by Kim Murphy
Released from the water, we were offered fringed leather aprons similar to what the other women wore. Momma’s face remained pinched, but she smiled and spoke to me calmly, so as not to alarm me. I cried, and Momma hugged me to her bosom. Though I could not understand their words, the Indian women spoke in soothing voices whilst giving me gentle touches.
When I stopped weeping, Momma dried my tears. Once again, the women held out the garments.
I fingered the fringed skirt. Momma reassured me that I should try it on. The doe hide was soft against my skin, and I relished in its warmth. At such a young age, I discovered great joy in this new game of dressing like an Indian. Momma blanched when the women demonstrated that she was to keep her right breast exposed, but she ne’er flinched. They spread mantles over our shoulders, and Momma quickly covered herself.
The women draped shell beads around our necks. I marveled at my necklace, for I ne’er had any jewelery so fine. Surrounded by Indians, we once again traveled the path, down which the women escorted us to a house. Inside were turtle shells, gourds, clay pots, and woven baskets filled with items that I knew not what they were. Wooden frames with mats similar to the house coverings and draped animal skins served as pallets. An open fire crackled in the middle with a smoke hole cut away in the mat above it.
One woman took a mussel shell and motioned for me to sit on a mat near the fire. Momma nodded for me to follow her instructions. Cross legged in front of the fire, I did as I was told, savoring my newfound warmth. I screamed when the woman brought the shell near my head, fearing she was about to scalp me.
“No hurt,” she repeated.
Momma hushed me. “Phoebe, it shall be all right.”
The tremor in Momma’s voice had faded, lending me assurance. I sat still as the woman grated the shell near my scalp, shaving the forepart and sides of my head. She left the hinder section long, winding my hair into pretty plaits.
Momma was next. The women cut her hair short all around. When they were finished, they showed us to the door. Outside, the drums beat the rhythm of a heartbeat. Indians had gathered with the warriors still painted black. They danced in a circle around the fire to the tempo of the drum.
One of the women showed me the steps. I followed her lead. At first, I was awkward, and Momma faltered. Round and round in the circle I went, ’til I no longer required instruction. The beat quickened. I picked up my pace. Faster and faster, I absorbed the drumbeat, only halting when I fell into a heap from exhaustion.
My heart pounded within my chest, and when the Indians sent up the shrill cry, I joined them. I was now Paspahegh.
* * *
5
Shae
“Phoebe?”
Coming out of the hypnotic state, Phoebe blinked. “Did I tell you what you had hoped to hear?”
“You did fine.” Shae wished she had some idea where the woman’s story originated from. With Lee’s help, she had checked the local living history sites and restaurants that employed costumed staff. No one had claimed a missing employee nor the possibility that Phoebe might have been a former employee. None of Lee’s checks had turned up anything either. “Dr. Miller says you’re well enough to be released today.”
“Released?” As though she were a child, everything seemed new to her.
“You can go home.”
“I may need your help to find my way.”
Thankfully, the staff had agreed to keep Phoebe hospitalized for a couple weeks, giving Shae the time to find her patient a room in transitional housing. She dreaded what would happen to someone in Phoebe’s delicate frame of mind in a state hospital. “That’s what we’re trying to do. I’d feel better about releasing you from the hospital if you could remember the details of the accident and if it was related to who whipped you.”
Phoebe placed a hand to her throat. “I recall naught.”
Shae highly suspected dissociative amnesia and fugue, even though no other personality ever appeared than the one named Phoebe. She had gained no information following standard protocol with a clinical interview. Only hypnosis revealed glimpses into what troubled Phoebe, and Shae was convinced that continued treatment would get to the bottom of the matter. But it was going to take time. She only hoped that whoever had beaten Phoebe wasn’t lurking somewhere, waiting for another opportunity.
Shae held out a canvas shopping bag. “Your dress was ruined in the accident. I thought you might like to try this on.”
