Time's Unlikely Gift

Anna stood, suitcase in hand, in front of the old white farmhouse, as the caseworker drove away, kicking up dust in her wake. The front door swung open and Aunt Betty stepped out, hand raised in greeting. 

Having been raised the only child of a mother who preferred alcohol to her daughter, Anna was quite used to being dropped off at unfamiliar homes, with unfamiliar people. She never quite felt like she belonged anywhere. This was no different. Aunt Betty, as she was known, was a sweet old lady who opened her home to many foster kids over the years, having never had any children of her own. 

“Oh Anna, darling! Please come in, come in! Here, let me get that for you.” She said, reaching for my bag. “We’ve been waiting for you, dear. I am so sorry for everything you’ve been through to get you here. You must be tired.” Anna simply nodded and followed closely behind her. 

“Are you hungry, dear? Or would you like to go straight up to your room? It’s just this way.” Without even waiting for an answer she ushered her towards the stairs to the second story. There were photos on the walls, most of them crooked and layered with a thin film of dust, but it was evidence of a loving home. Something she was in desperate need of. 

Upstairs, Aunt Betty set her bag down on the bed and gave her a chance to get settled. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, Anna. Please, don’t be shy.” She closed the door gently on her way out. 

Anna took a deep breath and glanced around, taking in her surroundings. A simple room, adorned with a bed and a dresser. It would certainly do. 

She unpacked what little belongings she had, placing her clothes in the dresser, and a couple of old paperback books on the bedside table. While sliding her suitcase under the bed, she noticed something unusual about the flooring. To get a closer look, she scooted as far under the bed as she could. Several of the boards, about two feet in length, were cut on either end. 

“Anna, darling!” Startled, she knocked her head against the bed frame as Aunt Betty called from downstairs. “Are you hungry, dear? I’ve made up some food for you!”. 

“I’ll be right there…” She called back, as she slid out from under the bed, making a mental note to come back to investigate.

**

Later that night, sufficiently full of home-cooked food, Anna made her way back to her bedroom. She was looking forward to being able to relax alone; moving into a new place was always so mentally exhausting. But first, she had to know what, if anything, was up with the floor. As quietly as she could, she slid her bed over a few feet. Kneeling on the floor, Anna pulled up on the boards one by one. Underneath, to her satisfaction, was a wooden crate and an old typewriter. Wiping some of the dust off the crate, she noticed the letters E.A. written on top. She wasted no time in taking the lid off. It was filled with aged paper. Journal articles, by the looks of it. After a quick glance she noticed the first page was dated October 15, 1918. She rifled through the crate, looking at the rest of the dates. They didn’t seem to be in any particular order, as if someone had haphazardly collected the papers and threw them in. 

She found the page with the earliest date, figuring it would be best to read chronologically, and started reading. 

**

October 15, 1905 

Dear reader, 

I hope this finds you well. It is my birthday… Today I am fifteen years old. Ma and Pa gifted me this typewriter. They’ve known of my fondness for stories since I was a small girl. I couldn’t be more thrilled to have opened it. I have decided to write journals to document my life. Maybe someday you will find it. Maybe someday I will read them back and realize what a wonderfully exciting life I have lived. Oh, how I long for adventure. I have always had the sense that I do not belong here… like I am destined for more than to grow up and become a housewife, on a farm in the middle of Virginia. Perhaps I will become a famous author one day! I will write again soon. 

Best, 

E.A. 

**

Anna read through the journal entries one by one. Many of them were so worn with age that they were difficult or impossible to read. A few partially eaten by mice. The mystery author wrote almost daily. Occasionally she tried her hand at fictional stories. Many times she wrote about her life: her friends, books she was reading, plans she had for the day, and fond memories that she wanted to remember. 

** 

October 16, 1895 

Do forgive me if this does not make much sense. I can hardly believe it and I myself experienced it. My last entry was last night, I wrote about my fifth birthday. Shortly after writing that, I extinguished my candles and went to sleep. When I woke up this morning, I was not where I was supposed to be. I am home, yes. But everything is different. I should say, everything is as it once was. Ma and Pa look different, much younger. There is a little girl, strangely resembling me as a child. They are treating me as though I am a scullery maid. I feel like an outsider with my own family! In the kitchen, I noticed a newspaper dated October 16, 1895. It is impossible, utterly impossible! But I seem to have traveled through time. 

