The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

I stammer that my name isn’t Ruby. Elsa leans in close, her eyes narrowing, then declares that in that case, I should explain myself. Samantha winces, then covers by saying I look nice in bloomers, but where’s my bicycle? I glance toward the hedge as if one might appear out of nowhere. Did I crash? I have a bump on my head, and once Elsa examines it, throbbing now under her fingers, her face softens. A goose egg if she’s ever seen one. I should come inside for Mrs. Hawkins to look at, and dizzy as I feel, I don’t argue.

The back door opens into a warm, spacious kitchen smelling of fresh bread, an antique blue stove catching my eye, matched by the long black dress of the plump, white-haired woman turning to greet me. Mrs. Hawkins sits me down and fills a bowl with water, and while she works, I glance at the newspaper on the table, something about the World’s Fair in St. Louis, dated June 1, 1904.

A rushing sound fills my ears, and the kitchen seems to tilt slightly. 1904? I press my fingers to my forehead. Did I fall out of bed and backward through time? That would explain the antique stove and everyone’s old-fashioned clothes.

Mrs. Hawkins examines my head as Samantha explains the bicycle crash, and she tsks, asking where I live. The city, Samantha answers, then asks whether I took the train, surely I didn’t bike the whole way.

I stare at my feet, unsure how to answer, and settle on not being exactly sure how I got here, everything’s a blur. Silence follows, and Samantha looks worried when I glance up. Mrs. Hawkins checks my forehead for fever and sends Samantha to fetch Mr. Hawkins, who darts off obediently.

Patting my leg gently, Mrs. Hawkins promises an ice pack, opening a wooden cabinet stocked with food and milk bottles, an enormous ice block on top that she chips at with a pick, the shards clattering, wrapping the pieces carefully in linen. A balding man in black arrives with Samantha and asks about calling the doctor. I start to protest I’m fine, but Mrs. Hawkins insists a doctor wouldn’t hurt, and Mrs. Edwards should know about our young guest, too.

Once he’s gone, Samantha pulls her chair closer, explaining that Mr. Hawkins, the butler, is married to Mrs. Hawkins, and they live above the carriage house. A butler and a cook? Samantha’s grandmother must be quite wealthy, something I’ve been wondering about.

Samantha suddenly jumps up as an elegant, silver-haired woman sweeps in wearing a blue skirt and jacket. Samantha curtsies, calling her Grandmary, then glances at me pointedly, and I stand and attempt my own clumsy, wobbling curtsy.

Grandmary introduces herself as Mrs. Edwards, eyeing my outfit slowly from head to toe with clear disapproval. I flush with embarrassment, though her blue-gray eyes hold kindness alongside the curiosity.

Hawkins returns to say he’ll phone the doctor, lifting a small trumpet-shaped piece to his ear and cranking the wall box’s handle firmly before leaning in to speak into it. Hearing him request the doctor sends a flicker of anxiety through me, and I rub the pendant in my pocket, reminding myself I can go home anytime.

Hawkins reports back that the doctor’s busy this afternoon, but we’re welcome to wait at his office, or he could try a house call later this evening. Grandmary studies me closely, weighing how serious this really is. Am I actually sick, or did I just bump my head too hard? That would explain plenty.