A Circle of Time

by Marisa Montes

  “Allison, your helmet.”

  “Oh, Mom...”

  “It only takes a second to put it on, sweetheart. There. Now be careful on that mountain road—”

  “Gotta go, Mom—I’m late!” I swung my leg over the bike and rolled into the street.

  “Late, late, late,” I muttered, checking my watch.

  “Late, late, late,” says the White Rabbit as he checks his pocket watch. He slips into the rabbit hole and begins to fall down, down, down a dark tunnel. “I’m laaaaate...”

  Now I’m falling down the tunnel. Floating, falling, floating ... allowing myself to be propelled along. I land in a meadow. The smell of fresh, rain-soaked earth invades my senses; the crisp spring day caresses my skin.

  Images form again, flashing in my brain like the flickering scenes of a silent movie: I see a cabin; a boy running; tall pine trees, towering; a woman pulling me ... her?...pulling who? I’m running. I’m floating. I’m lying limp in a strange bed.

  What’s happening to me? my mind screams. Somebody, please help me!

  “Shh-hh...,” a voice whispers. “I’ll help you. Don’t you fret none. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

  Who’s there? Who said that? Can you hear me?

  “I can hear you. Don’t you fret.” The voice is fading.

  Can you help me?

  “I can help you.” The voice is barely audible. “And you can help me.”

  Lightning flashes, electrifies the air. I feel myself rising from the bed and floating above it. I remember, now—I remember the last time this happened!

  No! I don’t want to go! Please, don’t—

  A sudden wind lifts me up, envelops me, and whirls me through a long tunnel toward a rosy light.

  Noo-ooo!

  She was consumed with terror. A desperate need to run, to escape imminent danger, kept her legs pumping, running blindly.

  Branches reached out and ripped her face as she tore through the forest. Her heart, throbbing, throbbing, felt as though it would explode. Her lungs burned, her legs ached. But she knew she could not stop running. Whatever was chasing her grew closer.

  She could hear its chest heaving, rasping, struggling to suck in more air, and branches slapping and breaking as they hit the approaching force. Or was it her breath she heard, her body against which branches slapped and broke? She couldn’t stop to find out.

  She crashed through a final crowd of branches and stopped at the edge of a clearing. Her throat was dry. Her limbs trembled from overexertion. She bent forward to ease the painful stitch in her side. A thin stream of moonlight illuminated the calico dress.

  It was smeared with dark stains. She held up her hands. They felt gooey, sticky. She sniffed. Her stomach lurched as her brain recognized the smell.

  Blood.

  She was covered in blood!

  “Allison, sweetheart, I’m here. Allison...”

  Mom’s voice draws me back through the wind tunnel. I see the tiny room below me, and I feel the pressure of the bed as I sink into my body.

  The warmth of Mom’s hand feels good, safe. I will my fingers to curl around Mom’s, but they refuse to obey.

  Mom strokes my cheek. “I tried to get back as soon as I could. I know how you hate to be alone during thunderstorms. But I closed the curtains—to keep out the lightning. Can you tell?”

  Warm, moist lips touch my forehead. I breathe in the faint scent of Mom’s tea-rose perfume mingled with French-roast coffee. My mind relaxes, lets go, releases the fear and dread of whatever is happening to me. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel safe.

  Don’t move, Mommy. Stay close. Hold me.

  As if she can hear my thoughts, Mom says, “You know I’d stay here twenty-four hours a day if I could, sweetie. My heart breaks each time I leave this room with you lying here”—her voice catches—“like this...”

  Mom rests her head against my side and holds me. She begins to sob.

  Even as the strong tug rips me from my body, my mind yells, Don’t cry, Mom. I’m trying to come back. I’m trying!

  Chapter 3

  Something hard and cold pressed against Allison’s forehead. Her back ached. Slowly, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. In front of her stood an old-fashioned sewing machine, its metal body crouched before her on its wooden stand like a giant black cricket. Allison’s head had been resting on its cold metal back. She rubbed the painful dent the metal had left on her forehead. Still dazed, Allison glanced around.

