She made her way to the part of the hospital where the man was kept. The patients in the facility had been transferred to other hospitals in the area but the coma patients stayed put.
Her shoulder ached as she walked. Her scapula had not been shattered, fortunately, but it had been fractured by the bullet and she was told it would take some time for her shoulder to completely heal.
She stood above the only other American citizen in the building not with the Presidential party. She asked the doctor his name and the doctor replied that the man’s name was Vincent Shakespeare.
After sitting next to him for a few minutes, she returned to her room where she would wait until she was moved to Air Force One and then back to the White House. As she waited, she thought on her husband. He had arrived the night of her shooting and had stayed by her side the entire time. With news that she would be released that day, he flew back to Washington ahead of her so he could assist with preparations for her arrival. She had aides that would take care of everything but as her husband he wanted to make sure that he was facilitating her care.
She didn’t notice at first because she was lost in her thoughts but slowly she began to realize she didn’t feel so well. She thought at first she was just tired but then the poor feeling grew deeper and she thought she might vomit.
The tried to motion to one of the agents near her but her hand would not rise. She looked down at her side weakly and realized she could not move at all on her left side. She tried her right arm and found that she could not move that side of her body either. She tried to call out but the words did not come.
In fear she looked around the room, not understanding what was happening. Then, her world went black.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Washington, D.C. – November 1917
Libby opened her eyes and saw she was in the Oval Office. She sighed. It was just a dream.
The room was dark but she noticed right off that the room smelled strange. She was lying down on the couch in her office and stretched out her legs; the couch was shorter than it should have been. Plus, she realized the couch was leather while her couch had a cotton covering. Her first thought was that one of her staff members was playing some sort of joke. We’ll see how funny it is when I find out who it is.
She sat up and looked around the room, which was very dark, darker than it should have been with the glow of Washington, D.C. shining in from the exposed window. She glanced over at the window behind her desk and saw only darkness. Is the power out?
She walked to the doorway and flipped the light switch. When the dim lights did come on, they illuminated the deep green walls of the room. The walls should have been cream.
She turned towards the Resolute Desk. But instead of her desk, another desk sat in its place and she recognized the desk immediately as the Theodore Roosevelt Desk.
Confused and angry that the joke had moved to a new level, she exited her office. She should have come out at the end of the hallway facing the Roosevelt Room. Instead, she faced the offices down the hallway from the Oval Office.
Outside of the room, a Secret Service agent noticed her. “Sir, are you okay?”
“Sir?” she questioned. She turned and faced the agent squarely. She did not recognize him. “Where is Clark?” she asked, referring to the head of her security detail.
She paused for a moment after she spoke. She had a deep voice for a woman but her voice sounded deeper than usual. She cleared her throat hoping it would help and turned her attention back to the agent.
The agent looked at her strangely. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about, sir.”
Libby was angry. “Enough with the sir. I want to know who you are and I want to know where Clark is.”
“Mr. President, are you sure you’re alright? You seem…”
“Agent, I am certainly no Mr. Now if you want to keep this position, you’ll tell me where the head of my detail is.”
“President Wilson, I don’t understand. I head your detail and have done so for years. I…”
“Wait,” Libby interrupted, “what did you just call me?”
“President Wilson, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Libby turned and walked back into the Oval Office, shutting the door on the alarmed agent. She walked over to the desk and saw a small mirror. It seemed strange to her that a mirror would be on the desk but she ignored that and picked it up. Looking in, she was taken aback to see the face of Woodrow Wilson looking back at her.
She dropped the mirror and it bounced off the desk and rolled to the floor but the dark green carpet kept the mirror from breaking. What’s going on? she screamed inside her head.
She looked down at the desk and saw a calendar. It was November 1, 1917.
Not knowing what to do, she leaned down and picked up the displaced mirror from the floor. The simple act delayed the response she knew she would have to deliver. She couldn’t see how what she was experiencing was real but the feeling inside of her wouldn’t fully allow her to think she was dreaming either.
Daily she was forced to make tough decisions that would affect hundreds of millions of people. She was used to knowing exactly what to do as the moments came. But now, she was entirely
