Theorizing that one could time-travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett led an elite group of scientists into the desert to develop a top-secret project known as Quantum Leap.  Pressured to prove his theories or lose funding, Dr. Beckett prematurely stepped into the Project Accelerator…and vanished.

He awoke to find himself in the past, suffering from partial amnesia and facing a mirror image that was not his own.  Fortunately, contact with his own time was maintained through brainwave transmissions with Al, the Project Observer, who appeared in the form of a hologram that only Dr. Beckett can see and hear.

 As evil ones do their best to stop Dr. Beckett’s journey, his children, Dr. Samantha Josephine Fulton and Stephen Beckett, continuously strive to retrieve their time-lost father and bring him home permanently.  Despite returning home several times over the last decade, Dr. Beckett has remained lost in the time stream…his final fate no longer certain.

Trapped in the past and driven by an unknown force, Dr. Beckett struggles to accept his destiny as he continues to find himself leaping from life to life, putting things right that once went wrong with the hopes that his next leap…will be the final leap home.

PREVIOUSLY ON QUANTUM LEAP

Due to shared mesons and neurons with Al, Sam has leaped outside his own lifetime and into the life of Al's mother Jillian on October 29, 1938. While having to deal with the intricacies of being a mother of two under the age of five, and having to put up with affection from Al's father Gino, Sam learns that he is there to save the life of Hetty Calhoun, an eighteen year old girl who was caught up in the War of the Worlds Panic and had committed suicide by jumping off the roof of her apartment housing. Unfortunately, although they discover that the Calaviccis were Hetty's clients in her work as a laundress, there is no further information about her and Al can't remember what she looked like. To add to the complications, Jillian is surprisingly pregnant, a pregnancy that originally terminated when she miscarried during the panic. Now that Sam prevented that by his leap into Jillian, Al now has a another younger brother who may or may not die of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, depending on how Sam and Al handle the leap.

PART FIVE

Manhattan, New York

Calavicci Residence

Saturday, October 29, 1938

2:04 PM

After Sam and Allie had a simple lunch of sandwiches and milk - turned out sliced ham sandwiches kept together with a little butter was the only option as the Calaviccis didn't have mayonnaise in the cupboards, an option that Sam found didn't taste as awful as he'd imagined - Allie had gone to play with his sister while Sam cleaned the small apartment and put away the laundry that Hetty had brought them. Another change of diapers was required before both Trudy and Allie took a nap, just in time for Sam to stare at the icebox, wondering how to make the mincemeat pie that the young version of his best friend had demanded two hours ago, since Al said he had to make it ahead of time.

Opening the icebox didn’t help him figure out the mystery recipe that Al said was “the best”. What it did do was cause his stomach to turn as he looked at the food in there, causing him to run to the washroom and empty the meager lunch he had that day.

“What’s the matter?” Al asked with concern as he came into the Imaging Chamber, noticing that he had walked into Sam’s being sick.

“N… nothing,” Sam whispered at last when he at last stopped retching. “Just a little nauseous.”

“A little nauseous?” Al parroted the comment. He watched Sam straighten up from his position bent over the toilet, flushing it before turning to the sink and turning on the cool water tap. “Sounded to me like you were upchucking everything from your socks upward.”

Sam finished splashing some cool water on his face then rinsed his mouth with a handful of water. Spitting out the water, he reached for the hand towel hanging on a small towel bar, blotting his face. Finishing, he replaced the towel then turned to face the Observer. “It’s no big deal,” Sam said, his tone indicating that he didn’t care to discuss the matter further. Al, on the other hand, did.

“What happened?” Al asked. Seeing Sam sway slightly just then nudged him to advise, “I think you better sit down, Sam, before you fall down.”

Sam didn’t argue the point, instead just turning slightly so he could perch on the side of the smallish old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. Once comfortable with his balance, he fixed the Observer with a firm, if slightly pasty-faced look, asking, “Were you able to discover anything about Hetty? Where she lives or anything?”

“No,” Al said, sighing softly. “Ziggy’s still searching. Don’t worry,” he added at the look that came over Sam. “If your wunderkind computer was a living creature, she’d probably be the best darned bloodhound, ever.” When Sam sighed frustratedly, he added, “But there is good news. We’ve discovered something about your host... my mother.”

