Wishes and Tears

PROLOGUE 2006

I don’t love you anymore. I want a divorce, Brad said, his voice devoid of emotion and remorse.

Faith sat in stunned silence at the turn the morning conversation had taken. First, he said that he didn’t love her. Now, the words a woman never wants to hear. What went wrong? Love and commitment had suddenly been replaced with guilt and betrayal.

There’s something you should know. You know Pamela at the firm? Brad asked, looking up from his mug of strong black coffee. His eyes, once his most vibrant feature, were dark and vacant when they met hers.

Yes. Faith choked on a lump forming in her throat, fearful of what he might say next. Pamela was the new perky blonde associate at his firm, bright and curvaceous. Just out of Harvard Law School, hadn’t he interviewed her for the job?

She’s expecting my baby. We’re getting married, he said bluntly.

*

Remembering his words made her tremble. He had the audacity to have a baby with someone else!

For fifteen years Faith had sacrificed and struggled to help him build a comfortable life. Now that he was partner in the law firm, now that they owned a stately home and could afford the freedom and luxuries money could buy, he wanted to tear it all apart.

Ever since her freshman year in college, Faith had done everything for Brad from typing his papers to doing his laundry. When they married after graduation, she had given up her own dreams of law school for him. Instead, she taught school to support his ambition. She agreed to forsake her family and friends and move across the country to fulfill Brad’s desire to live and work in San Francisco. She even agreed to sacrifice motherhood when he made it clear he didn’t want to be burdened with children.

When Faith shared the news at dinner tonight, her best friend Clarice had been floored. Everyone in their circle thought that Brad and Faith had a marriage to be admired and envied. Brad was always sending her roses at work with sexy little notes. They were always holding hands and cuddling like newlyweds. The way they gazed into each other’s eyes was so electric they seemed lost in their own romantic world even when in a crowd.

How could a love like yours, one that seemed so perfect, die without anyone knowing? Clarice asked.

Faith certainly hadn’t seen it coming.

Faith had spilled out her soul so much she had hardly eaten, and the glass of Chardonnay had done little to calm her nerves. Clarice had listened, tried to be encouraging, pledged her support, and had hugged her in a sympathetic embrace before leaving the restaurant.

Faith drew a deep breath. Clarice was now en route to her home, to a husband and children. Faith wondered how she, herself, could face an empty house and an empty life.

Brad, you bastard! she screamed, the words echoing off the wood veneer dash and leather upholstery. How can I start over after wasting the best years of my life with you?

She gazed out the windshield. From the hilltop parking space she could see the lights of the city twinkling below. The expanse of the Golden Gate Bridge was silhouetted against a moonlit sky as the fog began to blanket the calm bay. She sniffled, dabbing the tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers.

After wiping the last stray tear, she turned the key in the ignition. With her other hand, she maneuvered the stick shift while depressing the clutch. As she moved her foot to the gas pedal, the car lurched forward rather than the intended reverse. Instead of backing out of the parking space, her car sped forward. Realizing her mistake, she shifted into reverse but it was too late.

Faith gasped in horror as she realized her loss of control. As if in slow motion, the red Jaguar was airborne, gliding on air currents as it sailed into the darkness over the hilltop where it had been parked. In numb disbelief, she clung to the steering wheel as the Jaguar began its dive. She felt the blood draining from her fingers, knuckles, and face. She could see downtown San Francisco aglow with life and the streamers of headlights crowding the Golden Gate Bridge. For a moment she was suspended in a peaceful, ethereal sky.

Oh my God, I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die! she repeated over and over, the words strangled in her throat as the automobile descended into darkness.

She closed her eyes. Visions of her life flashed before her like a tape, fast- forwarding through scenes. The good times seemed to be highlighted as if to bring peace and calm in reflection. Is this what it feels like to die?

The impact of steel hitting water jolted her back against her seat with such force she was left breathless. She wheezed for air as the car floated on the misty surface of the glossy bay. She tried to regain her composure. After unbuckling her seatbelt she pressed the buttons to open the car windows but the wiring had already short–circuited. She pulled at the door handles but they wouldn’t budge. As the sleek car began its descent into the murky depths, she let out a shrill scream. Soon, the chilled wet began to seep into the car as the water began to rise outside, engulfing her. She urged herself to remain calm and to think if she didn’t want to drown in the sealed tomb of her car... if she didn’t want to die.

As the water enveloped the interior of her car, she crawled up toward the inside roof for air, remembering that it would be the last air pocket. She fumbled for the door handle. Hadn’t she read about doors opening if the water pressure was equalized both inside and out? Taking a last deep breath, she reached down under water and tugged at the door handle. To her relief, the door popped open. Groping her way, she squeezed out into the rush of water. She followed the instinct of her body’s desire to float upward and swim up through the darkness.

