Time Tantrums

by Ginger Simpson

  “Good morning, Sunshine. Did you sleep well?” David seemed perky.

  “Actually, I didn’t. I’m more confused than ever.”

  “What about, honey?”

  She feared telling him she’d gotten out of bed, but there was no other way to ask her questions without confessing. “About what’s out there.” She pointed toward the window.

  “Outside?” He glanced to the blinds then back at her.

  “I looked out last night because I wanted to see what caused the lights.” She paused and waited for his explanation.

  “Taylor, sweetie, you know you aren’t supposed to be out of bed yet. Not until the doctor says.”

  Mariah bristled at his continuing use of endearing terms and the strange name, but didn't mention it. At the moment, getting the answers she needed was more important than anything else. “David, help me understand where I am.”

  “You’re in St. Anthony’s Hospital. The doctor told you that. Don’t you remember?”

  “I know that, but all around me are things I don’t understand, things I’ve never seen before.”

  “Give me an example.” He cocked his head and stared at her.

  “You, the moving lights outside, the tall buildings, the roads, this place… all the strange contraptions. I don’t recognize any of this.”

  He grasped her hand. “The doctor said it would take time.”

  She recoiled from his touch. “Time? How much time? Not remembering you is one thing, but how could I forget buildings and those light things? What are they? I hear squealing like suffering pigs, and other sounds I can’t even describe. I’ve never heard them before in my life. How could a body forget all that?” Her mouth went dry.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” His brow furrowed. “I want to help you remember, but show me what you’re talking about. Let me help you to the window.”

  He lifted her off the bed and she didn't struggle. For a moment, being in his arms offered a feeling of security, but they weren't Frank's, and the sensation faded as fast as it'd surfaced. She stiffened.

  David wasn’t her husband, and she couldn't pretend differently. If she had memory loss, why was everything about her family so fresh in her mind?

  He carried her across the room and placed her in a chair. With a yank on a string, he caused the slats to collapse and rise to the top of the window. She stared up, her mouth agape.

  Afraid to look out, she hesitated, but David helped her stand. Her fingers gripped the sill as she forced herself to peer through the glass. Daylight had erased all the colored lights from last night. The large sign was now just words and a picture of a beautiful woman holding a glass of yellow liquid. Mariah glanced at the street below. No moving lights, now just a myriad of darting colors. Still, what she saw made no sense.

  “Those, those.” She clung to the sash with one hand and pointed to the objects below with the other. “What are those?”

  David shot her a worried look. “Do you mean the cars? " He slowly shook his head. "Oh, sweetheart, maybe we shouldn't wait for the doctor. If you are trying to tell me you don’t remember what a car is, this is a little more memory loss than I suspected.”

  Mariah turned from the window and stomped her foot. “Don’t you think if I’d seen something like this before that I’d remember? Why won’t you believe me? There is nothing wrong with my memory. My name is Mariah Cassidy. My husband’s name is Frank. I have two children, and I live on the Rocking C Ranch.”

  David wrung his hands for a moment before patting her shoulder. “Wait right here. I’m going to ask the nurse to call the doctor. We need to sit down and discuss your prognosis. I’ll be right back.”

  She was near tears when he left the room. How could she get him to listen? She turned back to the window and stared at the sky. Please, Lord, tell me what day this is. How long have I been here? She walked back to the bed and climbed in. Rolling to her side, she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She wanted to sleep, wake up and have everything be as she remembered. A tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the pillow. “Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, where are you?”

  * * * *

  She kept her back to David when he returned. Although she didn’t want him to see her cry, her sniffling gave her away.

  “It’s okay. Don’t cry, honey. Dr. Shaw will be here soon. Maybe we can get some answers for you.” David patted her hip in a gesture she considered far too familiar. She slid from beneath his touch and turned to face him. “What day is this? What year? How long have I been here?” Time had come for some answers.

