faith hunched over stacks of books, poring over dusty pages, seeking information. Book after book on early San Francisco, books that had survived the catastrophe, some with leather binding that had been singed, opened up a world that had been vividly portrayed in her mind. The familiarity and sense of place and time returned.
Faith donned white cotton gloves in order to handle the most fragile manuscripts and photographs. She told Harry that she was conducting a genealogy search for ancestors, knowing that he would never understand her true purpose.
Little did Faith know that days would pass before she would find answers to her questions. She ambled into the library frustrated over their lack of progress. Maybe it was all a futile effort to try to recreate a past that never actually existed in reality, only in her head.
Harry met her with a sly twinkle in his gray eyes. A smile beamed on his drawn and wrinkled face and he had a skip in his step as he greeted her.
“You’ll have to sit down for this one,” he said, raking a hand through his thinning gray hair.
Faith trembled as she pulled out a chair and sat at the solid oak table. Bracing hersel
f for shocking revelations, she met his gaze. “Let me have it.”
“Miss Donahue, I’ve been doing a great deal of work on my own for you and have come up with some interesting results.” He placed an overflowing folder of papers and photographs on the table.
Withdrawing a photograph from the folder, Harry handed it to her with a broad grin.
“Oh, Harry.” Faith gasped as she took the photograph.
The sepia-toned photograph showed in exquisite detail a majestic Queen Anne Victorian with its turret, ornate trim, and front porch. She would have recognized the house anywhere. Flipping over the photograph, the words in fine script read, “92 Sacramento Street, Circa. 1908.”
Each minute detail was vividly captured by the photographer’s lens. From the front garden with flowering cherry trees to the porch furnished in fine wicker. The porch had wicker furnishings! When she saw it in 1906, it was bare. Confused, she closed her eyes trying to remember more about the house as it was versus the way it was now. Seeing the house was a good start, she realized, but didn’t tell very much about its owners.
“Here’s another one.” Harry handed her another photograph.
She set down the photo of the house and reached for the next one. The photograph also featured the home’s exterior but a man was standing in front of it. He was tall and dapper in a double-breasted suit with straight-cut trousers that accented his lithe frame. A bowler hat with a curled brim was set on his head, a head held high with regal elegance. His stance made her tremble. She squinted to decipher the features of his face. There was no mistaking him.
“Doctor Ian Forrester,” she muttered, heat enveloping her.
“Hey, you’re right,” Harry said. “Says so right on the back.”
She turned over the photograph. “Doctor Ian Forrester” was written in flowery script.
“Oh, Harry.” She looked up at him, tears misting her eyes. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
He was real. Doctor Ian Forrester really existed and he looked much the same as she remembered. This wasn’t a head-injury-induced fantasy. This was real. She went back in time. She actually went back in time!
“There’s more,” Harry said with glee in his voice. He reached into the file and gingerly removed a crinkled, yellowed newspaper. “Better be careful with this one.”
Faith carefully took the newspaper and set it down on the table. The ornate type revealed it to be the obituary page. She took a deep breath, grateful and yet fearful of what she might read.
Ian Andrew Forrester, M.D., Esteemed Physician, Husband, and Father
Seeing his name in newsprint made her heart pump faster, her body warm and shivering at the same time. Doctor Forrester was a real person who lived and died. She read the impressive first paragraph of his obituary, a biography chronicling the life of a well-educated and well-respected man. Yet, it hadn’t captured the essence of the man she had known. His arrogance, humor, stubbornness, and deep love and devotion to his son were absent. Tears swelled in her eyes. He was dead. Somehow, she had managed to meet him when he was young and alive. She wondered why, of all the people who had resided in San Francisco during 1906, she had met him.
As she continued reading, one line glued her to her seat.
Survived by his wife, Faith Donahue Forrester, son Andrew James Forrester, and daughter Clarice Forrester Williams.
Faith Donahue Forrester? She was married to him? How? When she left, they had barely been on speaking terms.
“Oh my God!” Faith gasped loud enough for other patrons to turn around and stare at her in the quiet library. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Faith Donahue Forrester!
“If you think that’s something, look at what else I found,” Harry said, proud of his success. He handed her a yellowed photograph.
Faith took the photograph. Her eyes focused on it in total disbelief. It was a family portrait of the Forresters posed in front of 92 Sacramento Street. The husband was standing tall in his suit and bowler hat, the wife in a simple shirtwaist with a plumed hat perched on her head. Two young children stood in front of them. The little boy was a duplicate of his father. The little girl with the curly locks was barely out of diapers. Faith yearned to scream but put her knuckles in her mouth to suppress the urge.
“Your grandparents, huh?” Harry asked. “You’re the spitting image of your grandmother.”
Faith stared, eyes transfixed on the photograph. There was no denying it. The woman in the photograph was she. She was Mrs. Ian Forrester. She was the one Doctor Forrester held about the waist. Andrew was holding hands with his sister, her child. She had a child, the little girl she dreamed of and thought she’d never meet. The house was their house. Faith began to shake so badly she could hardly stay in her seat.
