A Journey in Time

by Chris Edwards

Alone I sit and watch the street 
My heart pounding a steady beat
Praying that car will pass my door
With dread news from a distant shore
Carry it to some other wife
Let it crush another life
God forgive me for my thoughts
It’s not at all what I’ve been taught
Instead I’ll dream of your warm embrace
Feel your hands upon my face
Imagining your prideful smile
When you meet our unborn child
Yet, other fears haunt my nights
Fill my mind with dreadful fright
Are you still my one true love
Joined to me by God above
Or has your gaze turned away
As your eyes toward another stray
Finding comfort in her clutching arms
Giving in to her selfish charms
No of those fears I’ll think no more
I’ll hide them away locked in a drawer
I’ll pass my time in mindless work
Toiling away as a nameless clerk
Knitting scarves for our brave boys
Blocking out unwanted noise
Cradled in my familiar pew
Sending prayers above for you 
Waiting for your letter’s words
Trusting that my prayers were heard
                “The War Bride” by Elizabeth Webb

 

Libby stared absently at the same page of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and glanced over at her husband, Neal, snoring at the far end of the couch. With a quiet sigh, she flipped back to the previous page – it was the third time she had tried to finish it.

Frustrated, she dropped the book into her lap and let her eyes wander around the living room.  She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Although Ole Miss Memorabilia dominated the décor – like every other condo in Oxford – Libby had found subtle ways to introduce her own flair and preferences. 

Her gaze lingered on a watercolor her mother had painted as a teenager: two young girls in lavender dresses, holding hands as they strolled through a deep green meadow. The soft colors always soothed her– a whisper of a time long past. 

Not that Neal would ever notice. She’d wager everything she had that he couldn’t describe five of the paintings or photographs hanging on the walls.

Given the choice, Libby would have kept the lakeside cabin they owned before the Oxford townhouse. She loved the quiet solitude and the beauty of the sunsets. Her best friend, Baby, and her husband lived there year-round, and Libby relished the time spent with them. 

But the lake was a fishing lake, and Neal wasn’t much of a fisherman, although he enjoyed sitting on their deck drinking beer and reading. As time passed, they found themselves using the cabin less and less. 

So, Libby had sacrificed and agreed to sell the small two-room cottage with the deck jutting out over the water when the condo in Oxford became available. In quiet moments, though, she sometimes wondered how she had ended up here.

She had married Neal a few years after her childhood marriage dissolved in chaos. Though that earlier union had crumbled, it had brought her two wonderful children. Neal provided the stability she craved, but it came with a price – the reality of waking each morning already knowing exactly what the day would bring: the job she hated, the realization that her older children were gone, and the two she shared with Neal were all but grown. And the deeper ache: that Neal was all but a stranger. 

When she was young – Libby had written long, emotional poems, painted vivid landscapes, and dabbled in music – one of her college teachers had strongly advised her to change her major to music. But what did she have now? A world spinning relentlessly forward, speeding toward its inevitable conclusion. 

Oxford had been Neal’s idea, of course. He had attended college there and lived for the sporting events on campus. Libby was drawn more to the quiet Southern charm of the historic town, but unless there was a game scheduled, they often struggled to find something to occupy their time. 

This was their first visit to the condo in weeks, and Libby was restless – no football game for Neal to stress over, no children or grandchildren to entertain, no dog to walk. She set her book on the end table and cleared her throat loud enough to wake her husband. 

Not for the first time, she brought up her longing to visit Greenville, the Delta town where her grandmother had once lived and where she had spent so many carefree childhood days. 

To her surprise, Neal agreed.  

They made plans to go the following day, but overnight the weather forecast shifted, now predicting chilling cold and blustery winds. Libby reluctantly decided to cancel, but Neal insisted on sticking to their plans regardless of the conditions.

