Reaching Through Time

by Lurlene McDaniel

  Sarah took deep breaths, looked upward. The night sky was studded with stars. Thin wispy clouds skittered across the moon, which was huge, perfectly divided in half, one side aglow with luminous white light, the other half pitch black. It was either coming or going toward fullness. She didn’t know which.

  All at once an apparition appeared that stole her breath.

  She saw the ghostly features of a male face, his skin icy pale and his deep-set eyes clear as glass, the color of rain.

  Sarah jumped backward, her heart thudding uncontrollably. A chill sent shivers up her body and her blood turned cold. As quickly as the face had appeared, it dissolved. Only a trick of the night sky, she told herself. Wasn’t it? She turned, opened the door of her house and hurried into the warmth and light. I’ll see my Prince Charming tomorrow, she thought, and shut the door tight.

  For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: “It might have been!”

  —JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807–1892)

  1

  WANTED: Literate teen for summer work. Organized and efficient. Tasks include cataloging artifacts for college professor. Good hourly wage. Applicant must apply in person. 13 Sandstone Mountain.

  Drake Iverson looked at the ad for the first job he’d been interested in pursuing in his two-week-long daily search. Not a lot out there for sixteen-year-olds, especially sixteen-year-olds like him.

  He heard his mother clatter down the stairs of their townhome, and he glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall.

  She burst into the kitchen, throwing him a harried look. “I know I’m running late. The alarm didn’t go off—forgot to change the batteries, and I knew they were low.” She ran to the pot of coffee that Drake had already brewed and filled her travel mug. “Got to go.”

  “Whoa,” Drake said. He was sitting at the kitchen counter that jutted into the family room and served as their informal table. “There’s always time for breakfast.” That was what she always said to him when he was running late on school days.

  “Ha-ha,” she said.

  Drake shoved a protein bar toward her. “Eat this in the car, Mom. You’d never let me run off without breakfast.”

  She juggled her coffee mug and briefcase, snatched up the food bar, got to the doorway and paused. “You going to be all right all day alone?”

  “Haven’t I always been?”

  “You should go out and explore.”

  They’d been in Sanderson, North Carolina, for three weeks. His mother had taken a new and better job there in May and moved them to the town nestled in the Smokies as soon as Drake had finished his sophomore year. Drake knew she felt guilty about moving him away from Ohio and his school and his friends. It wasn’t a big deal to Drake. He’d only had a few friends anyway, and he could attend school anyplace. No love lost between him and Ohio. His consolation prize for the move had been his own car. It wasn’t hot or sporty, but it did give him mobility.

  “I’m going to take a look at this job in today’s paper. You know where Sandstone Mountain is?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “I’ll Google it.”

  “Be careful.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “Aren’t I always?”

  She came back to the table and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

  “I’ll start dinner,” he said, shrugging her off. “Spaghetti okay?”

  “Hamburger’s already thawed. You call me anytime.”

  She left and Drake slid off the stool and lurched awkwardly toward the desk and computer set up in the family room. He’d been born with cerebral palsy, a birth defect that marked him for life. His left leg was short, and underdeveloped muscles caused a permanent rocking limp. He was spastic, a crip, a gimp, a weirdo. He’d heard all of these terms for himself over the years from the perfectly formed, the physically elite. Many kids with CP were in worse shape; only one of Drake’s legs was affected. He had no learning problems, no uncontrollable tremors, no tendency to drool. Still he’d been branded a “retard” by those with fleshly symmetry.

  Drake turned on the computer and waited for it to boot up. In elementary school his mother had protected him as if he were her wounded wolf cub, even going so far as instituting a schoolwide CP Day to “spread understanding” when he’d been in the second grade. He remembered the embarrassment of being singled out, of hearing kids whisper about him in the halls and cafeteria. She’d meant well, but CP Day had been a nightmare for him. Once he’d hit middle and high school, the last thing he’d wanted was his mother hovering over him and running interference on his behalf. So he took the teasing and jabs from peers stoically.

