Naked in the Winter Wind

by Dani Haviland

  “Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am; I’ll do that, ma’am,” she said mechanically, realizing after the fact that she sounded like an idiot with all of those ‘ma’ams’ echoing out of her still stunned, empty head.

  Ӂ Ӂ Ӂ

  Leah’s shift was over, and she was more than ready to be back to that little white-walled apartment she called home. She carried the little beige plastic tub that held the personal effects of the young woman who had been her charge for less than an hour this morning. She was certain that the woman was her mother, but she had no proof, and there was no one whom she could trust to tell her suspicions to. But it was a moot point. The patient was gone, and with her, any evidence she might have had that could connect her with her mother’s disappearance.

  Was she or wasn’t she? Who would believe that the young, mysterious Jane Doe was her sixty-year-old mother? She could hardly believe it herself. She really didn’t know for sure whether she believed it. Her mind was going in circles. She didn’t even remember the ride home. She had been driving solely on response to the stimuli of traffic lights and conditions.

  Leah unlocked her front door and went straight to the kitchen cabinet. She grabbed the new bottle of McCallum whisky and the old Flintstones cut-glass cup. It was her favorite cup for drinking. It was the last one left of the set her mother had given her as a house-warming gift for the playhouse she had built for her when she was six. She poured out a healthy splash of the high-dollar-but-worth-it single malt whisky. “Slante! Here’s to you, Mom, wherever or whenever you are.”

  Leah pulled the green calico Colonial-style dress out of the plastic bin. She held it up, sniffed it, realized what she was doing, and sniffed it again without reservations. No one was around to make fun of her for the odd behavior. “Yup, smells like Mom all right.” She fingered the neckline and noticed the fine hand stitching on the buttonholes. “Bone buttons, hmm, those could be dated. Yeah, but you can buy antique buttons, and it’s still possible to make a dress without a sewing machine. What else is there? Ho Kay; talkin’ to yerself are ye? Jest like yer mudder. Well, mudder, what did ye leave me besides this sweaty dress.”

  Leah poured another couple fingers of whisky into the cup before investigating the scant contents of the tub. She took a small sip, enjoying the feel of the cool liquid on her upper lip, before she relaxed her lower jaw and let the sharp yet smooth fluid burn down her throat until it settled warmly in her empty stomach. She set the cup down on the table and nearly knocked it over when she couldn’t pull her fingers out of the handle.

  She picked up the dress and held it up as if it were a mannequin, and danced around the small kitchen-living-and-dining room combination. “Some enchanted evening, you may meet a stranger,” she sang. “Yeah right; they don’t come much stranger than Dr. Em, do they? Hey, what’s this?” she asked of nobody but herself since she was her only company tonight.

  “Ooh, a nice, crusty snot rag.” She suddenly realized what a treasure it might be. “DNA! Looks like Abby and the forensics lab will get a challenge with this one!”

  She ambled over to the chair and plopped down hard. The whisky had definitely relaxed her uptight muscles and was clarifying her muddy-water mind. She put her elbows on the table and dropped her forehead into her hands. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She pulled her head back and sat up with a renewed confidence.

  “Well, I didn’t cry the first time you disappeared, and I’m not going to cry this time either. You were alive a few hours ago, and I know you’re still alive. I can’t cry for the living now, can I?”

  She looked over at the plastic tote on the table, and there it was: the green-eyed pixie box. The smartphone was identical to the one her mother had when she came to visit ten months ago, the twin of the solar powered prototype she carried in her pocket now. Could this be the same one?

  Leah picked it up and closed her eyes tightly. She rubbed her thumb next to the micro USB port and found it: the telltale roughness of an engraving. She got up and hurried to the bathroom, nearly tripping over her feet, which seemed to have grown a size with each swallow of her drink. She grabbed the talcum powder and walked back to the table, slower this time, and with one hand on the wall to steady herself. She tipped out a small amount of powder onto the table, dipped her index finger into it, and rubbed some of it into the irregular surface next to the port.

