3. After the Tavern
I spent most of my formative years in therapy. Between being orphaned at a young age, dealing with my own physical recovery, and then the loss of my adoptive father, I had plenty of things to work through. Dr. Chabliss had recommended goat yoga, equine therapy, art camps, archery, and more. Through these sessions, I’d learned lots of techniques for dealing with stress.
And yet nothing in all of my years on the literal or proverbial couch had prepared me for the trauma of experiencing a shootout between costumed opponents at a crime lair in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
I really missed Princess Jasmine. I’d never needed an emotional support horse more.
It wasn’t until I was standing on the dock again, with the cold wind and salt spray that I began to feel like myself again. Slowly, a theory that had been bouncing around in my skull, gained more and more substance. But it was impossible. Insane. Everything was real, and none of it was possible.
They had been reloading the guns after every shot.
“Come, lady.” The woman from behind the bar took me by the hand, and I let her lead me down the dock, back to the boat.
How could I have thought she was a bartender? After her look of soul deep satisfaction at the sight of Rat’s corpse, I had wholly different suspicions.
“Lady?” She patted my hand, pointing to the ship.
The Try Your Luck had been transformed. Its formerly sleek silhouette had been bulked out by so much cargo it sat lower in the water.
“Yes, thank you,” I managed.
Then Anne’s blood-spattered form appeared in my eye line, and I closed my eyes. That wasn’t a fucking costume bar, and this wasn’t pretend blood. That was real, my sister had really killed people. While part of my brain ran through ways to stay out of jail, another nagging part was pretty sure we didn’t need to worry about things like fingerprints and DNA evidence.
I swallowed, forcing my voice to find its way. “Anne.” I heard the words I’d planned to say, but it felt like someone else was using my mouth. “What the fuck is happening?”
“It’s okay. We’re fine. We’re safe.” Anne didn’t even look like she believed what she was saying, and how could she? She was twitchy as hell, and covered in gore. I didn’t even want to think about what I looked like.
“Where are we?” I was trying so, so hard to keep it together, but I knew I was close to losing the fight. Would it be screaming or crying, I wondered idly as another tremor went through me.
“It’s when.”
It’s when. When. When. The word bounced around in my head. No. Yes. No.
“What?”
“When are we, is the question. The answer is 1649, June 1649,” Anne said ever so calmly. Hey, so I kidnapped you to the dark ages. No. Big. Deal.
“Time travel‽” I gaped at her, feeling the truth in my heart as it all clicked. No. No, no, no. My crazy sister had really done it.“Those were bedtime stories Da read us, not instruction manuals!”
“They were journals, not stories. They are true.” My sister was standing there like this was any random Wednesday and we hadn’t just narrowly avoided death and worse at the hands of a group of mangy flea-bitten varmints from the dark ages. It was all too much.
Before I even knew what I was doing, the pressure in my head exploded into a full-fledged scream of pure fury, culminating in shoving Anne off the dock and into the water below.
When I saw Anne surface and begin clambering up the rocks, I gave her the grandest of middle fingers and boarded.
Then the tears started. Screaming and crying, then.
“What kind of story tonight?” Da’s dark eyes twinkled as he reclined into his chair.
“I want to hear about a princess whose best friend is a horse!” I exclaimed, squeezing my unicorn pillow.
Across the room in her bed Anne shook her head. “No, I want to hear about sailing! And the portal,” she added, sitting up.
“We want a story with all of those things!” I replied.
“It just so happens that I have a story with all of those elements,” he replied.
I clapped and squealed; Anne smiled happily.
“Our tale takes place in Carthage,” Da began.
When we were children, Da would read us stories of time travel from our family lore, straight from the St. Germaine family’s historical journal. He spun the simple accounts of kind and intelligent noble ladies into wonderful, fantastic tales. It was the only time I had ever found history riveting; none of my teachers had his gift.
While I enjoyed the time travel aspects as fantasy components of the stories, Anne had taken them as genuine accounts, always asking for more details about the mechanics of the portal’s magic and so on. Da would patiently explain, going into depth about the magic of the ocean - at which point I would fairly tune out, daydreaming about the more interesting parts of the story. Why didn’t they understand that leeches weren’t the best medicine for everything? Why did the Lady so-and-so reject all of her suitors? And what about the gown that took three months to construct?
