Chapter 20

Chapter

Twenty

Dr. Lucas Hamilton

My premonition, dream, or whatever made me think we've lost Mr. Hobbs turns out to be true. I help the volunteers wrap his body, Afton calls someone from the local mortuary, and they come for him that morning. There are questions I can't answer, such as where he wanted to be buried.

I imagine he'd like to be buried on his land in Boise City or in the cemetery there, but the cost is well beyond my means. It could take time to make that happen, and in the meantime, his body will decompose unless he's embalmed. I'll ask Pastor Andersen how to help when I see him next.

Later in the day, Afton introduces me to a local MD, Dr. Rawlins, who comes by to see the work we're doing here. He says he has a good practice in town, though from the moment he arrives, he complains that the dust storms are killing business.

"More and more people are fed up and moving away. It has come to pass that my office is empty more often than not. I want to move to Seattle," he tells me. "The little woman won't hear of going an inch farther west. She wants to move back to Massachusetts where her people live."

"Massachusetts is lovely," I've listened with half my attention, but I make the appropriate responses when necessary.

Dr. Rawlins is younger than I am, but that doesn't stop him from dropping knowledge on me in an avuncular way that makes my teeth ache. He's about 5'10, lean, but not fit with pale skin marked by broken capillaries around his nose and across his cheeks. Alcoholic? Maybe. He's sober now, and so am I, more's the pity.

Afton asked me to shadow him today. It's another humbling experience in a long string of ego-crushing events. Over the course of two weeks, I've gone from successful cardiothoracic surgeon to utter ignoramus, barely fit to scrub out bedpans.

And yes. I helped with bedpans too, yesterday.

"So, Doctor Hamilton," he says pleasantly as he stands over a sixty-something woman presenting with fever and cough and difficulty breathing. "What would you suggest for Mrs. Cartwright?"

"I—" He cuts me off.

"I'm afraid there's not much we can do for her here, eh?" He says, as if she isn't there. "I find serum therapy particularly fascinating. I was in New York when Bullowa studied the statistical significance of using Type 1 serum for S. pneumoniae bacteria."

"I see." This seems to be all he expects of a listener.

"I am particularly interested in talking with Dr. Delano about the use of serum therapy to treat these poor wretches. I hope I shall get the chance. I hear Delano has the president's ear."

I can't help myself. "If he does, I never saw it."

"No matter. I'm reliably informed that Delano a favorite of the First Lady. It's nepotism, of course, but it's good she's relying on men of science like us for reports detailing what we're doing for those stricken with dust pneumonia."

"I hope they find a way to help."

"Oh, yes." He says conspiratorially. "They're going to cover the Southern Plains in concrete. No dust, ipso facto no dust pneumonia."

"Now there's an idea." I nod and plod on.

"Answer a question for me, please. I mean to visit Dr. Delano in Boise City. Does he have a preferred whisky or other spirit? Does he smoke cigars?" Dr. Rawlins probably studied hard, got good grades, and passed his exams, but he's not very personable. In retrospect, I've been as brusque and egotistical as he is. I should change that. If I get the chance to go back to my time—to Sophie—I will bounce from my bed like Ebeneezer Scrooge on Christmas morning.

The usual soundtrack is coughing and misery here. Dr. Rawlins seems bothered by the noise. "I don't know how you cope with patients all day and night. If I didn't know I wasn't cut out to work in a hospital before medical school, working in one before I married did the job.

"I don't mind it." I'm surprised to find I enjoy spending time with the patients under my care here. Since there's little of substance I can do for them, I can at least share in our humanity, gross indignities, flaws and all. I never considered that necessary before, but maybe I would have been a better doctor if I had.

We survive Dr. Rawlins' visit, though we need to reassure our patients after he leaves. The sixty-something woman he talked over, Sarah Cartwright, asks, "Am I gonna die?"

"Not today." I tell her. "You're not to consider such a thing tomorrow, either."

She smiles a gap-tooth smile at me. "That Dr. Rawlins…is what I call all hat…and no cattle."

"I know the type well." I smooth the sheet covering her.

"He comes by—" She takes a rasping breath. "—every now and again."

I find a folding chair and bring it to her bedside. "Where are you from?"

"Originally?" She coughs for a full minute. "Austin, Texas."

"I'm sorry. You don't have to talk, Mrs. Cartwright. Is there anything I can get you? Just point." I'm embarrassed to say that I've never asked a patient in my care this question before. Nurses to see to my patients' comfort. But when I ask here, I learn more than I imagined I would.

