Time for Andrew (5 page)

I shook my head. "I think you woke up just in time. If you'd stayed asleep, if you hadn't gone upstairs to look for your marbles, you'd probably be dead right now."

"Are you saying I came here instead of dying?" Andrew asked. "Like the man in
The Time Machine
who went to the future?"

It was too fantastic to be true, but neither of us could come up with another explanation. As far as we could see, a hole had opened between Andrew's time and mine, and he'd fallen through.

"If I go back, I'll die," Andrew said. "But what will keep me alive here? Look at me. I'm still deathly ill."

"Modern medicine can cure just about anything."

Andrew clutched my arms. "Call a doctor," he begged. "I'll take the medicine no matter how bad it tastes. Then, when I'm well, I'll—"

I interrupted him. "But who will I say you are? How will I explain you? People don't just appear out of nowhere."

"Lord A'mighty," Andrew exclaimed. "Have you no brains? We're as alike as two peas in a pod. All we need to do is switch places. I'll get in bed. You go up to the attic and hide."

The excitement wore Andrew out. He began coughing again, harder this time. "Switch clothes with me," he begged. "Quick, or it'll be too late. I've used up almost all my strength."

I glanced uneasily at our reflections in the mirror over my dresser. Except for our clothes, we were identical. If I put on his nightshirt, would I still be me? Suppose I turned into him? Maybe
I'd
die of diphtheria instead of Andrew.

"What are you waiting for?" Andrew was struggling with his buttons, fumble-fingered, shaky with fever. "Aren't you going to help me?"

I'd gone too far to turn back. Swallowing my fear, I pulled off my pajamas and helped Andrew out of his nightshirt. He was so weak I had to poke his arms into the pajama sleeves, button the front, and guide his legs into the pants. Carefully, I eased him into bed and covered him with the quilt.

"Your name," he whispered. "I don't know your name."

"It's the same as yours, only they call me Drew for short."

"My marbles, my face, my name—you stole everything, didn't you?" Andrew lay back and closed his eyes. His breathing rasped, his chest rattled. "Well, don't steal my life too, Drew. For the Lord's sake, save me."

Frightened by the change in him, I ran across the hall and rapped on my aunt's door. "Aunt Blythe, Aunt Blythe, come quick. I don't feel well."

In a voice fuzzy with sleep, she said, "Just a minute, Drew, I'll be right there."

Back in my room, I leaned over Andrew. His eyes were still closed, and he was struggling to breathe. "Don't die," I begged him, "hang on, Andrew, she's coming, she'll get a doctor."

"Hannah," he murmured, "fetch Hannah."

Turning away from Andrew, I shouted, "Hurry, Aunt Blythe, please hurry!"

The moment her door opened, I crept up the steps to the attic and hid in the shadows. In the room below, Aunt Blythe said, "What's wrong, Drew?"

Andrew moaned.

"Heavens," Aunt Blythe cried, "you're burning with fever."

As she spoke, the air around me darkened and thickened. The floor tilted and began to spin round and round, faster and faster. To keep from falling, I reached out and grabbed at things, but they whirled away from me as if they had no substance. Which way was up? Which way down? The world was tumbling and so was I.

My ears roared, my head ached, my heart pounded, I couldn't get my breath. Dying — I was dying of diphtheria. Andrew had tricked me, he'd traded my life for his. Too dizzy to stand, I plunged into a terrible whirling blackness.

When I opened my eyes everything was still. The gray light of early morning silvered, the bare floor. far away, a train whistle blew, a sad, lonely sound

Slowly, I got to my feet What was I doing in the attic? Dreams and strange ideas floated through my head, but 1 was too contused to think straight. Bed, I ought to be in bed

Convinced I was walking in my sleep, I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and inched my way down. When I woke up I'd be sate in my own room. Everything would be fine.

I eased the attic door open. There was my bed waiting for me, quilt flung back, pillows askew. All I had to do was get in and pull the covers up. I'd be safe.

I took one step into the room and stopped dead. Hannah was sleeping in the rocking chair - just where Andrew said she d be. I hadn't dreamed, hadn't walked in my sleep. Wide awake, I was wearing Andrews nightshirt, standing in his room, staring at his sister.

Hoping to escape before the Tylers awoke, I crept back up the steps, but a quick look told me it wasn't the attic I'd explored with Aunt Blythe—there was no clutter, no broken appliances, no junk, just a few trunks and crates. I gripped a rafter tightly, closed my eyes, and concentrated all my energy on Andrew. "Please," I whispered, "please come back. Don't leave me here."