I know this place, Anne had told me. The people there had certainly known her. We were in 1649, and my sister was familiar with this place.
Click, click went the pieces of the riddle. Anne’s uneasiness with my questions, her charade of recreating a Renaissance Faire, her desperation to keep me hidden, her terror when I had emerged. The look on her face when she said ‘it’s when’. Like someone unburdening themselves of a deep dark secret, long clutched tight.
My hands were shaking as I tried to extricate myself from the skirt and bodice. Along with my pepper spray, there were several gemstones in my pockets. I didn’t remember taking them. I set them down in front of the mirror, then gasped; catching sight of my horrific reflection only emphasized and clarified the recent massacre.
I was covered in people’s souls. Between the various fluids, rips and tears, the fabric was ruined; it would take a psychic to divine the silk’s original color. I tried not to think about all of the foul things my hands were touching as I worked at getting the now stiff, coppery smelling layers of fabric off me. I got down to my underclothing before every bit of my resolve evaporated. The bathroom was close by, and I staggered into it just in time to spill the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
Afterwards, I showered until my skin was raw. I pulled myself together enough to clean up, wiping down the bloody smears and handprints I’d left all over.
Finally, I dared to meet myself in the mirror again. Somewhere in the chaos, I had picked up several bruises and small lacerations; my skin was ashen. I felt nothing from any of my wounds. I didn’t even remember getting them. Worried that shock had dulled my senses, I gave myself a thorough looking-over. There was nothing that wouldn’t heal within a few days. Physically.
My reflection overwhelmed me, and I rested my head in my hands, closing my eyes. But that only began another series of haunting images, and Anne was at the center of all of them. My sister, drawing her blade across Rat’s throat while he leered at me, confident and defiant. Anne with her sword, expertly fighting amongst a throng of marauders. My sister firing bullets into them, dropping them where they stood. There had been so many guns.
Shooting.
I opened my eyes.
Anne had been shot! In the midst of everything I hadn’t registered it, but the trauma movie replay made those images sharp in my mind. How had she barreled on afterwards? Shock and adrenaline, probably...Oh god, and I had shoved her into the ocean.
I was grabbing our highest level first aid kit when I felt the boat launch.
By the time I arrived on deck, we were out to sea and making swift time. Anne was at the helm in Captain mode, mumbling to herself.
Captain Anne, Historical Day Sailing Tours. I’d inadvertently gotten the genuine article.
What does Anne do out on her boat for all those months? We’d all wondered for years. Careful what you wish for.
I slipped on something wet and stopped, looking down at the deck. It was a piece of black fabric, something Anne had been wearing earlier. In fact, there was a trail of her bloody, ocean soaked clothing from one end of the boat to the helm where she stood. There was also fresh blood smeared everywhere.
“What are we to do now?” She asked the moon.
“I was just about to ask the same thing.” The steadiness of my voice surprised me.
“Great minds...and all that.” Anne sounded tired.
Well, blood loss would do that to a person.
Getting Anne patched up was something I could do. That was something I could focus on, something I had a solid shot at being able to fix. We had a top of the line kit, and I had years of first aid courses under my belt.
I nodded to myself. I needed to look her over, get her stitched up, and bandaged, then I could have a proper meltdown. Yes. A good, solid, fit sounded like just the thing.
First things first, though. My auto-pilot switched on, and I buckled myself into a life jacket as I made my way to Anne. “You’re bleeding,” I informed her helpfully. “Where are you injured?”
“Yes,” she agreed, nonchalant as fuck. “Some places. It’ll be fine. I’m always fine. Tiny cake?”
It wasn’t until I got close to the helm that I realized my sister was wasted. Wasted and gorging herself on those disgusting cream filled snack cakes. I was fairly jealous; I longed to drop myself into a bucket of alcohol right now.
Anne laughed, tossing one of her cakes into the sky. “Say what you want about that Rat bastard but he has good taste in rum,” she said in an obnoxiously loud voice. “Ha! Say whatever you want about him because he’s dead! Hear that! Dead! You bastard! Fucking dead. All dead. Lucky bastards.” At some point during her inane rant she managed to connect a bottle of rum to her mouth.