E.A.

**

Anna looked up from the page. Time travel? It was far more likely that the mystery author was simply practicing her creative writing. Fiction or not, she was grateful for this temporary escape from reality. More and more, she felt like the author was a kindred spirit. They were just words on a page, but she felt like she had found a friend. She looked up at the clock: 11:45. Her eyes were burning with fatigue. She knew she should go to bed, but she couldn’t, like a novel she couldn’t put down, she went back to the crate of papers. The next date didn’t make sense, July 30, 1862. If it was the same writer, she wouldn’t have even been born yet. 

** 

July 30, 1862 

A civil war is currently raging between the north and the south. I have been in search of an adventure, and while I have certainly found one, I’m unsure whether it is wise to be here. Danger is all around. The north seems to be prevailing. I do hope that they succeed. This is not the Virginia that I know. I have felt ashamed everyday that my ancestors are here now, fighting for their right to treat human beings as property. I have seen abhorrent things here. I am missing home, but I want to be helpful, in some way. I have befriended several wives of Union soldiers and we have been raising money and sending supplies. I am unsure where or when I will travel next. 

E.A. 

** 

“Aunt Betty, how long have you lived in this house?” Anna asks as she pours herself a cup of coffee the next morning. 

“Oh, this house has belonged to me for many years, dear. Let’s see… I think I arrived in the sixties. Yes, that’s right, I believe it was the year 1969. I met Arther shortly after and we got married, and made ourselves a nice home here.” 

“I found some old things in my room… journals dated much earlier than that. I just wondered who they belonged to.” 

“It is such an old house. This farm has a lot of history, to be sure. It stood here far before I came. That sounds fascinating.” She said, pouring a coffee of her own. “Where did you find them?”

“They were under my bed… someone cut a hole in the floor and tucked them away under there. I just found them by chance.” 

“Oh dear, you know the furniture in this house has not been moved in many years… I suppose I forgot that it was there.” 

With a warm smile, Aunt Betty made her way to the porch to enjoy her coffee in her rocking chair, just like she did every morning. 

**

December 12, 1969

I’ve found myself in the year 1969. I’m now 25 years old. I’ve been traveling like this for many years now and I am growing weary. I am feeling more and more like I do not belong anywhere. I have experienced the impossible. I have seen incredible things, and equally as many horrible things. I long for a home and a family. I wonder what they think happened to me. By this time, they are long dead. It gives me some solace to know that as long as I have my typewriter, I can go home to them, at any point. As long as I have that, I will never truly be alone. But how long can I go on like this… with no roots in the ground. 

When I arrived here, I found myself under a beautiful willow tree. After walking a short distance I came upon a farm, with pastures and a barn and a beautiful white house with a big porch. From what I can tell it is abandoned, which is useful for me. It is a comfortable place to rest. I will write soon. 

E.A.

**

Anna sets down the page and reaches into the crate for the next one, but as she does she finds that it is the last entry. 

“No! It can’t end like that!” She said aloud. She turned to the typewriter, looking for clues on who it might have belonged to. She clicked a few keys, testing it out. It can’t really be a time machine, she thought. With only one way to truly find out, she inserted a piece of paper, but when she tried to type, nothing happened. It was broken, and with no understanding whatsoever about typewriters, especially potentially magical typewriters, she was ill suited to fix it. As she tinkered with it, a thought suddenly came to her, “Wait… 1969… 1969!” 

Anna got up to run downstairs, but as she turned around, Aunt Betty was standing in her bedroom doorway. 

“My friends and family have always called me Betty, dear, but my full name is Elizabeth Alexander. By the look on your face it appears that you have put enough of the pieces together to have figured that out on your own. The typewriter has been broken for a long time. I never was able to figure out how to fix it.” 

“You wrote these… it was all true.” 

“Yes, somehow it is. And what an adventure it was… for a time, at least. It was lonely, though. When I got stuck here, I realized how much I missed having a family. After so many years with no home, it was time I made one.” She smiled warmly down at Anna. “I want you to know that you have a home here now, too. You always will.”