“What?” Sam demanded, grateful for any scrap of positive feedback, anything at all.

“Well, in all honesty,” Al prefaced his primary comment. “It more than floored me a little when I heard it.”

“Al... what?” Sam again demanded.

Based on Sam’s present frame of mind and his tone of voice, Al didn’t string it out. “She’s pregnant.”

Sam sighed slightly at Al’s words, closing his eyes to regain his composure. “Well, that certainly explains the nausea then. I must be having some psycho-synergizing with her. I mean, all that I did was look in the icebox.” An instant later, Sam froze physically as he realized what Al had said. “Wait. What do you mean, she’s pregnant? Is this the brother you were talking about earlier?” He looked down at his stomach as if he were the one pregnant instead of his host.

“Uh… no,” Al said hesitantly. “I was referring to my half-brother Bobby. When my mom left us…”

“She married the encyclopedia salesman,” Sam finished the sentence, staring at the wall just behind Al.

“Right. Well, obviously, she isn’t pregnant with Bobby,” Al told him. “Apparently, you leaping into my mother instantly changed history. In the original history, the baby she’s carrying was never born. She miscarried on October 30, 1938. Same day Hetty died. Tomorrow.” He took a deep breath. “My guess is that she had a panic attack when she heard the radio play and it caused the miscarriage, which explains my memories of that day.”

Sam nodded slowly. “And since I’m here in her place, she won’t hear the radio play and won’t miscarry.” Slowly, a grin crept onto his face. “So, is it a boy or a girl?"

"It's a boy."

"What’s he like?”

Al shook his head sadly. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Sam questioned with confusion, finally feeling well enough to step out of the small bathroom.

Al breathed for a moment before answering, following Sam as he did so. “He died a couple of months after he was born. Or Mama took him with her and then left him in an orphanage on the way out of the state.”

Sam looked at him with frustration. “Which one is it, Al? You aren’t making any sense.”

Al shrugged. “Not my fault that the timeline is in a constant state of fluctuation. Depending on what we do here, Nicky - That's my little brother's name: Nicholas Jude Giovanni Calavicci - will either die at the age of two months from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome or will be left at an orphanage by my mother a week after she leaves my dad for Les Walker because Les didn’t want to raise a child that wasn’t his own.”

For a moment Sam just looked into Al’s eyes then closed his own and lightly rubbed the fingers of one hand gently across his forehead as he considered what Al had said. Being dropped into a situation where the outcome was – it seemed to the Leaper – almost deliberately vague was one of a certain types of leaps Sam dreaded most. This type was in the top three of most disliked. At last, he blew out a low, long-suffering sigh and opened his eyes.

“What are Ziggy’s odds for those two outcomes?” he asked as he traversed the brief hallway to the living room and on into the kitchen. Casting a wary glance at the icebox, Sam turned to face Al.

As he followed Sam into the small kitchen, Al had input the query into the handlink. He relayed Ziggy’s calculations to the Leaper in a clear quiet voice. “You’re not going to like it.”

“What?”

“At this moment,” Al told him, “the odds are... fifty-fifty.” He didn’t say anything when Sam swore softly under his breath.

“So, what do I do, Al?” Sam demanded softly, mindful of the two still napping children.

Al looked at Sam for a moment then let his gaze sweep around the kitchen. It was seeing the current time displayed on a small kitchen clock on the wall by the door that prompted him.

“Right now,” he told Sam, “for the moment, you need to forget about odds and such and think about making mincemeat pie and then starting supper. My dad usually got home from work at six o’clock on Saturdays, so that gives you just about three and a half hours to make everything.”

The mention of supper, and by extension food of any sort, caused Sam’s stomach to coil a bit, but he pushed the feeling down. “Okay,” he agreed. "But you have to help me."

“How?” Al responded. “I’m a hologram.”

“You’re the one who said to make a mincemeat pie. In case it slipped your mind, Al, I don’t have your mother’s fabulous recipe for it, much less the first clue about how to prepare a mincemeat pie,” Sam reminded the hologram. It was an easily won point.