It was 130 miles from Oxford to Greenville, along older state highways rather than interstates, with Google Maps estimating the trip would require two and a half hours’ driving time. Libby remembered how her father dreaded the drive from their home in Meridian to the Delta, primarily because of the heavy, slow traffic on the narrow country roads. 

On the other hand, her grandmother, was a strong-minded independent Southern woman who routinely made that same trip to Meridian by herself in her 1958 Gulfstream Blue Ford Fairlane. Each summer, though, Libby’s father would put his reluctance aside and drive Libby to her grandmother’s house, where she would stay for a week, sometimes longer.

Traveling from hilly Oxford to the flat Delta brought back cherished memories of her idyllic childhood. The land was just as she remembered – an endless expanse of fertile soil stretching to the horizon, broken only by the silhouettes of weathered barns and deteriorating old farmhouses. 

The fields were desolate, awaiting spring planting when they would come alive with cotton, soybeans, and corn. Tall, thin Bald Cyprus trees, barren of leaves, stood like silent sentinels, adding to the stark, haunted mood of the landscape. 

Daydreaming, Libby pictured herself as a child, squealing in delight as she rushed from her father’s car to the beckoning arms of her beloved grandmother. She was such a shy, reserved little girl. She had changed, though; life had forced her to change.

The scene shifted, and Libby saw herself transformed into a young mother, sitting impatiently in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, cradling her very ill son, JT, in her trembling arms. For the second time, she struggled out of the cold, hard chair to approach the receptionist. 

“How much longer?” she asked, the strain in her voice evident.

The perfunctory smile from the distracted woman at the desk did nothing to reassure her. “It shouldn’t be long,” the receptionist promised.

“Please hurry,” Libby managed. “He’s very sick.” 

She returned to her chair, holding the small boy even tighter. Today was the third time over the past two weeks Libby had carried JT to the same office. The diagnosis was always the same. 

“It’s just a virus; the antibiotics should fix him right up.” 

Then on the next visit. “These new meds will definitely do the trick.”

But they hadn’t. JT was not getting better; the headaches, the nausea, the dizziness, the vomiting were only growing worse. She checked her watch as she rocked her son back and forth. She glanced hopefully as a nurse emerged from the door leading back to the examining rooms. 

“Mr. Elliott,” the nurse called out. 

Libby closed her eyes, whispering a fervent prayer. Then, as if she no longer controlled her body, she found herself on her feet, hurrying towards the exit.

“Ma’am?” echoed a voice behind her, but Libby didn’t stop. 

Gently she placed her son on the back seat of the car, and sped off toward the Interstate, not slowing until she reached the children’s wing at the University Medical Center in Jackson. 

Rushing into the emergency room, she encountered a nurse and all her fears came pouring out. 

“He’s very sick. It’s not a virus. They keep telling me it’s a virus, but I know it’s not. No one will listen to me.” She could feel the tears on her cheeks. “I think he’s dying,” she said in a choked whisper.

The nurse took JT from her and felt his forehead. “He’s burning up,” she said. “You sit over there, sweetie.” She pointed to a chair in the waiting area. “I’ll take him right back.”

An eternity later, a young doctor approached with news. They had taken X-rays and were awaiting the results of additional tests. He escorted her to an examining room where JT lay on a table, drifting in and out of a fevered sleep. 

Libby was sitting in a faded plastic chair, holding her son’s hand, when the door opened, and JT’s father stepped into the small room. She rose to meet him, and he embraced her tightly.

“I had no idea you were bringing JT over here,” he said, his tone a mix of concern and surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me? I phoned your mother, and she told me you called her from UMMC.”

“I tried to reach you,” Libby’s voice cracked. 

The door eased open, and the doctor entered, motioning for them to sit. “The X-rays revealed a cyst on his brain,” he said, pointing to the left side of his own head. 

Libby’s choked gasp echoed through the room, and the physician gently touched her arm. “There’s a decent possibility it’s not malignant, but we need to remove it, and we need to do it now. We have outstanding surgeons, and we’ve had exceptional results with these procedures in the past.”

