Written: July - August 1994
Word Count: Approximately 8,000
Background Notes: This segment was in the original version of "Tremors in Time," which I wrote in 1994 in about six or eight weeks. Extremely fast for me, even then. I decided to further complicate matters for the characters by having Marty come down with appendicitis. Seemed to continue the "torture Marty" bent I was on in my early days of BTTF fanfic writing -- where I was soooo blatantly obvious about my fixation at "seeing" him sleeping. (And, based on this scene, as well as pieces in the BTTF5 and "Adventures on the High Seas," a bathroom humor fixation.) And though I've never had my appendix out, my brother did in 1991, which explains my faint fascination with the matter; I later did have my Marty come down with this ailment in an inopportune time.
When I posted this story for the masses to see in 1996 or 1997, I neatly snipped this part out. It seemed pointless to me, with no reason for being around. No regrets on that -- esp since I think this sort of problem worked much better in a story I wrote years later, "The Family Way."
This segment squeezed in after the first night following the earthquake, and it cuts out right before I went to the characters back in 1986 again.
Thursday, April 19, 1906
11:04 A.M.
San Francisco, California
When Marty woke up, the first thing on his mind was not Jane or the horrible earthquake and fire the day before. It was the dull pain in his stomach that he first noticed. Sitting up, Marty groaned. His whole body felt like one big bruise. Their wasn't a spot on him that wasn't sore. He hadn't fallen asleep until after five AM, according to his pocket watch. Glancing bleary-eyed at the clock now, he saw that he'd slept about six hours.
"What a night," he muttered, leaning forward to rest his head on the dashboard for a minute. He pulled on his slightly wrinkled tux jacket before leaving the car. Even inside the tent, the air was filled with smoke but it was nothing compared to the outside, as Marty found out when he left the tent. Thick grey clouds of smoke hung like a fog, shutting the sun from view except for an eerie orange glow in the sky.
"I'm glad to see that you're finally up," Doc said, suddenly appearing beside him. He handed Marty a bowl of soup, the only food that he had been able to get his hands on. "How are you doing?"
Marty looked down distastefully at the food. "Actually, I don't feel so hot," he admitted. The smell of the hot soup was starting to make him feel nauseous.
Doc's hand immediately went to his forehead. "You don't have a fever," he decided a moment later.
"It's not my head, it's my stomach that's hurting," Marty explained, looking up from the unappetizing food.
Doc looked at him carefully. "You don't look sick. I'm sure the reason that your stomach hurts is grief."
"Grief?" Marty repeated with a frown.
"Yes, grief," Doc concluded. "You are still upset about Jane's death and your grief over that is taking the form of a stomach ache. Grief can show up in a number of physical and psychological ailments."
Marty shrugged, then handed Doc the soup. "Well, whatever it is, I'm not that hungry."
Doc shook his head. "Eat it. I'm sure you'll feel better once something's in your stomach."
Marty looked at Doc skeptically. "Really, I'm not that hungry."
"Marty, do you know how scarce food is right now?" Doc asked, pointing to the soup. "You should feel lucky to be getting this. It's all that you'll be able to have until dinner."
Marty held his hand out for the bowl, giving up. "Fine, fine, I'll eat this stuff, but I'm not going to like it." He sat down on the grass, a few feet away from the fire and slowly started to eat the thick soup. Five minutes later, after it was all gone, Marty didn't feel any better. In fact, he felt worse.
Pushing the now empty bowl away, Marty unbuttoned his vest, wondering if maybe that was causing the pain from being to tight, but it didn't seem to help.
"Don't you feel better now?" Doc asked, taking away the bowl and dumping it into a pot of water over the fire.
"No, I feel worse," Marty retorted, hugging his arms around his stomach. He closed his eyes and moaned softly. "If I get sick, I'm holding you responsible."
"You won't get sick," Doc said firmly. "It's just grief that is causing you pain, nothing more."
"I'm so sure about that," Marty said slowly, grimacing. He felt the soup in his stomach lurch to one side. "I'm serious, I think I might-" He stopped talking, swallowed hard.
Doc looked intently at him. "Might what?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Marty closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. "Might," he started again, then slammed a hand over his mouth as he felt the soup start rush up.
Doc dropped the tin cans he had been trying to flatten next to the fire and rushed right over. He grabbed Marty's shoulders and pulled him to his feet, pushing him away from their campsight at a run. Marty was able to make it to the old barn ruins before he couldn't hold back any longer and started to retch up his meal, narrowly missing Doc as he threw up all over the grassy ground. Marty felt Doc's hands on his back as he was bent over in his agony, trying not to see what partially digested soup looked like.
A minute later, his stomach calmed down and Marty was able to straighten up without gagging. "Are you alright now?" he heard Doc ask from behind him as he rubbed his shoulders.
Marty shut his eyes tight and nodded, pressing his hands to his stomach. It still hurt something awful, instead of feeling better now that he got rid of the food.