  “Maybe we should wait for the doctor.” David’s throat jiggled with a hard swallow.

  “How long have I been here? I want to know!” Mariah's demand bordered on hysteria.

  “Okay, okay." David displayed his palms in surrender. "Calm down. You’ve been here for almost three weeks. Today is May 28, 2002. Why?”

  Chapter Seven

  Colorado Territory--1872

  “Oh shit, I’m still here!”

  Taylor fell back against her pillow and sighed. If all this was some kind of joke, she didn't find it a bit funny. This morning, she'd hoped to wake up in her own bedroom next to the husband she knew. Her patience waned and her body tenses. Although Frank seemed nice, he wore on her nerves. Every time she asked for something, he pretended not to understand her meaning. As soon as she felt a little steadier on her feet, her first priority was to find the phone and call for a taxi. If only she could find her clothes. She sat on the bed's edge until she was able to stand.

  Listening for footsteps and hearing none, she decided to explore the strange, antiquated room. She crossed to the armoire, and passing the mirror, glanced at her reflection. Her eyes were still discolored, but lighter hues of purple and yellow shone beneath them. She leaned in for a closer look. “It’s funny how swollen eyes can make you look completely different. I don’t even look like the same person.”

  Taylor started to open the armoire door, but an odd image flashed through her mind. What color hair had she just seen? Removing her hand from the knob, she took three steps backwards to the mirror. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped. “Red?” She fingered the coppery strands. “I don’t have red hair! Oh my God, this is so not funny.”

  “Frank! Frank," she screamed. "You get in here right now!” She opened the door “Frank," she hollered again. "Do you hear me?”

  He climbed the stairs at a breathless pace, his cobalt blue eyes clouded with panic. “Heavenly days, Mariah. What’s the matter?”

  Taylor stomped her foot. “For the umpteenth time, my name is not Mariah, and this joke has gone far enough. Who in the hell dyed my hair?”

  Frank seemed to ponder her question then rolled his eyes. “Is that what all this is about? For heaven sakes, you’ve always had red hair.” His voice deepened in annoyance.

  “Like hell I have.” She looked around for something to throw. Not seeing anything she could readily pick up, she wagged a finger at him. “Now you listen to me. I like my blonde highlights and so does my husband. I hate red hair, and I’m getting really tired of this whole charade. I have better things to do with my time than play games. I have a life. I have a job. I’m pretty sure everyone wonders where in the hell I am. I don’t expect you even called my office, did you?”

  Frank stood toe-to-toe with her. The veins in his neck bulged. “Now looky here, lady. There’s only so much a body can stand and I’m getting pretty gol’ darned fed up with this myself. It’s hard sittin' around and waiting' for you to get your memory back. The kids are haven' a pretty hard time with it, too. Because of your injuries, we missed the spring dance that Callie counted on. She was sorely disappointed, but that didn’t keep her from worrying' about you none. We have lives, too, you know? That dance was important to her, but she didn’t complain. Now, you repay all her worrying' by bein' rude. This isn’t easy on any of us. We’ve all put everything on hold to take care of you and help you recover. I can
’t even let Jacob come up here because I don’t want him exposed to your nasty temper and vile mouth.”

  “Nasty temper? Vile mouth? You haven’t seen anything yet, buster.” She scanned the room. “Where is my purse? I need to get my day planner out and find a phone number.”

  “There you go with that ‘phone’ thing again.” His voice rose. “What ever it is, we don’t have one. Get it through your head. And what the heck is a day planner?”

  Exasperated, Taylor clomped to the armoire and yanked the door open. She glanced over her shoulder. “Would you leave? I’m getting dressed.”

  She turned back and couldn’t believe what she saw. “What the hell kind of clothes are these?” She examined the length and fingered the cottony material. “What happened to the outfit I had on? I just bought it. It’s a designer label, not one of these... these milkmaid costumes.”