  The computer screen glowed and Drake called up the Internet, then a map search of Sandstone Mountain. The mountain was sparsely populated, a mecca for wealthy summer residents, and houses were far apart, surrounded by woods. He found homes numbered twelve and fourteen, a good ten miles apart from one another. There was no number thirteen. He grumbled, wondered if the newspaper had given the wrong address, and printed a map. He’d go to both addresses and ask for the professor who’d placed the ad. It was probably a sit-down job, one a cripple like him could handle. He didn’t want to spend the summer trapped at home, but he wasn’t ready to try for an out-in-the-public grunt job either. He wanted this job.

  The road up Sandstone was paved—mostly. Drake drove carefully. He’d grown up in a flat part of Ohio, so he wasn’t used to the mountain curves. The higher he got, the rougher the road became. It went from paved to pea-rock to rutted dirt. He finally saw a sign that directed him to number thirteen and a hidden driveway. The Internet mapmakers had missed a house. At the foot of the hidden driveway, overgrown shrubs and vines halted his car. A handwritten sign on a fence gate read: NO AUTOS BEYOND THIS POINT. NO TRESPASSING.

  “Great. Just great,” Drake grumbled. He’d have to go the rest of the way on foot. Not easy, but he’d manage. He wedged his car into a weed-infested opening beside the dirt road and started up the path, hoping it wouldn’t be too difficult for him navigate. The air this high up was cooler than in the city, and felt good to him. He climbed, rounded a curve, edged a clump of trees and stopped short, breathing hard. His bad leg trembled with exertion. The view was amazing but had remained completely hidden until he’d come out of the bend in the path.

  A house built of gray river stone, with a long porch and a turret that jutted into the blue sky, stood on a stretch of manicured lawn bordered by a white picket fence. Blooming hydrangeas, their flowery heads drooping in the sun, surrounded the porch. The house was impressive—Drake had studied architecture, hoping to become an architect one day.

  He stood staring because the house and grounds looked picture-perfect, the colors so saturated and pure that the scene resembled a photograph. Thirteen Sandstone Mountain was a vision from another era.

  He made his way to a gate beneath a trellis heavy with wisteria vines and limped up a flagstone walkway to the porch, where he grabbed the handrail, pulled himself up the steps and rang the front bell.

  The door was opened by a portly man with a brown beard and bushy eyebrows. He smelled of pipe tobacco. “Yes?”

  “Um—I’m here about your ad,” Drake stammered. “The cataloging job.”

  The man eyed him. “You had no trouble finding my house?”

  “Drove right here,” Drake said. No need to mention that the Web maps had no record of the address. Plus, if anyone else applied, they might not be so lucky about finding the place.

  The man studied Drake keenly, then held out his hand. “I’m Avery Dennison, professor of archaeology at Harvard.”

  “Drake Iverson.”

  “Come in.”

  Drake stepped into the house. Its design and dark wood floor, doorframes and moldings were reminiscent of another century. “Wow,” he said, then caught himself and added, “Nice place. I—I like architecture.”

  “Our summer place,” the professor said. “We like to get out of Cambridge and the heat. I like the mountains.”<
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  Drake nodded. He hated adult small talk, but he wanted to make a good impression. “About the job,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. How old are you, Mr. Iverson?”

  “Almost seventeen. And I’m literate.”

  The professor chuckled. “I only wanted serious applicants.” Behind the professor, in the hallway, stood an ancient grandfather clock that chimed nine o’clock. Drake assumed it was wrong. He’d left his house at nine, and the drive had taken him forty minutes.

  Just then, a door in the back of the house opened and Drake saw someone approaching down the long shotgun-style hallway. A girl with an armload of flowers came into the foyer. The professor turned and stepped aside. “My daughter, Regina,” Professor Dennison said.

  All the air left Drake’s lungs. The girl was about his age, with white blond hair that fell past her shoulders, big blue eyes and the face of an angel.

  She smiled warmly at Drake. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” he managed to say.

