When she had gone, I lay back down on the pillow and closed my eyes. I felt sick. I wondered if I had dreamed the whole thing. My imagination had been running wild ever since I’d woken up, and so had my dreams. I wasn’t sure what was real and what was not. Bits and pieces of her story flitted about in my mind. Who was that woman, and why did she want to take me home? Where was home? The only thing I believed was the story about the ship—the Titanic. It made sense of all the dreams I’d been having about drowning. But I hadn’t drowned. I was here, lying in this bed in a hospital. Or was this just a dream too?

The thoughts exhausted me, and I longed for sleep. As I drifted off, the image of the crying woman kneeling beside the empty bed came back to me. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. I began to weep quietly. What’s happening to me? I thought. What have I done to deserve this?

* * *

A week later, I was sitting in a red, open motorcar tearing along like the hammers of Hell away from New York City. The scenery rolled by faster than I could take it in. I didn’t know how fast we were going, but it scared the wits out of me. At the wheel was Mrs. Shaw, a scarf tied around her brilliant red hair. I was grateful that the roar of the wind whistling by prevented any conversation. I had a thousand questions, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answers. Instead, I decided to let things stand for a while.

Every now and then, she would look over and smile at me and pat my arm. I smiled back and then looked away, as much to force her to keep her eyes on the road as anything else. She was driving like a bloody eejit. The car seemed to be flying half the time as it bounced over the rough surface of the roads. I’d never been in a car before that I knew of, and my knuckles were white from gripping the leather seat.

Eventually, we came to a small village and, mercifully, she slowed down. With its narrow streets and tidy shop windows, the village looked vaguely familiar, and my heart leaped at the thought I might be remembering something. But no memory came. Herself blew the car horn and waved to the shopkeepers out brushing the pavement and shoppers carrying loaded baskets.

“She’s home,” she yelled to whoever would listen, “the dear girl is home.”

They nodded and smiled in reply. I slid as far as I could down in the seat, my cheeks burning. This woman, whoever she was, was astray in the head. No normal person acted like that.