stolen moments Part 1 of 2

Karen Olmstead, the night nurse, had just come on duty and was rounding up patients to get their meds.

She spotted me. “Doctor Wallace, can you look in on Amber Taylor? —She’s the new patient I told you about who thinks she’s a time traveler.”

I sighed. It had been a long day and tomorrow would be even longer but I complied with her wishes.

I wandered back to Room 324 and spotted her name tag on the door. I knocked softly and poked in my head. An attractive blonde woman was sitting at the window watching the blue tree shadows in the snowy ravine outside.

“Amber?”

She looked up and smiled“Pretty isn’t it? I like snow—always have.”

I dragged a chair to the window and sat down beside her. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked, noting the window slid open the few inches allowed for fresh air.

“No. I grew up here and got used to freezing weather. Sometimes those Alberta clippers pick up the snow and you feel your face is being sand-blasted—or ice-blasted, as the case might be.”

I liked her. She had bright eyes and a warm smile. If I hadn’t seen her chart, I’d think her totally normal. The notation read bipolar 1 disorder—psychosis, delusional thinking, hallucinations and disordered thinking. It wasn't my diagnosis, but it was why she was in here.

“Do you know why you’re in here, Amber?”

Her huge eyes grew sad. “I was brought here on a form—the policemen said I wasn’t arrested, but apprehended. They put handcuffs on me.”

“And why did they do that?”

“I guess because I walked into the Empire Room and kinda had a meltdown.”

And why did you do that?”

“Because everything was changed. It used to have a big sculpted ceiling, and plush green drapes with gold tassels and about a hundred tables covered with white table cloths and it was all gone—all changed—overnight!”

“You worked there?”

She nodded, “As a waitress.”

She began folding and unfolding the hem of her hospital gown. “ I asked for Eddie my boss and they said he didn’t work there—never did. I guess I got pretty upset—okay, maybe hysterical. Anyway, that’s when they called the police and they finally brought me here.”

“Where is this Empire Room?”

“It’s in the Palmer House Hotel downtown."

Her eyes suddenly grew huge as she realized the desperate situation she was in—trapped in the amber of the moment.

"Oh, why doesn’t anybody believe me?”" she cried out in misery.

I patted her hand and whispered softly, “I guess because the Empire Room is no longer there, Amber. It was there in the 1940’s, but not now.”

“Okay, okay—I believe you. I saw that it's not there. Just tell me how to get back.”

“Get back where?”

“Get back to my life—to the 1940’s. I don’t belong here.”

“How did you get here?”

“I don’t know. I went to bed, had a funny dream and woke up walking downtown. I spotted the Palmer House, went in and—well, here I am.”

I tried a different tack. “Where did you go to high school?”

“South Shore, here in Chicago.”

“When did you graduate?”

“1945.”

“And you’re convinced you went to sleep one night in 1945 and woke up here seventy years later?”

She shrugged. “I guess so—I don’t have any other explanation.”

The funny thing was, I was beginning to believe her—but that was absurd, of course—people just don't fall asleep and wake up in a different time, unless you believe the legend of Rip Van Winkle.

Advanced neurotics can be compelling though, and Amber's sincerity and total lack of guile disarmed me.

If I couldn't outrightly dismiss her as being delusional, but I could at least check her story. Unfortunately, it was close to five and I had a dinner date with Tara, my wife.

I made up my mind that despite my heavy schedule the following day I'd follow up on her case and see if she had any relatives living in the area.

I had to admit I was captivated by her story and eager to pursue any leads.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

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