A Circle of Time

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  PART TWO

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  PART THREE

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2002 by Marisa Montes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Montes, Marisa.

  A circle of time/Marisa Montes,

  p. cm.

  Summary: In 1996, a fourteen-year-old girl in a coma is forced back in time by a girl who died in 1906, and who needs help in righting a series of terrible wrongs.

  [1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Will—Fiction. 3. Family problems— Fiction. 4. Spanish Americans—Fiction. 5. Coma—Fiction. 6. California—History—1850-1950—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M76365Ci 2002

  [Fic]—dc21 2001002614

  ISBN 0-15-202626-6

  eISBN 978-0-544-00304-0

  v1.1112

  To my soul mate and husband,

  David Plotkin:

  I've known you before,

  and I know we’ll meet again,

  in our own circle of time

  SPECIAL THANKS to my aunt, Dr. Carmin Montes Cumming, for being my Spanish-language consultant and for always encouraging me to write, and to my brother-in-law, Dr. Fred Plotkin, Board Certified in both Emergency Medicine and Preventive Medicine, for lending me his medical expertise and for making sure my medical scenarios were as realistic as possible.

  Thanks also to my critique-group members, Corinne Hawkins and Debbie Novak, for their suggestions and encouragement; to my mentor Barbara A. Steiner, for being my eager audience during each partial installment of the rough draft of this novel; and especially to my editor, Karen Grove, for showing me how to add another dimension to my story.

  IN THE MISTS OF TIME

  by Marisa Montes

  Like ghosts, true love is talked about;

  but only few have little doubt

  that either one on Earth exists.

  So I am blessed: For in the mists

  of time, I have found you.

  Mere words cannot express the joy

  that even time cannot destroy:

  the depth, the passion that I feel.

  Yet earthly death has dared to steal

  your body from my soul.

  I cannot rest; life’s lost its thrill.

  I need you back—I’ll fight, I’ll kill!

  I’ll battle death; I’ll travel time,

  for mere existence is a crime.

  Dear God, please, take me, too!

  The past dissolves into the now.

  I take a chance. Will fate allow

  the two of us to meet again?

  But oh, if so—no matter when—

  your love, I shall extol!

  Past life and death, I shall transcend

  to search for you till heaven’s end:

  At first, he’s someone I don’t know—

  Until, within his eyes ... that glow ...

  I recognize—He’s you!

  Prologue

  Devil’s Drop

  April 18, 1996

  LIGHTNING SLASHES THE BLACK SILK NIGHT. RAIN pelts the winding mountain road. Gusts of wind slap a tiny Honda back and forth across the slippery road the way a cat teases a small rodent before devouring it.

  In the middle of the road, a teenage girl in an old-fashioned calico dress watches the approaching car. She waits, sensing the movements of the woman inside the Honda.

  The woman squints against the glare of the headlights shimmering on the pavement. Weak windshield wipers flop from side to side, useless against the pounding rain. She grips the steering wheel, tensing her muscles as she concentrates on the wall of water.

  Approaching a sharp curve, she taps the brakes. The road is getting steeper, and she’s nearing Devil’s Drop. Despite the cold night, perspiration begins to form on her neck and forehead. Her hands, still glued to the steering wheel, become slippery with sweat.

  As she makes the sharp V turn of Devil’s Drop, the Honda skids and begins to fishtail. A bolt of lightning reveals a figure standing frozen in the road. The woman’s heart smacks her rib cage. She steps on the brakes, skidding to a stop only inches from the girl, so close she can see the girl’s odd eyes, pale and luminous as moons.

  The girl’s blond braids drip with rain. Her calico dress is plastered to her slim body. The headlights give the girl an eerie glow. She raises an arm and points toward the rocky shoulder of the road. Another flash of lightning reveals a bicycle crumpled against the dented metal barrier.

  “What the—” The woman flings herself out the door and is shoved against the car by a giant gust of wind. Icy knives of rain slash her face. When the woman regains her balance, the girl in the calico dress is gone.

  The woman staggers to the metal barrier, fighting spiraling currents of wind and rain. Another bolt of lightning flashes. She sees the girl kneeling beside the twisted body of another girl midway down the ravine, on a narrow ledge.

  “Oh, my god!” she cries. “Don’t move! I’ll get help.” The woman returns to her car and calls for an ambulance. “Highway One, Devil’s Drop. One girl injured ... maybe two ... Please, hurry!”

  The girl in the calico dress caresses the forehead of the still form, gently pushing aside clumps of rain-soaked hair. An ugly gash, still oozing blood, is visible at the hairline. Her face is bruised, badly scraped, and streaked with blood, dirt, and rain.

  “Don’t worry,” the girl whispers. “I’ll take care of you ... and you’ll take care of me.”