  And there they were. The initials DUM were visible, small and now bright white. Danielle Ursula Madigan.

  She wiped the excess powder onto the leg of her scrubs and relaxed into the chair, relieved that she wasn’t going crazy. She looked back and saw the steady green light was on. The smartphone was charged and hopefully still functional. “Well, what little treasures do you hold, my wee black box?” she asked, holding the phone by the edges. “Talk to me.”

  END

  Preview of AYE, I AM A FAIRY follows.

  Aye, I am a Fairy

  Preface

  August 12, 1781

  “Dang, I wish there was a way I could call Leah; tell her I was sorry I had to leave, that I loved her so much, but that she had three infant siblings in the 18th century who I had to go back and take care of, that she was an adult now and could manage just fine and, that…that…” I was exasperated and couldn’t finish my explanation, but I knew Sarah understood.

  “I know what you’re going through, and I think there might be a way to let her know. I mean, it’s how I keep my sanity with having my daughter in the 20th century.” Sarah reached into the cupboard and pulled out a sheet of paper, a small wooden box with an inlaid top, and a goose feather.

  “What? Write to her?” I asked, stunned at her suggestion.

  Sarah nodded silently, lips pulled taut in a painful grimace. She set the items on the kitchen table and picked up the paring knife. She scored the end of the feather, creating a reservoir in the end of the quill, and then offered it to me. “I write her about our life, the day to day things mostly, then put the dated letters in the box and let them accumulate. Eventually, I’ll send them overseas to Barden Hall with a note for Jody’s family to hold them, unopened, until the year 1980.” Sarah opened the box, took out the small inkwell, and set it next to the paper and quill.

  “If, I mean, I’m sure Ramona and Gregg will have contacted Sam Eastman, my best friend and former professor, by then. He was the only one I trusted to tell that I was going back, coming back here to this time. I’m certain he already figured out that’s what happened to Mona when she disappeared; that she followed me to the 18th century. And now she has returned to his time, back to the 20th century, with a husband and two children.”

  Sarah sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and then relaxed into a smile. “Call me romantic,” she said as she played with the nib on the quill, running her finger over the fresh cut to make sure it was smooth. “In 1980, I went back to Barden Hall in Scotland—that’s the estate where Jody was born. I worked up the nerve to talk to the current owners. Of course, they didn’t know who I was, and I wasn’t going to tell them that I was the wife of the man who owned their place 200 years earlier!”

  Sarah regained her composure quickly. “I just said I was intrigued by the location, and had heard a bit of its history when I was in town. They told me times were tough and that they were going to have to sell the property. I could hear the heartbreak in their voices. I decided right then and there to do what I could to help Jody’s family, even if they were about seven generations removed from him. I bought the estate and let them stay on as caretakers. I didn’t know what the future held, but didn’t want the ancestral land and buildings to go to just anyone. I thought Mona might want to live there after she got out of school and was ready to settle down. Sam had the deed and was to give it to her when she graduated or got married or whenever. I left it up to him to determine when she would be receptive to the idea of living in Scotland. I told him just to make sure he gave the current occupants at least six months’ notice before they had to move out. And well, I did
n’t even know if they wanted to stay as caretakers after they got the money from the sale.”

  “So, you’re saying I should write a letter, or letters, now, and put them in your little box there, and then your daughter can give it, them, to Leah?” I asked.

  “Well, that could work, but you might want to establish another destination—sort of an alternate backup site—for your letters, in case mine don’t make it. You know what they say about putting all your eggs in one basket…” she joked.

  I frowned as I realized what she had said. “Twentieth century, you said. But I came from the 21st century, 2012. Well, at least the first time. I just came back from 2013 last week. You’re writing to, what, 1980?”

  “It doesn’t matter which decade it is. And it probably won’t make a difference to them whether or not they even get these.” She sighed and stroked the top of the inlaid wooden box. “I mean, it’s not as if they know we’re writing them. I’m doing it for Jody and me. He writes, too. It helps us feel connected with them. I hope they get the letters, but I doubt that they’ll make a dramatic difference in their lives.” She shrugged. “I can’t take photographs, so they’re getting written snapshots of our lives instead.”

