CHAPTER SEVEN
Quality Time

Sunday, November 6, 1955
2:33 AM

An hour after he saw Emma to his room, Emmett pushed the bedroom door open again, frowning as he allowed an austere, raven-haired woman inside. She strode past the hot fireplace and across the room, her low heels sinking into the carpeting when she stopped at the bedside table. Sitting her medical bag on the stand, she glanced at the unconscious girl and unbuttoned her coat.

"What have you done so far?" she asked, handing Emmett her coat.

Already making great efforts to maintain his patience, he bit the inside of his lip as he laid the coat at the foot of the bed.

"I removed the bullet; cleaned, sterilized, and bandaged the wound."

She made a face at his boorish dressing, peeling the iodine-soaked gauze from Emma's shoulder. She leaned in for a closer look when Emmett approached, wordlessly extending a bowl for her to deposit the soiled bandages in. The nurse wiped her hands on a white towel before gently dabbing the excess iodine from around the inflamed crater. She touched the hot skin with the back of her hand.

"It's infected."

"How bad?"

She pulled a syringe from her bag, raising her eyebrows as she filled it. "Bad enough that you should have taken her to a hospital and saved me the pleasure of your company this evening."

Emmett demanded deep breaths of himself, glaring at the back of her head as she stuck Emma's shoulder.

"Believe me, my dear," he clipped with a sardonic grin, "I never intended on seeing you again after I set foot out of that university either, but the matter at hand is quite beyond the both of us."

His guest maintained her steely silence as she put the syringe on the table and removed a few more provisions from the black bag.

"I need to do stitches. Is she sedated?"

"Yes."

"With what?"

"Chloroform."

"Richardson or Linhart mixture?"

"…No mixture. Just chloroform."

She looked back at him sharply. "Jesus, Emmett. How much did you give her?"

"A few tablespoons on a rag."

The woman shook her head and readied Emma's shoulder for the stitches. Emma was motionless through her handiwork, right up to the clean, compact gauze square taped over it all. At length, she held up a glass vial of clear liquid, puncturing it with a clean needle. Emmett stepped forward, watching as she drew back the plunger and eased Emma onto her back.

"This is morphine," she sighed irritably, administering it to Emma's arm. "She gets it only at night. I'll give her narcotics to take during the day and a salve for the infection."

She sat the needle next to the vial on the stand, procuring another vial, a bottle of pills, and a wide, stout tin from her bag before snapping it shut. She turned to Emmett who waited begrudgingly at the foot of the bed with her open coat, half of his face obscured by the angle of the firelight.

"The stitches will come undone if she lifts anything heavy," she said as he helped her slip into the thin, charcoal wool. "Change the bandage every night."

"Anything else?"

She held out her hand. He rolled her eyes, extending the promised check. When she had one end, he tugged his end back with a curt smile.

"About her condition."

"Yes – get rid of her as soon as you can. Because if she gets worse, I won't be back."

He let go of the check. "Of course not."

From the bed, Emma shifted in her sleep. Emmett and the nurse froze, clutching to each other's forearms to still the other as her chest rose with a few quick, uneven breaths. Her eyes fluttered open and then closed, a great sigh eventually emerging from her. As she fell away into unconsciousness again, Emmett and his guest let eyes meet; hers cautious, his hard. His voice tightened to a hiss.

"I trust she will recover so much as I will not need to contact you again?"

She smirked, meeting his tone. "As I said: get rid of her. I won't – be – back."

Whatever words he had to say to her died as she dug her nails through his clothing and immediately left, her heels stamping hard rectangles not-so-softly down the stairs.

As the sound faded with the sharp shut of the front door, Emmett looked up at the young girl lying in his bed. Her face now relaxed, her pain now temporarily assuaged, he left, his thumb working the discomfort out of his forearm the nurse had given him as a parting gift.

Emma's shoulder greeted her with a mild pulsating ache when she woke up, her pain somewhat numbed from what it had been the night before. She gazed at the sunlight streaking across the contours of thick canopy above her and wondered briefly how her father had gone from sleeping like a king to that little box spring in the corner of the garage.