  Dennison beamed his daughter a glorious smile. “Good news, Gina. I’ve just hired Mr. Iverson for the summer.”

  2

  Drake blinked. He had hardly gone through a real interview and yet just like that he’d been hired. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he was glad he’d gotten the job. “Um—thanks. What do you need me to do?”

  “Follow me.”

  “You’re not going to stick Drake in our nasty old basement, are you, Daddy?” Gina asked.

  “It’s not so terrible,” Dennison said. “Besides, it’s where the boxes of my artifacts are stored.”

  “I don’t mind,” Drake said, feeling his face heat up. Gina was so pretty; he wished she’d leave so that she wouldn’t have to see him follow with his limping, lurching gait.

  He’d never forget the day in seventh grade when Sheila Morgan had sidled up to him in the cafeteria and said, “Hey, you’re cute. Are you new?”

  Several schools had been funneled into the newly built middle and high school at that time. Drake had looked up from his textbook and half-eaten sandwich into her dark brown eyes. He’d never met her, but everybody knew Sheila, the most popular girl in the school. Drake had stammered and Sheila had glanced around at her clique of friends and said, “I may let you walk me to my next class.” The bevy of girls snickered and poked each other.

  And Drake momentarily forgot himself, stood up and stepped toward her. His chair teetered backward and he stumbled forward, catching himself on the table as his leg buckled. The look of disdain on Sheila’s face was one he’d never forgotten. She’d flipped her hair off her shoulder and said, “Maybe tomorrow,” and swished away, her friends buzzing around her like worker bees around the queen. Now, years later, he didn’t want to see that look cross Gina’s face.

  “Come on,” Dennison said.

  Gina stepped up next to Drake. He moved slowly, trying to control his rocking gait and conceal his handicap as much as possible.

  “Daddy is a dear,” Gina whispered. “But he’s a slave driver.” She smiled and Drake’s heart melted. She hardly seemed to notice the way he walked.

  The basement was down a flight of stone stairs that left Drake straining and his legs wobbly. He worried that the stairs might disqualify him from the job—and from Gina’s attention.

  The basement was lit by lamps—Tiffany lamps, he was certain of that—and a bare overhead bulb. Two tall stacks of brown boxes lined a back wall. A fire crackled in a small woodstove in a corner, mingling the smell of smoke with damp and must. Gina wrinkled her nose. “Daddy—”

  “This is fine, sir,” Drake said quickly. “All I need is direction.”

  “Yes, well, there’s a lot to do before we return to Harvard after Labor Day.”

  Gina leaned toward Drake. “I’ll bring fresh flowers for you every day.” She dropped the bundle she carried next to a cut-glass vase on an old table.

  “That’s nice of you. But I’ll be all right down here.”

  The professor walked to the stack of boxes and opened one, withdrawing an Indian arrowhead with a tag attached. “These are from an old archaeological dig in the Northeast. I need you to accurately record each artifact by date and tribe. These boxes represent the culture of tribes all the way to the Midwest, and the boxes are in a jumble, without order, so I need everything recorded legibly in chronological order. Most of the boxes have a date span marked on the outside, but every piece must be verified and matched to this master sheet.” He held up a sheaf of faded paper. “I’m writing a textbook, so accuracy matters.”

  Tedious work, Drake thought, but not difficult. “All right.” He glanced around the basement. “Where’s your computer?”

  “Our what?” Gina asked.

  “Everything must be recorded by hand in this book.” Dennison picked up a thick ledger with leather covers.

  “You’re serious?” Drake said before he could stop himself. “I can bring a laptop from home—”

  Dennison shook his head. “Sorry. There’s no way to get such things to work up here. This house isn’t wired for much more than basic electricity.”

  “I just need to plug it in and turn it on. I’ll record everything, save it to a file.”

  “No,” Dennison said firmly. “I want it done by hand.”

  Without a computer, the job took on a new complexity. “When can I start?” Drake hoped he sounded eager and enthusiastic, not the way he really felt about the job.