I set down the first aid kit before yanking the rum and cake out of her hand. “Sit down, Anne. You’re drunk.” I hadn’t survived a massacre to die in a drunken boating accident. Die in a drunken boating accident in prehistoric times, to boot.
Neither of us were in any condition to pilot this vessel. I lowered the sails, strapped Anne into a life preserver over her ridiculous complaints and requests, then wrapped a blanket around her. As usual, my sister was being difficult. Here I was trying to triage, and all she cared about was snack cakes and rum.
“For fuck’s sake, would you just sit your ass down so I can bandage you up?” I was only trying to keep her from bleeding to death. No big deal. I managed to get her seated long enough to turn on one of the deck lamps. “I don’t imagine there’s any point in attempting to call anyone for medical assistance.”
She had the nerve to giggle. “Not unless you like leeches.”
I shuddered, then closed my eyes, willing myself to focus. “I meant... never mind.” I had been thinking about the lack of Coast Guard and radio. I laughed bitterly to myself. No wonder I couldn’t get a signal on my phone.
And yet, somehow, Anne eating Starcakes was the worst thing yet. I’m in the middle ages, my sister is bleeding after ye olde bar fight, and I have to watch her eat fucking Starcakes? Fuck no. I knocked another one away from her.
“What the hell!” She yelled, lunging for me as she attempted to stand. But the precise and fearsome Anne of the tavern was gone, buried under many fathoms of rum. I dodged her easily, wincing when she fell to the deck.
“Are you alright?” I asked. She only stared past me, up at the sky. “Anne!”
Nothing.
“Anne!” I clapped my hands, forcing her to focus on me. “Where are we going? Do we have a heading to follow?” If she couldn’t even follow simple questions we were worse off than I’d thought. I refused to allow my brain to wander into the ‘what ifs’ of being stranded here.
“Yes. That way.” Anne pointed towards the wide open ocean in sweeping general movements. “Not that way,” she added, pointing towards Tavern Rock.
“Just how drunk are you?” I asked, openly scrutinizing her person.
“I don’t drink on duty,” she slurred. “Fucking Marco. It’s rule number…uh…three…no, two. Yeah. No alcohol. Rule number two. Damn him straight to hell. He did that on purpose. I need a drink.”
“No!” I shouted, swiping the rum out of her eye line. I wanted to shake the shit out of her. “You’re the captain, you have to captain.”
Apparently that was hilarious. “Captain!” Anne shouted, laughing uproariously.
“That’s great,” I said absently, noting how pale she was.
How much of this was alcohol versus injury-related? “I need you to let me look you over.” I pressed a hand to her forehead. Her skin was clammy and cool to the touch. Shock. Taking care of her blood loss was my first priority.
“Here I am,” she said, voguing then wincing immediately. Very convincing. “You looked good in that dress. I liked that dress. Shame about it now. Probably need to burn it.”
“Yeah. I did,” I sighed as Anne looked around for her bottle of rum. The last thing I wanted to think about was the blood-ruined clothing waiting downstairs. “Anne, please? I’m really tired and I need to make sure you’re not about to bleed to death.”
“I’m not,” she insisted, like I was being ridiculous. “You can go to bed. Ocean’s calm tonight.”
Sure. I’ll have a good night’s sleep and then deal with your corpse in the morning. Sounds super.
I opened the kit. “You have a cut on your forehead. I’m going to clean it, and put a dressing over it,” I said, pulling out items. “And I’m going to stay calm and not think about how Stockholm-y this feels. Because it really feels like I’m being a medic for my kidnapper. But that’s crazy, right?” I examined the wipe after use; it was full of dirty looking bits. Infection city. I added some antiseptic cream, then a folded piece of gauze.
“Not crazy. I did do that,” Anne assured me drunkenly, wincing. “Kidnapped you a little bit. Yes. But I had a good reason. I swear.”
“Right.” I focused on securing the bandage. “So you’ve been time traveling,” I said aloud. It didn’t sound any less ridiculous now. “And now you’ve dragged me back to the Dark Ages with you, why?”
“It’s more like the late Renaissance.”
Don’t yell at your sister, Isabelle. Yelling and screaming wasn’t going to help anything right now. No matter how satisfying it might be.
“That’s not the fucking point and you know it,” I said through gritted teeth. “Why? How could you bring me here?” I failed at not raising my voice.