Phoebe peered inside the bag and withdrew a long-sleeved, chive-green dress. Her eyelashes flickered in bewilderment. “Where are the stays?”
“There are undergarments in the bag. I guessed your size. I hope everything fits.”
Puzzled, Phoebe stared at Shae.
She truly doesn’t know. Shae decided she should consult with her live-in lover, Russ, who was also a practicing psychologist. He had experience in treating amnesia patients. “Here, let me help you,” she said.
She assisted Phoebe with her hospital gown. The lacerations on her back from the whip were scabbed but healing. How long would it take for her mental wounds to heal? Shae unpacked the undergarments from the bag.
Phoebe held up the brassiere in confusion. “Instead of stays?” she asked with her left brow raised.
“Instead of stays. This might not be such a good idea right now. You’ll likely hurt your back. The dress should be less confining and more comfortable.” Without further comment, Shae helped Phoebe dress. While the below-the-knee dress was a plain one, the chive color accented Phoebe’s strawberry-blonde hair, which fell to the middle of her back. Shae ran a brush through the woman’s locks. She truly looked part of the twenty-first century now, rather than the seventeenth, and was quite attractive.
“Once the doctor has your paperwork ready, I’m going to take you to the house where you’ll be staying.”
“House?”
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “You do know what a house is?”
“Aye. Will Master Crowley come to see me?”
“Lee is a detective. Unless something new turns up regarding your case, he won’t be following up.”
Another bewildered blink.
Imagining Lee as a Paspahegh warrior, Shae struggled to keep her professional demeanor and not laugh. Then again, if he had chosen a career other than police work, he would have blended right in as an authentic-looking tour guide at one of the historic sites. Young female visitors would doubtless be more intent on what lay beneath his loincloth than local history. Shae attempted to rid the vision from her mind and said in as even of a voice as she could, “I won’t make any promises that he’ll agree, but I’ll speak to him about paying you a friendly visit.”
“Thank you, Dr....”
“Please, call me Shae.”
“Shae,” Phoebe repeated with a growing smile.
“And call Lee by his name. He might split a gut if you called him Master Crowley.”
“I shall. I don’t wish to inflict any bodily harm upon him. Thank you for warning me.”
“Split a gut is a figure of speech. He won’t physically burst.”
“That’s good to know.” Phoebe’s wide eyes exhibited total innocence. She was perfectly serious. While Shae had studied dissociative identity disorders at the University of Virginia, to actually be confronted with a bona fide case was a different matter altogether. All that counted was Phoebe believed she was from the seventeenth century.
The door opened, and Dr. Miller walked into the room. “Good morning, ladies. Phoebe, I’m giving Dr. Howard a prescription in case you experience pain over the next few days. Even though your constitution is remarkable, I expect you to take it easy and rest for a couple of weeks. I’ve never seen anyone heal as quickly as you, and I have no doubt you’ll be feeling normal quite soon. If you’re still unable to recall where you’re from when it’s time for a follow-up exam in ten days, Dr. Howard will find a suitable physician for you. If you notice any regression or new symptoms, feel free to call me or Dr.
Howard. Any questions?”
Totally perplexed, Phoebe stared at Dr. Miller.
“I’ll see that she gets settled and follows doctor’s orders,” Shae said.
“Thank you, Dr. Howard. A nurse will be in shortly to escort you.” He gave them a smile before leaving the room.
Phoebe focused on Shae. “I’ve told you where I hail from.”
“You have,” Shae agreed. “But we have been unable to locate your family or anyone who knows you. Immigration has no record of a Phoebe Wynne from Dorset, and Lee hasn’t found any clues about you or anyone you’ve mentioned.”
A nurse, wearing cartoon rocket ship scrubs, entered the room with a wheelchair. “I’m your ride out of here.”
Phoebe’s eyes became fixed on the metal contraption. She stood her ground.
“It’s all right, Phoebe,” Shae reassured.