Doc put his arm around Marty and lead him back to their tent. "Are you feeling any better now?" he asked, helping him sit next to the fire, watching him with a somewhat wary look.
Marty cleared his throat. "Not really," he said softly, staring at the fire and trying to think of anything that had nothing to do with what had just happened.
"I apologize about forcing you to eat," Doc said, his face serious as he knelt down next to Marty. "I honestly thought that you were just suffering from grief."
Marty shrugged, his eyes still in the fire. "You told me, the time I landed in the hospital with pneumonia, that if I ever wasn't feeling well to tell you, so I did."
Doc felt Marty's forehead again. "You don't feel feverish," he observed. "Your stomach still hurts?"
Marty nodded again. "Yeah, bad."
Doc stood up and looked around at the bleak grey scenery. Around them were many other tents and people, with a good portion of the city's survivors living on the hill now. It was a zoo, with men and women talking and kids running around and yelling.
"Why don't you lie down for a while?" Doc suggested. "Maybe if you get some sleep you might feel better."
Marty stood up slowly, tossing a dead leaf into the fire and watching it go up in smoke. "Maybe you're right, sleep could be all I need." He entered the tent again and went back into the DeLorean, lying down again in his seat. As he shut his eyes, a sharp bolt of pain hit somewhere on his right side. Marty winced and concentrated on trying to get to sleep.
Shaking. Things were shaking. Another earthquake was happening, just like the one before.
"No," Marty moaned waking up, his body drenched in sweat. Sharp stabbing pain flared up in his side before he even opened his eyes.
"Marty, it's me," he heard Doc say in the darkness. It was nearly pitch black in the DeLorean. Night must have fallen.
"What time is it?" he asked, half groaning from the pain.
"Only a little after eight. You've been sleeping all day," Doc said, concern in his voice. "Does your stomach still hurt?"
Marty pressed his hands on his right side. "Mostly here is where it hurts," he whispered. "Bad."
He felt Doc's cool hands on his hot, damp face. "You have a fever now," he stated, then crawled out of the open car door. "I want to get you examined by a doctor. The medical tent is not far away."
"Why don't you have him come here instead?" Marty asked weakly. "It hurts too much for me to move, let alone walk. I don't even think I can."
Doc walked around to the other side of the car. "I don't want anyone to see the DeLorean, not to mention that the temporary hospital is so busy that no one would be able to come out here. Don't worry," he added quickly, seeing Marty blanch. "It's not far and I'll help you."
Marty watched silently as Doc opened the gull wing door and gently put his arm behind his back. "On the count of three I'm going to help you sit up, okay? One....two.....three!"
Marty screwed his eyes shut against the fiery pain. "Be careful!" he snapped, starting to feel like he was going to be sick again.
"I moved you as slowly as I could," Doc insisted. "Now comes the harder step. Getting you out of the car. If you help a little too, it might go faster. I can't do it all myself."
Marty took a slow breath and nodded, trying hard to ignore his now churning stomach. "Okay," he agreed, keeping his hands clutched tightly against his lower right side.
It took five minutes before Marty was out of the car. Five long, pain filled minutes from his point of view. Doc was careful not to move too fast or jostle him, but Marty was in too much pain for that to help any.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked Doc as they walked (slowly) around the tents in the dark.
"I'm not sure," Doc replied, keeping his arms firmly around Marty, who was hunched over holding his side. "That's why I want the doctor to take a look at you. It could be something as simple as the stomach flu, or something much more serious."
"Like what?" Marty asked, his breathing shallow as he felt waves of nausea start to come over him. He was going to throw up again, he knew it!
Doc shook his head, not elaborating. "There are many things that could be wrong. I'm not going to start guessing until we get a doctor's opinion."
Marty stopped walking, knowing that he couldn't wait any longer. "I - I don't feel so good," he mumbled, bowing his head. Before Doc could say anything, he lunged away from him and tried to get over to the forest a few feet away before he literally lost it. But his foot caught on a rock. He hit the ground hard, landing on his side, the one that felt like it was on fire.
Doc was next to him in seconds. "Marty, are you okay?" he asked, turning him over on his back.
Marty shoved Doc away, his brain and stomach screaming at him to move it or else both he and Doc would be sorry. He managed to roll over and crawl a foot before starting to gag on the food left in his stomach. Giving up the fight, Marty hung his head over the ground and threw up everything he had eaten that day, and then some. When his stomach was completely and totally empty, Marty collapsed next to the mess he made, exhausted and struggling to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, wishing that everything that had been going on now, and the day before, was part of some horrible nightmare.
How he got from there to the inside of the medical tent was a blank in Marty's mind. He had dim recollections of Doc dragging him to his feet again and practically carrying him to the tent, but that was it. The inside of the tent, lit up by candles and lanterns, reminded Marty a little of the field hospitals that he had seen when he had been in the Civil War, a few months before. Except this was not nearly as gory, which was good because if it had been he would have gotten sick again, regardless if he had anything left in his stomach or not.
