It was the day of my mother's going away party. Father had been planning it for months. It was a party that I had secretly been dreading from the moment he set his heart on it.
Our family room was filled with formally dressed bodies and I quietly lingered, hoping that my parents’ friends and co-workers wouldn't notice my presence. They stood, chatting about their workdays and gently gripping their wine glasses. I began to squeeze my way through the oblivious crowd and scurried towards the door.
"Bethany!" my father's voice sounded.
"Yeah, dad?" I answered.
"Yes, Father," he corrected me. "Please bring me some more hors d’oeuvres in for our guests. Set them on the table, if you don't want to pass them around."
I smiled and he continued conversing with the women from Mother's work. I ignored his request and continued out the door. He was much too busy to notice anyway.
I stood outside our house, where all was quiet in comparison. I glanced around the neighborhood, unsure where to go or how to occupy my time until the party saw its end. Something across the street at our neighbor Mrs. Randall's house caught my eye... She was an old bitter woman who rarely tended to visitors, yet there appeared to be quite a bit of motion in her house...
Or at least from what I could see through the window…
I casually trotted across the road and hid behind the shriveled, dead bushes that she had planted in her desert garden years ago. I could hear muffled voices inside, but couldn't make out their words. For a minute I'd thought I heard Mrs. Randall raise her voice, in a tone much uglier than usual. I crouched in the dirt, confused.
"Maybe I should just go home." I considered, just as Mrs. Randall's household fell unusually silent. Suddenly, I could hear the pounding of heavy footsteps, but darkness engulfed my thoughts before I had been given a chance to react.
I stared into the black before me, lost and unable to recollect any memories. "Is this death?" I wondered.
It felt as though I had somehow become trapped in my own mind, but before I could comprehend anything more, the shadows grew a whole new hue of caliginosity. It didn't take long before I was seemingly unconscious once again.
Hours passed, days passed, and soon, years passed but I was left in a state, somewhere between reality and a dream, completely thoughtless and lifeless. I, for one, was incapable of tracking time. After what seemed to be an eternity of becoming frozen in a moment, I finally opened my eyes. They felt heavy and my body weary. All alone, I stood to my feet, still suffering some sort of amnesia. I began to walk -- my legs ached and throbbed more and more with each step. My stomach churned and my head remained light.
I turned down a long hallway. Old pictures of cowboys and figures of the Wild West were hung, lining the walls. I picked up the pace, hurrying to the end. There were no more turns and no other exits, aside from the tattered mahogany door before me. I opened it. To my surprise, many men wearing Western attire gathered at tables, playing poker and other card games. Gambling, I assumed.
The bickering amongst their tables was obnoxious and irritating. Was I at some sort of role-playing convention? How did I, of all people, get here? My heart began to race, though I moved slowly across the room. I took a moment to process my surroundings. This was no convention… this was the real thing! Somehow, I managed to travel back into the nineteenth century.
I neared the bar, where men drank and laughed with the bartender. I stopped for a moment, overwhelmed with nausea.
"What're ye doin' here, little lady?" a voice sounded. It was the bartender.
"I-I don't know." I faintly replied.
The room chimed with laughter and all at once, the men poked fun at my response, though I hadn't heard most of their remarks. To my left there was a hall and I didn't hesitate to run towards it.
"I want to go home!" I cried, as my life flashed before my eyes. "I remember!" I smiled. "I remember my home!"
I continued to bustle down the hall. A man leaned against the wall with a grin on his face and red bandana draped around his neck.
"Cowboy," I thought nervously, fighting to disregard his discomforting stares. I turned another corner. How could such a complex building be in the Wild West? Yet I wasn't dreaming.
At the end of yet another long hall, I could see the figure of a man wearing a jet-black suit. He sat, slightly slouched, with a cane to his side. There was no exit in this direction, yet I was compelled to continue towards him. It felt as if I had known him for a lifetime. As I grew nearer, I recognized his face. Sitting at the end of this mysterious hall was the infamous Doc Holliday. He lifted his hand and I reached out to greet him. For a moment, he stared stone cold into my eyes and cupped my hand, as an ever-growing fear began to fill my heart. Suddenly, the lights in my brain shut off once again.
Only this time, the terror didn't seem to last so long. I soon awakened in an unfamiliar, and uncomfortable bed, with many strange faces gazing upon me.
"She's opened her eyes!" a woman cried, a face I hadn't caught a glimpse of.
The room quickly emptied and before long, I laid alone. I stood up, my legs even weaker than before. I caught sight of a mirror, hanging by its lonesome on the wall and struggled to stagger over to it. The air was stale, which choked me. I began to cough, and the coughing turned to painful hacks.
I caught my balance and glared at my own reflection. My cheeks appeared sunken and frail, my eyes red and blotchy. I had never looked so pail before and I could barely recognize the sight of my sickly face.
"This isn't me..." Tears rolled down my face. "It can't be!"
I turned my head, and saw Doc standing at the bedside, through the corner of my eyes. The sight of his face, similar to my own structure, startled me.
"Tuberculosis, my darling."
He spoke with a Georgian accent, then began walking towards me.
"Mrs. Randall couldn't even save you now."
He grabbed my arm and for the third time, I was placed somewhere between space and time. I awoke to a man strikingly similar in appearance to Doc Holliday, lifting me off of the cement.
"Looks like you took quite a spill! Peeping on an old lady, none the less!" laughed the man, sharing the same accent as Mr. Holliday. "Let me take ya in and Mrs. Randall will git ya cleaned up!"
* * *
Chapter 4: A Neighborly Welcome