  Frank had his hand on the doorknob, but he spun around and walked back to the center of the room. He glared at her. “Dadgummit, woman! You have me so confused and frustrated I don’t even know what name to call you. Nothing you say makes any sense at all. You don’t like anything around here, and you’re just downright unpleasant. I’d send for the doc, but he can’t do anything for hysterical women. Since he’s due back here tomorrow to check on you, can we just make peace until then?”

  Taylor clenched her fists, her anger matching Frank’s, but she mellowed and threw her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll wait for your doctor, although I doubt it’s going to make any difference. But, tomorrow is the last day I’m putting up with this shit. I want my clothes and I want out of here.” She plopped on the bed and crossed her arms.

  Frank marched back to the door, opened it, but glanced over his shoulder. “Go ahead and act like a sulking child if it helps. We’ll see what the doc has to say tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d appreciate if you'd refrain from sin' cuss words. You never used them before and a filthy mouth really isn’t ladylike.” He walked out and closed the door before she had a chance to respond.

  “Well, I never. How dare he tell me how to talk?” She pounded her fists into the soft, feather bed. “How dare he tell me to do anything! He’s nothing to me.”

  She stopped and took a deep breath. Calm down, Taylor. Breathe deeply. She bent to peek under the bed, still searching for her purse. “Damn it, nothing but dust. Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

  “Do you hear me, Frank? I’m cussing,” she yelled toward the door.

  She slid off the bed, crossed to the mirror, bent in and examined her face. She ran fingers over lips that appeared much wider than she remembered. Maybe they were swollen like her eyes. Fingering her hair again, she sneered at her reflection. “God, I hate red. It even feels different…not as thick.”

  She glanced down at her body. The baggy nightgown she wore hid any curves she recalled. She pulled the waist tight and stood on tiptoes to see her reflection. Her breasts looked smaller. How strange.

  Her stomach roiling, she sat back on the bed, rested her head in her hands and pondered all the strange things going on. Maybe someone in a higher position could help. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. Please, God. I know you may not know me very well, but I really need help right about now. I’m beginning to think I’ve gone crazy.

  * * * *

  A commotion sounded outside. Taylor pushed the curtain aside and peeked. Doc Samuels arrived in some weird-looking contraption right out of the musical, Oklahoma. She almost heard strains of the song, “Surrey with the Fringe on Top”. She let the curtain fall back into place and plopped down on the bed. “Great! I wonder what kind of cornball remedy he’ll come up with today,” she grumbled.

  Within minutes, Frank walked in with the doctor on his heels. “Look, dear, it’s Doc Samuels.”

  Taylor clapped her hands in a mocking manner. “Oh goody, goody. Now I can get my memory back and go home.”

  Doc Samuels peered over the top of his spectacles. “Well, Missy, I see you’re still having problems rememberin’ things. Your husband tells me you’ve been acting a might bit stranger than before.”

  “Strange?" Taylor huffed. "I’ll tell you what’s strange. I’ve spent an enormous amount of precious time in this... this hole in the wall. There are no conveniences. I can’t call home, I can’t call work, my clothes are gone, and some asshole dyed my hair red.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows peaked. “Well I swear, Mariah, I’ve never heard you use such language. Calm down and let’s talk about this home you keep referrin’ to. You mention work? Where exactly do you think you work?”

  “I don't think, I know." She lifted a defiant chin. "I’m an attorney for Fennster and Smith. I live in a three-bedroom townhouse with my husband, David Morgan. What else do you want to know?” She chewed on a ragged thumbnail, then glanced at her hands and frowned. "God, what happened to my manicure?"

  Doc Samuel's brow arched as he cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “An attorney, eh? My, my! This townhouse...is that a special kind of cabin or home?”

  Taylor stood. “Oh c’mon! Everyone knows what a townhouse is.” The shrillness in her voice reflected her frustration as she glared down at the pudgy little man. “Honestly, are you people living in the dark ages here? It’s 2002. Get with the program.”