Doc led him to an empty cot and told him to lie down. "I'm going to see if I can track down a doctor," he added, getting swallowed up in the crowd as soon as he left Marty's side.
Marty sighed and closed his eyes, lying carefully back on the pillow and blankets that were on the cot, listening to the voices that swam around him and feeling his side throb. He hadn't felt this bad in a long time, not since he had pneumonia a couple months before in the Middle Ages.
Marty's eyes flew open when he thought that. He couldn't be dying, could he? The flu - if that's what he had - wasn't fatal, was it? Marty tried to remember all deadly diseases he knew of that had the symptoms he had - headache, fever, stomach pains, and vomiting - but couldn't come up with anything realistic.
About a minute later, Doc returned with a tall, heavyset man with bright red hair and a beard. "Marty, this is Dr. Renolds," he explained when they reached him.
Dr. Renolds nodded and knelt down next to the cot. "Where exactly does your stomach hurt?" he asked, looking into Marty's pale face with warm, friendly eyes.
Marty pointed to his lower right side. "Around here," he said softly, watching Dr. Renolds suspiciously as he lifted his large hands up and set them there.
"I'm going to press in that area, very gently," he warned, "and you tell me if the pain increases."
Marty looked up at Doc, who nodded slightly. With a sigh, Marty also nodded, somewhat reluctantly, staring up at the cloth ceiling of the tent. He didn't want to know when the doctor was doing the pressing.
"This hurt?" Dr. Renolds asked, applying a light pressure up near his ribs somewhere on the right.
Marty shook his head. "No."
"This?"
"No."
"What about this?" the doctor asked, pressing around his lower right hip.
Pain! Awful hellish pain! Marty had to keep his teeth clenched tightly together so he wouldn't scream. A whimper escaped anyway. "Yes," he gasped.
The doctor kept pressing there and around it, a frown on his round face. "You're sure?"
Was he sure? Dr. Renolds had to be kidding! The pain was pushing him to the edge of blackout! "What do you think?" he snapped, breathing hard.
Dr. Renolds sighed and removed his hands. "I know what you have," he said slowly. "It's not good, but I prefer being honest with my patients. You're suffering from appendicitis."
Marty looked at him blankly. "What?"
"Appendicitis. Inflammation of the appendix," the doctor explained, standing up. "If not removed immediately, the appendix can explode and the patient falls into a coma and dies."
Without another word, Dr. Renolds turned and hurried off, heading for the back of the tent. Marty looked up at Doc again.
"Death?" he asked, his voice rising. "Did he say death?"
Doc knelt down next to him. "Marty, just calm down," he said, though Doc didn't sound that calm to Marty. "All they have to do is remove your appendix."
"Remove my appendix?" he asked incredulously, forgetting the pain for the first time all day. "You mean slice me open?"
"It's that or death," Doc answered, then hurriedly added, "I don't like it as much as you do, but this has been going on all day. If they don't operate soon, you stand a good chance of dying from this. There is no time to fix the DeLorean to get you to a future hospital."
Before they could discuss the subject further, Dr. Renolds returned, a bottle of something in one hand. "Drink all of this," he ordered, uncorking it and handing it to Marty.
Marty looked at it with suspicion. "What is it?" he asked, struggling to sit up.
"A pint of whiskey," the doctor replied, leaning over Marty and pulling off his jacket. Marty was too stunned to move away.
"Whiskey?" he asked in disbelief. "You want me to drink this whole bottle of whiskey?"
"Yes," Dr. Renolds answered, carefully folding the jacket. "It will numb the pain you have until we are able to operate." He paused, leaning back, and added, "As soon as you do that, take all your clothes off too."
Marty looked at the doctor with his mouth hanging open. "Excuse me?" he asked, not sure that he had heard right. Was this really a doctor?
"It's easier to do operations if there are no clothes in the way," Dr. Renolds explained. "Now hurry up and do what I've told you while I make arrangements for the operation." He paused again, then suddenly smiled. "This will be only the fifth appendectomy that I've done before. It's a rather new operation, only twelve years old now. I'm looking forward to it."
Marty turned his head to Doc again. "Get me out of here," he begged, then winced as a new pain hit.
Doc looked after Dr. Renolds, a frown on his face. "I wouldn't risk it," he said, then turned to Marty. "Drink your whiskey."
"I can't believe that you are giving me permission to do this," Marty said in amazement, slowly lifting the bottle to his lips.
"The doctor is right on one thing, drinking that will take the edge off the pain a little," Doc admitted.
Marty took a slight sip and coughed. "This tastes horrible!" he gasped.
"Drink it fast and it won't seem as bad," Doc advised, standing up.
Marty took a deep breath, then gulped the rest of the pint down. The liquid burned as it went down and Marty started to cough again. "How long before I start to feel better?" he asked, lying back on the pillows.
Doc looked at his pocket watch. "Not that long at all," he promised.
Thursday, April 19, 1906
9:47 P.M.
