Edge Of Time

Fourteen

Fourteen

The next morning Craig stood in the doorway, heart aching as he watched Marissa dress. He did not know what to believe, but he would be devastated if at the end of the day he found that she was not fully in charge of her faculties, or just as awful that all the rumors about her were true. Testily he asked, "If you're from the future, then tell me when the war ends."

"April, 1865 in Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia." Her answer came without hesitation. "The Union wins. General Ulysses S. Grant is the commander of the Union Forces at that time and General Robert E. Lee surrenders to him."

Craig's jaw visibly dropped. "Lee? Surrender? You're making that up."

"Could I possibly make up anything that detailed?"

He opened his mouth to reply and then rapidly closed it. Could she be telling the truth? The progressive ideas about medicine she so often spoke of and the countless times he'd caught her and Genie in the middle of a bizarre conversation—Craig still wasn't sure what a lead zeppelin was or what it had to do with a stairway to heaven—he would have to ask her about that someday. And her babbling about a nurse named... What had it been? Nightingale? The name was vaguely familiar, and he was sure he'd heard of a war somewhere in a place called Crimea, but it was only a vague notion.

The tension was thick enough to slice with a knife as they drove in the early hours of morning to collect a very sleepy and thoroughly confused Genie Harris from her daughter's house.

In further silence the trio drove to the farmhouse, all casting somewhat apprehensive glances toward the woods. Craig's mood had remained dourly foul and Marissa desperately hoped he would believe them when provided proof of the time travel. The sun was had just peeked over the horizon when they reached the farmhouse and Craig lifted the women from the wagon.

"Where is this proof you spoke of," he demanded before striding into the house without a backward glance.

Genie turned to Marissa. "You told him?"

Marissa shrugged as they followed Craig into the house. "I had to! It was tell him the truth or let him believe that I'm a Yankee spy."

"Oh!" Genie's hand flew to her mouth. "I can assure you, Craig, Marissa is not a spy." Leading the way into the parlor Genie opened the small door located behind the book case and pulled the box containing their futuristic belongings from the safety of its hiding place. Quickly she handed the box to Craig and allowed him to feast his gaze upon the proof of Marissa's words.

To say he was shocked would have been a gross understatement. Holding Marissa's driver's license in one hand and her cell phone in the other, he collapsed back onto the sofa, shaking his head in disbelief. "It can't be. It is impossible, impossible," he murmured over and over again. After a moment Marissa handed him another picture.

The photograph was amazing, like nothing he had ever seen before.

It was a picture of her and all in color. She wore trousers and a long sleeved shirt with the words USC Class of 2008 emblazoned on the front. Craig knew of no way for the women to fabricate such evidence but it was still several moments before he was able to speak. Looking at Marissa and Genie he asked warily, "So this is how you knew about the bombing?" Both women nodded. "You'd better start explaining."

Over bitter cups of Confederate "coffee" the women explained everything they knew until Craig's head was fairly spinning. Relief that his wife was number one, not crazy and number two, not a spy or a whore was intense but it didn't make coming to grips with the situation any easier. "Why don't you use your knowledge to save people's lives? If you had told me—someone—we might have saved those poor people down along the shore where the bombardment hit."

Marissa sat beside him. "Who would have believed me? Certainly not you."

"She's right," Genie nodded in agreement. "My own husband wouldn't listen to what I knew. He said that whatever I knew about the past was still his future and he was going to make his own way. Besides, anyone crazy enough to believe us wouldn't be in a position to make much difference and we would probably just wind up in the madhouse anyway. In any case, we cannot change the future--nor should we. Whatever happens, we are part of it. We must live our lives as though we don't know anything."

Craig nodded thoughtfully, grasping his wife's hand and squeezing it in evidence of his profound relief. "You're probably right. I don't necessarily believe the future will be exactly as you say, and there is still a great deal you two don't know." Changing the subject slightly Craig turned to his wife. "In the meantime what are we going to do about the rumor that you are a Yankee spy? This is going to get ugly, fast."

Marissa swallowed hard and looked bravely into his face, eyes shining with life despite her fear. "Surely if I'm innocent people will listen. You are an officer in the Confederate Army after all."

"This is wartime, Marissa. People don't think clearly when their homeland is being invaded. When I was with the Army of Northern Virginia I saw people's homes burned, their crops destroyed, livestock stolen or killed. Innocent people—" abruptly he stopped with an inadvertent shudder, shaking his head. Craig turned to wrap a reassuring arm around her shoulders. "I'll protect you, love, but you have to be careful. Go nowhere unattended and do nothing that could be construed suspiciously."

After depositing Marissa and Genie at Carolyn's house with firm instructions not to leave until he returned, he went home to don his uniform and made his way to the hospital. The immense sense of relief he'd experienced upon learning that his wife had not been unfaithful or treasonous was fading and now he was left to wonder, who was Marissa?

She did not come his time... What did she think of him? Did she laugh at him and his clumsy attempts to heal people? How was her life different before he'd met her? Discovering the true identity of his wife left Craig with an odd mixture of relief and insecurity. He was totally perplexed. Her proof had convinced him, but what to do about his other problems?

He felt as though he'd aged ten years in the space of a week. He felt trapped. The desire to escape grew ever stronger. Hangover be damned, that night he was going to have a drink. Or two. Or maybe even three. Definitely three... three would ward off more bad luck.