“Is something wrong?” Harry asked, concern wrinkling his brow.
“I … I’ll be fine. I’m just shocked, that’s all,” Faith mumbled.
“It’s against policy but I’ll go get you some water anyway. I won’t have you fainting on me.” Harry said.
When he left, Faith stashed the family photograph in her deep jacket pocket, covering it with a tissue. So Harry wouldn’t notice, she neatly rearranged his file of archival information and photographs.
She drew a deep breath and opened her notebook. She had enough information to continue her search if she so desired. There were burial plot numbers, names and addresses. After what she learned, she wondered if further research was necessary. There was no doubt in her mind. She had, indeed, traveled back through time. With her discovery came more confusion. If her destiny was back in the San Francisco of 1906, what was she doing in the San Francisco of 2006?
Chapter 13
“Sure does look like you,” Clarice said, comparing the woman in the photograph to Faith, seated at her side in her car.
“It is me.”
“This is strange. I never would’ve believed you if I hadn’t seen this, the writing on the back, and the photocopy of the obituary.” Clarice shook her head.
“Well, do you believe me now?” Faith asked with a grin.
“It doesn’t seem possible. The resemblance, though, is remarkable. The name is more than coincidental. The little girl even has my name.” Her eyes met Faith’s, bewildered and puzzled.
“That’s why I want you to go with me to the cemetery today.”
“You know how I don’t like cemeteries.” Clarice tapped the steering wheel with her long airbrushed nails.
“Look on the bright side, you aren’t being buried there.” Faith chuckled.
Clarice rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’ll tell you, this has to be the strangest stuff I’ve ever heard of or seen. Now tell me, what are you gonna do when you see your name on the headstone? Have the body dug up?”
• • •
At the cemetery, they hiked over grassy knolls on a mission. Faith perused a plot map she obtained from the cemetery’s office. She and Clarice stepped over the modern, flat headstones, avoiding the old projecting ones in search of the Forrester family plot.
“Let’s see, Row 2, Section 5,” Faith said.
“After this, I think I’m gonna ask to be cremated,” Clarice said, drawing her trench coat closed tight against her chest.
The breeze was kicking up and a misty chill filled the morning air. Fitting weather for a stroll through a deserted cemetery. Weekday mornings, between holidays, were quiet except for the occasional parade of limousines, hearses, and mourners.
“Aha!” Faith squealed upon sighting a granite monument of an angel with spread wings protecting the plot beneath. The inscription at the base was engraved FORRESTER.
Clarice moved to Faith’s side. Faith pointed to the row of headstones and became somber, her bottom lip trembling as she read the names.
“Ian Andrew Forrester,” Faith said. “He was eighty when he died.”
Clarice set her hand on Faith’s shoulder.
“Faith Donahue Forrester,” Faith read, feeling nauseous. “She
was seventy-five and died shortly after the doctor.”
“Of a broken heart?”
Faith looked up, tears swelling in her eyes. “Clarice, I’m going to die at age seventy-five.”
Clarice scoffed. “This is ridiculous. How do you know? That Faith died years ago. You’re alive now, standing here with me.”
“But, if I go back in time I’ll live until age seventy-five. Can’t you see?”
“This isn’t making sense. Pretty soon I’ll be losing it.” Clarice turned away.
Faith reached out and grasped her by the shoulders. “Please, Clarice, I had to let you know about this. Someone has to know. When I vanish next time you’ll know where I am and know that I’m safe and leading a long life.”
Clarice spun around to face her. “You plan on disappearing again?”
“I don’t know how or when. The obituary, the photograph, the headstone all seem to say that my destiny is back in 1906.”
“It seems to say. Isn’t there anyone who’s alive who can settle this once and for all? You’re relying on a bunch of old papers and stuff.”
“Well.” Faith turned toward the row of weathered headstones. “Our daughter died just fifteen years ago. If only I could have known her as a grown woman.”
Faith drew a deep breath of misty air, feeling sickened by all the death and grieving, all of the morbid thoughts filling her confused mind.
“Wait, there isn’t a headstone for Andrew. I wonder what happened to Andrew.”
Clarice grabbed her arm. “Oh, please. Let’s get out of here. This situation is getting creepier by the minute.”
• • •
Harry at the library had dug up information on another survivor. Andrew Forrester was still alive. Though partially deaf and blind, he had lived independently until about ten years ago when a hip fracture sent him to the nursing home.
Hospitality Home was nestled in the suburban environment of commercial businesses and restaurants outside of Oakland. Surrounded by the living, the home was inhabited by those closer to dying. Faith viewed nursing homes as a sort of purgatory for those hovering between life and death. Though Hospitality Home was lovely and well-managed and neither reeked of urine nor had patients strapped in wheelchairs, the mood was still depressing.