Nothing happened. Outside, birds cheeped softly. The sky was lightening, turning pink. At any moment, Hannah would open her eyes and see the empty bed. What would she think? What would she do?

Heart pounding, I sneaked down the stairs to the bedroom. Hannah was still asleep. I tiptoed past her, slid into bed, and lay motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, afraid the slightest noise would wake her.

Without turning my head, I gazed around the room, taking in as much as I could. The furniture, including the bed, was the same, but flowered paper covered the walls, a pattern of tiny blue roses repeated endlessly against a beige background. White curtains fluttered at the windows. A round picture of three horses' heads hung above the bureau.

My eyes kept returning to Andrew's sister. Hannah—not an old woman in her nineties but a girl fourteen or fifteen years old, even prettier than the faded photograph I'd seen of her. She wore a long white dress, wrinkled and creased from a night in the rocking chair. Her feet were bare. Her dark hair tumbled down around her face.

Suddenly, she moved, changed position, yawned. It was like seeing a picture come to life. When she raised her fists to rub sleep from her eyes, I shut mine.

Holding my breath, I lay as still as death and listened to Hannah walk toward the bed. She leaned over me and whispered Andrew's name, my name, touching my skin with soft, warm fingers. She was no dream, no ghost.

"Mama," she cried, "Mama, come quick!"

A door opened, and footsteps raced toward me.

"His fever's gone, Mama. He's still alive." Hannah's voice shook and she burst into tears.

"Praise be," a woman whispered. "Open your eyes, Andrew, look at me."

Dumb with fear, I stared at Mrs. Tyler. Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have spoken. Suppose I didn't sound like Andrew? Suppose I said the wrong thing? Surely they'd know I was an imposter.

Alarmed by my silence, Mrs. Tyler told Hannah to call Dr. Fulton. "His eyes, the way he looks at me—you'd think the boy had never seen me before."

Hannah ran downstairs, leaving me alone with Andrew's mother, a kind-faced stranger I'd glimpsed once in an old photo album. Never doubting I was her son, Mrs. Tyler stroked my hair. "Are you uncomfortable, Andrew? Are you in pain? Is it your throat?"

A sound in the hall distracted her. A boy stood in the doorway. He was eight or nine years old, thin and dark-haired. "Are you better, Andrew?"

When I didn't answer, he came closer. "Can't you talk?"

His face was inches from mine, so close I could count his freckles. He studied me for a moment, then turned to his mother. "He looks so strange. Are you sure he's all right?"

Mrs. Tyler pulled him away from me. "Hush, Theo. Your brother's been very ill. Let him rest."

Theo's forehead wrinkled. "I hope he doesn't have brain fever, Mama. After George Foster had diphtheria, he didn't know anyone for the longest time. Father says he's still not quite right in the head and probably never will be."

"Not another word, Theodore." Giving him a gentle push,
Mrs. Tyler told him to wash and dress. "Today is Tuesday, have you forgotten? It's your turn to weed the vegetable garden."

Theo lingered just outside the door, grumbling. He'd just wanted to see me, he'd missed me, he wanted to play. My goodness, couldn't his mother understand
that?

Ignoring him, Mrs. Tyler patted my hand. "Papa cut his business trip short when he heard how ill you were. He'll be home on the afternoon train. Won't he be happy to see you looking so well!"

Hannah came running up the stairs. "Dr. Fulton's on his way, Mama."

"He's in for a surprise, isn't he?" Mrs. Tyler smiled at me. "Dr. Fulton didn't think you'd live till morning, Andrew. The very idea—Hannah told him it would take more than diphtheria to kill you."

When Dr. Fulton arrived, he was just as surprised as Mrs. Tyler had predicted. After he examined me, he said, "If I hadn't seen Andrew yesterday, I wouldn't guess he'd ever had diphtheria. His throat is clear, his nose is clear. In all my years, I've never seen the like of it. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was a different boy altogether."

Mrs. Tyler listened closely to Dr. Fulton, but she was obviously still puzzled. Speaking in a low voice, she said, "Andrew hasn't uttered a single intelligible word. He stares so queerly you'd think he was in a room full of strangers. Quite simply, he isn't himself."

The doctor shook his head. "Fevers affect the mind in strange ways. I'm certain it's a temporary condition."