Libby felt her husband’s grip tighten around her shoulders as she absorbed the news. 

Before leaving, the doctor offered an additional word of comfort. “You did the right thing bringing him here,” he assured her. “It could have been much worse if you had waited any longer.” 

For the first time, the physician smiled, warm and sincere. “The nurse said you were a real tiger. A mama tiger.”

Libby stared out the passenger window as the car passed through the sleepy town of Marks. They toyed with the idea of eating lunch at Morgan Freeman’s restaurant in Clarksdale but continued on, unwilling to invest the hour’s wait until the eatery opened.

In Clarksdale, Neal merged onto Highway 61, the Blues Highway, and he recounted the tale of the Crossroads where famed Bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for musical genius. 

Libby knew the story but allowed Neal to drone on, instead focusing on her own thoughts and memories. 

As they drove into Greenville, Libby’s senses sharpened. She eagerly scanned the side streets, searching for familiar landmarks. “Turn here,” she exhorted as Neal sped past a remembered street. “I recognize that school. Why are you driving so fast?”

“Easy,” Neal attempted to calm her growing excitement. “It’ll be all right. I’ll make the block.” 

Neal turned onto the next street and looped back around. As he eased past the deteriorating elementary school, Libby continued her search.

“Take the next right,” she pointed impatiently. 

Neal followed her direction and made the requested turn, maneuvering slowly down the pothole-ridden street. 

“Look, there’s the playground with the old monkey bars!” Libby threw open the car door as Neal slowed to a stop. 

“This area is a little sketchy.” Neal cast a wary eye upon the rundown neighborhood, but Libby ignored his warning.

“We used to play here every day.” Libby pressed her face against the sagging rusty fence that separated her from the empty playground. 

“And there’s my grandmother’s house.” she angled across the street toward a modest gray single-storied home that seemed better kept than its neighbors. 

She paused in the middle of the road, pulled out her phone, and began snapping a flurry of photographs.

 Neal nervously glanced around, watching for any sign of concern from the residents.

Libby stopped taking photos long enough to gesture toward her grandmother’s old home. “That was my room,” she exclaimed. “My grandmother called it Libby’s room. She fixed it up so nice for me.” 

Libby turned to Neal, her hands cupping her face. “I can still smell the cookies baking in the oven.”

She crossed the empty street to stand in front of the house. “The porch still looks the same. My grandmother and I would rock there for hours, drinking lemonade and shelling peas and butter beans. She would tell me these wonderful stories about when my mother was a little girl. My grandmother ran a small boarding house, and after dinner, they would all gather around the radio listening to old shows, like Dick Tracy and Little Orphan Annie and The Shadow.” 

As Libby pronounced the final title, her voice took on a sinister tone reminiscent of the narrator on the classic serial. “According to my grandmother, The Shadow was my mother’s favorite.” 

Libby continued to stare at the old home, lost in her memories. “And there’s the alley where my friend and I used to go back and forth all day between her house and my grandmother’s.” 

Two young children emerged from the residence next door, eyeing them with curiosity. Neal offered a friendly wave, which they shyly returned. 

Libby lingered for several minutes, staring at the familiar home, wrapped up in her thoughts. At last, she drew a deep breath and started back toward the car, motioning for Neal to follow.

“They lived in another house on this street for a while,” Libby remarked as they continued down the road. “I think that’s it.” 

She pointed to a white duplex a few doors down from her grandmother’s gray house. “But I’m not sure. They didn’t live there very long.”

At Libby’s direction, Neal weaved through the side streets of the neighborhood, guided by her fragmented memories. 

“A boy we knew lived there.” Libby gestured toward a larger, more expensive home. “He used to meet us at the playground.” 

They doubled back over Martin Luther King Boulevard, the street they had driven in on. “That was my grandmother’s friend’s house,” Libby said, pointing to a long-vacant home.  

“No, that’s not it. Why are you driving so fast? Why are you always in such a hurry?” 