Doc Brown paced back and forth next to Marty's cot, his mind reeling with thoughts, none of them good. Marty watched him from the cot, wearing nothing but a sheet wrapped loosely around his waist.
"Will you quit doing that?" he finally said, slurring his words a little from the whiskey. "You're giving me a headache."
Doc stopped the pacing. "Sorry," he said. "I just wish that the doctor would come back."
Marty giggled. He had been doing a lot of that since he had the whiskey. "No problem, the pain has gone away lots since I drank that stuff. Why cut people open, just give them a pint of whiskey and their problems are all solved!"
Doc frowned, wondering if getting Marty drunk was the right thing to do. At least it made him feel better now, that was a fair reason. "That's not exactly how it is solved," he replied slowly, looking around at the people, trying to find Dr. Renolds.
Marty sighed. "This is so boring. If I'm supposed to get operated on, they could at least hurry it up."
"My sentiments exactly," Doc said under his breath.
A minute later, Doc finally caught sight of the doctor pressing his way through the crowded tent over to them. The look on his face was not happy. "There's a little problem," he greeted them with. "Everything is set for the operation, except we don't have any anesthetic."
"No anesthetic?" Doc repeated. "Why not?"
"Everything was lost in the earthquake and fire," the doctor replied.
Doc thought for a moment, then remembered something. "I have some chloroform that you could use. Would that work?"
Dr. Renolds nodded. "It would. How is it that you have some?"
"I always keep medical materials like that around," Doc answered, already heading for the exit. He ran back to his tent and got into the DeLorean, pulling the small flask of chloroform from the first aid kit under the seat, and hurried back all in under five minutes.
Dr. Renolds was feeling Marty's side again when Doc returned. Marty looked a little pale and his breathing was uneven, a sign that he was probably feeling the pain now. "What's that?" he muttered, looking at the bottle in Doc's hands. "More whiskey?"
Doc shook his head and handed the doctor the bottle. "Chloroform," he explained.
Dr.Renolds stood up. "We have no time to loose," he said quickly, looking at Marty. "The appendix is at the breaking point." He looked over at two large men. "Get him onto the table."
The men nodded and between the two of them, lifted Marty out of the cot, sheet still around him, and carried him carefully to the back of the tent in an area that had been divided from the rest by a few sheets. Doc followed. "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay with him during the operation," he told Dr. Renolds when the man turned to look at him.
Dr. Renolds thought about that for a minute. "I guess it would be fine, if you are not afraid of the sight of blood."
"No, it doesn't bother me at all," Doc said, entering the bright lantern filled room. The two men had set Marty down on a table covered with a white sheet. Nearby stood three other men and a tray full of scalpels and other things.
Dr. Renolds stepped forward, handing the chloroform to a young women, probably a nurse Doc guessed. "These are the other doctors who will be helping me out during the operation," Dr. Renolds said, pointing to the three men. "Dr. George Matthews, Dr. Ben Stone, and Dr. Al Tannen."
"Tannen!" both Doc and Marty said at the same time, looking at the last man. He had to be a relative of one of the Hill Valley Tannens, the family resemblance was certainly there. Dr. Al Tannen smiled at them, a scalpel in one hand.
"I'm not letting a Tannen slice me open!" Marty exclaimed, the glazed look suddenly gone from his eyes, sitting up and getting ready to hop off the table. The nurse poured some chloroform on a rag, approaching the table from behind him.
"Don't be silly," Dr. Renolds said, casting a look at Doc that plainly said they had no time for the whiskey to do this now. He gestured to the two men who had brought Marty in and they grabbed his arms, pushing him back onto the table.
"I'm not being silly!" Marty cried, his eyes wide with panic as he struggled to escape the grip the men were holding him down in. The nurse moved quickly, pressing the rag to Marty's mouth and nose before he even saw her. He twisted his head around, trying to get away from the rag. Marty looked at Doc, eyes begging for Doc to get him out of this. Doc reached out and took his hand, wincing at Marty's strong grip.
"Don't worry, I'll be here the whole time," he promised, giving Marty's hand a comforting squeeze.
"Just breathe in and you'll be ready in no time," the nurse advised. Marty shook his head, holding his breath. But he couldn't hold it forever and after a minute he sucked a deep breath in.
"That's it," the nurse said softly. Marty looked up, squinting at her like he was trying to remember something. Then he sighed and his eyes fluttered closed as the chloroform took effect. His head rolled limply to one side and Doc felt his grip relax, then go slack in his hand.
One of the men stepped forward and pressed an old fashioned stethoscope to Marty's naked chest. "Beat slowing at 60 per minute," he announced after a moment. The nurse nodded and slowly removed the chloroform rag from Marty's face as the two men that had been holding him down moved back.
"Alright, let's start," Dr. Renolds announced. He looked at Doc. "You're going to have to move, since we need to be there."
Doc nodded, taking a step back. "Of course," he agreed, moving to stand next to Marty's head, out of the way of all the doctors. Dr. Renolds draped another sheet over Marty's upper body and pulled down the sheet around his waist a little.
