Wishes & Tears (2 page)

“I feel like hell,” Faith said, drawing her other hand up to her forehead where a headache was beginning to throb.

Bridget smirked. “Fever and chills. Scanty wet clothes on a cold evening will do it every time. No telling how long you were lying on the banks of the bay before he found you.”

“Who found me?” Faith opened her eyes. The banks of the bay?

“Doctor Forrester, ma’am. He’s always going out of his way to help those that are destitute and in need.” Bridget took the china teapot and poured some of the steaming brew into the china cup. She handed the full cup on a saucer to Faith.

With trembling fingers, Faith accepted the delicate cup and saucer. She lifted the cup up to her lips and sipped the fine English tea steeped with honey. After taking another sip, she asked, “Where am I?”

“In Pacific Heights.”

“That’s funny. I live in Pacific Heights, 92 Sacramento Street to be exact.”

Bridget wrinkled her brow and answered, “That isn’t possible, ma’am. This is 92 Sacramento Street.”

“What are you saying?”

“This is 92 Sacramento. Doctor Forrester built this home and is the only one who resides here.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” Faith set down the cup and saucer on the bed tray.

“No, ma’am.”

“Get me a telephone and we’ll clear this up,” Faith demanded. Her head was beginning to pound but she disregarded the pain. All she wanted were answers.

“Telephone?”

“Don’t look so perplexed. Just get me a phone.” She had to call Clarice, to call someone.

“The doctor’s telephone is downstairs in his office. You’re in no condition — ”

Faith cut her off. “What kind of doctor is he? Doesn’t he have a cordless phone, a cellular phone? Something?”

The pain in her head was becoming excruciating. Being upset was making it unbearable. Faith cradled her aching head in her hands as tears of anguish swelled in her eyes. She couldn’t speak but softly moaned.

Bridget turned and rushed out of the room in a panic. Faith watched her leave, hoping that the maid was getting a phone. Home was only a phone call away.

When the door to the bedroom opened, a man instead of the maid entered. Faith glanced up at him through tears and splayed fingers. His height and attire made for a striking appearance. The black tuxedo with tails seemed a bit dated. The black cape thrown over his shoulder and the black silk top hat he held made him appear ready for a costume ball. Yet, the strange attire seemed to fit his arrogant demeanor and erect stance. Faith stared at him as he strode toward her. He returned her gaze with like curiosity.

“It seems I’ve returned home from the theater just in time. Bridget informed me of your being conscious and in some discomfort,” he said in a dusky voice. “I’m Doctor Ian Forrester.”

With the flair of a matador, he removed his cape and set it and the hat upon the nearby wicker chair. He came to her bedside and looked down at her, concern flickering gold in his dark chocolate eyes. He leaned over and placed his right hand on her forehead and moved it down to her cheeks and throat. His long fingers felt soft and gentle against her flesh, the fingers one expected from a facialist or masseur.

“You’re still burning with fever,” he said, removing his hands. “When the fever goes down your headache will be less pronounced. In the meantime, I can mix up some medicine to lessen the pain.”

“Don’t you have any Tylenol or Advil?” she asked.

“I don’t understand.”

“You are a doctor, aren’t you?” she asked, flustered.

“I assure you that I am and I’ve been told I’m a competent one.”

His gaze was intense as he analyzed her every word and movement. Faith squirmed under the quilt and sheets.

“You really must rest. Getting upset will only delay your recovery,” he said. “You should tell me your name and if there is someone I should inform about your condition and your whereabouts.”

“My name is Faith Donahue and I would like to call my friend.”

“Telephone?”

“Yes. Bridget said that you have one.”

“Since you cannot leave your bed, allow me to place your telephone call.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “The name is Clarice Thomas. She’s in SOMA and her number is five-five-eight-four-three-two-four.”

“Madame, I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

“I know of no such a place as SOMA and the exchange isn’t valid.”

Faith raised her hands. “Where am I, on another planet?”

“San Francisco can seem that way.” He chuckled. “Perhaps your illness has caused some confusion. You really should rest.”

“The only place I can rest is at home.”

“And where’s that?”