  “So you think I could write a letter now, today, and ask for someone to get in touch with my daughter two hundred and thirty years from now? That then—in our future, their present—they could let her know why I had to leave and that I’m okay?” I was starting to feel better already.

  “Well, continuity is the key; it has to be successfully passed down through the generations. You can write a letter and I’ll put it in with mine, and maybe the 21st century Barden Hall group will forward it to her or, or…”

  If only I knew whom I could send a letter to…even a card…a business card…

  My eyes opened wide with a clear, distinct memory—bright, shining, and sparkled with hope. The business card Wallace had found in my backpack two months ago, just after the babies were born, was from a James Melbourne. I suddenly knew who he was! New memories were tumbling over each other. I met young, good-looking, James Melbourne the same day I first met Master Simon. It was in a café in Greensboro. I figured out a map, an ancient map… I shook my head. That wasn’t important. What I needed to know was if James was from the same Melbourne family as those who were now living in London. Wallace’s Uncle Tony, Julian’s brother, was a Melbourne. And he was possibly—probably, hopefully—James Melbourne’s ancestor. Well, I knew they shared the same coat of arms, and maybe, if they shared the same residence—hmm…

  “Sarah,” I said, bringing myself out of my own reverie. “I know of someone now whose family will still be around in the 21st century.” I inhaled deeply and elaborated. “You said it would be best to have two sources of delivery, right? So I’ll leave my originals with yours, and then send copies to, hmm. I need to talk to Wallace. Excuse me; I’ll be write back. Get it? W.R.I.T.E. Oh, never mind.”

  Wallace was bringing out Aries for his daily ride. The high-strung stallion didn’t like being cooped up and was easier to handle if ridden daily. I ran outside, my arms flailing in the air, signaling for Wallace to stop before he rode out. “Whoa, whoa, wait,” I blurted out breathlessly.

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked, pulling back the reins, ready to dismount.

  “No, no. I just have to ask you a quick question. What are the chances your Uncle Tony would ever sell his place in England?”

  “Which one?” he replied. I’m sure my shocked look wasn’t what he expected. His sly grin at my reaction wasn’t the least bit rude, but still made me feel silly.

  “Well, I’m certain the last place he’d ever sell or relinquish would be his home in London. Country estates can come and go, but that house is as much a part of him as his right hand. He could go on without it, but he wouldn’t like it.” He scowled in concern and repositioned himself in the saddle, ready again for his boot soles to touch soil. “Are you sure you’re all right? Should I put off the ride?”

  “Oh, no, please don’t. It’s just that I think I found a way to tell Leah what happened—or will happen—so maybe she won’t feel too bad that I left. I’ll explain when you get back. Have a nice ride, okay?” I said and blew him a kiss.

  Wallace reached out and gently retrieved the imaginary buss in the palm of his hand as if it were a butterfly, brought it to his lips, kissed it, and blew it back to me. “Share this with the children. We won’t be too long.” He reined the horse back toward the road and was off like his boots were on fire and his trousers were catching.

  I skipped back to the house, unable to hold back my elation at finding a solution to my documentary-sharing continuity. Sarah and her treasure box of letters had sparked a memory for me. It was if I had seen it as a preview of a movie in the theater—an interesting clip, but not enough words or images to tell the whole story.

  It had to be last year, maybe even the day before I woke up here in the past, that I met a descendent of Wallace’s Uncle Tony: Lord James Melbourne. I’m sure he’d help me out if I wrote to him and asked him to contact Leah and pass on my information. I grinned as I recalled our little meeting with the curious map owner and, unbeknownst to us, time traveler, Master Simon. James knew right away that there was more to the map than Simon was telling us. Well, I’d explain that to him, too, in the letter.