The image of him and a woman talking near the foot of the bed briefly flashed across her mind as she sat up. She tried to jar more from her memory, but the silver snakeskin robe he had been wearing the night before caught her eye, discarded over the back of a sitting chair next to the fireplace. After managing to get back into her irrevocably destroyed once-white pants and the pale yellow button-down, she put the robe on, her hands swimming through the sleeves to their ends. God, it smelled just like him.

Tying it around her waist, Emma wandered downstairs. The foyer and sitting room were quiet, but before she decided to go down to the garage, she heard loud crashes from the kitchen.

"Damn it!"

Emma hurried to the kitchen, somewhat surprised not to see a fire. Emmett was bent over an avalanche of pots and pans and was hastily shoving them all back into the cupboard. He retrieved a frying pan in the process, wielding it over his head as if daring the unstable mountain of cookware to even think about moving. He shut the cabinet door and sighed, dropping the skillet on the stovetop with a clatter.

She never knew her father to be the cooking type. Sure, he could make a handful of decent dishes, some of which were exceptional, but they had always been too busy with projects and experiments to devote significant time to their culinary skills. Sit-down dinners usually meant leaning over schematics at the work bench with bologna sandwiches or eating TV dinners on the couch together. Seeing him so out of his element made her wonder if the mansion hadn't really burned down due to his lack of experience in the kitchen.

"Need some help?" she asked, his head jerking up. "I can do something, if you want."

"I know how to boil an egg," he said, issuing towards the dining room. "You're injured. You just sit."

Emma paused in the doorway of the dining room as Doc returned to the stove. A solid mahogany table and six cushioned chairs were in the center of the room, an intricate golden chandelier overhead. The table had an ivory runner scattered with shriveled flower petals on it from the wilting centerpiece, and at the far end of the table, it was bunched up by a heap of wires and metal coils, a soldering iron, and an open tool box.

"Is Marty awake yet?" she asked, slowly sitting down at the head of the table.

"No. I'm going to wake him up in about ten minutes, though," he said, scraping the hash browns from the bottom of the pan and giving them a shake. "We have a lot to do today! How are you feeling this morning?"

"A little better." She looked up at him as he came in and put a glass of milk in front of her. "That woman that came last night-?"

"She's a nurse. It took a while, but I convinced her to come have a look at you."

Emma stared at her glass of milk, eyes growing. "How do you know her?"

"Oh," Emmett said, preparing her plate, "She patched me up after one of my experiments backfired at the university."

Emma didn't move as he sat the plate in front of her, analyzing the agitation in his voice.

"You two don't get along."

Emmett huffed, deepening his eyebrows as he left again. "No, I'm afraid we don't."

Emma nearly laughed. According to the stories her father had told her, he was injured in an explosion while working in the physics lab at the university in the early fifties. Her mother, being the newest nurse in the infirmary, was given the unfortunate task of dealing with the crackpot no one else would touch with a 10-foot stick. She was fiercely condescending towards him during his three years on staff, but when their paths crossed again in 1961, their snarky banter was accompanied by a pair of smiles, and they eventually married. Five years after painting the nursery the first time, they finally had a baby girl – a baby girl he was heartbroken to raise alone.

Six more years, she thought. Six more years until they were even nice to each other.

Emma blinked as Marty sat down to her right, took the toast off the edge of her plate, and bit into it. At length, she glanced over at him rigidly. He sucked the buttery crumbs from the corner of his mouth, tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes at her.

"You okay?"

"My mother was here last night," she whispered.

Marty pulled his head back, face scrunched. "What?"

"Check my photo," she hissed.

Marty glanced over at Doc in the kitchen before discreetly slipping the wallet from his back pocket. Emma eyed him as he opened it under the table and checked the picture. To her relief, he winked before putting it back into his blue jeans.

She nodded in satisfaction, silently picking up her fork as Emmett entered the dining room. The scientist handed Marty a plate before sitting down to his own breakfast. Marty peeled the shell from his egg.

"Doc, I hear you had a girl over last night."

"If you're referring to that she-devil," Emmett said with a mouthful of food, "she was here treating her shoulder in exchange for a check and never being contacted again. Of course, I believe I'm benefiting more from that bargain." He stabbed at his hash browns.