"I could…murder a Coke," she says wistfully. A Coke.

"That's a simple enough request." I could talk about empty calories or sugar or phosphoric acid, but one Coke won't hurt her unless she's diabetic. They have those at gas stations, don't they?

Afton is talking to one of the nurses. I wait until she's finished before asking, "Is Mrs. Cartwright diabetic?"

"No, why?"

"Is there somewhere I can get her a Coke?"

"Golly, that sounds good right now." Afton pulls nickel from her pocket and hands it over. "I'll tell you where to go if you get me one too."

In no time I'm inundated by patients and volunteers who also want Coke. I end up taking Liz with me, and we buy two dozen bottles, enough for everyone and then some. They're ice cold. The man at the store puts them in small wooden pallets that he asks me to bring back with the empties. I carry one, and Liz carries the other. We get a hero's welcome in return.

I'm trying to twist the cap off my Coke surreptitiously using part of my shirt to hide how weak and worthless I am when Afton comes by with a bottle opener.

"Oh hon." She opens my drink for me. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Nope." Taking a swig of the Coke is like stepping into a pair of old slippers but better. Oh, God. Real cane sugar. The bottle is smaller than I'm used to, but the flavor is familiar and transports me to the few times I managed to evade my parents to get one as a child.

Mrs. Cartwright and I take our time sipping out of our sweating bottles together, but then it's time to get back to work. I help change linens, wipe down febrile patients, walk them to the bathroom and/or empty bedpans. Afton knows there's something off about me. She took Sumner's word that I'm a doctor, but my lack of expertise with the instruments and protocols of the day make her doubt I'm any good at it.

Despite her disappointment in me, she's delightful.

Later that night, when I ask her where I can go to get a drink, she tells me about a local bar where the drinks aren't watered down, and the folks don't get "rowdy."

"I could use a little walk and a drink," I say.

"You've worked hard. You've earned it." I must look pitiful, because she lays her hand on my shoulder. "Delano wrote you're recovering from an accident. Don't be hard on yourself. You're doing great here."

I thank her and make my way outside, wearing a mask. The wind isn't too bad tonight, thank heavens. Here in town, the buildings help to shelter us from the worst of it. I set out in the direction Afton pointed me, but I take my time and let my anxious mind relax.

The shops are shuttered closed. There are no streetlights here to guide my way. Light pollution is virtually nonexistent. There is enough moonlight to see where I'm going, and there are stars, but night here gets way darker than I'm used to. I see now why old songs refer to looking at stars, because wow. There they are, bright and cheerful despite the amount of dust blowing in the breeze.

I walk past the drugstore and through a small neighborhood of cracker box houses, loop around a tiny park with a fountain in the middle—dedicated to veterans—before I come to the bar Afton recommended. The Watering Hole . I take off my mask, pass through a non-descript door, and walk inside. Instantly, I'm engulfed by a haze of cigarette smoke. Since smoking has been banned everywhere for so long at home, I'd almost forgotten about smoke-filled bars. It's like eating the contents of an ashtray, and I'm not fond of it.

With a kitschy name like the Watering Hole, I expect cowboy decor, but if there's a theme here, it's hunting. There are taxidermized animals on every wall: deer, mountain lions, longhorn sheep, and a bear of some kind. Sumner Delano might wince, but Theodore Roosevelt would feel right at home here.

I sit at the bar and contemplate the snarling head of badger. I think it's a badger. It looks like UW Madison's mascot, minus the red turtleneck. And the rest of its body. The bartender saunters over and gives me an up-nod, which I interpret to mean he wants my drink order.

"Bourbon with a beer chaser," I tell him, mostly because I've always wanted to say that. A few people glance my way. I assume it's because I'm a stranger. In a town this size, I'm guessing everyone knows one another.

The bartender puts my drinks in front of me. "Start a tab?"

I nod and take my first sip of the whisky. It's…not bad. Not good either. It's the kind of serviceable bourbon they put in mixed drinks at conventions with a no host bar. I down it and sip the beer, which is also nothing I'd write about in my diary.

Country music plays from the radio. Every so often, they interrupt for sponsors. There's a plug for something called Rinso. Another touts the addition of Turkish tobacco in Lucky Strikes. A flavor that neither possesses alone…

I ask for another bourbon and sip my beer. When I drank with Sumner, I felt safe. Here, I'm drinking to forget I might never go home again. If I stay, I'll probably become a problem drinker.

For some reason, the thought makes me laugh.