  The room was silent. A musty odor mingled with the thick, greasy smell of cooked lamb hung heavily in the air. Her eyes took in the rough wooden table and four chairs pushed under a tiny window framed with ragged curtains. A black cast-iron stove squatted next to a wooden counter that supported an iron water pump. To Allison’s left, a curtain had been pushed back, exposing a bed covered with a faded quilt. Above it, a crude ladder led up to a shadowy loft.

  Her heart began to pound. Where was she? She spun around to look behind her. A stone fireplace covered most of the back wall. In front of it, an old wooden rocker sat between a woodpile heaped on the hearth and a basket brimming with coarse yarn. The only source of light was the single window in the kitchen.

  Allison felt as if she were a wax figure in the museum display of a log cabin she’d seen last year when her eighth-grade history class had taken a field trip to Sacramento. Was this another of those bizarre dreams she’d been having? One minute she’d find herself in a hospital bed unable to move, her mother sobbing at her side, and the next minute she’d be in another time and place—a time and place totally alien to her—and in another girl’s body. Nightmares from which there was no escape.

  Allison looked down. She groaned. She was wearing Becky Thompson’s faded calico dress. She looked at her feet: They were bare and propped on the wide wrought-iron pedal of the sewing machine. She lifted a trembling hand to her hair—it was braided—two long, blond braids. Allison was a brunette with chin-length hair, and she didn’t own a calico dress.

  Then it hit her—this must be the rough cabin in the woods she saw the first time she was in Becky’s body. And if it was, Becky’s horrible mother would be back any minute.

  Allison jumped from the chair and bolted for the door. The latch was awkward, stiff. She fiddled with it. Her heart pounded fiercely. Her whole body shook. Finally, the latch let go. Allison threw open the door and froze.

  She was staring into the angry eyes of Becky Thompson’s mother.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” The heavyset woman shoved Allison back into the room and placed a basketful of eggs on the table. She turned to the sewing machine. “You ain’t going anywhere till you finish that dress we promised Miz Teresa for next week. How far have you gotten?”

  The woman lumbered to the sewing machine, boots hitting clomp! clomp! clomp! beneath her long cotton skirt. She picked up the piece of rose chiffon that was still attached to the needle, eyed it with displeasure, and let it drop. Then she sorted through other pieces of the same fine fabric folded in a large straw basket next to the sewing machine.

  “That’s it?” Mrs. Thompson turned, her face contorted with rage. “One sleeve—that’s all you’ve done this morning?”

  Allison stared at the woman in confusion, her eyes wide with terror. In one mighty leap, the woman was towering over her. Drawing back her arm, she struck Allison across the face with the back of her hand, propelling her against the wall. Pain shot through her entire body; her mind was a blur. Allison could taste blood. Her knees quivered.

  “You stupid, lazy girl! I’ll teach you to daydream when you should be working!”

  Mrs. Thompson pulled back a closed fist, aimed directly at Allison’s face, and let go. An explosion of pain and colors and flames burst inside Allison’s head. Then the burning pain and brilliant colors faded to black, and Allison was back in the wind tunnel, whirling toward a voice.

  At first, the voice seems muffled and far away, as if it’s in ano
ther room and I’m listening through the wall. Slowly, the voice clears, and I can make out the words.

  “... The nurse brought me a cot so I can stay with you at night. And I brought your boom box so the nurses can play your favorite music for you when I’m at work.”

  Mom! Oh, Mom, help me out of this nightmare! I’ve got to get out of here.

  I can hear Mom moving around the room as she talks. Paper crackles. Now she’s next to my bed. “And look what else I brought. Feel.”

  Mom places something soft and light on my arm, resting it against my shoulder. “Recognize it? It’s PoPo, your old teddy bear. I found him in the back of your closet. Remember how you always made me drag him out when you were sick?”

  Thunder crashes outside the window.

  PoPo? Good old PoPo ... Can you keep me safe?

  Chapter 4

  Outside, the storm continues to roar.