"Make the incision here," he told Dr. Tannen, pointing to a spot out of Doc's line of vision. Dr. Tannen gave a large grin and lowered the gleaming scalpel to the skin. Doc turned away, wishing to see no more. He looked down at Marty's still face, reaching over and smoothing his hair out as he prayed that everything would go smoothly and their would be no complications.
The operation lasted nearly two hours. Doc was fascinated on one level how the doctors conducted the operation, and horrified at the same time. Except for washing the hands, the doctors did nothing out of the ordinary with what they wore. No gloves, sterilized gowns, nothing. While they were cutting, removing the appendix, and then sewing up Marty, Dr. Stone held a lantern up for Dr. Renolds, and Dr. Tannen handled all the knives, scalpels, and needles. Not exactly the most trustworthy person for those things in Doc's opinion. Dr. Matthews monitored Marty's breathing and pulse, making sure that he wasn't going to regain consciousness during the operation. Between the chloroform and the whiskey, Doc didn't think it was that likely.
"Okay, that's it," Dr. Renolds announced, gently wiping the three inch long stitches with an edge of the sheet, then wiping his bloody hands off it. It was a big scar for something that only turned out to be an inch in length, as Doc had seen when they removed the appendix. "You can move him back to his bed," he added to the two muscled men.
They nodded and stepped forward, one taking Marty under the arms, the other getting his feet. Doc watched as they carefully lifted him up and took him out of the room.
"How is he now?" Doc asked Dr. Renolds as he started to clean up everything.
"He came through the operation fine," the doctor explained, turning to face him. "We caught the appendix in time. But the next few days are the true test. Anything can happen."
Doc nodded and checked the time. It was after midnight. He left the operating room and went to check on Marty. The tent, which had been bustling two hours before, had grown much quieter. Doc was able to get to the cot where Marty lay quickly. He stopped at the food of the bed and looked down.
Marty was still sleeping off the effects from the anesthetic, flat on his back, lying under a heavy blanket. His face was pale and dark circles were under his eyes, probably from the stress of the operation. His lips were parted slightly and he was snoring a little, which for some reason comforted Doc. His breathing wasn't off or anything.
"He's doing fine," someone said softly from a few feet away. Doc jumped, not knowing that anyone was watching him, and looked over to see the nurse who had given Marty the chloroform seated by his bed, a lit lantern by her feet. He frowned, thinking that the women looked vaguely familiar, but didn't know why.
"You don't have to worry," the nurse added. "I'll be sitting with him all night or until he wakes up. You can go back to wherever you call home now."
"I can stay with him," Doc protested. The nurse shook her head.
"Dr. Renolds asked me to stay here, not you. Go ahead, someone will come fetch you if their are any problems."
Doc hesitated. "Are you sure?"
The young nurse nodded. "I promise you."
Doc looked one last time at Marty, then slowly left. He knew that he wouldn't sleep at all that night, from worrying about him, but he could work on the DeLorean. Yes, Doc decided, he would do that. Better to get it finished as soon as possible, just in case their were any complications.
Friday, April 20, 1906
3:16 A.M.
Marty felt like he was floating. It was a pleasant sensation, one that reminded him of the kisses he had shared with Jane before she -
"Before what?" Jane asked, suddenly appearing beside him.
Marty turned around. He was standing in the middle of the hotel ballroom, wearing the old tux. Jane was a few feet away, clad in a long white shimmering gown that looked like it was made of diamonds. The ball room was completely empty, except for the two of them.
"What?" Marty asked, staring at her.
"Before what? You were saying something about the kisses we had before I did something," Jane prompted, coming over next to him and putting her arms around his shoulders.
Marty pulled away, his heart pounding as he remembered something. "You're dead," he said, rubbing his arms where she had touched him. Her skin had been freezing cold.
Jane nodded, her face sad. "I know. I never thought that I would go this young." Tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
Marty took a few more steps back. "What are you doing here?"
Jane looked at Marty, her eyes soft. "I wanted one more dance with you before I left. Will you let me?"
Marty gazed at her, thinking it over. She looked so beautiful standing there. Her skin had this glow about it. Even though she was dead, she had never looked so alive.
"I guess so," he said slowly, holding his hand out for her to take. He tried not to wince as her icy hands touched his. Pulling her close, Marty suddenly realized that there was no music. As soon as he thought that however, he started to hear a faint tune play. It grew louder until the whole ballroom was filled with the sound.
Jane's eyes shone. "This is so wonderful," she breathed, resting her head on his shoulder. Marty smiled, trying not to think of her as being dead. She didn't seem so now. He also realized this was the perfect opportunity to say he was sorry for not going back for her when she had tripped.
"Jane," he began, "I wanted to apologise for -"
Jane vanished. One minute she was there, standing in Marty's arms as they moved slowly to the music, the next she had disappeared into thin air.