Marty glanced sideways at Emma uneasily. She had told him about her parents' first encounters, but he hadn't expected such intense animosity. She raised her eyebrows at his troubled expression. I told you they hated each other.

"So, uh, what's the verdict on Emma?"

"Emma is clear to accompany you in your endeavor, given she doesn't lift anything heavy. The pain medication and salve should keep her on her feet."

Marty smiled over at her. "Great! So what's on the agenda first?"

"Today I'm going set up the guest rooms, and I have to get you clothes and some groceries. Make a list of anything you want from the grocer's, and write down your sizes, too."

The cringe-inducing Christmas Dress of 1976 flashed across Emma's mind. "I'm picking out my own clothes," she said quickly. "I promise not to talk to anyone and endanger my existence like Marty."

"Yeah, yeah," Marty said, "Come on, Doc. We can help carry everything."

"No," Doc said, wiping away his milk moustache. "I'm going without you. Especially you," he said to Emma. "If you pass out again, that's going to attract a lot of unwanted attention. You also need to see how you react to your medication, and you're not going out dressed like that."

She made a defiant face. "I'm coming."

"You better just let her go," Marty said. "She's as stubborn as her dad – she'll find a way to get what she wants."

"No."

"Fine then," Emma snipped, sitting back in her chair. "Have fun buying women's underwear."

Doc and Marty exchanged looks. She smiled.

"I want–"

"Just," – Emmett shut his eyes, waving his fork to cut her off – "I'll find you something to wear."

It was something, alright. The dress belonged to her grandmother, and its musty odor and thick wool skirt made her skin crawl. She had to be mindful of keeping her shoulder covered when picking out her week's wardrobe, which wasn't exactly a challenge. As soon as she had a more suitable, comfortable dress in her hands, she was in the dressing room changing into it. She and Marty came out of the stalls at the same time, smirking at one another.

"Well, if it isn't little Richie Cunningham."

"Cool it, Aunt Bea."

"I do not look like Aunt Bea."

"Yes, you do."

And instead of sticking with Doc and the shopping cart in the grocery store, they each got a basket and made their own rounds. Emma's eyes lit up when she found the Peter Pan, and she began filling her basket to the point that it would be uncomfortably heavy to carry, even for her good arm.

"Biff? Biff! Are you getting creamy or chunky?"

"Chunky, Grandma!"

Emma jumped, staring at the brawny teenage Biff Tannen who had just materialized beside her. He shook his grandmother's annoying voice from his head, scanning the shelves until he felt Emma's eyes on him. She looked away as he glared at her.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She looked up at him. "Excuse me?"

Biff's eyes widened, and he smirked, recognizing her. "Ah, sweet cheeks, huh? You think you can just take all the chunky Peter Pan? Like nobody else wants any?"

She held up the only green-capped jar in her basket. "There's one left."

"I know." He swiped it from her, tossing it in his hand. "Thanks."

"Hey! Give me my peanut butter back."

Biff shrugged, sniggering. "I don't see your name on it."

Scowling, Emma reached up and flicked him in the eye.

"Ow!"

Instinctively clutching his eye, the jar of peanut butter fell out of his hand, and she caught it before it hit the ground.

"Now you don't see anything," she said pleasantly, replacing the jar in her basket. Her face darkened. "Don't touch my peanut butter ever again. Got it, butthead?"

"Who you callin' 'butthead,' butthead?"

Emma reached up to flick his other eye, smiling when he jumped back and shielded his face. She lowered her hand, and he frowned angrily. She took a jar of creamy Peter Pan from the shelf. He grunted when she shoved it into his abdomen.

"I'm glad we had this talk." She patted his cheek a little harder than necessary, making him flinch. "See you later, Biff."

And with that, Emma left Biff Tannen fuming at a wall of creamy peanut butter with a bloodshot eye. His grandmother rounded the corner then, her girth trudging along behind the shopping cart.

"Biff! What are you doing, Biff?"

He pitched the glass jar into the cart, busting the carton of eggs.

"Where are my CoCo Wheats?" he growled.

"I got you oatmeal instead. You need more fiber, Biff."

"I don't want fiber! I said I wanted goddamn CoCo Wheats!"

One aisle over, Emma smiled up at the top shelf where serendipity shined down on the last box of Coco Wheats. There was no way she was going to leave it there.