“One, it was written. And two– and two, I didn’t want to say goodbye. So I just took you with me a little bit.” “But mostly the written one,” she burped. “Yeah, let’s go with that.”
“It was written? What the hell is any of that supposed to mean? I want answers, and I want them now!”
In a flash, her expression changed from utter inebriation to an alarmingly sudden cognizance. “Hold on. Hold on. Hold on. I’ll be right back.” Somehow, Anne righted herself enough to make her way below deck. I knew I should stop her, but I was exhausted. Part of me hoped it wasn’t that bad. I tried not to think about the fact that she could very well be dripping other people’s blood all over the place in addition to whatever she was losing of her own. Part of me thought maybe she would pass out from drinking and then I would finally be able to work. I stared out at the sea while I waited, pacing anxiously the entire time. Anne was grinning like a maniac when she reappeared. “Here.” She handed over a handful of papers. Copies of something.
“What the fuck is this? Just tell me why you dragged me here!”
“I believed our bastard father’s stories. Yes, I did. And this is what he read to us at bedtime. The journal.” She kept trying to press the papers into my hands. “The only piece of our inheritance worth a damn. Our family matriarch’s journal.”
I gaped at her. How did I even begin to respond to that? “If I read a story about a black hole sucking down a spaceship and found out it was real, I wouldn’t fucking take you there!”
“What if you were really really lonely? Maybe you would then.”
“What‽” This was the most frustrating and confusing conversation I’d ever had with Anne, and that was saying something. How the hell was she lonely? And it wasn’t as if I was hard to find. I still lived at home! In our same room! “What does that have to do with why you brought me here?”
“Oh my god, so many words. All these words.” Anne groaned in frustration, then yelped in pain as the ocean splashed her on the side. “Look at the damn pages! Look! Look at them! Do you see?” Her dark eyes were huge and crazed looking in the moonlight. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw. Jesus, my leg hurts. Look at the pages, Izzy! Look!” She exclaimed manically. “Look at the writing. Do you recognize it? It’s your handwriting, Izzy. These pages, you wrote them. It’s all you.”
My sister was standing there bleeding from somewhere and it felt for all the world like she was politely offering to stick a fish in my ear. I lost it.
“Would you please just sit the fuck down and let me help you‽” I yelled, and tears sprang from my eyes as I batted the papers away with the first aid kit I was still holding.
“Izzy! Don’t cry! What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?” She stumbled over to me, anxiously checking me over. “Don’t cry. It’ll be okay,” Anne slurred, patting me in what was probably meant to be a gesture of reassurance. In reality, it was my first good look at my sister’s hand. My sister’s injured, bloody hand. Jesus Fucking Christ. “Oh my god! You’re bleeding!” She exclaimed, continuing to pat my previously clean t-shirt with her injured, bloody hand. “Oh, that’s me.”
Great. “Sit the fuck down or I’m going to tell Mom every sordid detail of how you brought me to an oceanic nightmare.”
Anne stared at me woozily for a moment before sitting. “Mean,” she muttered.
“Thank you.” I wiped my face on my sleeve. “Will you let me take a look and make sure you’re not about to die? I really, really can’t handle that right now.” I sat down next to her.
“I’m not going to die,” Anne said. For some reason she offered me her blanket and I groaned at her insouciance. And drunkenness.
“Famous last words, Anne!”
My sister’s reply to that was to look up into the night sky and laugh. “I’m fine.”
Yeah. She was exactly what you’d see in the dictionary under that word.
“I stole you,” she said abruptly, and my breath caught. “I’d do it again. Our time was almost up and…I couldn’t say goodbye. So I took you along with me.”
I heard Anne, but I didn’t understand what she meant - and my attention was solidly focused on the growing pool of blood under her hand.
In middle school, my kitten Cheshire had gotten a thorn stuck in his paw. It had taken hours for me to coax him into letting me help him. That was what Anne reminded me of right now. A cranky, drunken cat. A cranky, drunken cat with blood and bits and bloody bits in her long braids. Her hair had been so pretty earlier. I swallowed back bile and took a deep breath. Focus. I reached out to her, but she jerked her leg away from me. Right. Not the legs. Anne was touchy about her legs.