  Inside, my mind struggles to think, to remember what it was that put me in this bed, in this state of half life. Maybe, if I could only remember, maybe the knowledge could give me a clue to unlock the door that keeps my mind and body apart. Even a tiny clue. I just need something to give me hope that this nightmare can end.

  But more and more, I seem to be drifting between light and dark, active thoughts and silence, clear images and nothingness. It seems harder to keep my mind awake, harder to hear Mom speak. The music from the boom box fades in and out. My hold on life seems to be slipping. I’ve got to hold on! I’ve got to—

  “Allison, can you hear me? Allison? The lady who found you at Devil’s Drop just called to find out how you’re doing. Isn’t that nice, darling? She’s called every day since the accident. Such a nice lady...”

  Mom sighs. “So unlike the monster who did this to you. The police haven’t found him yet...”

  My legs ached from pumping uphill against the wind. The higher I rode up Mountain Road, the stronger and faster the wind blew, fighting me every inch of the way. It whipped my hair about my face and made my eyes tear.

  Gray-black clouds, angry and menacing, covered the sun, stealing the precious afternoon light. I muttered to myself as I struggled to pump harder, faster, to make up lost time. I squinted and blinked against the wind and the bits of dust it carried.

  My arms trembled with the strain of trying to keep the bike from weaving on the bumpy pavement and the front wheel from skidding onto the soft, gravel shoulder. Maybe this was a mistake. The mountain was windy under normal conditions. I usually enjoyed it, but this was too much. What was going on? A storm brewing?

  Should I turn around and go home?

  But I’ve worked so hard to get this interview!. If I make the cut, I can do a summer internship with the forest rangers. I’d kill for the chance! No, I have to keep going. What kind of forest ranger would wimp out at the first sign of a little wind? That would make a great impression.

  As I approached the sharp V of Devil’s Drop, I heard the screeching of tires. The moment I started to pull over, to let the car pass, a bright red sports car careened around the bend, aimed directly at me.

  In that split second, time seemed to stand still. My brain registered the fact that the car was my favorite make—an older model Mercedes-Benz 450 SL. The top of the convertible was down, and the look on the young man’s face mirrored my horror. Memories flew at me: I’d been too preoccupied that morning to hug Mom good-bye. As I rode away from school that afternoon, my friend Jenny warned me not to ride up Mountain Road because a storm was brewing. And when the car hit my bike, crashing it into the metal barrier, and as I flew over the cliff to the ledge below, I remembered I wasn’t wearing my helmet.

  My helmet! I hit my head on a rock. That’s why I’m here. I really am in a coma. I’ve kept thinking this is a nightmare, and I just have to wait till morning.

  But now I know what I have to do to wake up. I have to fight. I can’t just lie here and wait. I have to fight!

  I struggle to stay alert, to hear Mom’s words, to hear the music from the boom box, but my mind feels heavy, sluggish. I’m sinking down, down into a dark hole. The image of the White Rabbit falling down the rabbit hole returns.

  No! I have to wake up! Mom, help me. Talk to me. Bring me back!

  “Sorry, Allison, but it’s time.”

  Time for what? Who is that?

  “Time for you to help me, Allison. I helped you. I made sure you was brought here. Now you can get help from them docs and your mama. I helped you, now you help me.”

  You helped me? Can you help me now?

  “Later, Allison. I’ll help you again, later. But first, it’s my turn. First, you got to help me.”

  Please, help me wake up. Then I’ll do whatever you ask.

  “Can’t do that. Only way’s you can help me is if you go where I send you now. That means you can’t wake up yet.”

  No, I don’t want to go anywhere. I—

  “Don’t worry, Allison. I’ll stay here and keep your ticker tickin’. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

  In my mind’s eye, I see the dingy log cabin and Becky’s horrid mother. Please, I don’t want to go back there. I’ll do anything else...

  But my voice is swept away by the strong winds that carry me down the long tunnel and toward the rosy light.

  PART TWO

  The Other

  Mere words cannot express the joy

  that even time cannot destroy:

  the depth, the passion that I feel.

  Yet earthly death has dared to steal

  your body from my soul.

