“Meg?” A nurse found me in the locker room. “Dr. Erdman would like to see you before you go home.”
In 2001, I was Margaret Clarke. Miraculously, I bore the same first name in each of my paths, though Mama and Daddy said it wasn’t that much of a miracle. They had both had similar names in their two paths. Perhaps it was the name God had inspired each set of parents to give me. But my last names were different, and each family called me something unique. In 1861, Papa called me Margaret. In 1941, I had been Maggie from birth. And in 2001, my parents and friends called me Meg. Itreminded me that though I was the same person, I had three distinct lives.
“Thanks,” I called out to the nurse as I shoved my scrubs into the laundry bin and grabbed my backpack out of my locker. A quick look at my watch told me I was already running late, but I couldn’t ignore my professor.
It seemed like I was always running late to something since starting med school. If I had the choice in 2001, I would spend every waking moment at the hospital or studying at the library. The knowledge I gained in this path would never be equaled in 1941 or 1861, and I wanted to know as much as possible.
It was like a fever, this burning desire to learn everything I could. If I didn’t stay in 2001, all of this medical advancement would be lost to me. Though I couldn’t use any of it in my other paths, for fear I would change history, I still wanted to know what made the human body work. And if I stayed here, I wanted to be prepared to be of use to the most people.
I walked down the hall to Dr. Erdman’s office and tapped on his door. Though the circumstances were different, it reminded me of visiting Nurse Daly’s office the day before in 1941. I could still see the disdain in Dr. Zechariah Philips’s gaze as he regarded me. Perhaps I wasn’t yet twenty-one, but I had more experience and knowledge than most of the nurses in that hospital. It was the reason I didn’t feel guilty about my grandfather pulling strings for me and why I wouldn’t let Dr. Philips intimidate me. I had much more important things to worry about.
“Come in,” Dr. Erdman called.
I stepped into his disorganized office, noting the sun through his window as it sank in the western sky. My mom would be irritated that I was late, though she’d come to expect it.
“Ah, Meg. Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”
I sat on the hard leather chair, hoping he had good news.
“I will get right to the point, since I know you’re probablyeager to go home.” He leaned forward, his gray hair falling over his eye before he pushed it back. “You are a remarkable young woman, one we have been honored to work with these past three years. It’s very rare when a seventeen-year-old enters this program and thrives.”
“Thank you.” I accepted the compliment with grace, having received a great deal of attention since I graduated from high school at the age of fourteen and then completed my pre-med degree by the age of seventeen. In actuality, I had been living for forty-two years by the time I graduated from high school in this path, which made it much easier than anyone realized.
“As you know,” he continued, “you will soon need to declare which field you will apply to for residency.”
I nodded.
“It is my hope that you will choose general surgery as your field, and that you will choose to stay here at Georgetown University Hospital.”
I smiled, thankful for his vote of confidence. Surgery was the most fascinating field of study to me, and I hoped to become a general surgeon one day.
“What you don’t know,” Dr. Erdman continued, “is that two other students have expressed interest in a residency position in the surgery department here, but there is only one position available. It’s my job to find out if you’re interested in the position as well.”
“I am. Very much.” I would love to stay in the DC area. It was close to my parents, who lived in Georgetown, less than a mile from my apartment.
“Good. But let me warn you, your competition is fierce. We will take several things into consideration while making our decision, which should come in October. So be sure to give every last bit of energy to your final months here. We are looking for someone who is dedicated.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” I was ready and willingto meet that call. After all, I had been putting my education first above all else my entire life. Nothing would change now.
“You may go,” Dr. Erdman said. “Get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
I stood, smiling as I shook his hand. “Thank you for considering me for the position. I won’t let you down.”
It was already six o’clock, and my mother was expecting me in half an hour, though there was no way I was going to make it in time. I rushed out of the hospital complex and found my car. In less than ten minutes, I was on P Street, where I lived with my roommate in a beautiful red-brick row house.
The old trolley tracks ran up the cobble road of P Street, and black wrought-iron fences encircled the small front yards. It took forever to find a place to park, and then I jogged toward our apartment. We had lived on the third floor of the old townhome for the past two years. It was about a six-minute drive to the hospital and less than a seven-minute walk to the Department of Art and Art History at Georgetown University for my roommate, Delilah. She was a junior studying art history, though she didn’t know what she hoped to do with the degree. It was more of a requirement from her parents, who insisted she attend college and paid generously for her to room with me.
I took the stairs two at a time to our apartment and was fumbling with my key when the door popped open. Delilah stood on the other side.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know.” I tossed my backpack onto the hook near the door and started taking off my sneakers as I ran down the hall to my room. “My mother should be used to it by now.”
Delilah held a bowl of cookie dough as she followed me, dipping her spoon into the gooey batter before licking it. She was wearing her painting apron, which was splattered with a hundred different colors, and had her short blue hair in pigtails. We’d met at church as kids, and when I was looking to move outof my parents’ house two years ago, she came with me. Where I was neat and tidy, she was messy and generally disheveled. I tried to eat a healthy, well-rounded diet, but she loved cookie dough and Mountain Dew. We couldn’t be more different—or more compatible.
The most remarkable thing? She knew about my time-crossing and didn’t doubt me for a second. The truth had come out when we were ten years old and I was spouting off information about the California gold rush, since I lived in San Francisco in 1851 in my other path. She’d asked me how I knew so much, and I had told her. Just like that. I trusted Delilah completely, and she trusted me. Ever since then, I’d been open with her, just as I was with Anna and my parents in 1941. We often talked about my final decision, though Delilah was certain I would choose 2001. She wouldn’t accept any other possibility.
“What will you wear?” Delilah asked, flopping down on my bed with her cookie dough.