Phoebe touched the wheelchair with her index finger, then withdrew it quickly, as if it might bite.
Shae patted the seat. “You sit in it.”
Phoebe glanced at her, and Shae nodded for her to continue. The frightened woman cautiously sat in the wheelchair. Her back remained as stiff as a board, and her hands gripped the arm rests like she was afraid to let go. When the nurse started to wheel Phoebe from the room, Shae thought Phoebe might shoot straight out of the wheelchair.
“It’s all right,” Shae said once more. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go pull the car around front.”
A hand clamped around Shae’s wrist.
Shae met Phoebe’s gaze. “The nurse will wheel you to the door, and I’ll be there to greet you.”
“Do you vow?”
“I promise.”
Phoebe let go.
“I’ll see you out front.” Shae went ahead and collected her Acura. The nurse walked through the door with Phoebe as she pulled alongside the curb. Shae opened the passenger door.
Again, Phoebe failed to move. “One of those hit me.”
“It’s a car. It’ll transport you to your new home.” Shae waved for Phoebe to get in.
Phoebe got to her feet but remained in place like a stubborn mule.
“It’s like a carriage without horses.”
Phoebe blinked. “I see no sail like a ship. What propels it if there are no horses?”
Phoebe’s comfort zone in the seventeenth century seemed complete. Delusional? She didn’t quite fit that diagnosis either, confounding Shae. The sooner she consulted with Russ, the better. “A gasoline engine. Now get in.”
Although obviously confused, Phoebe complied.
Shae strapped Phoebe into the seatbelt.
Phoebe pulled on the belt in puzzlement.
“It keeps you from flying through the windshield if I brake too fast. Now just sit back and pretend you’re in a carriage.” Shae went around to the other side, slid in behind the driver’s seat, and started the engine. Phoebe clutched the armrest.
Shae drove away from the hospital. “Relax. Cars are less wild than horses.”
“I shall honor your word.” Phoebe gave her a hesitant smile but settled back into the seat.
Good, she had gained the patient’s trust. When Shae had a chance to glance in Phoebe’s direction, she saw Phoebe staring at the passing streets and cars in wide-eyed amazement. It was if she had never seen a city before.
“Where do all of the people hail from? I have ne’er seen so many.”
The time had come to play along to strengthen Phoebe’s trust. Shae might be able to gain insight beyond what Phoebe recalled while under hypnosis. “Virginia has changed since the seventeenth century. There are over seven million people in the state.”
“State?”
“Colony. Phoebe, you’re in the twenty-first century.”
“The twenty-first...” Phoebe placed a hand to her chest. “If you speak the truth, wouldn’t I have passed on?”
Shae stopped at a red traffic light. “The fact that you’re here says you’re very much alive. Your memory is playing tricks to safeguard the traumatic experience you’ve been through. When we uncover what really happened, I’m certain the rest of your memory will return. But it’s all going to take time, so I’m hoping you’ll allow me to continue your sessions now that you’ve been released from the hospital.”
“If it will give you the answers you need, I shall continue. I’m curious to discover how I came to be in the twenty-first century.”
You and me both. The light changed to green, and Shae started driving again. “Then you believe me?”
“How else can I explain all of the people, cars, and...”
They passed a towering building, and Phoebe gaped.
“It’s a multi-storied building called a high rise,” Shae said.
Instead of fear, Phoebe exhibited curiosity and fascination. Once in the residential area, Shae halted the car in front of a square, red-brick building from the turn-of-the-twentieth century. The sidewalk was also brick, and the steps leading to the two-story house had black wrought-iron rails. Identical houses adjoined the structure along the block.
“This is your new home.” Shae led the way up the steps. Inside, the entryway had a finely polished oak floor and a stairway with a wooden rail leading to the second floor. The wallpaper was a pastel peach stripe.
A woman in her mid thirties with a bob hairstyle greeted them. “Welcome to Colwell House, Phoebe. Shae has told me about you. I’m Valerie Evans.” Valerie stuck out her right hand.