Plucking it up, she dropped it in her basket, happily making her way to the checkout.

Once their escapades in town were over, Emma relayed her encounter with Biff to Marty over dinner while Doc freshened up a pair of rooms upstairs in the eastern hallway. Their doors were directly across the hall from one another, separated by a tall window and an ornate grandfather clock. Emmett showed Marty to his childhood bedroom on the right and Emma to a flowery guest room on the left.

An hour or so later, a soft knock came on the guest room doorframe. Emma finished reading the last few words of a paragraph and looked up from the bed, half-startled not to see Marty, but her not-yet father smiling at her. The past twenty-four hours in his presence had been surprisingly easy on her, but now, without Marty there as a buffer, she regarded the man in her doorway with wide, innocent eyes. Her chest swelled, causing her wound to throb. She grimaced lightly and shifted into the pillow behind her back, silently talking herself back down. Doc leaned his head inside.

"Can I get you something for the pain?"

After all she had been through and thinking about the long week that awaited her, Emma decided not to be hero. She nodded, and Doc disappeared momentarily. Emma sat up when he returned with a small vile and needle, sitting on the edge of her bed. She reluctantly pushed her long, white sleeve up, turning the inside of her elbow outwards as she made a fist. She hoped he was paying attention the night before when her not-yet mother had shown him how to do it.

Doc swabbed her skin, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Are you squeamish?"

"A little. Just be quick."

Doc put his hand underneath her elbow to steady it. Despite a mild dislike for needles, Emma looked on as it entered her vein, exhaling to assuage the sting of the pinch. Doc slowly pushed the plunger, and he began to see relief ease into her face after a few moments.

"Is the room comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you." She issued to the book in her lap. "Just doing a bit of reading before bed."

Doc pressed a cotton ball to her arm as he removed the needle, setting it on the nightstand. Glancing over, he raised his eyebrows, intrigued by her reading selection.

"Well," he smiled, "John von Neumann. I didn't take you for the quantum mechanics type."

Emma found herself chuckling. Of all the sciences he had introduced to her, quantum physics and mechanics were her least favorite. The 1985 version of her father would have said those words in jest and laughed with her, but this man's observation was genuine and conversational. Emma bit back her laughter, choosing to blame it on the morphine.

"I'm not. But my father," – she swallowed, suddenly sobering as she spoke – "My father owned a copy. He was a scientist."

She looked back down at the pristine pages, smoothing her hand over a large equation. Years later, this book would still be floating around the lab with an abundance of dog-eared pages and chicken scratch in the margins, its corners dulled and worn from countless referencing on his part and a few of her aggravating school projects. Thumbing through the clean pages, she realized just how much it would, in essence, become him.

The remnants of her smile finally faltered, a breath rushing out of her. "I guess I just really miss him."

"You'll see him again soon. What kind of science does he study?"

She held her breath, staring at the lines of equations until they skewed.

"It doesn't matter. He died recently."

Doc's eyes grew, drifting to the book in the silence.

"I am so sorry, my dear," he said quietly as her eyes began to shine. "You must miss him terribly."

Emma nodded, unable to speak with her throat so thick with emotion. A stab of grief made her clamp down on the inside of her lip and led her reddening eyes to his. She searched for his ghost, a strange sense of calm overcoming her at the way his expression made her feel like a little girl. She shut her eyes; what she wouldn't give for the comfort of him holding her close again, promising everything would be okay.

Doc gently took her hand from the book, and her eyes fluttered open.

"I know how dismal it must seem right now, but things will get better," he told her. "When my father died, someone told my mother that only time would ease her heartache. Time heals," he mused with a sigh. He gave her a small smile. "Those are wise words."

The sorrow in her eyes subsided, and Emma regarded him with silent, gracious respect. A familiar part of her father had just emerged, and his words were unexpectedly, effectively reassuring.

He gave her hand a light squeeze, stood, and paused in the doorway.

"If you need anything, please tell me so."

Emma nodded. "Thank you."

"Goodnight."

"Night."

As Doc closed the door, Emma looked back down at the page. She pulled the sleeve of her pajamas over the heel of her hand and removed the threatening tears from her eyes.