Over the next hour, Sam followed the recipe for mincemeat pie that Al read to him from the handlink. He chopped, measured, mixed and stirred the ingredients. Slowly the small kitchen filled with the enticing fragrance of simmering mincemeat. Preparing the crust was a different adventure altogether, especially when it involved, a couple of times, listening to Al the child, who had awakened from his nap and had come into the kitchen looking for Sam, and Al the Admiral come close to arguing about the pie. Only in the midst of finally getting the top crust on the pie did Sam tell both of them, “Enough! The kitchen feels like a steam bath, my stomach is doing flip-flops as it is, and you two sniping at each other isn’t helping. And if you,” Sam firmly warned the child Al Calavicci, “expect to have this pie tomorrow then hush!” Hearing the hologram clear his throat as if to speak, Sam aimed a narrow gaze at him. “Not another word out of either of you unless I ask.”

When the pie was at last in the oven and the kitchen was tidied up, the only thing Sam wanted was out. Drawing a glass of water, he went out the kitchen door, leaving it open, and sat down on the top step of the stairs leading to the exit. The back door to the building was open, allowing the cool October air to wash over him and causing him to sigh gently. For a moment, he didn’t do anything except sit quietly, sipping the water and gradually turned his mind loose on how to help both Hetty and Al’s unborn brother. It was while he was sitting there that, somewhere in the near distance, a church bell began to toll. It was that sound that flipped the switch in his brain concerning Hetty. Standing up, he turned and walked through the hologram as he returned and marched purposefully through the tiny apartment.

Surprised by Sam's actions - the Leaper rarely walked through him - Al worked the handlink quickly to enable him to keep up with his friend. “Sam, what are you doing? Where are you going?” he questioned with concern.

“To church.”

“What?” Al exclaimed with surprise, watching Sam grab Jillian’s small purse. “Sam, you can’t go to church! Why are you going to church?”

"To see if I can find Hetty," Sam replied.

"How do you even know she's Catholic? Sure, we're in Italian Harlem but not everyone here is Italian and Catholic. The only thing we know is that she did laundry for my mom. How are you going to find her going to church?"

"You got a better idea?"

Al gave him a gentle look. "Yes. Patience." Seeing the expression on his friend's face, he continued, "We will find Hetty and we will save her. Running off on a random tangent isn't going to help. Think about it. You've got a lit stove with a pie in the oven and two kids in the house. What if a fire breaks out because the pie burns? Besides that, even in this latchkey kid era, leaving two children under the age of seven alone in the house isn’t exactly good parenting, especially with one of those children still in diapers. The steps of the stairwell are one thing but this…" Al sighed.

"Then what do I do?" Sam questioned, frustration still in his voice.

"You stay and make sure the mincemeat pie doesn't burn and then, when it's done, you take it out and leave it on the window sill to cool off before starting on dinner."

"Dinner?!" Sam exclaimed. "I spent all that time making your mom's mincemeat pie and now you want me to make dinner?"

"I told you earlier you were going to have to do it. No point in biting my head off. My dad is going to be home in about an hour and a half and he'll be expecting dinner to be ready. So, you and I are going to figure out what we have in the pantry and the icebox and make dinner. Okay? I promise, no bickering."

After looking at what was available in the Calavicci food store, Al decided that shepherd's pie would be a good meal as it took care of the remaining ground beef and the potatoes that were threatening to sprout. Taking care to be patient in his instructions - it was very clear that Sam's nerves were on edge thanks to the psycho-synergizing with Jillian - Al guided him in preparing the meal using canned vegetables, the leftover green beans, and soup to finish the filling. Prep time was almost an hour but the pie was in the oven and almost done cooking before Gino finally walked into the apartment.

Young Albert had remained out of the way after Sam’s warning to hush, choosing to spend his time playing with his sister. Now, however, the sound of his father’s voice calling, “I’m home,” sent him hurtling out of his bedroom, where he was playing with his sister, and shouting enthusiastically, “Papa, Papa, Papa!”

Sam walked quietly to the kitchen doorway. There he paused, watching Gino, clearly dusty and in need of a bath after a long day’s work, gently tossing his little son up in the air and catching him, all the while asking, “Were you a good boy for your Mama, today, Alberto?” It was plain that, though no doubt weary, the sound of his son’s happy laughter and the sparkle in young Albert’s dark brown eyes, helped to banish some of Gino Calavicci’s fatigue.

Catching his son and noticing a slight movement from the corner of one eye, Gino turned in the direction of the movement, a broad smile spreading across his face as he beheld his wife. Setting his son on his feet, Gino stepped past him and went to Sam.