Marty turned around. The room was silent now. "Jane?" he called, his voice echoing in the room.
Everything suddenly went black. "Jane!" Marty yelled, then gasped as he felt a sudden jolt of pain across his abdomen. It grew stronger every second. "Jane, where are you?" he shouted, his voice becoming lost in the thick darkness.
There was no answer. Jane had had left him and he was alone.
Marty groaned. His whole body felt sore, like he had been dropped off a cliff a few times. His stomach felt the worst, especially his right side where the pain throbbed. His head wasn't doing that well either.
Slowly opening his eyes, Marty looked around. It was dark. He could make out vague shapes and shadows, but nothing would completely materialize for him. He heard a sound, a movement, next to him.
"Mom?" Marty asked hoarsely, his lips and throat dry. "Mom, is that you?"
He heard a sigh. "Just relax now," his mother said softly, wiping his damp forehead with a soft cloth. "You've been asleep for almost five hours."
Marty started to lift his head up to find her, but dizziness and nausea made him decided otherwise. "I had a horrible nightmare," he murmured, closing his eyes. "I dreamt that I was in the San Francisco earthquake and my new girlfriend was killed."
Marty's mother sighed again. "Well, you're safe and sound now, here in the San Francisco Field Hospital."
Marty's eyes flew open. "San Francisco Field Hospital?" he repeated, sitting up. Pain flared up his side and in his stomach and he grimaced. Someone turned the glow of a gas lamp on and Marty saw his mother staring at him from a foot away...or was it? The young woman - she didn't look much older then him - had long dark hair, braided behind her back. She looked identical to his mother, except for the fact that she was wearing all white and this was 1906, as Marty remembered now.
"Who are you?" he asked, looking at her with his eyes narrowed.
"Nurse Lea Baines," the young woman replied softly. "You can call me Lea, if you wish."
"Baines?" Marty wondered. "Lea Baines?" He suddenly felt sick, and not from seeing a possible relative.
Nurse Lea Baines looked closely at him. "You do not look well. Lie back down and try to get some more sleep."
Marty shook his head quickly. "I don't think that would be a very good idea," he managed to say, his eyes darting frantically around for something - anything - that he could get sick in. He found nothing and, in desperation, grabbed the thick blanket that was across his lap. Marty pressed it to his mouth just in time. His stomach heaved and he threw up all the whiskey that the doctor had made him drink earlier. Luckily, he hadn't eaten anything and so he wasn't sick that long.
Lea ran her fingers through his hair when he was choking in the blanket. She didn't say anything, but Marty found that her just doing that was oddly comforting. His mother used to do that when he was little and would get sick like this. "Are you better now?" she asked when he pulled the blanket away from his mouth.
Marty shut his eyes and nodded. He felt Lea take the blanket from his fingers. "Why don't you lie down now?" she suggested as he opened his eyes and looked at her.
Marty wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. "All right," he said, his voice shaking a little as he leaned back, pulling the thin sheet tightly around his naked body. Without the blanket, he was freezing cold.
Lea took the blanket he had thrown up in and headed for the back of the tent. Marty watched her go, a sudden memory surfacing. Right before he had passed out from the chloroform, he had looked into her face and noticed the family resemblance. Before he had been able to actually realize it however, he had been knocked out.
Remembering that, Marty wondered how the operation went. He saw in his mind the Dr. Tannen sporting that sharp scalpel. Marty lifted the sheet, peering under it to see what had been done to his body. A straight scar, about three inches long, was now on his lower right side. He wondered how he was going to explain this to his parents if they ever saw it.
Lea returned a few minutes later, a new blanket and a glass of water in her hand. "Dr. Renolds said it would be fine for you to have some water, but no food yet. Not that you would probably want any," she added, handing Marty the water and tucking the blanket around him. "Between having the whiskey and chloroform, you are getting a hangover with double the nausea."
Marty looked at the brown-tinted water and made a face. "I'm not that thirsty," he decided, setting the glass down on the floor. He didn't want to risk puking again for one thing, and for another, the water didn't appear that clean. Seeing the water, however, made Marty realize that he had to do something he hadn't done for what felt like a day.
"I need to use the bathroom," he said, blushing slightly as Lea looked at him.
She nodded and reached under the bed, pulling out what looked like a china basin except with higher sides. "You'll have to use this," she said, setting it on his lap.
Marty looked at it blankly. "What's this?"
Lea gave him a strange look. "Haven't you ever used a chamber pot before?"
Marty reached over and lifted the pot up. "Of course," he lied, setting it next to him on his left side in the bed.
"Aren't you going to use it?" Lea asked, noticing Marty's hesitation.
He clenched his hands into fists, balling the blanket up in them. He really had to go, but would rather die than do it in front of Lea Baines. "Couldn't I have some privacy?" he asked, an edge of desperation to his voice.
Lea shook her head, a pink tinge to her cheeks. "No, I have to stay here, doctor's orders. But I can turn my back if you wish."