After what seemed like an eternity, she broke the water’s surface. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath. After drawing the crisp night air into her lungs she was renewed. Faith treaded water and opened her eyes. Only the moonlight and a sky sprinkled with stars shone over her, the mist, and the stillness of the glassy water. The night was quiet, eerily quiet. She was so completely alone.  What a fitting ending to the darkest day of her life.

CHAPTER 1

Faith awakened nestled in the warmth of a flannel nightgown and downy comfort of a bed in a room that felt oddly familiar. Her lips formed a thin smile as she thought that the episode with Brad and her prized car sinking into the bay was nothing more than a bad dream.  As she opened her eyes, though, a shiver of foreboding penetrated her body.

Confused, she surveyed the room. The intricate, stained glass window in the dormer, the finely chiseled millwork of the ceiling moldings, and the buffed parquet floor were identical to those in her bedroom at home. The furnishings, though, were not her own. Instead of the brass and glass she had purchased with Brad, fine Victorian pieces decorated the room.  She scooted up in a bed created of white enamel baked on iron, trimmed and ornamented in shiny brass. Along the perimeter of the room were a tall rosewood wardrobe, matching dresser, and chiffonier. A commode held a porcelain toilet set and crisp linen towels. The carved mantel framed a glowing hearth that helped to illuminate the room while a Tiffany lamp set on a bedside table assisted. She looked up at the gilt–framed mirror that hung above the mantel and across at a nearby wicker chair set.

Tapestry draperies covered the long, narrow windows and a Persian rug accented the floor. She thought the room was an impressive reproduction of a past era but wondered where she was and how she had ended up here.

Before she could gather her thoughts, the door to the bedroom opened. A maid attired in a vintage uniform waddled into the room carrying a wicker bed tray set with a china tea service. She approached the bed where Faith lay and gently set the tray down upon it.

Faith glanced up from the maid to the tea service and back up at the maid.

The tea with honey will be good for you, ma’am, to warm your body and chase away the fever and chills, the maid said in a thick Irish brogue. She smiled a kindly but crooked smile and curtsied.

Thank you, Faith answered, analyzing the woman’s round face, ruddy  complexion, and sparkling blue eyes.

If you need anything, just ring the bell on your nightstand and I’ll scurry up to help.

Who are you? Faith asked.

The maid tilted her head meeting Faith’s confused gaze. I’m Bridget, ma’am, and my orders are to take good care of you.

Your orders? I don’t understand.

Doctor Forrester, ma’am. He’s my employer, a fine man, and he asked me to watch over you. That’s what I’ve been doing since he brought you home the evening last.

He brought me to his home? Faith eased herself up in an erect sitting position. The little exertion winded her and made the room spin. She put her hand to her forehead, closing her eyes.

Let me help you. You’re not well. Bridget leaned over the bed. She fluffed the goose -down pillows before rearranging them behind Faith to support her head and neck.

I feel like hell, Faith said, drawing her other hand up to her forehead where a headache was beginning to throb.

Bridget smirked. Fever and chills. Scanty wet clothes on a cold evening will do it every time. No telling how long you were lying on the banks of the bay before he found you.

Who found me? Faith opened her eyes. The banks of the bay?

Doctor Forrester, ma’am. He’s always going out of his way to help those that are destitute and in need. Bridget took the china teapot and poured some of the steaming brew into the china cup. She handed the full cup on a saucer to Faith.

With trembling fingers, Faith accepted the delicate cup and saucer. She lifted the cup up to her lips and sipped the fine English tea steeped with honey. After taking another sip, she asked, Where am I?

In Pacific Heights.

That’s funny. I live in Pacific Heights, 92 Sacramento Street to be exact.

Bridget wrinkled her brow and answered, That isn’t possible, ma’am. This is 92 Sacramento Street.

What are you saying?

This is 92 Sacramento. Doctor Forrester built this home and is the only one who resides here.

Is this some sort of joke? Faith set down the cup and saucer on the bed tray.

No, ma’am.

Get me a telephone and we’ll clear this up, Faith demanded. Her head was beginning to pound but she disregarded the pain. All she wanted were answers.

Telephone?

Don’t look so perplexed. Just get me a phone. She had to call Clarice, to call someone.

The doctor’s telephone is downstairs in his office. You’re in no condition—

Faith cut her off. What kind of doctor is he? Doesn’t he have a cordless phone, a cellular phone? Something?