Admiral Calavicci had followed his friend, pausing behind and to one side of Sam as he stood in the kitchen doorway. From that position, he watched one of his most precious memories of his father playing out before him, a trace of mistiness coming into his eyes at the sight. His position also hid from Sam the sight of the grin that quickly replaced the gentle smile on his lips when he saw his father heading directly toward Sam. He knew what was coming and bit his lower lip to keep from chuckling.

“Hi,” Sam began, smiling at the man approaching him. Anything else he’d been about to say vanished when Gino opened his arms and scooped Sam into a warm hug.

“Bellissima,” Gino murmured softly just before he gave his wife a brief but definitely passionate kiss.

Sam’s hands came up reflexively, the Leaper wanting nothing more than to push his best friend’s father as far from him as possible. He was immensely grateful that the lip lock had been brief, even if it was far too intimate.

Gino, knowing his wife so well, couldn’t help but notice the Leaper’s hesitation at returning the affection he was pouring out on him. Pulling back, he looked into Sam’s eyes with growing concern. “What’s wrong?” he queried. He never liked seeing his young wife disturbed in any way.

Sam half grimaced at the question. “Well… nothing, really. It’s just…” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s been a really busy day.”

Gino brushed Sam’s face with his thumb, a gesture that Sam found oddly familiar even though he knew it wasn’t from personal experience. “Poor darling.” He kissed Sam’s forehead lovingly. “Let me wash up and I will help set the table for dinner.” He paused as he sniffed the air, the delicious scents catching his attention. "You made mincemeat pie for tomorrow! You know how much I love that. And dinner smells amazing!" Giving him another kiss, this time a peck on the lips, he turned and started for the bathroom.

Sam sighed with relief when he saw the door to the bathroom close. Even as he did so, though, he felt familiar eyes looking at his back and he turned around with a glare.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” he berated Al, whose grin, if it had been a light bulb, was bright enough to illuminate the room.

Albert, on the other hand, had a slight grimace on his face. “You kissed Papa. EWW!”

Sam shot another glare at Al when he laughed aloud at his younger self’s reaction to the kiss. Shaking his head, he returned to the kitchen, saying in passing to the Observer, “Make yourself useful.”

“I am,” Al quipped lightly as he followed Sam into the kitchen. “I’m your Observer so I'm observing.”

“In that case,” Sam said, grabbing a couple of potholders from a hook on the wall near the stove. “Get over here and ‘observe’ this shepherd's pie and tell me if it’s done.”

By the time Gino Calavicci entered the kitchen ten minutes later, the shepherd's pie had already been set in the middle of the table, and Sam was pouring freshly brewed tea into two glasses a quarter-filled with water. Coming up behind him, he slipped his arms around his waist and gave him a quick hug.

“Every man in the world must envy me,” he teased. “A steady job, two precious children…” He paused to nuzzle the person he saw as his wife’s neck playfully for a second. “And the most beautiful woman in the world as my wife.” He laughed when Sam told him with what he perceived as mock severity, “And if you make me spill the tea, you’ll just have water, because I used the last of the tea we had.”

Glad that it appeared Jillian’s mood seemed a bit lighter, Gino gave another quick smooch, this time on the neck. Turning, he took three plates from a cupboard and forks and knives from a drawer and quickly set the table. “If you’re sharing that water with me, bellissima, then it would be as fine as any wine.”

Sam just stood at the counter and looked at the two glasses of tea before him. A movement to one side caught his attention and he glanced that direction to give the Observer a long-suffering look which told just how little he enjoyed Gino's show of affection. The humor of the situation, however, quickly seeped into his mind as he noted the look on Al's face. He rolled his eyes, a sheepish grin appearing on his face when he said under his breath to his friend, “I should have known.”

“What?” Al quipped, a grin still pasted on his face as he moved to Sam’s side. A gust of laughter escaped his throat when his friend murmured, “That it runs in your family.”

Setting the glasses on the table, Sam glanced at young Albert. “Go wash your hands for supper, Allie.”

“My hands are clean,” Allie told him bluntly, clearly unwilling to obey Sam when someone with more authority – namely Gino – was in the room.