All the things I've worked hard for and all the things I denied myself to get where I am flash before me like a PowerPoint presentation with a sad trombone after each slide. Eating healthy and choosing organic, grass-fed, free range, non-GMO food. Staying away from drugs and moderating my alcohol consumption. Safe sex. I have a ring—gone since the time travel accident—that tells me what my resting heart rate is, how much exercise I get, how long I sleep, and whether that sleep is quality sleep or not. It tests how resilient I am. I feel pretty fragile right now because none of that matters here.

I could eat a Tomahawk steak, take a few sips of laudanum, hit up a glory hole, and drink until I'm falling-down drunk. It doesn't matter. I'll still be stuck here, learning how to change bed linens without hurting the patient and shaking my head over things I could cure with a Z-pack of azithromycin.

I laugh when I call for my third bourbon. "Got any food here? I'd love a plate of fries."

The bartender shakes his head. "No food."

"That's all right. Maybe I'll drive through McDonald's." I find that hilarious and down my third shot of the night. For some reason, my beer is empty, so I say, "Set ‘em up again, please."

Mine host is taciturn. "Pay for what you already drank first."

"How much?" He gives me a number so low, I blink in surprise. "Are you sure that's all?"

He nods.

"This okay?" I slide a silver dollar and two quarters across the bar to cover what I've had, plus a tip. It's not paranoia that makes me think everyone is starting to get suspicious of me. It's observation . People stare like I'm weird or something. Huh. Maybe it's the gay thing? Now that could get me killed here, but not heroin. Oh no. People drink that shit.

A minute later, the barkeep comes back with another whisky and a second glass of beer. Every so often something absurd, like going for a five-mile run every morning, tickles my funny bone. I'm certain I'm being inconspicuous about it. I wish I had a phone so people would think I'm looking at memes.

I turn to a man whose weathered face makes him seem like he could be anywhere between thirty and seventy. "I was remembering a meme my daughter showed me."

He picks up his glass and moves a couple of barstools farther away. Then, a sheriff's deputy walks into the bar, and no, he's not with a priest or a nun, because it's not a joke.

"Evening, Dan." He tips his hat to the bartender. Dan, huh.

Then he turns to me. "Howdy, hoss. What's going on tonight?"

"Nothing. I'm just drowning my…sad stuff," I say.

"I haven't seen you around here before. Where you from?" He makes a slow perusal. I don't think he likes what he sees. Not only am I dressed in secondhand clothes, I'm well over the legal limit. But it's not like I'm driving.

"The land of enchantment. New Mexico," I say. "Santa Fe."

"How'd you come to be here?" He has a relaxed, smiling veneer that I sense hides a keen prey drive and the desire to play with his food a bit before he eats it.

"I'm with Dr. Sumner Delano at his clinic in Boise City. I helped bring one of his patients here. Thought I'd lend a hand if the Red Cross needs me, but I am owed a night off."

"You're a doctor?"

"I am that. Yes." I know telling him is a mistake the second I say the words. He sneers at me.

"That so?" His hands rest lightly on his belt. I don't dare move because he's armed. For the record, Colt doesn't make men equal unless everybody has one. And no, I don't think that's a good idea.

"Yes, I am a doctor of medicine ." No point in denying it now. The others surreptitiously stare out of the corner of their eyes, or they watch us in the mirror behind the bar.

"Got any proof of that?" he asks.

"No sir." I should have been saying "sir" all along.

He grins. "How much did you drink, hoss?"

"I beg your pardon?" I stand.

"Oh, you beg my pardon." This tickles him. He glances over the crowd to see if he's got an audience. The answer is yes. "Mr. Dan here was worried about you. He says you're causing a scene."

"Bartender Dan," I say, "is a snitch."

"You've had too much," the man says. "Isn't that right?"

"Define too much."

"Show me your money," he orders, and then he asks Dan how much I owe.

I open my coin purse and show him. "That's Sumner's money."

"All right." The deputy takes a few coins and lays them on the bar, and then he adds another silver dollar. "For the trouble."

I'm basically living at the church, so I don't need much money, but I'm starting to get worried. I'm hammered. If this guy wants another reason to detain me, he'll find one, and there's nothing I can do about it. I can forget about paying fines or bail.

"Thing is," he says sadly. "We don't much like hobos around here."

My mouth falls open. "I volunteer at the Red Cross church thing. Ask Afton if you don't believe me."

"Stand up, sir." His hand inches closer to his weapon. I stand. "Volunteering ain't work. From what I see, you come into my town with hardly no money and no job. You ain't had a haircut or a shave in who knows how long, and you're wearing clothes that don't fit you. Did you get ‘em off some decent family's clothesline?"