  “Start tomorrow,” Dennison said. “Be here by nine. Leave at four.”

  “I won’t be late.”

  Drake slid his cell phone from his pocket, checking the time. The screen was dark, which he thought odd because it had been fully charged when he’d left home. He understood that there might not be cell service up here, but he didn’t understand why the timekeeping function had stopped working. He shook the phone, embarrassed.

  “There is a grandfather clock upstairs. It will let you know when it’s four o’clock every day without fail.”

  Drake couldn’t imagine not depending on his cell, but he shrugged and said, “I’ll listen for it.”

  Back upstairs, Drake again looked at the clock. It appeared too old and decrepit to keep time, but the hands were pointing to eleven o’clock. He did some quick math—if he’d left home around eight-fifteen, arrived at nine according to the old clock and it now read eleven, the clock really was screwy. He couldn’t believe he’d been here two hours already. On cue, the clock chimed, the sound clear and melodious as a bell. He shook the professor’s hand.

  Gina opened the front door for him. “See you tomorrow.”

  Her smile was radiant, and Drake felt a tug on his heart. He returned to his car telling himself to stop imagining the impossible. Girls like Gina were dream fodder. He’d known since preschool that bias against the handicapped was never stronger than among his own kind.

  “I’m telling you, Mom, that house has to be seventy-five or eighty years old.” Drake and his mother sat at the kitchen counter eating spaghetti and meat sauce. He’d filled her in on his new job.

  “There are a lot of old houses in this area.”

  “Maybe so, but number thirteen didn’t look that old. I’m serious. The furniture looked new, the floors all shiny.”

  “It’s probably a replica. New builds can look old if the homeowner’s willing to spend the money,” his mother said. “Although I don’t care too much for your sitting in a damp basement all day. Promise you’ll take your lunch and eat outside in the sunshine.”

  Drake dropped his head in exasperation. “Mom, I’ve got a job to do—it’s not supposed to be a day at the beach. I want to keep this job.”

  “And I’m glad for you, but can it hurt to take some time for lunch outside?”

  Drake recognized her protective instincts, so he changed the subject. “Listen, communication isn’t the best up there.” Who was he kidding? It was nonexistent. “No cell service, no wireless. They may not even have a phone. This guy likes his privacy.”


  She frowned. “I don’t like knowing we can’t get hold of each other.”

  “I’ll send up smoke signals if you want.”

  She eyed him humorlessly. “What’s this man paying you to sit in his basement and wade through old musty boxes?”

  Drake felt heat crawl up his neck. He’d never asked. How could he confess that Gina had distracted him to the point that he’d have taken the job for free? No need to mention Gina to his mother at this time. “Enough,” he said. “It isn’t rocket science.”

  “Is this how you really want to spend your summer? In a basement by yourself pawing through artifacts instead of having fun, maybe meeting kids you’ll be going to school with?”

  People who were perfectly formed couldn’t identify with people like him. Drake had CP. He was broken. Damaged. Invisible to most of the able-bodied. “Yes,” Drake said firmly. “This is exactly what I want to do.”

  3

  The next morning, Drake parked his car in the brush and retraced his steps from the day before to the great house. The house looked razor sharp against the brilliant blue sky. Gina waited at the gate beneath the trellis, the purple wisteria swaying in the early summer breeze above her head. She waved and he grinned and waved back.

  “Hi,” she said, swinging the gate open for him. “We have a surprise for you.”

  She was his surprise. “I like surprises.”

  She fell into step next to him. He felt awkward at first, but once more, she didn’t seem to care how crazily he walked. Inside the house, she called, “Daddy, Drake’s here.” She led Drake into the first room off the hallway. “This used to be the dining room, but with only me and Daddy living here, it was expendable. We turned it into a library, and now, your workroom.”

  The room glowed sunny and bright from a large bow window. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases stretched along one wall, and a long oak table had been set up in the middle of the room. Boxes were stacked like steps on a third wall.