Royal London Hospital

I’m sorry for the long delay in my entries.  The conveyance of these events was difficult, not just from a chronological standpoint.  It seems that reliving these moments sometimes bring about my PTSD and in turn, lead me back to Franklin Lakes Hospital.  But that hospital visit is not the one I want to tell you about.

I have been to Franklin Lakes a number of times before and after this experience.  This hospital, the one in 1888, the one after the attack, was Royal London Hospital, someone standing over my bed told me.  I slipped in and out of consciousness and at times I would see Rose seated beside me, then my mother, or my father and Dr. Farber.  It seemed like the dream of 1888 was becoming more my present and the reality of 2009 was the dream.  As I slipped in and out of these realities I heard an officer, or rather a Bobbie, as Rose called them, interrogating her.  I think the “Bobbie” was the same man who first appeared over my bed.  She told him; in the low gaslight, all she could see was that he was fair skinned and had a mustache, a man of medium build, “with some ‘eft to ‘im.” 

Then Farber appeared at my side again, then my mother—pacing, Lindsey, Jack, Rose, Dad, then the Doctor, from the London Hospital, I think.  I began to lose track of where I was, which Hospital.  No, not where I was—when I was.

Finally, I stirred awake.  My hand went to my throat and found bandages, and then I knew—London, 1888.  Another man is here now.  My first thought was that I had never met this man, I couldn’t have, but I recognized him.  He was clear to me in this present as the others buzzed in and out in a blur of speed.  This present, this 1888, belonged only to me and this man—the man from the library.  I stared at him.  He looked back at me as if noticing my gaze for the first time.  “You can see me?” He asked.  I tried to speak but nothing came but a breath that should have been yes.  “Am I dreaming you?”  I shook my head but didn’t know for sure. “You’re in hospital.  He looked about the room straining to see.  “Royal is my guess.”  I nodded.  He smiled.  “You’re name is Ada?”  I wasn’t sure, but gave him a half acknowledgment.  He saw the question on my face.  “It may be?” He said.  I nodded. “You’re real.  I am not insane then.  I thought you haunted me but perhaps we are haunting each other.”  He is beginning to fade away now as the buzzing bodies in the room slow to normal speed.  “I am—”

“James.”  I struggled the breath to sound; it burned in my throat.  He faded fully away and I blacked out once more.

Each time I opened my eyes I saw the faces again; Angela, Rose, Lindsey, Mother, each of them with a reassuring smile or word of comfort and love.  Then, one last face the woman from the path along the quad from the small Victorian flat arguing with her husband—Polly.  “Get up, ya tart!’