Neal slowed the car to a crawl.

“They must have torn down her house,” Libby speculated as she continued to study the area. “It used to be here in this vacant lot. That has to be it because there’s the shop where my grandmother took me to get a permanent. I had to go outside for some fresh air because I thought I was going to pass out from the fumes.”

Neal followed Libby’s lead and turned back onto MLK, heading towards the clothing store where her grandmother once worked, even though they had demolished the shop long ago. Libby exited the car again to document the location on her phone’s camera. When she returned, Libby directed Neal to the heart of downtown, only three blocks away.

Neal drove slowly down Main Street as they passed row after row of shuttered shops and derelict buildings. Libby pointed to a corner where an ice cream parlor had once been, a treasured place her grandfather used to take her for a special treat. 

Nearing the Mississippi River, Libby reminisced about the many times she and her friend sat on the grass by the banks of the broad, majestic river, watching the never-ending parade of boats navigate the strong currents. 

But the green grass of her memories was gone, replaced by the concrete expanse of a nearly empty casino parking lot.

Easing the car to the water’s edge, Neal exited and approached the river, braving the sudden fierce wind. The cold front had finally arrived. Neal laughed as a howling gust ballooned his unzipped jacket out like an unfurled sail, almost knocking him off balance. 

Neal motioned for Libby to join him, but she shook her head, mouthing, “It’s too cold.”

After a few minutes of battling the elements, Neal retreated to the car. 

Libby stared through the fogged-over glass at a paper bag tumbling across the desolate parking lot. 

“I’m ready to leave,” she said as Neal settled into the driver’s seat. “I want to go now.”

Neal stared at her for a brief moment before cranking the engine and maneuvering back toward Main Street. “We could come back another day when it’s not so windy. We could get something to eat and sit on the bank. Maybe have a picnic.”

Libby continued to gaze out the passenger window. “We’ll never come back,” she said. 

When Neal protested, she cut him off. “I’ve seen it. That’s all I needed. I don’t want to come back.” The slow drive to Oxford was made in heavy silence.

Arriving at the condominium, Neal turned on the television, but Libby went straight to bed, complaining of a headache. Neal called out to her as she left the room, “I enjoyed today. I’m glad you got to see it again.”

Libby hesitated at the entrance to the bedroom, managing a weary smile. “Me too. Thanks for taking me.” She closed the door. 

Lying in bed, Libby’s thoughts swirled uncontrollably, threatening to consume her. She remembered the last time she traveled to Hattiesburg to place flowers on her grandmother’s grave. It had become an annual ritual for her, visiting on her grandmother’s birthday. The faded plastic flowers in the stone vase were the ones she had brought the year before. 

The realization that she might be the only one who ever came to the grave weighed on her. Who would bring flowers when she could no longer perform this act of love? She didn’t expect it of her sons, but would her daughters do it?

Lou and Annabel had never even met their great-grandmother. Libby knew the girls occasionally visited the graveside of their own grandparents – but would their daughters?

How long would it be before her grandmother faded from memory? How long for her mother? How long for Libby herself? Would it be as if they had never existed at all?

The tears came, covering her face, soaking the rumpled pillow. Libby rarely cried, but on this night, she couldn’t stop. 

Turning toward the wall, she wept for a town that was no more, for a time that was no more. She wept for her grandmother. She wept for her mother. She wept for her daughters, and finally, she wept for a little girl standing on the steps of a tidy gray house, chewing on a cookie, basking in the loving embrace of her cherished grandmother. She cried until she drifted off to sleep, all alone.

 

Chris Edwards recently retired after a 30-year career in telecommunications and now devotes his time to writing. Much of his work, often set in his native Mississippi, explores relationships and the memories that both comfort and haunt us. “A Journey in Time” was written as a love letter to his wife, Ann, honoring a special person, a special place and a special time in her life. The opening poem was inspired by her mother’s vivid recollections of early life and her experiences as a young bride during World War II.