“Anne?” I took a breath and wrapped an arm around her, stroking her hair. “I know that right now, you’re not feeling so well,” I started quietly. “You’re in pain, and you’re tired, and probably a bunch of other things I don’t even know about. All I want to do is to make it a little better.” There was a lump forming in my throat but I didn’t dare let her see me cry again. “Please, Anne, will you let me help you?”
My sister started to cry. “My shoulder hurts.”
Now we had both cried. Awesome. Best vacation ever, hands down. “Okay,” I nodded. I knew that hadn’t been easy for her. “Thank you.” I hugged her. “I can stop the bleeding and I have pain medicine. Will you let me move your shirt so I can start with your shoulder?”
With a deep sigh, Anne removed the life preserver and shirt, staring out into the water.
“Thank you.” I adjusted the deck lamp, cleaned my hands, and started triaging. In the back of my mind I registered the numerous healed scars - in addition to my sister’s body art: a Polynesian style tattoo of a turtle on her forearm and a large, vicious looking brand between her shoulder blades that she referred to as the Nekydalleon - but the bullet wound in her shoulder had my immediate attention. This was the source of the growing blood on the deck. “Jesus, Anne. If I had known it was this bad, I would have wrestled you to the ground to bandage you up.” The ball of lead in her shoulder seemed to be the worst of it, but luckily it wasn’t too deep. There were also a number of fresh cuts, scrapes, and slices. “Sorry. This is going to hurt. And you’re going to need some stitches. Not just on your shoulder, either. Some of these cuts are deep.” I got to work on extricating the bullet and Anne got to work on screeching like a wounded harpy - understandably. “It’s a good thing you’re current on your tetanus shots. I can’t imagine what’s in these disgusting little things. And you’re definitely going to need a course of antibiotics.” She needed a lot of things. Like a hospital and a real fucking doctor. My kingdom for the ability to do an internet search right now. I was kind of freaking out over the lead bullet. I mean, lead? Was it going to poison her?
Focus, Izzy. You’re spiraling.
Anne was bleeding through the gauze pad. Fuck. I added another layer and counted in my head. If she bled through this, I was going to either have to do stitches or use one of our fancy tools. My hands were shaking so much I didn’t trust myself to sew flesh, and our fancy tools were meant to be taken out at a hospital within 48 hours. Please, please, please I begged silently in my head. “Thank god,” I murmured to myself when the pad stayed white. I applied a pressure dressing, wrapped it, then sat back on my heels to look at my work. She hadn’t bled through it yet, so that was something.
I cleaned every cut and scrape I could find. By the time I was done, Anne had so much antiseptic ointment and lidocaine on her it looked like she’d been covered in sunscreen. Her hand was still bleeding, but she had it cradled in her lap, half hidden under her other hand.
“Can I look at your hand?” Either she would let me help her or not; I didn’t have the energy to fight. If I closed my eyes, I would fall into unconsciousness.
If she said no, I decided, I’d mix up a bucket of soapy water and throw it at her hand while praying to whatever deity might hear me and hope for the best.
...I needed to sleep.
Silently, Anne held out her hand for me and I was so relieved I could have cried. I examined it carefully. In addition to another bullet wound, she had managed to acquire a bunch of wooden splinters. Jesus Fucking Christ, she was going to need a very skilled surgeon in order to keep good use of her right arm. “Ooof. This is going to sting. A lot.” I got to work with my tweezers, nodding encouragement while Anne cursed out my ancestors and descendants. “Alright. Nothing looks too serious. I guess you got lucky, if you can believe that.” I paused, reviewing all the steps I’d learned and practiced. Ideally, I thought she should have a nice broad-spectrum pill now but those weren’t in this kit and I needed to sit the fuck down for a minute. “We’ll need to keep an eye out for infection. I’ll take a look in the morning when I change your bandages.” I heard myself reciting the information, but my brain was focusing on the fact that Anne - who was not only the captain but the only one who had a chance of getting us home - was very injured.
“I need a drink,” she mumbled.
I ignored her.
“What about your leg? You said it hurt.”
“Everything hurts!” Anne yelled into the sky.
I’d sat long enough; it was time to get her medicine. I was stretching out my hands and fingers, moving to stand when Anne suddenly spoke again. “You should –” At that moment she dragged herself up to a standing position, blanched, and fell to the ground.