Gino frowned in rebuke at his son. “Alberto, obbedisci a tua madre.”₄

Albert sighed, his shoulders physically sagging in defeat. “Si, Papa,” he replied, going to the kitchen sink to obey.

Once all were seated at the table and Trudy was situated close to Sam so that he could feed her the jar of baby food he’d found in the cupboard, Gino said a quick and respectful prayer of thanksgiving for their meal. Sam noticed as he looked across that the admiral had taken to the only empty seat at the table, a contented look on his face.

Al smiled as his friend. “God, I wish I were really here, that I wasn’t a hologram. My parents were still in love in 1938. We were still a family.”

As dinner progressed, Gino spoke about his day, keeping the mood light even as he told how work was becoming more difficult now that the weather was starting to grow colder each day. Sam, for his part, had the hardest time getting Trudy to eat much of the food he offered her, prompting Gino to take over. The moment dinner was done, Albert practically jumped from his chair and hurried into the living room.

“Papa, let’s play!” he insisted, gaining a laugh from the Italian construction worker.

“I’m coming, bambino,” Gino assured him as he helped Sam clean off the table and put away the leftovers, the food that Admiral Al told Sam would be their meals for the next couple of days. Then, with another kiss on Sam’s cheek – and a gentle reminder to bring the mincemeat pie from the window sill to the kitchen counter - Gino went to attend to his son’s wishes. Meanwhile, Sam moved the pie and then washed the dishes, allowing Trudy to explore her environment with her eyes as he worked.

"Al," the physicist put in now that he could again speak with the hologram in private, "how the hell am I going to save Hetty if I'm spending most of my time doing this schedule of your mother’s? The only time I'd had to do anything was while the mincemeat pie was baking and you shot that opportunity down fast." He exhaled with a shake of his head. "Not that you weren't right on that. But I don't even know what she looks like or how to find her. Are you sure you don't remember her?"

"Positive, though the name Calhoun is starting to trigger something." Noting the hope in Sam's eyes, he shrugged. "Might not even be related to this leap. Sorry."

Sam bit back a reply, choosing to focus on finishing the dishes.

Almost as if Trudy knew Sam was done with the task and ready to tend to her, the little girl gave a great big yawn, showing that the meal in her stomach was making her sleepy.

“Looks like it’s bedtime for Trudy,” Al commented, drawing Sam’s attention to the child. As the Leaper was reaching for Trudy, Al snapped his fingers, telling Sam, "Wait, you need to fix a bottle for Trudy. Mama always gave her a half a bottle just before putting her to bed at night."

Nodding at the advice, and with Al's guidance, Sam prepared the bottle and then, gathering Trudy into his arms, he gently carried her into the children’s bedroom, Al following.

"Where's your dad?" Sam questioned, noticing Allie was now playing alone in the living room. The boy had a toy wooden biplane in hand and was swooping it through the air while making appropriate sound effects.

"He's taking a bath, like he does every night," Al replied. "After him, it'll be Allie, maybe Trudy if she needs it, and then you while Dad gets us in bed."

In the bedroom, Al watched without comment as Sam sat on Allie's bed and gave Trudy the half-bottle of warm milk.

“How are my girls doing in here?” Gino Calavicci spoke softly from the open door of his children’s’ small bedroom. He was still slightly damp from his bath and had already put on his pajamas. Stepping into the room, he went to sit beside the person he saw as Jillian, taking care not to jostle the bed, which would cause it to squeak and thereby disturb his daughter’s snacking. He didn’t know why, but the totally absorbed expression on his wife’s face was one he hadn’t seen before. Of course, he saw love for the baby on Jillian’s face, but somehow it was more. He wasn’t sure what it was but, at that moment, he didn’t question the feeling it gave him.

Slipping his arm behind Sam's shoulders, careful not to disturb him, Gino sighed softly. “I am the luckiest man alive,” he murmured.

Al’s eyes misted over as he heard his father’s comment, having thought the same words as he remembered his five precious daughters, four of whom came from his marriage with the love of his life: Julianna - his first born, daughter of a woman he loved many years before he met Beth, strong-willed and determined and yet fragile in ways that only those very close to her would ever see; Jacqueline – his first child with Beth, a practical clone of her mother, intelligent and extremely perceptive; Victoria and Elizabeth – the twins who so reflected Al when he was a teenager, the wandering duo who never seemed to know exactly what they wanted to do with their lives other than to love and be loved; and Christa – the miracle child whose childhood illnesses not only nearly brought an end to her parents’ marriage but also, with Sam’s help, made their marriage stronger than it had been in far too long, and who in some ways was stronger than any of her siblings.