Pausing in the doorway, he winked at Mrs. Tyler. "For heaven's sake, Mildred, enjoy the peace and quiet. Andrew
will be his old self in no time. Look at this as a brief respite from his mischief."

Mrs. Tyler followed Dr. Fulton downstairs. Left to myself, I wondered what they'd think if I were to tell them they were right—I wasn't the same boy, I was a totally different boy. I'd never seen them before, they'd never seen me. In fact, I didn't even exist yet. They'd never believe me, they'd think I'd lost my mind like poor George Foster.

From somewhere outside, a dog barked. A rooster crowed, hens cackled, birds sang. As quietly as I could, I eased out of bed and tiptoed to the window. The hills, fields, and woods hadn't changed much, but a narrow dirt road ran past the house instead of a four-lane highway. The front lawn was smooth and green, the bushes trimmed, the trees smaller.

Just below my window, the doctor was climbing onto a buggy seat. Hannah and her mother stood side by side, their backs to me, watching him prepare to depart. Their long white dresses billowed in the breeze. Over their heads, the leaves stirred and rustled, mottling them with shadows.

Dr. Fulton flicked a whip. The buggy creaked as the horse began to move. When he was out of sight, Mrs. Tyler walked slowly toward the house, but Hannah ran down the hill, calling to a big black dog. Picking up a stick, she flung it across the grass.

"Fetch, Buster," she called. "Fetch."

I watched the dog pounce on the stick and carry it back.

Hannah held out her hand. "Give it to me, sir."

Buster shook his head and wagged his tail. He wasn't going to surrender the stick. Nothing could make him open his mouth.

Hannah laughed. "Silly old thing. Just wait till Andrew's well enough to play. He'll make you obey!"

I didn't like the sound of that. Would I be expected to order Buster around? He was at least twice the size of Binky. And his teeth—they must be enormous, as sharp as a wolfs. If he wanted a stick, I wasn't going to take it away from him. Just looking at him scared me.

But not Hannah. Dropping to her knees, she put her arms around the monster's neck and hugged him. "I expect you've missed your master as much as I have."

While Hannah played with the dog, I pondered the predicament I'd gotten myself into. As soon as Mrs. Tyler thought I was strong enough, she'd haul me out of bed. I'd be expected to act like Andrew, to know the things he knew, love what he loved, hate what he hated. Do what he did. Laugh, talk.
Be
Andrew.

It would be like acting a part in a play I hadn't read. I had the right face and the right wardrobe, but I didn't know my lines. I'd have to make them up as I went along, taking cues from the others, fumbling and bumbling, making stupid mistakes, looking like a fool.

Leaving Hannah and Buster to their game, I crept back to bed. My head ached, my body felt heavy. Weighed down with worries, I stared at the ceiling and tormented myself with new and terrifying possibilities. What if the switch worked only once? What if Andrew died after all? I'd be trapped in his life for the rest of
my
life. I'd never see Mom and Dad again, never return to Chicago, never play with my friends.

Even the possibility of escaping forever from my old enemy Martin wasn't enough to console me. I didn't want to be Andrew. I wanted to be me—Drew.

Late in the afternoon, I woke to see a tall man standing beside the bed. He wore a rumpled white suit. His hair was thick and dark, his bearded face stern.

Forgetting where I was, I cowered under the quilt. "Who are you?" I cried. "What do you want?"

The man drew back in surprise. "Who the Sam Hill do you think I am?"

Hannah leapt from the rocking chair and ran to the bed. Clasping my hands, she said, "Don't be frightened, Andrew. It's Papa, just Papa."

"Papa," I repeated, "Papa." My heart was pounding so loud I thought everyone would hear it.

"He was sound asleep," Hannah said to her father. "You startled him."

While Hannah searched for ways to explain my behavior, I tried to breathe normally. Nothing had changed. I was still in Andrew's bed. The man was his father. I should have recognized him from the pictures Aunt Blythe had shown me.

Mrs. Tyler appeared in the doorway. "I heard Andrew cry out," she said. "Is anything wrong?"

"The boy didn't know me," Mr. Tyler said. "My own son was afraid of me."

Mrs. Tyler squeezed her husband's arm. "Don't worry, Henry. The fever has left Andrew weak, easily confused, forgetful. Dr. Fulton assures me a little rest is all he needs."

Mr. Tyler wasn't so sure. "There's something different about him. His eyes..." The sentence trailed off into uncertainty, and he turned away.