A Circle of Time (3 page)

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

From the few moments she'd spent in the woman's presence, Allison believed her. She felt secure that this woman, whoever she was, was someone to be trusted. But could she be trusted with Allison's secret? What would Teresa Cardona Pomales think if Allison confessed that she wasn't really Becky but a girl from the future imprisoned in Becky Lee Thompson's body?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud
bang
of the heavy double door bursting open. Through the door strode a tall man with a wild mop of white hair. “Tere, where have you been?”

The man spoke Spanish, but Allison had studied the language in school, and as long as the person spoke clearly and deliberately, she could make out what was said. And this man spoke
very
deliberately.

“Don Gutiérrez and I have been waiting at least half an hour—finally he had to go. He brought the young mare and”—the man lowered his voice—“he was anxious to meet you.”

The man's hair reminded Allison of a picture she'd seen of Albert Einstein—pure white and flying straight out on the sides. Despite the white hair, the man had the rugged features and physique of a younger man. His presence dominated the large room, seeming to shrink it to half its size.

Teresa did not appear impressed. She shook her long curls and gave an annoyed sigh. “Papá,” she replied in Spanish, “I have no interest in Don Gutiérrez or any of your other friends.
Gracias,
but I'll choose my own husband—that is, if I decide to marry.”

“Tere, you are a most willful child. In my day, a young woman married the man her
papá
chose, and was happy about it. I don't understand why I have been cursed with such stubborn daughters.”

Teresa rose on tiptoes and kissed her father's nose. “Because, Papá, you are a most stubborn man.”

The scowl on the man's face disappeared, but his deep-blue eyes held their fiery sparkle. “If I did not love you so much, Teresita, I would have written you out of my will long ago.” Then his gaze met Allison's, and the scowl returned. His eyes narrowed, turning a cold steel blue. “What is
she
doing here?”

“Becky Lee brought by the new dress she made me.” Teresa twirled to show it off. “You like it?”

“Sí, sí,
but if she's done, send her on her way.” The man lowered his voice, but Allison could still hear him. “Know your place, Teresa. You know how I feel about your keeping company with servants.”

“She is not a servant, Papa,” Teresa whispered harshly. “And I keep company with whomever I please. You will not do to me what you did to Isa.”

The man flinched as though he had been slapped.

Instantly, Teresa's face softened. “I'm sorry, Papa. I do not mean to hurt you. But, please, please allow me to make my own decisions. I have a brain, and I have a heart. The two do not work independently, no matter what you mandate.”

The man gave his daughter a sad smile and kissed her forehead, holding her close for a few seconds. Then he turned and strode from the room.

 

Allison stood at the entrance to the Cardona Pomales estate wondering what to do next. Before her and to her left and right lay acres and acres of grapevines. Behind her was the hacienda-style mansion she'd just left. Apparently, the Cardona Pomales family had made its fortune in vineyards.

She didn't want to go back to the Thompson cabin. That Thompson woman was horrid and abusive. She didn't know how to get to the cabin, anyway.

She also had no idea where the nearest town was. Even if she knew, what could she do in a town with no money? Maybe she could camp out in the woods. She loved camping. She was planning to be a forest ranger, wasn't she? But although she'd taken survival training last summer, she'd never really been on her own. How long could she last without food and shelter?

What year was it, anyway? It might help if she at least knew the year. She hadn't spotted any calendars at the estate, but she did notice electric lights, though no televisions or telephones were in view. When was electricity discovered? Allison vaguely remembered the discovery being in the late 1800s. So this would place her in the late 1800s or the early 1900s. From what Allison had seen of Teresa's clothes, it could be either.

Frustrated, Allison began to walk down the dirt road toward some trees in the distance. As she walked, she couldn't help wondering where Becky had headed after leaving the estate that day. Was Allison supposed to go there? Becky was making Allison relive her past to help her. Help her do what? Did helping her mean Allison had to do everything Becky did, exactly? How could Allison help Becky when she didn't share Becky's memories and had no way of contacting the girl while she was stuck in her body?