“Oh, Dad,” he murmured, a sad smile on his face. “You would have been so proud of them. I wish…” He swallowed tightly before continuing. “I wish they had known you like they knew Mama.”

As he quietly finished his thought, he noticed Sam glancing at him with concern. “I’m okay,” he assured his friend. Raising the handlink, he started entering the exiting sequence. “I’m going to see if Ziggy has anything more on Hetty. I doubt anything is going to happen back here tonight so I'll see you tomorrow.” He quickly went through the Imaging Chamber door before Sam could see the longing in his eyes.

For as antsy as it made Sam to have to interact with another man as a woman, by the time little Trudy had drifted to sleep, the Leaper discovered that he had relaxed into the situation. Watching Trudy settle for the night gave the Leaper a chance to let his mind work on the problem of how to prevent Hetty Calhoun's unfortunate death some twenty-four hours hence.

Trudy, as it turned out, was a learning experience for him. After Gino had come into the room, Allie had come running in, looking for his father, and had inadvertently disturbed the baby, who apparently had made a bit of a mess of her diaper. Sam was more than grateful that Gino came to his aid when he went and started a fresh bath while Sam himself undressed the little girl in preparation while telling Allie to get ready for his own bath.

"Thank you," he told Gino as he set the girl into the shallow bath. Immediately, anything else he might have said was forgotten when Trudy gave a delighted squeal as she smacked her hands in the bathwater.

Gino chuckled at his wife's expression of longsuffering patience, the front of her dress and apron splattered with water. To the look she turned on his merriment, he said, "Looks like you need to change, dear heart."

"Fine by me," Sam responded, keeping a gently firm hold of the baby. "You can take over and finish with her..."

Gino's dark eyes danced as he took a step back, lightly shaking his head. "How about if I go lay out a clean gown for her?"

Sam, having returned his focus to Trudy, carefully lifted the baby from the small tub, bringing her to the towel draped over his left shoulder then swathed the rest of the towel over her small body.

As he began patting Trudy dry, he added, "Fine, and then you can give Albert his bath."

"Jillian..." Gino began. It was clear that he had hoped that his wife would take on that particular responsibility.

Sam's usually equable nature, now psychosynergizing with his host, came back a tad sharper than he'd intended. "I've had a long day and, truth be told, I'm feeling a bit queasy at the moment. So, if you want to wait until after I feel better for Albert to get his bath, I suppose I can manage it by... oh.... ten o'clock.... Besides which, I still have my own bath to take."

Gino's about-face was a demonstration of where his best friend had learned to deal so smoothly with women. Going to Sam, he gently took his shoulders. "You finish with the bambina, Jillie, and I'll take care of Albert."

Seeing the gratitude in his wife's eyes, he turned and went to the door where he paused a moment. The slow warm smile that slid across his face achieved the goal it always did when he added, "After they're taken care of, then I will take care of their mama."

Sam could feel the warmth suffusing his face as Gino gave him a wink before leaving the tiny bathroom. "Not if I have anything to say about it," he muttered under his breath as he finished drying Trudy then went to the children's small bedroom.

After putting a fresh diaper and a simple nightgown on Trudy, getting the little girl back to sleep wasn't as hard as Sam imagined it would be. He vaguely remembered putting a baby to bed before but for the life of him couldn't remember who the baby was. He did however remember double-checking the baby girl - he was certain that it was a girl - to make sure that her little heart was beating regularly. It seemed so important at the time, as if he were terrified for the baby's health.

"Weak heart," he murmured to himself before shaking the feeling away. If there was one thing about Trudy Calavicci, she didn't have a weak heart so he couldn’t have been thinking about the little girl. Brushing her cheek as she drifted to sleep, Sam smiled slightly, certain that the child would sleep soundly at least for a few hours.

A moment later, Allie came into the bedroom, freshly bathed and in pajamas with Gino following. Assured that Gino would make sure that the little boy was in bed, and hearing the father admonish him to go to sleep, the Leaper left the room to get his own bath done. Once clean, he made his way to Gino and Jillian's bedroom. He quickly changed into the least attractive nightgown that he could find and slipped into the bed on the side that was obviously Jillian's. He was determined not to be the center of a Calavicci male's attention this night.