“Anne?” No response. For one long, horrible moment, I thought she had dropped dead - then I saw her chest rise and fall. Struggling, I got her back into a life preserver, shifted her into recovery position, put the blanket back over her, and sat down to sob into my hands while weighing my limited options. Anne was unconscious, and I didn’t know where to go or how to get home. There wasn’t anywhere to go that was better than here. I checked Anne’s pulse, dropped anchor, wrapped a throw around myself, and settled in for the night next to her, full of adrenaline. Morning would be better, I told myself. Things always looked different in the morning.
I toyed with the idea of starting a nice little blaze in the small, on deck fire pit, but flames on the open water seemed like a great way to attract more trouble. I paced the deck while attempting to sort through my jumbled thoughts, but to no avail. The only thing that mattered right now was keeping my sister alive. I hunted down the antibiotics, some electrolyte drinks, and a length of fabric, grabbing another blanket on my way back.
“Anne,” I murmured, gently rousing her. “I need you to take this medicine.” I moved her head into my lap, propping her up as much as I could while she protested in the language of the barely conscious wounded. I coaxed her into swallowing the pill and a few sips before she was out again. At least we’d gotten some kind of medicine into her. I shifted Anne back into the right position and spread the additional blanket out over both of us before setting out the AED and then leaned against the railing.
The quiet, nagging voice in the back of my head rambled on mercilessly. An AED was not a long-term treatment option. If Anne’s heart stopped - even if I managed to restart Anne’s heart after it stopped - we were both boned. Absolutely, irretrievably fucked, more like.
Sunrise, I told myself. If Anne survived the night, that was a good sign, right? I refused to entertain thoughts of what things would look like if she wasn’t alive come morning. Instead, I reworked the fabric while I stared out at the endless expanse of moonlit ocean, regularly checking that my sister was still breathing while I waited for the sun to rise.
Keeping watch was a blend of boring and terrifying. Each and every time I nodded off I jumped up in a panic, certain that something horrible had crept up on us during my unforgivable carelessness. As though it would have mattered. Being awake during a violent event would likely just mean greeting my impending death with wide open eyes.
I just wanted the sun to rise. If we could just survive the night, everything would be fine. I was determined to ignore the tiny voice in my head that told me we would most likely be in much deeper shit by then.
Anne’s injuries had been severe enough to render her unconscious, and I was quite aware of where my ‘medical skills’ ended - I had enough knowledge to keep you alive until the professionals got there. There was a finite ETA attached to that, and four hundred years was definitely outside of that range.
The sound of the ocean lapping at the ship played out as different scenarios in my overactive mind - sharks, following the trail of blood; forgotten survivors from Tavern Rock, hunting us down; watching Anne die from her wounds. Possibly some other horror that hadn’t yet occurred to me.
I felt absolutely craven as I sat there, clutching at my blanket and spinning through possible events. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so terrified at night and out of doors.
Wait, yes I could. I’d gotten lost in the woods once while camping with Da and Anne. In the middle of the night I’d left our tent to go to the bathroom. Then I’d decided to take a quick detour to enjoy the moonlit view of the lake, certain that my flashlight and memory would be sufficient. It had taken me several terrifying hours to find my way back. I’d been horribly embarrassed - and I knew that if Mom found out, she’d be furious at Da and then ‘delicate Isabelle’ never be allowed to come out again. So I never told anyone.
I went through all sorts of childhood memories while I kept checking on Anne. When the first rays of light at long last began to peek over the horizon, and her pulse and breathing were still strong and steady, I breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, we had made it through the night. My last reserves began to fade, and my eyes felt even heavier than they had been. A few minutes. I could close my eyes for a few minutes.
When I woke up, Anne was gone.
“Anne?” I sat up, tossing off the blanket. “Anne!!” The blanket and life vest I’d put on her were lying on the deck, and there wasn’t a trace of my sister anywhere. What if she’d passed out and fallen overboard? I jumped to my feet, scanning the water while screaming her name over and over.
“Morning.” I whirled at the sound of my sister’s voice coming up the stairs. “Did you manage to sleep okay?”