  The girl begins to glow, softly at first, like the delicate light of a birthday candle, then with more intensity. She envelops the unconscious girl’s body with her light, becoming one with her. Then, as though extinguished by a puff of wind, the glowing light vanishes.

  PART ONE

  The Coma

  Like ghosts, true love is talked about;

  but only few have little doubt

  that either one on Earth exists.

  I am blessed: For in the mists

  of time, I have found you.

  Chapter 1

  I’m wrapped in darkness, and a warm tingling travels through my body. I feel so li
ght, so light, as if I’m floating. Something behind me goes swisb-swush, swish-swusb, and to my right, there’s a faint beep, beep, beep...

  Is someone there? I can barely make out soft, muffled voices. I try to turn my head to see who it is, but my head won’t move, and my eyes won’t open.

  The voices come closer. Mom? Mommy! I cry out.

  What’s happening? Something’s wrong. My lips seem glued together ... they won’t—can’t?—move!

  What is that? I hold my breath, trying to sift out the tiniest sound. Someone is sobbing, and a voice says something that sounds like “coma.” Now the voices move farther away. I’m floating again—this time up, up, high above a tiny room.

  I can see them now. It’s Mom, bent over, shoulders shaking, hands covering her eyes. A woman in a white lab coat places an arm over Mom’s shoulders. They’re watching a girl who’s lying pale and still on a small bed.

  Tubes run in and out of the girl’s body and are connected to machines behind her and at her side. Bandages cover her skull, and her left arm and leg are encased in plaster. I glance quickly around the room. It’s cold and barren except for the bed, a curtain hanging from a track on the ceiling, a tray table near the girl’s feet, and a straight-backed chair tucked in a corner. The curtain is drawn shut and flutters in the breeze from the heater vent located beneath the window.

  I look back at the pale girl in the bed below. Why is Mom staring at her like that? What is she to her? And why does she look so familiar? Her face is so scratched and bruised and swollen, but there’s something familiar ... something...

  Oh, my god! Oh, my god—Mommy! It’s me! The girl on the bed—it’s me!

  Lightning flashes. Thunder. A force I can’t fight yanks me up, pulling me through the ceiling. Another flash of light, and the room and my mother vanish—

  Mo-o-ooom!

  But the scream is ripped from my throat as I’m sucked through darkness down a tunnel of wind toward a bright, rosy light. Before I can struggle against the strong tug, I drift down into a sunlit meadow filled with golden California poppies.

  The air smelled of freshly moistened earth and grass. Cool raindrops dripped from the tall weeds onto her bare legs and feet and wet the hem of her dress as she walked. Despite the clear sky and bright sun, the air felt chilly, like in the early days of April when spring is still trying to convince winter that it has arrived.

  Allison Blair reached up to pull her sweater around her chest, when she realized she was wearing only a thin calico dress that she didn’t remember owning. It couldn’t be hers—the dress fit awkwardly across the waist and shoulders, and it was a dumpy, old-fashioned style. What was she doing wearing this thing? Where were the comfortable blue jeans and T-shirt she was wearing when she left home this morning? Come to think of it, where was she?

  Allison scanned the thick row of pine trees that encircled the meadow. Directly in front of her, and where her feet seemed to be heading, sat a rough log cabin tucked under tall pines.

  Somewhere behind her, a voice called, “Becky! Becky, wait up!”

  Allison turned. A tall boy emerged from the pines. He ran toward her, jumping over fallen trees and branches, his curly, sun-bleached brown hair flopping up and down as he ran. He wore baggy, ragged pants, a faded plaid flannel shirt, and he, too, was barefooted.

  “Becky, you’re late,” he said. His gray eyes danced with mischief.

  Allison backed away from the boy. “I’m not—”

  “Stop playing, Becky.” The boy gave her an impish grin. He tugged one of her braids, drawing her toward him. “Come on back before your mama sees.”

  Allison lifted her hand to touch the thick, honey-blond braids that hadn’t been there this morning, but the boy grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the thicket of pines. Allison was too stunned to resist. Besides, despite his shabby clothes, he had to be the cutest boy she’d ever seen.

  She let the boy lead her into the pines. As they entered the thicket, a woman’s shrill voice shattered the peaceful silence. “Rebecca Lee! Come on home, now. Rebecca!”

  “Oh, Becky—I told you we wouldn’t have time.” The boy hung his head. Allison noticed that he didn’t look as old as she’d first thought. He was so tall that she’d thought he was about sixteen or seventeen. But he didn’t seem mature enough. He was probably fifteen or fourteen, like Allison.

  The boy turned her toward the cabin. “You’d better git, or she’ll find out about us.”

  Allison didn’t want to go. “But I’m not—”

  “Don’t argue, Becky. Remember what happened last time?”

  “Rebecca!” The woman was getting closer.