  Chapter 5

  Becky Lee? Bequita, are you all right?”

  Allison awoke to the fragrance of roses. “Mom?” It was the first word that entered her head, and without thinking, she spoke it out loud.

  Laughter that sounded like wind chimes tinkling in a passing breeze filled her ears. The sound made Allison suddenly aware that she was in a room, kneeling on cold ceramic tile. Tucked beneath her knees was the hem of Becky Lee Thompson’s calico dress.

  “Where is your mind, niña?” The laughing voice came from somewhere behind her. Allison turned. She was met with a brilliant smile and sparkling blue eyes. The young woman laughed again. “You have been daydreaming all afternoon. Your mamá left half an hour ago.”

  My mama? She must mean Becky’s horrible mother. Just as well she’s gone.

  Allison nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. I was just—”

  “No need to explain.” The young woman tilted back her head, swishing long chestnut curls behind her. “If a boy looked at me the way Joshua Winthrop looks at you, I would confuse old Paco, there, with my papá. After all, they both have the same head of bushy white hair, so who could blame me?”

  Allison glanced where the woman had pointed with her chin. In the corner of the large room, an ancient sheepdog lifted his head, sniffed the air blindly, and lay its massive head back on his paws.

  “Qué bello, Bequita. You’ve done a marvelous job on this dress.” The young woman spun before a full-length mirror, causing the skirt of the long chiffon dress to spread open like a parasol. “And the dusty rose brings out the pink in my cheeks and sets off my eyes, no?”

  “Umm, yes.” Allison couldn’t help wondering who this lovely young woman was. She was probably in her early twenties. And rich. Very, very rich, Allison thought, as her eyes scanned the huge bedroom suite.

  Early Spanish design and decor, she guessed. Terracotta tiles around the fireplace, expensive woven area rugs on the slick tile floor, carved four-poster bed with matching nightstands and wardrobe, a sitting area furnished with heavy mahogany furniture. Religious items softened the heaviness of the dark furniture: A jewel-studded gold cross hung above the bed, surrounded by golden icons of Madonna and child, while statuettes of the Virgin Mary and various saints populated the nightstands. Vases of roses were scattered everywhere—on the low coffee table, on the mahogany mantel, on the nightstands, on the windowsills, even on the steps leading up to the French doors.
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  The woman stopped spinning and turned. “Here, Bequita, let me help you up so you can admire your handiwork.”

  Allison was still kneeling on the floor, next to a sewing kit. The woman took Allison’s right hand and pulled. The motion sent searing waves of pain up Allison’s arm. She jerked back and cried out.

  “Becky, what happened? Did I pull too hard?”

  “No, I—I don’t know ... You didn’t pull that hard...” Allison stood, still cradling her right arm.

  “Here, let me.” The young woman held Allison’s arm. Gently, she pushed up the long calico sleeve.

  “¡Dios mío! Becky, this is horrible.”

  Allison gasped at what she saw. Ugly purplish bruises formed the clear prints of a large hand on Becky’s—now Allison’s—forearm. Reddish-brown scrapes indicated skin burns from the twisting of flesh in opposite directions. Gingerly, Allison felt her upper arm. She winced.

  “It hurts there, too?”

  Allison nodded. Her eyes blurred with tears, and a lump formed in her throat at the sound of the woman’s caring voice. In a strange time and place, far, far from home, she felt so vulnerable that any bit of kindness was touching. The pain Becky’s body felt was nothing compared to what Allison’s spirit was feeling. She didn’t trust herself to speak, for fear she’d break down blubbering.

  “I do not have to ask who did this to you.” The woman’s voice had become hard and indignant. “That woman should be horsewhipped. If I could, I would—”

  “No, please.” Allison slipped her sleeve back over her arm, covering the evidence of violence. “I appreciate your kindness. But I don’t know what else she might do.”

  “Sí, sí. Of course, you are right. But if you ever need anything. Remember, you can trust me. Teresa Cardona Pomales is nothing if not trustworthy.” Teresa tilted her chin upward in a gesture that conveyed both haughtiness and quiet dignity.