The pain in her head was becoming excruciating. Being upset was making it unbearable. Faith cradled her aching head in her hands as tears of anguish swelled in her eyes. She couldn’t speak but softly moaned.

Bridget turned and rushed out of the room in a panic. Faith watched her leave, hoping that the maid was getting a phone. Home was only a phone call away.

When the door to the bedroom opened, a man instead of the maid entered. Faith glanced up at him through tears and splayed fingers. His height and attire made for a striking appearance. The black tuxedo with tails seemed a bit dated. The black cape thrown over his shoulder and the black silk top hat he held made him appear ready for a costume ball. Yet, the strange attire seemed to fit his arrogant demeanor and erect stance. Faith stared at him as he strode toward her. He returned her gaze with like curiosity.

It seems I’ve returned home from the theater just in time. Bridget informed me of your being conscious and in some discomfort, he said in a dusky voice. I’m Doctor Ian Forrester.

With the flair of a matador, he removed his cape and set it and the hat upon the nearby wicker chair. He came to her bedside and looked down at her, concern flickering gold in his dark chocolate eyes. He leaned over and placed his right hand on her forehead and moved it down to her cheeks and throat. His long fingers were soft and gentle against her flesh, the fingers one expected from a facialist or masseur.

You’re still burning with fever, he said, removing his hands. When the fever goes down your headache will be less pronounced. In the meantime, I can mix up some medicine to lessen the pain.

Don’t you have any Tylenol or Advil? she asked.

I don’t understand.

You are a doctor, aren’t you? she asked, flustered.

I assure you that I am and I’ve been told I’m a competent one.

His gaze was intense as he analyzed her every word and movement. Faith squirmed under the quilt and sheets.

You really must rest. Getting upset will only delay your recovery, he said. You should tell me your name and if there is someone I should inform about your condition and your whereabouts.

My name is Faith Donahue and I would like to call my friend.

Telephone?

Yes. Bridget said that you have one.

Since you cannot leave your bed, allow me to place your telephone call.

Okay. She sighed. The name is Clarice Thomas. She’s in SOMA and her number is five–five–eight–four–three–two–four.

Madame, I don’t understand.

What is there to understand?

I know of no such a place as SOMA and the exchange isn’t valid.

Faith raised her hands. Where am I, on another planet?

San Francisco can seem that way. He chuckled. Perhaps your illness has caused some confusion. You really should rest.

The only place I can rest is at home.

And where’s that?

92 Sacramento Street in Pacific Heights.

He chuckled again. Are you trying to humor me? This is 92 Sacramento Street and this is my home.

What kind of joke is this? Brad put you up to this charade, didn’t he? He wants me declared insane so he can get his divorce without losing his assets. Admit it!

Madame, I don’t know who you are or where you come from. All I do know is that I found you near death on the banks of San Francisco Bay. Out of duty I brought you here. I’m afraid that I can only cure the physical. I am not a doctor who deals with illnesses of the psyche.

He shook his head as if in pity of her state of mind. With a turn of heels, he marched across and out of the room.

*

The powdery substance that Doctor Forrester had mixed was working wonders on Faith’s fever and headache. Before, all she wished to do was to be left alone to sleep. Sleep had been her only escape from the sharp pain in her head, the nausea, and lethargy. After the medicine and Bridget’s attentive care, she was regaining her strength. As she began to feel better, a desire for independence set in.

Instead of being a refuge, the bed was becoming a prison. Her curiosity about the strange house and its unusual occupants was growing on her. She also wanted to call Clarice, go home, and plan for her future without Brad.

After Bridget set down her morning tea and left, Faith scooted to the edge of her bed. She let her legs and feet dangle for a while to get the blood circulating again. Feeling confident, she stood on her wobbly legs, grasping the iron headboard for support. Her legs were numb and weak and her mind a bit foggy. With determination she moved one foot in front of the other, reaching the iron footboard. She stood clinging to the iron post, contemplating her next move.

The sun was radiating through the stained glass creating a colorful, fiery effect. Tapestry draperies were pulled over the other two windows keeping the room dim. Faith decided that she needed some sunlight and fresh air.

Releasing her hold on the footboard, she gingerly stepped toward a window. After drawing open the heavy drapes, she sank into a nearby chair. Winded, she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes to the world outside her window. She gasped at the scene below. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

The scene outside was like some Hollywood movie set. She reached out and pushed up the window to open it, wanting to get a better view. She breathed in the rush of fresh, cherry–blossom–scented air. In disbelief of the scene outside, she leaned over and stuck out her head. Horses’ hooves clattered as they pulled carriages and wagons. A cable car clanged as it made its ascent while an Oldsmobile motorcar tooted its horn as it sputtered by. Women in