Marty nodded quickly. Lea twisted around in her chair, so she was facing the other way. "Go ahead," she called.
Glancing around to make sure that no one else was awake or looking at him, Marty started to sit up. He stopped when it became too painful and flopped back down, wondering how he was going to pull this off. He had to go really bad!
A minute passed while Marty thought. "Can I turn around yet?" Lea asked.
"No, not yet!" Marty told her firmly. He looked at the chamber pot, suddenly having an idea. Rolling over on his left side, Marty lifted himself up slightly with his elbow. He felt the stitches on his right pull painfully, but tried to ignore it. He reached over with his right arm and pushed the pot closer toward him, lifting the sheet and sliding it under there. Gritting his teeth, Marty pushed himself up a little and positioned himself over the chamber pot as well as he could. He let out a slight gasp when his bare skin brushed against the freezing china.
"I would give anything to be in the 1980's right now," he muttered under his breath.
"What's that?" Lea asked, her back still to him.
"Nothing. Never mind." Marty couldn't hold it any longer, so he started to relieve himself, trying not to let it all out at once for fear of missing the bowl. He winced at the sound it made as it hit the china. It sounded so loud. He felt his face burn. It took him nearly two minutes before he was done. Lowering himself back, Marty carefully slid the chamber pot off the bed, being careful not to spill anything.
"You can turn around now," he told Lea. She faced him slowly, getting up out of the chair and picking the now full chamber pot up. Marty felt his face turn red again and looked away.
"I'll be right back," she promised, starting to go to the back of the tent again. Marty nodded, still not able to look at her, and stared up at the dim cloth ceiling. He had probably been awake for about fifteen minutes, but it felt longer, and he didn't feel that tired, just in pain. At least the nausea had more or less disappeared.
Lea returned a moment later and sat on the edge of Marty's bed. "Can I get you anything else?"
He shook his head. "I can't sleep," he told her. "I don't feel that tired."
"I'll stay here with you until you do," she promised. "I told your uncle I would."
She must have meant Doc Brown. Marty sighed and looked up at her. "I know this is a weird question," he blurted out, "but are you related to an Alexander Baines?" That was his great-great-great grandfather on his mother's side.
Lea looked surprised. "That's my great uncle!" she exclaimed. "How do you know him?"
"Oh, I've just heard about him somewhere," Marty stammered, then gasped as his side gave a twinge of pain. Lea looked concerned.
"You need to get some sleep," she said gently. "You will feel better faster if you do."
"I don't feel like it, though," Marty insisted.
Lea backed up on the bed so she was sitting next to his head. "I'll help you get to sleep," she said softly. "Lay your head on my lap."
Lifting it up a little, Marty did what she told him. "How is this going to help me?" he asked, looking up at her.
Lea smiled gently, looking like his mother. "Trust me," she promised, brushing the bangs back off his forehead with her long fingers. "Do you want to talk about anything?"
Marty shrugged. "Where were you during the earthquake?" he asked a moment later.
Lea sighed, her gaze suddenly distant. "I was at my home, in bed, when the earthquake occurred." She shivered at the memory. "I thought I was going to die. It was so horrible, everything was shaking and rattling and the ceiling fell down around me. If I hadn't been tossed out of bed when the quake started, I would have probably died."
Marty nodded in understanding. "I know, I was in a hotel when it happened, on the top floor. Then, after I got out, I saw my new girlfriend get killed."
Lea gasped. "You poor thing! I am so fortunate that my fiancee Davis wasn't killed. I don't know what I would do, but to see it happen too..."
Marty shifted his position slightly, being careful to not move his right side that much. "You're lucky," he said softly. "We both are for that matter, to be alive."
Lea nodded. "That's true," she agreed. She moved her hands down to Marty's neck and started digging her fingers in his skin.
He sighed. "That feels nice." The words had hardly left his lips when his side gave another twinge and his back stiffened in reaction from it. Lea rubbed his neck soothingly.
"Take a deep breath and let it out slowly," she said, seeing Marty's pained expression. "That should help."
Marty took her advice, being careful not to breath in too quickly. The pained eased up a notch. Lea smiled. "Better?"
"A little," Marty said with another sigh. "I wish that this didn't have to happen here of all places. I wish it happened at home."
"Where do you live?" Lea asked, still doing the massage.
"Far away, very far away," he whispered, thinking of home. He would give anything to be there right now.
Lea just nodded. "What was your girlfriend's name?"
"Jane," Marty said, closing his eyes for a moment. "Jane Parker." He could see her now, the way she looked at the dance, her smile, then the wall falling on her. He shuddered, feeling sick. "I don't want to talk about it," he muttered.
"That's fine," Lea agreed. Marty carefully turned over on his left side, his muscles starting to get sore from being on his back so long. It took almost a minute for him to do that.
"There," he said under his breath, keeping his head on Lea's lap. He would have rather lay on his stomach, but that would have been way too painful!
"Are you starting to feel tired yet?" Lea wondered, running her hands in a soothing motion up and down his back now.