Phoebe stared at Valerie in uncertainty.
Valerie grasped Phoebe’s hand and shook it. “Colwell House is named after our founder, Rebecca Colwell. After being on the streets and homeless for two years, Rebecca was able to get a decent paying job and return to society... .”
Shae tuned out the welcome speech. Suspecting there were many scenarios that she hadn’t considered, she hoped Phoebe would be able to adapt in this environment. Valerie was one of the best social workers. Phoebe couldn’t be in better hands during this delicate emotional stage.
Valerie started the tour of the house and led them into the parlor. A velvet sofa sat near a shuttered bay window. Lamps with fringes and high-backed chairs completed the small but homey room.
“The women often meet here in the evenings,” Valerie explained. “There’s a modern kitchen in the back of the house. Over here is the dining room.”
They stepped into the adjacent room. An African-American woman most likely in her late teens had a two-year-old girl clinging to her arm. “I’m Meg.” She offered a welcoming smile, and continued setting plates on a white linen tablecloth with embroidered edges.
“Phoebe’s going to be taking Kayla’s room,” Valerie said. After Meg and Phoebe greeted each other, Valerie returned her attention to Phoebe. “All of the women get to know each other very well here. Our goal is to get the women on their feet and successfully into society within two years. Let me show you to your room.”
Valerie led the way up the stairs to the second floor. The room at the end of the hall was sparsely furnished. It had a brass bed with a fireplace, desk, chair, and a couple of lamps.
Phoebe tested the mattress. “It feels softer than straw. Where do you tighten the ropes?”
Valerie exchanged a glance with Shae. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Beds in the twenty-first century don’t need to be tightened,” Shae said. She had briefed Valerie on Phoebe’s case before bringing her to Colwell House, so Valerie nodded in understanding.
Phoebe glanced around the room. “Where shall I find the pisspot?”
Shae sighed. Her work was cut out for her.
* * *
6
Phoebe
My mind was a whirl. How could I possibly be in the twenty-first century? Yet I couldn’t deny what I had experienced. Carriages propelled without horses, tall buildings reached to the heavens, and there were mobs of Englishmen with peculiar accents. Where were the Paspahegh? Only Master Crowley resembled them, but he did not seem to comprehend the Algonquian
tongue. Mayhap, he was Monacan and spoke Siouan instead. Still, he was attired like many other men I had seen upon my arrival and spoke fluent English.
Even the language differed vastly. ’Twas English, I had no doubt, but sometimes I had difficulty understanding the words, and Shae hadn’t been the first to grimace when I inquired about the pisspot. Was it my question that bothered them, or the manner in which I asked? ’Twasn’t the first time I had been immersed in a strange culture. I would shoulder my burden bravely as Momma had upon meeting the Paspahegh warriors.
On the eve of my arrival at Colwell House, Valerie gave me a list of rules for conduct. Though Momma had taught me to read simple sentences, the manner of script was squatter than what I was accustomed to. “I cannot read this,” I admitted.
With a pinched smile, Valerie motioned for me to have a seat at the table.
I did as she instructed.
“I’m the housing coordinator. Meg is the resident manager. I interpret all of the house rules. If there’s any conflict, feel free to talk to Meg, but ultimately, the decisions rest with me. We expect to maintain a community atmosphere here. You will be on a thirty-day probationary period.”
“Have I unknowingly violated your rules?”
“No,” Valerie explained. “All residents are given a probationary period to see if they can follow protocol. There will be no overnights during this period and curfew will be at ten each evening. You look puzzled.”
“Where would I go for an overnight?”
“Some of the women have boyfriends, which leads me to another rule. All male guests remain in the entryway or living room and nowhere else in the house. You must announce to the rest of the house when you have a male visitor, and he must not stay any longer than thirty minutes. Visiting hours are from 9:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m....”