  “I’d better scat, Becky.” The boy turned and ran into the woods. “Same time, same place, next week—this time don’t be late!”

  Before Allison could reply, he disappeared behind a clump of trees. She stared, wondering whether she’d imagined his playful smile, when a hand hit her shoulder and flung her around.

  “Rebecca Lee Thompson! Here you are again, daydreaming. You haven’t been wasting time thinking about that no-good Joshua Winthrop, have you?” The woman grabbed Allison’s arm and pulled her toward the house. “Don’t you care that we have to be at the estate early tomorrow, and you still haven’t finished sewing Miz Teresa’s dress?”

  Allison jerked back, forcing the woman to face her. “Look, I’m not—”

  A powerful hand slapped Allison across the face, drawing blood. “Don’t you ever take that tone with me, you hear? Now, move!”

  Too terrified to resist further, Allison let the woman drag her across the meadow. As they were nearing the cabin, Allison became aware of a faint voice, as soft as a whisper in the wind, traveling over the meadow and through the pines: “Allison? Allison, please wake up, sweetheart. ”

  “Mom!” Allison tried to wrench her arm free. “Mommy, help me!”

  “I’ll help you all right,” said the woman beside her, refusing to loosen her grip. Instead, the woman used her free hand to give one of Allison’s braids a sharp tug, sending waves of needle-sharp pain throughout her scalp. Allison stopped struggling and let herself be dragged toward the cabin.

  “Allison,” the voice called again.

  Drawing strength from the voice, Allison yanked her arm free from the woman’s grasp. She bolted. Tall weeds ripped and scratched her legs as she tore across the meadow, crying, “Mommy, help me!”

  “Allison, wake up,” the voice pleaded.

  As Allison ran, she could feel herself lifting from Becky Thompson’s body and floating into the air. In the meadow below, she could see a girl in a calico dress running, tripping, and falling, while a large, heavyset woman caught up with her and struck her again and again about the head. Then, the girl and woman were gone, and Allison was in the wind tunnel, speeding toward a white light.

  I’m a feather, floating down to earth, alighting on a bed.

  Mom’s beside me, holding my hand. I feel warm and relaxed. I sigh. It was only a dream, a nasty nightmare.

  Then I hear what she’s saying; I focus on Mom’s voice. She’s pleading with me, begging me to open my eyes.

  My heart flutters. I try to do what she asks. I’m trying, Mom. I’m trying! my mind screams. But as much as I try, my head won’t turn, and my eyes refuse to open.

  Mom, help me! Please, help! I can’t move!

  Then a thought consumes me—a thought too horrible to bear: Somehow, someway, my body has become a coffin, lid shut tight, trapping me inside.

  I’m buried alive in my own body!

  Chapter 2

  Outside, the storm rages. Thunder rumbles through my bones. The curtains must be open because I can sense lightning rip the air just outside the window. My mind starts at the sound—I want to scream and cover my face—I’ve always been terrified of lightning.

  I try to pull the sheets over my head. But my arm lies limp at my side, as if the signal my brain is sending—telling my arm to move—is dissolving, evaporating, leaving my body befo
re it ever reaches my arm.

  My heart gives a sharp kick. Am I paralyzed?

  Maybe it’s just my arm. I try my hand, then a finger. Now I try my other arm, now a leg, a toe. I concentrate on trying to sit up, and I realize my eyes are still closed. I try to move my eyes, to open my eyelids. But each part of my body refuses to obey my commands.

  The word coma fills my mind. Someone, earlier ... today?...yesterday?...said “coma.” Referring to me?

  Bits and pieces of memory return. Images bombard my brain: a woman in a white lab coat, hugging Mom; Mom calling my name, holding my hand. A floating sensation. A meadow. A boy. Machines swish-swushing and beep-beep-beeping. Getting ready for school Thursday morning...

  I chose my favorite blue jeans with the rip above the right knee and my faded save the rainforests T-shirt. When I had finished throwing on my clothes, I shoved my books into my backpack and headed for the kitchen.

  “Mom,” I said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, “I’m late. Could you pour some granola in a Baggie? I’ll munch on it when I get to school. ”

  “Dry?” Mom made a face.

  I gave her one of my “Mother, puh-leeze” looks.

  “I like it that way,” I told her, raising an eyebrow, suggesting that I was in no mood for an argument. Then I took a sip of orange juice, and when Mom handed me the Baggie of granola I slipped it into my backpack and started for the door.

  “Can’t you at least finish your juice?”

  “Mom, I’m late. And I’ll be late tonight. It’s April eighteenth, remember?”

  Mom gave me a blank stare.

  “My interview at the rangers’ station.”

  “Oh,” Mom said, “be care—”

  I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I ducked into the garage and rolled my bike to the driveway. As I was about to climb on the bike, Mom darted out the front door.