"Not really," Marty answered, lying a little. He was starting to feel relaxed and slightly drowsy. Lea started to hum softly, a slow sad sounding tune. It made Marty think of Jane again, naturally. He started to sigh again, but it turned into a yawn halfway. Between Lea's humming and back rubbing, it was getting hard for him to keep his eyes open. The pain in his side was still there, but Marty was starting to get used to it. He let his eyes slip closed and gave up trying to not think about Jane. He was too tired to fight it and as long as he didn't see her death over and over again, Marty didn't mind.
Friday, April 20, 1906
10:23 A.M.
Doc Brown was up nearly the whole night repairing the DeLorean, but the job was finally completed. Since no one had summoned him from the medical tent, Doc was under the assumption that nothing serious had happened to Marty and so he was trying not to worry as he made his way over there now.
The medical tent was a five minute walk from where Doc's was. Even at this early hour, the tent was busy. As Doc made his way through it, he saw many people with probably earthquake injuries - broken bones, cuts, and other such minor things. A few others looked like they were in serious condition. Doc saw Dr. Renolds talking to a older woman, who had a bandage wrapped around her wrist, and headed over to him before searching out Marty.
The doctor waited until he was finished discussing something with the woman before he turned to Doc. "I suppose that you are here to see your nephew," he said, turning and walking away. Doc rushed to catch up with him.
"Yes, how is he?" he asked, grabbing onto the doctor's sleave to stop him.
"When I checked on him about an hour ago, he was resting comfortably with no visible complications or infections setting in from the operation," Dr. Renolds reported. "I was just about to check on him again."
Doc nodded, following Dr. Renolds as he wove through the crowd and then stopped by Marty's bed. Doc stepped out from behind him and looked at his friend. He had shifted at some point during the night and was now lying on his left side, still asleep. The nurse that was sitting next to him the last time Doc had been there was nowhere to be seen.
He watched as the doctor checked Marty's pulse, breathing, then felt his forehead guessing, Doc figured, if he had a fever or not. "He seems to be doing normal," Dr. Renolds said, then took a step back and carefully pulled the blankets and sheets down to examine the scar. The area around it was red and swollen.
"Is that normal?" Doc asked, pointing to it. Dr. Renolds nodded.
"That area is still tender for a few days after the operation," he explained, prodding his fingers around it. Marty gave a soft moan in his sleep, but didn't awaken. "It sometimes takes up to a month before the scar completely heals, even when their are no infections."
"A month?" Doc repeated with a frown. They couldn't stay here that long!
Dr. Renold's nodded, pulling the blankets back up. "It depends strictly on the person," he said, then gestured to the chair that still sat on the left side of the bed. "You're welcome to sit there for as long as you wish. There are no visiting hours when we have something like this set up." He started to walk away, then stopped, his face brightening. "Did you hear that the fires are starting to go out? Pretty soon we will be able to return to the city!"
Doc nodded, going over to the chair and sitting down. "I noticed them fading this morning," he said. The doctor gave a quick nod, his face happy, before leaving.
It wasn't until several hours had passed before Marty woke up. Doc was watching him when he opened his eyes and stared at him for a moment before speaking. "Doc," he muttered. "Am I alive?"
Doc smiled, relieved that he was finally awake. "Very much so. How do you feel?"
Marty groaned. "Sore. My side is still killing me. Are you sure that they actually got the appendix out?" He looked around and, without waiting for an answer, said, "Where did that nurse go?"
Doc glanced around the tent, remembering the young nurse that had been sitting next to Marty after the operation. "I'm not sure, she must have left. I got the DeLorean all repaired, so whenever the doctor says that you are allowed to travel, we can go back home."
Marty frowned. "What about Clara's birthday present? Isn't that why we came here in the first place?"
"I'll come up with something, don't worry," Doc said. "Just concentrate on getting well, so we can go back to the future."
The doctor removed Marty's stitches five days after the operation and it was a week after that before Dr. Renolds gave him permission to leave the safety of the medical tent, with instructions to limit any physical activity for the next few weeks as the scar was still sore and would sent waves of pain through Marty's body if he would turn too fast, or move the wrong way.
Marty only saw Lea Baines once after the first night when she had sat with him. She had been helping an old woman with a limp to a chair in the tent and never saw him staring at her as she rushed by. After that, he didn't see her at all. He supposed it was just as well.
He didn't know what it was, but ever since the first night that he had been in the medical tent, Marty hadn't been able to sleep that well. For the nearly two weeks that he had been there, in the tent, he had slept, with the exception of the first night, maybe a total of five hours. He was continuously plagued by dreams of Jane's death, and earthquakes. The aftershocks from the big one were still going strong and every time Marty felt one start, his heart would pound and his whole body grew cold when memories from the April 18th quake would wash over him. Every time he felt the slightest movement anywhere, he would become wide awake and completely still, waiting, to see if it was another quake. He hoped that once he got home, it would pass. It had better.