Tear In Time (7 page)

  Slowly
the elevator descended. As David struggled to free his mind of tragedy, his
eyes began to focus on the picture in front of him. Slowly at first, then more
detailed as he descended, the photo came into focus. He was no longer staring
through the photo, but directly at it. Somehow it helped to soothe the pain
that gnawed away at his soul.

  The
photo was an antique, a reflection of the past; a unique display of history
that showed how Elanger Hospital came to pass. The photo was of a group of
civil war doctors standing over a patient after a recent amputation. At its
center was the patient, laying on a makeshift gurney built from an old wooden
wagon, sedated and bandaged, with his lower right leg, a stump, resting and on
display as a testimony to the doctors’ abilities. Standing behind the patient,
dressed in uniform with their bloody smocks still fastened to them, several
military doctors stood proudly for the photo. Hardened and determined, their
faces were devoid of all expression, save for one - pride.

  At the
left side of the photo sat an old man on a rickety stool. With his white
flowing beard and hair, he looked much older than his more
distinguished-looking colleagues. He too wore a bloody smock, and his face also
carried the expression of pride. Yet something else shone through in the old
man’s eyes – wisdom. While the others looked into the camera, he looked beyond
it, as if deep in thought and oblivious to its presence. He appeared somewhat
accidental to the photo’s purpose. At the bottom of the photo, David read the
inscription: Original site of Elanger Hospital, 1862.

  David
gazed upon the doctors in the photo. He looked at the bandage, bulbous and
barbaric on the poor soldier’s leg. A feeling of contempt swept over his body.

  “Huh.
A hundred and fifty years of progress and we still can’t save ’em,” he shouted
out irrationally, his fists clenched in anger and still encased in bloody
gloves.

  Then,
in a fit of rage, he punched the picture on the wall, the glass shattering and
dropping to the floor of the elevator, cracking the cheap plastic frame. The
sound of shattering glass and cracking plastic snapped him back to reality. He
bent over and picked up the old photo, leaving the broken shards of glass still
at the floor of the elevator. He began to replace the picture on the bent hook
when he felt his knees begin to buckle slightly as the elevator began to slow
to a stop.

  A
moment later, David heard the sound of a bell as the elevator settled into its
floor. Suddenly, he saw his gloved hands, sticky with drying blood, holding the
framed picture held out in front of him. He looked down at his gown and
realized he was covered in blood, a fact that had escaped his attention moments
before.

  As the
mechanized sound of the heavy metal doors signaled their opening, he felt a
light balmy breeze brush by his neck. The air suddenly felt dense, as if the
relative humidity dramatically increased. A strange yet familiar odor drifted
from behind him and penetrated his nostrils. Turning around to investigate, he
stiffened and froze in place.

  As his
eyes took in the sight before him, his mind struggled to make sense of the
scene beyond the doors of the elevator. His heart began to pump wildly and his
whole body shook. He felt he was dreaming: but never before had a dream felt so
real.

  “Hey,
you. Come here. I need you to hold his leg,” David heard just outside the door
of the elevator.

  David
squinted at first, then rubbed his eyes and refocused on the vision before him.
There, several yards away, he watched as a man dressed in a blue military
uniform stood over another man laying on a wooden gurney. The man standing
looked familiar to him, and he searched his mind to make the connection.

  “Hey,
come here. I need your help now. I’m almost finished,” the voice called again
from beyond the elevator door.

  David
looked around inside the elevator, then over to the control panel. At the
bottom of the panel, a circular button labeled “G” was highlighted. He thought
it strange that he ended up at the ground floor, as he had not pushed any of
the buttons on the panel. He turned back to the scene that was unfolding in
front of him. The light, balmy breeze was still blowing in his face, and the
strange odor, now foul and offensive, still penetrated his nostrils.

  David
watched in fascination as he realized the military man beckoning him was, in
fact, a doctor performing crude surgery on the other man laying unconscious on
the wooden gurney. Suddenly it dawned on him. The man standing before him was
the same man in the picture. David looked at the picture in his hands, then
back at the man beyond the elevator. He was indeed the doctor; the
older-looking man with a white flowing beard and hair.

  “Wow.
This is one strange dream,” David said out loud.

  He
felt confused by the vision.

  “Whoa,
I’m seeing color in this dream. How is this possible?” he asked of no one in
particular.

  “Are
you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?” the old doctor
called out to David in frustration.

  David
thought about answering him, but thought it to be silly. ‘It’s just a dream,’
he thought to himself. Then, reconsidering, he rationalized to himself, ‘What
would be the harm?’

  David
called to the old man, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tear
that cloth into strips,” the old doctor responded immediately, pointing to a
mound of cloth on the grass at the foot of the wagon.

  At
first, David hesitated. Something in his gut was telling him not to go. He felt
paralyzed with indecision, but then, throwing caution to the wind, he stepped
forward. As he passed through the doorway of the elevator and stepped out onto
the grass, time seemed to slow for a moment. He heard voices and sounds as if
they were being played to him at half speed. He turned and looked back into the
elevator, but strangely, he saw only its interior: the hospital he expected to
see housing it was not there.