“92 Sacramento Street in Pacific Heights.”

He chuckled again. “Are you trying to humor me? This is 92 Sacramento Street and this is my home.”

“What kind of joke is this? Brad put you up to this charade, didn’t he? He wants me declared insane so he can get his divorce without losing his assets. Admit it!”

“Madame, I don’t know who you are or where you come from. All I do know is that I found you near death on the banks of San Francisco Bay. Out of duty, I brought you here. I’m afraid that I can only cure the physical. I am not a doctor who deals with illnesses of the psyche.”

He shook his head as if in pity of her state of mind. With a turn of heels, he marched across and out of the room.

• • •

The powdery substance that Doctor Forrester had mixed was working wonders on Faith’s fever and headache. Before, all she wished to do was to be left alone to sleep. Sleep had been her only escape from the sharp pain in her head, the nausea, and lethargy. After the medicine and Bridget’s attentive care, she was regaining her strength. As she began to feel better, a desire for independence set in.

Instead of being a refuge, the bed was becoming a prison. Her curiosity about the strange house and its unusual occupants was growing on her. She also wanted to call Clarice, go home, and plan for her future without Brad.

After Bridget set down her morning tea and left, Faith scooted to the edge of her bed. She let her legs and feet dangle for a while to get the blood circulating again. Feeling confident, she stood on her wobbly legs, grasping the iron headboard for support. Her legs were numb and weak and her mind a bit foggy. With determination she moved one foot in front of the other, reaching the iron footboard. She stood clinging to the iron post, contemplating her next move.

The sun was radiating through the stained glass creating a colorful, fiery effect. Tapestry draperies were pulled over the other two windows keeping the room dim. Faith decided that she needed some sunlight and fresh air.

Releasing her hold on the footboard, she gingerly stepped toward a window. After drawing open the heavy drapes, she sank into a nearby chair. Winded, she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes to the world outside her window. She gasped at the scene below. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

The scene outside was like some Hollywood movie set. She reached out and pushed up the window to open it, wanting to get a better view. She breathed in the rush of fresh, cherry-blossom-scented air. In disbelief of the scene outside, she leaned over and stuck out her head. Horses’ hooves clattered as they pulled carriages and wagons.

A cable car clanged as it made its ascent while an Oldsmobile motorcar tooted its horn as it sputtered by. Women in shirtwaist blouses and ankle-length skirts lifted their hems crossing the street while men attired in three-button suits with high-collared shirts, and bowler hats scurried about with canes and valises. Iron fences protecting flower gardens, blossoming trees, and grassy yards fronted pristine Victorian homes and row houses. Faith recognized some of the buildings but it was as if they had been stripped of their grime and age. From the blooming rhododendrons and daffodils she knew that it was still spring, but of the year she wasn’t certain.

The door to her bedroom opened and Bridget walked in. She stepped back in startled surprise when she noticed Faith seated at the open window. Placing her hands on her broad hips, she seemed ready to scold as she approached.

“Too fine a day to be indoors, isn’t it, with the sun shining and all those flowers blooming?” Bridget asked. “Made you chance fate and get out of bed, didn’t it?”

“I just wanted some light and fresh air but I think I got more than I bargained for.”

“The walk wore you out, didn’t it? Just because you’re feeling better doesn’t mean you’re cured.”

Faith turned to face the maid and asked in a serious tone, “What’s the date today?”

“April 8.”

“What year?”

Bridget tilted her head. “The year? 1906.”

“1906?” Faith swallowed hard.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Could you get me a newspaper?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Bridget curtsied, pivoted and rushed out of the room.

She returned a few minutes later holding the Chronicle. She handed the newspaper to Faith who snatched it from her.

“Quite a pity what happened in Italy with the volcano erupting and all. So many poor souls killed,” Bridget commented with a sigh.

Faith gaped at the headline that announced, in bold letters, the tragic eruption of Mount Vesuvius. The news jolted her into the realization that this episode wasn’t a sick joke. Somehow, she had transcended the bounds of time and had ended up back in another era. How?

She tried to act composed when the unsettling fear of being trapped back in time overcame her. She felt like an alien who had just landed on another planet, an outcast. This wasn’t her world.