  Frank’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “What year did you say?”

  Chapter Eight

  Denver, Colorado--2002

  Mariah gasped. “It can’t be! What do you mean 2002? It can’t be, it just can’t be.”

  David patted her shoulder. “Honey, calm down. What year do you think it is?”

  “I don’t want to calm down. Tell me you’re joshing. It can’t be 2002. I know it’s May, but the year is 1872.”

  His eyes widened. “Taylor, you’re scaring me. Tell me you’re kidding!”

  “I’m serious, and I really am Mariah. Why can’t you understand that? It’s 1872. I was born on March 7, 1837. If it was truly 2002, I would be long dead and buried.”

  “Tayl... Mariah. I don’t even know what to call you.” The color drained from his face. “Listen to what you’re saying. There is no possible way that could be. Look at your hands and arms. Do you see the skin of someone over a hundred years old? Do I look like someone who lives in 1872? Look around you at all the modern conveniences. None of this existed in the 1870s.”

  He made sense and that frightened her. Her stomached knotted. All the things around her were strange, including him. Tears welled. “I know that, David, but I’m from 1872, and all this scares me to death. If I am really your wife, why are all the things I remember about another time, another life and another husband?”

  David rubbed her hand. “I don’t have an answer.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment. “But I do have an idea. If you really are Mariah, then describe yourself to me.”

  “Why would you ask me to do that? You’re looking right at me.”

  He shook his head. “No! I’m looking at Taylor Morgan.”

  Mariah exhaled in a long sigh. Would this nightmare ever end?

  “Go ahead, Mariah... if that’s your name. Describe yourself.”

  His mocking tone bothered her, but what would it hurt to describe herself? She decided to play along. “All right. I’m five feet, three inches tall. I have long red hair, green eyes, and a birthmark on my left shoulder.”

  He didn’t speak, but stared at her and shook his head. “Wrong! You are totally wrong.”

  “How can I be? I certainly know what I look like.”

  David walked to the other side of the bed, removed the box of tissues and water glass from the tray table, and opened the top to reveal a mirror. He turned it toward her. “Look at yourself and tell me what you see.”

  Mariah’s mouth gaped. There was some bruising on the face… but the eyes… the lips. She leaned closer and touched the cheek reflected in the mirror. She felt the touch, but it wasn’t her face. A small bandage on her forehead didn’t hide the fact that the hair she saw was n
ot red like hers—it was brown with blonde streaks. Until recently, a huge dressing had hid most of it from her sight. As if willing the strange reflection to go away, she slammed the tabletop shut. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” she groaned.

  David reached around and untied the back of her gown. Her modesty offended, she grabbed the neckline and held it tight. “What are you doing?” Panic tinged her voice.

  “Don’t worry. I only want to have a look at your left shoulder.”

  She relaxed her grasp on the gown and leaned forward, certain she was about to be vindicated, but her mind still whirring from what she’d seen.

  He pulled the material down and inspected her shoulder.

  “You see it, don’t you? It’s almost a perfect clover shape.” She craned her neck, trying to see what she knew was there.

  David shook his head and re-tied her gown. “Nope. No birthmark.”

  Mariah covered her face and broke into sobs. There had to be an explanation, but what? Whose face had she seen in the mirror? It certainly wasn’t hers.

  David perched on the bedside and took her in his arms. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed you. Please don’t cry, honey. We’ll get you better, I promise.”

  He kissed the top of her head and rocked her back and forth until her tears ebbed. Finally, she relaxed in his embrace. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips. For the moment it didn’t matter who he was; she needed his comforting.

  He leaned her back against her pillows and wiped the glistening tears from her cheeks. “Honey, it’s going to be all right. First you need to let your body heal, then we can get some professional help for you.”

  Mariah pulled the blanket up to her chin, rolled away from him and stared at the wall. She pondered his reference to professional help. What kind of help was that? Nothing made sense.