"No, of course not. Mrs. Andersen?—"

"Now, I ain't ordinarily one to judge a man by his appearance or his tolerance for drink, but we've had some trouble with hobos knocking on doors and bothering nice folks for a hand-out. We're as charitable as the next folk, but we gotta draw the line somewhere."

"My good man," I am taller, so I'm looking down at him. Size matters. It's not personal. "I'm not anywhere near the line you have to draw."

"Sorry, mister. Dan says you been drunk and disorderly. Also, you don't got more than two dollars on you. That's the line here in Beaver County. You can talk to the sheriff about it. I'm just doing my job."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

He widens his eyes. "Sir, you got no call to curse like that. I was of a mind to ask you nicely if you'd come with me, but now, I want you to turn around and put your hands together behind your back."

Enraged and ashamed, I do as he says. "Do people really go with you when you ask nicely?"

"They do if they don't want worse trouble than they already got." He tightens his hold on my wrists and slaps the cuffs on none too gently.

"Hey, I'm cooperating here."

"And we're all grateful you are. That will help your case."

"What am I being charged with?"

He gives me a good long stare. "Drunk and disorderly. I guess you could make things worse for yourself by being a smart mouth."

I glare at him. "I won't."

"C'mon now, Mr.—"

"Hamilton. Dr. Lucas Hamilton."

To no one's surprise, he pulls me out of the bar and places me in the back of a black car.

"Watch your head, Mr. Hamilton."

"It's doctor, Hoss. " That's how I end up riding to the county jail. Once we get there, they put me in a cell.

"Hey, man. A little advice." The deputy looks both ways before saying, "Don't talk smart to the sheriff. He got his clothes stole off his line last week."

He laughs as he walks away, running his baton along the bars like they do in the movies. Oh my God. This is both a cliché and a nightmare. I've never been in a jail cell before. Is this the drunk tank? The cell is exactly as nasty as you think it would be. There's a set of bunks with stained mattresses covered in blue and white ticking. They're lumpy and smell like armpits and ass and not in a good way. There's a toilet and a sink. I'm not touching either of those without a gallon of bleach or a flamethrower.

I'm alone for now. I hope I get to stay alone.

And that's when it hits me. I am alone, truly alone, for the first time since I woke up in this alternate reality. Timeline. Whatever.

I'm completely, utterly, Sandra Bullock in Gravity alone.

I get a phone call, don't I? I might be able to get in touch with Afton, but she's awfully busy. I don't know the number there anyway. The phone must be in the church office. What kind was it again? Methodist? I can't call Sumner; there's no phone at the clinic. Wait, maybe Afton can get a message to Sumner for me.

I'm probably still drunk, but that makes me so happy.

I need to plan. Need it. Every atom in my body cries out for order. Any plan, even a bad plan will do. One. I will ask for my phone call. Two...

I don't have a two! For the first time in my life, I can't formulate a plan. Can't think. Can't think. This is why you avoid alcohol. Because even when nothing else matters, you need your brain.

Is the air stuffy in here? It's hard to breathe. The harder I try to catch a breath, the more elusive oxygen is. My heart is racing, and I'm having chest pains. But you run five miles a day!

Oh, wait. Panic attack. Thank God, it's just a panic attack, because I have a plan for that.

One: I will take a deep breath in, hold it to a count of four. I'll breath out to a count of eight. Two: I will visualize calming nature scenes. Three: I will notice the environment around me with all five senses. Okay, maybe not my sense of smell. Four: I will continue structured breathing and repeat the rest of the steps until I feel calm again.

Do not cry. Do not cry.

After a few minutes, I feel better. I must steel myself for the interrogation I know will come. I hope that whoever donated my clothes in Boise City didn't steal them here in Beaver County.

Nothing happens. No one comes.

After what feels like hours, I'm so tired, I force myself to lie down on the stinking and—argh, God—sticky mattress. Oh, Sophie. I never intended this. I'm just a helicopter parent, stuck in fucking No Man's Land, in love with a man who died before I was born, and in jail for not having five dollars on me. They think I'm a drunken hobo.

I'm a hammered hobo, Sophie.

Dad's an incarcerated, inebriated hobo, but he loves you.

God, if You exist, please get me out of this mess. If You don't exist, let me know so I can make another plan in the morning.

Afton, have you noticed I'm missing yet?

Sumner, I hope you can sense this in some way. You are in my heart, now and for all time.

Sweet dreams.