  “Mommy, Mommy; both boys want you real bad,” Jenny hollered, almost running into me, unaware that I was moving so quickly in her direction. “And Leo has a poopy clout. Do you want me to change it while you feed Judah?”

  I held onto Jenny’s shoulders, steadying the two of us after our minor collision. “That would be wonderful. I don’t know what I did to get such a great helper, but if I couldn’t feel you under my hands right now, I’d swear you were an angel. Come on; I’ll race you to the house.”

  I bent forward, dropped my hands to the ground, and crouched into a starting position. “Ready, set…hey! You were supposed to wait until I said go,” I carped as I picked up my skirt to chase after my ten-year-old adopted daughter. It was a great day.

  *1 Blasted alarm clock

  Monday, August 5, 2013, Greensboro

  Good morning, good morning, good morninnnnngggg guhh guhh! Nothing to do…

  Slam, thump, “Ouch! Son-of-a-bitchin’ thing!” Leah finally got the alarm shut off on the fourth smack. She must have moved it when she got into bed last night. Or was that this morning?

  “Ugh,” she groaned as she turned over. She grabbed the gray stuffed hippopotamus, and plopped it over her throbbing head, effectively shutting out the world with the loftiness of the velour and polyester water-horse pillow.

  In the town, where I was born, lived a ma’a’aan…thump. “Hah! Gotcha on the first try!” Leah exclaimed with pride then fell back and moaned, “Oh, no,” the pain of her class one hangover trumping her momentary elation at winning the whack-the-alarm-clock contest. She rolled over and looked. It was 5:15. If she had to work today, she only had 15 minutes to get dressed and slug down a cup of coffee before it was time to head out the door. If she had the day off, she could roll over and sleep until noon if she wanted. It would be easy enough to check. She made sure she entered her work schedule into her smartphone every week as soon as it was posted.

  “Okay, where did I leave you this time?” Leah was forever misplacing her phone. She was so notorious that she even customized a message for the opening screen page that said, “Tell Leah you found her phone. You can contact her at work at Moses H. Cone Hospital….” So far, every one of the three people who had found it, had returned it. “Mom was worse than me,” she said softly, “she lost and found hers five times.”

  Then she saw them: the two identical solar powered smartphones. “Oh, crap.” Traces of talcum powder were still visible on one. She had dusted it the night before, looking for the engraved initials to verify what she already knew: it was her mother’s.

  Her mother disappeared from Greensboro ten months ago, apparently falling off t
he earth without a trace. Yesterday, she reappeared at the hospital’s emergency room with a musket ball in her shoulder, looking forty years younger, fifty pounds thinner, and with all the signs of being a nursing mother. Before they had a chance for explanations, Leah was knocked out by the phony attending doctor. He then kidnapped her mom and shuffled her out the door in a wheelchair. He forced her to drive away—drugged and still recovering—in a stolen car, leading the hospital personnel and police on a chaotic chase to a vacant lot at the edge of town. The police found the car within minutes, but its occupants seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

  Leah, still stunned at her mother’s sudden appearance then re-disappearance, had told her supervisor that she was related to the kidnapped woman. Nurse Gata, not wanting to be burdened with paperwork or inquiries, gave Leah the left-behind personal belongings bag. It’s only contents: the colonial-style dress her mother had been wearing when she came into the emergency room and the prototype smartphone.

  “I guess it wasn’t a dream after all,” she said as she softly touched the phone with the white disclosed initials DUM: Danielle Ursula Madigan.

  Leah picked up her own phone, the one without the powder, and scanned her calendar. Cool, she had today off. She stumbled into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and saw the carton of orange juice. “I don’t think so,” she groaned, “What I need is the hair of the dog that bit me.” She shoved the juice aside. “Ooh, there’s an idea,” she said and grabbed the carton of vanilla-flavored soymilk coffee creamer. She took her dirty coffee cup out of the sink, gave it a fast rinse, shook off the water, and then poured a healthy slug of the sweetened coffee creamer in it.