She was a woman who had thrived on material possessions and on the luxuries of modern convenience. How could she cope in a turn-of-the-century lifestyle? What about her family and her friends? None of them were even born yet! What about her job? She was a teacher but her tools were the calculator and computer. If it was indeed 1906 she would be alone, a stranger. 1906.

Suddenly, she remembered the earthquake. San Francisco was devastated by a major earthquake and fire in 1906. Wasn’t it on April 18? What was the date? April 8.

Overwhelmed over things that were out of her control, Faith began to panic. Beads of sweat formed and began to roll down her forehead. Her limbs trembled. As her heart quickened its beat, she gasped for breath. She curled up in the chair, bringing her legs up against her chest, seeking protection, and grasped them with her arms in a reassuring hug.

Bridget ran toward her. Faith wouldn’t move but softly moaned.

Bridget rushed out of the room seeking help.

Doctor Forrester dashed into the room and to Faith’s side. Putting one arm around her, he used the other to lift her up and out of the chair. He held her tight in his arms as he carried her to the bed. Tears rolled from her eyes as she mumbled incoherently. As if tucking in a child, Dr. Forrester laid her on the bed and covered her with the sheets and quilt.

“Bridget, fetch me a basin of cool water and a rag. Make haste!” he barked.

Bridget scurried out of the room.

Faith gazed up at the doctor as he leaned down to examine her. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his minty breath and spicy masculine scent. She looked up at him. His was an arresting face with a strong bone structure, a solid square jaw, and high cheekbones. Black lashes, unusually long and wispy for a man, framed dark almond eyes. His bushy black brows and wavy black hair added to his dramatic appearance.

Withdrawing a stethoscope from his suit pocket, he put on the headset and eartips and placed the chestpiece on her chest. His gentle fingers slid the cool chestpiece over the flannel nightgown. His touch, so close to her flesh, made her flinch and tingle.

“What is it that upset you so?” he asked, removing the stethoscope and putting it back in his pocket.

“You … you wouldn’t understand,” she mumbled.

“There’s a great deal that I don’t understand about you. Perhaps it’s about time you start explaining. A doctor cannot help a patient about whom he knows so little.”

Faith quietly watched him as he stood and went to retrieve a nearby chair. He placed the wicker chair at her bedside and sank his tall, lanky body in it.

Bridget returned with a small metal basin of water and a cotton rag. The doctor took them from her and placed the basin on the bed. He swished the rag in the water and rang it out.

“Thank you, Bridget. You may attend to your other duties now.”

“Yes, sir.” Bridget curtsied and left.

The doctor placed the damp cloth on Faith’s forehead. She quivered as the cold touched her warm skin.

“Now, tell me. How did you end up on the bank near Golden Gate Park wet, strangely attired, and near death? Where did you come from?” he asked, eyes boring into her for answers.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You’d really write me off as being crazy.”

“Perhaps.” He removed the cloth from her head and returned it to the basin.

She sighed. “I wish I knew how I ended up here, in this place and time, and why. It doesn’t make sense.”

“You say place and time? Bridget said that you became hysterical when she told you the date and handed you today’s newspaper. Why?” he asked, his eyes darkening with the intensity of his gaze.

“As I said, you wouldn’t understand. Just like you didn’t understand Tylenol and couldn’t understand cellular phone.”

He shrugged. “I still don’t. Perhaps, if you explain it will help.”

He wrung out the cloth and placed it on her forehead again.

“How can I explain that in the year 2006 I accidentally drove my car over a cliff into San Francisco Bay, only to be found on its banks in 1906?” she asked, beginning to tremble at the thought.

He knit his brows and glared at her.

She met his gaze. “I warned you wouldn’t believe me.”

“It’s preposterous. You’re asking me to believe that you have gone back in time one hundred years?”

“Yes. I don’t know how or why.”

He scoffed in agitation. “I’ve heard that gypsies can be beguiling, but you, Madame, have mastered the art.”

“You think I’m a gypsy?”

“Only gypsies weave strange tales, wear indecent garments, wear numerous earbobs, claim no past, and predict the future.”