I stared at her for a long moment, suddenly drained. “Oh my god! I thought- never mind,” I slumped against the railing and stared out at the water while I gathered myself and waited for my heart rate to return to normal. I rubbed my hands over my face before turning back to face Anne. “How are you feeling?” I grabbed the kit and dragged myself over to my sister.
“I’m much better this morning,” she said in an overly bright tone. “Are you hungry?”
I shook my head, taking her in for the first time. Her hair was wet and she was wearing different clothes. “Did you take a shower?”
“Yes. Your turn, the shower is free and very clean.” I frowned at her odd offer. I had my own shower, and I never went into Anne’s cabin. “Looks like that shirt of yours might need washing too.”
“Did you rewrap all of your wounds?” I asked.
“Mostly,” Anne shrugged like I was asking about her split ends. “Everything looks much better. Nothing was as bad as we thought. All good.”
“Mostly? Like we are mostly in the Dark Ages right now?” I snapped. “Sit your ass down. Like I can trust you to take care of yourself.” She was making her stubborn face and I was in no mood to negotiate on trying to keep her alive. And not in need of an amputation. “Let’s go!” I clapped at her. Anne glared at me like she was preparing to argue. To my surprise she sat down instead, unbuttoning her shirt.
As expected, her handiwork sucked. It was amazing she was such an expert with a needle and thread but couldn’t manage to wrap a simple bandage.
“I still want answers, Anne.” Carefully, I started to remove the bandaging; it was still fresh and I wanted to reuse as much of it as possible.
“I’ll answer. You don’t have to torture me,” Anne complained.
“Stop whining...” I trailed off as I unwrapped the bullet wound on her shoulder, then her hand, stunned by how minor her injuries looked. Maybe rum was a secret curative. “What the hell,” I mumbled to myself. There was no way these wounds should look like this - the smaller cuts and things looked days old and mostly healed. I was probably too tired to see straight, I realized, carefully cleaning the wounds.
“Why don’t you go take a nap?” Anne suggested. “Come back up with a clearer head. We can do this later.”
“Yes, because a few hours of sleep will surely make everything better!” I didn’t bother to reign in my sarcasm. “You need a sling for this arm.” I held out the fabric I had pilfered from the cargo hold and fashioned into just such a device; the only thing I’d accomplished over the night. Other than verifying the existence of my sister’s pulse, of course.
“I’ll wear the sling,” she affirmed with a nod. I slipped it over her head before either of us could be shocked about her acquiesce. “Now go sleep,” she urged. “We have a few days until we see land again. Plenty of time to interrogate me along the way.”
I paused from adjusting the fabric. “The way? The way where?”
“Bermuda. There’s business I need to handle there and then we’ll be on our way to Portugal shortly after that.”
She couldn’t be serious. But yet, there she was, wearing her most seriously somber face. “What‽ I don’t want to go to any ancient ports, Anne! You need a hospital, and this is not the summer trip I agreed to. Take us home, now!” I demanded, promptly realizing that I didn’t know how any of it worked. Could we even go home? Maybe time travel was limited to solstices and equinoxes, or special holidays or something. For all I knew, we’d arrived on the tail end of an obscure comet and would need to calculate our departure with its reappearance.
“Do I need a hospital? You just saw my injuries. I’m not in any danger.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what I saw. I do know that bullet wounds need more medical attention than gauze pads, however.”
“We just got here –”
I glared back at her incredulously. “Yes, and I’ve already been involved in a massacre! We need to go-” I forced myself to spit out my real question. “Can we even go home, Anne?”
“Yes, we will get back there.” Anne said quietly. The pregnant pause that followed caught my breath. “But Izzy, I’m not taking you home yet. So go get some sleep. We’ll talk later.”
“What the fuck do you mean, you’re not taking me home yet?” I stared at her. “I’m kidnapped and I’m going to stay that way?”
“Yes.” The simple reply felt like a punch in the stomach. “And also, I’m going to need you not to cook or smoke until we get there.”
And that was the final straw on my fraying nerves. I’m not proud of what I did next.
I slapped my little sister across the face. Hard.
“Fuck you, Anne!” I yelled, bursting into tears as I stormed off.
Even in an impossible situation, there is balance to be found. Normally, I found solace in reflecting on Dr. C’s words, but right now it felt like they were mocking me.
Balance my perky ass, I thought, giving one of the panels on Anne’s beloved ship a hard kick.