  David
turned and took a step onto the grass. Time seemed to resume its normal speed.
He suddenly heard the deafening sounds of thunder and recognized the foul
stench of rotting flesh. He turned to look back at the elevator, but it was no
longer there: only grass and birch trees, which partially obstructed the war
that raged off in the distant valley.

  “What
the hell?” David said out loud, as a wave of fear and confusion spread through
his body.

  “Son,
I really need your help here,” David heard, as the old voice shouted from
behind him.

  David
turned and looked at the old doctor, then back at the spot of grass that used
to be the elevator. Suddenly, a loud clap of thunder sounded just beyond the
birch trees, shaking the ground under his feet. He heard screams of agony and
realized that the sounds he’d been hearing were not thunder after all, but were
in fact artillery explosions.

 
Instinctively, David ran toward the old doctor, frantically searching for cover
as he closed the distance. The old doctor, seeing the intense fear in David’s
eyes, quickly recognized the developing problem. He pulled away from his
patient and moved quickly to intercept David in flight.

  “Whoa,
son! Steady. You’re in no danger,” the old doctor called to David as he ran to
him and grabbed his arms, reassuring him of his safety.

  “Those
are bombs. They’re trying to kill us,” David replied, almost hysterical.

  The
doctor casually looked beyond David at the raging war, then back into his eyes,
and replied, "Well, I suppose they are, but we're out of range of their
artillery."

  He scratched
the top of his head with his bloody fingernails and continued, "I guess a
wild bullet could accidentally find us up here, but it's not likely,"

  He
then took a long look at David's clothes. A confused expression crossed his
face as he spoke. "That is quite an unusual uniform you have on. What
outfit are you from?"

 
"Outfit?" David replied, still in a deep state of shock.

 
"Outfit, lad. What outfit are you from? Who's your commanding
officer?" the old doc questioned with a bit of suspicion, then added,
"Don't tell me you're gray?"

  David
was about to speak when another shell hit a bank just beyond the birch trees,
startling both he and the old doctor. With a quick look over David's shoulder, then
back to his patient on the wooden wagon, the doctor refocused on his duty.

 
"This way, lad. We have work to do," the old doctor said, as he
extended his hand in the direction of the patient as an invitation for David to
follow him.

 
Quickly, they walked back to the wagon, with the doctor leading the way. Once
at the patient’s side, the old doctor instructed, "I need you to tear
those rags into thin strips so I can finish bandaging this poor lad’s stump
before he comes to. Lord knows he'll be suffering enough when he wakes without
us fidgeting with his bandage, so be quick with your work."

  David
pulled off his rubber gloves and tucked them into his pocket. With his mind
struggling to make sense of the situation, he reached down and began to tear
the cloth into strips in an effort to buy himself time to sort through the
complexities of his dream. His mind raced from one topic to the next, never
answering his questions as each problem became a Pandora’s Box of other
unanswerable questions, distracting and derailing him from solving anything. As
he looked around, he could hear the cries of agony, the sounds of war, the
smell of death, and suddenly he realized that this was no dream. This was real.
He was now existing in another era in time: the Civil War – the 1860s.

  As he
tore off each strip of cloth, he handed it to the old doctor, who used it to
secure the amputee's bandages in place. As he worked, the old doctor began to
interrogate his new assistant.

 
"I see you've been in surgery already. I don't recall another medical unit
around here. Where did you come from?" the old doctor asked casually as he
worked.

  David
searched his mind for an answer that would be suitable for the old man. He knew
he couldn't say he was from the future. Quickly he devised a cover story until
he could make sense of his dilemma.

 
"I have medical training and thought I could be of use,” David replied,
hoping his answer would suffice.

  “Uh huh,
and where did you come from? Allow me to be more direct. Are you gray or blue?”
the old doctor asked without breaking his concentration.

 
“Doctor, I am neither. I am just a medically trained individual who wants to
lend a hand to these poor boys,” David replied.

  “Young
man, are you a deserter?” the old doctor asked bluntly.

  “No,
sir. I am not in the military,” David responded.

  He
knew the questions would keep coming and that he needed to find a better reason
for his presence. He then had an idea.

 
“Doctor, the truth is I need a job. I’d like to join the military to in order
to practice medicine. I am a very skilled practitioner and feel I can be of
real use here,” David finished, hoping he hadn’t overplayed his abilities.

  “Hmm,
skilled practitioner you say? Where were you trained? Are you a doctor?” the
old doctor said, continuing his interrogation.

  “Yes,
I am a doctor. I was trained in New England at Harvard University. Have you
heard of it?” David asked, unsure if his Ivy League alma mater wouldn’t raise
even more suspicion.

  “Harvard
you say? Hmm. We are short-staffed here, to be sure. My assistants mean well
but are bumbling country boys, if you understand my inference,” the old doctor
said as he winked at David.

 
“Completely, doctor,” David replied back with a smile of understanding.

  “Well,
doctor, do you have a name?” the old doctor asked, now warming to David a bit.