9. Lobotomies & Opiate Naps
Lobotomies & Opiate Naps
Blaze
Mrs. Dashwood, after a disapproving glance at my now dirt-and-blood-stained shirt, leads me upstairs.
“The rooms on the left are my mother’s, mine and George’s, and then our children’s.
The washroom is at the end of the hall, and you may use this chamber.
” She stops walking and gestures to the right.
“Right across from Gerty. One might think that’s so she can keep an eye on me,” I laugh.
“Obviously.” Mrs. Dashwood motions at me with a sneer. “Now that you know where everything is, I do expect you’ll clean up—what was it again—Blake?”
“Blaze. It’s Blaze. I’ll wash up, but you’ll have to tolerate my clothes, seeing as this is all I have.” I shrug my shoulders, looking down at the dirt-clad pants and destroyed shirt. So much for keeping Jo’s generosity in good condition.
“Oh, no,” she scoffs, “I’ve already sent Josephine back to the modiste to grab you something suitable for tonight.” And with that, she turns on her heel and heads back the way we came. I watch her descend the stairs.
“That wasn’t vague and ominous at all,” I mumble to myself.
Exhaustion crashes into me like a wave, and I drag my feet into the bathroom.
I’m not convinced anymore that this isn’t hell.
I still haven’t had a chance to sit with the thought that this is all real—that I’ve somehow fallen back in time to the fucking 1800s.
It’s pretty hard to argue with that claw-foot bathtub, though.
After everything that’s happened today, this might push me over the edge and make me cry: not knowing when I’ll get another hot shower, if ever.
As much as I would love to use this minute to myself to crash all the way out, instead, I grab the rag that’s neatly folded by the washbasin.
I dip it into the cold and questionably sanitary, stale water and ruminate on the day’s events.
The spotlight. When I was drowning and desperate to find the surface, I had seen a light—one that I swam to.
“Son of a bitch,” I groan, bracing my hands on the counter as my shoulders sag in defeat. “I went into the fucking light, never go into the light!” I don’t even know where to start to get back. Can I even go back?
“Do you often talk to yourself?”
I glance over my shoulder to find Jo leaning against the doorframe with an armful of clothes. When I don’t answer her, she steps closer and places a hand on my shoulder. With a start, I meet her eyes. This is the first time she’s touched me—not counting when I bowled her over this morning.
“Blaze? Are you alright?” she asks, genuine concern lacing each word, brows knit together.
“Honestly, no. I need to go home, and I don’t even know if I can.”
“For heaven’s sake, Blaze, it’s marriage, not the gallows!” She sighs dramatically.
“It’s not that, Jo. I’m not from here!” I begin pacing which, given the size of the washroom, ends up only being three small steps in one direction.
“That much is obvious.” Her face is deadpan, and I groan in frustration.
“No, I mean I don’t belong in this time.
I was on a boat, was ripped overboard, and there was this light…
I swam to the surface and instead of being in the fucking sea, I was in that damn pond!
” I stop and look at Jo, expecting to find her judging me, no doubt considering having me hauled off to some psychiatric institution, but instead she’s just watching me.
“When you said you were from America then, you were serious?” she asks incredulously.
“Not just America, Jo. I know it sounds insane, but I mean America in the year 2025.” I thread my hands into my hair, pulling at the ends.
After a few blank blinks, Jo pushes off the door frame and begins pacing in the opposite direction from me, chewing her thumbnail as she does.
I’m sure if anyone walked in right now we would look like a pair of toy soldiers.
She breaks character in a flash, her stoic expression turning into the face of an entertained mother, indulging her child’s fantastical stories.
“Okay,” she says matter-of-factly, stopping in front of me and smoothing her skirts. Her eyes glint in spite of the factuality in her tone.
“Okay? Are you placating me until you can call and have some doctor come drag me off for a lobotomy and opiate-fueled nap?” My arms fall to my sides with a slap.
“As long as you don’t repeat that nonsense to anyone else, I suppose you can keep your secrets.” Josephine shrugs.
I hate that she doesn’t believe me. But of course, why would she? I hardly believe it myself. “So, now what?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
She smiles at me. “Now we are going to announce our engagement at the Winthrop’s ball, we will survive the next three weeks, and hopefully we can return you home before the wedding.”
Hold up, did she just say ball?