Gino noticed how his wife seemed completely uninterested in his plans for the evening. Sighing silently, he touched her shoulder with concern. "Still feeling ill?" he asked gently, gaining just a murmur of a reply to his question. "Okay, bellissima." He slipped a kiss to her neck before whispering, "Buono noche, cara mia.₅"

Before he could even think of convincing Jillian to change her mind, he found himself asleep from the exhaustion of the long work day.

PART SIX

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion’s Gate, New Mexico

As the Imaging Chamber door closed and the image of Manhattan in 1938 faded, Al Calavicci didn't immediately move to exit the cavernous blue-walled chamber. A gentle smile slipped into place as the fresh memory of his father sitting and watching his best friend feeding his baby sister replayed through his thoughts. It was only the sound of an inquiry signal from the handlink that brought the Project Observer back to the moment.

Exiting the Imaging Chamber, as he descended the ramp and approached the main control panel, Al looked to the chief programmer who had paused in his duties, before turning his attention to the parallel-hybrid computer in the room. "What's the status on finding Hetty Calhoun, Ziggy?"

“As of this moment, Admiral, still nothing. However…"

Al huffed, immediately interrupting her. "What do you mean? You've had almost nine hours to scour the archives, and the best you can come up with is nothing?"

Every person in the Control Room, from Al to the lowest ranked technician permitted access, couldn't mistake the chilly undertones of the super hybrid computer's response.

"If you had permitted me to complete my statement, Admiral, I was about to remind you that the records I am working to locate are seventy plus years old. Those records are, at best, sketchy due to the high level of confusion and panic reportedly generated by Mr. Orson Welles' broadcast of his radio play ‘The War of The Worlds’ on October 30, 1938. However," Ziggy continued, "I have begun downloading records of all deaths recorded in New York City for October 30, 1938. I am also reviewing all church records that have been committed to electronic storage from 1900 to 1938, based on the newspaper article that announced her death. She was eighteen years old when she died."

"You have the newspaper article that announced her death but you can't find her?" Al questioned with a frown.

"The article in question focused on the impact Mr. Welles' radio play had and only briefly mentioned Hetty Rose Calhoun's suicide. It didn't include any details concerning Miss Calhoun herself."

Al sighed with growing frustration. He could understand that the circumstances were definitely challenging - in more ways than one - but it didn't help the feeling of helplessness that he always got when Ziggy didn't have the necessary information for Sam to complete his mission. There was, of course, one other source of information he could access, if she was awake.

"Well, keep at it, Ziggy. Let me know as soon as you can if you've got anything. I'm going to go talk to the Visitor," Al ordered as he started for the Waiting Room door.

“Is now soon enough?” Ziggy asked.

Al froze in mid-step then executed a perfect about face, his gaze narrowing as he looked up at the once more colorfully lit orb. “What have you found?”

As the super hybrid computer was wont to do at times, she responded briefly. “A picture.”

Al gaped at the orb. “Really? Well, put it up! Let’s see it!”

A second later, Ziggy complied, putting a holographic projection of an old black and white picture of a smiling young girl above the control console. She was dressed in what Al recognized as her First Communion frock.

“That’s Hetty Rose Calhoun?” the question reflecting his bewilderment. “But that’s a little girl…”

“That little girl is Hetty Rose Calhoun, age seven, at her First Communion at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church on Easter Sunday, April 17, 1927.”

Al pressed his luck with the super computer a bit. “Did you…”

Ziggy cut him off. “No, Admiral Calavicci. I have not been able to locate any other pictures of Hetty Rose Calhoun. Period. This is it.”

“Okay, okay,” he placated as he stared up at the picture. “Increase the size as much as you can without making the picture grainy.” Within a moment, the little girl’s face was increased in size and a good deal sharper, considering the age of the photograph.

Silence was the over all atmosphere in the Control Room as Al continued to stare at the sweet face… the eyes, the long sandy-brown curls peeking from under her veil, the smile. Then the silence was broken.

“Now I remember her!” he exclaimed, following where the memory of the girl’s face led him. “She came and sat with me and Trudy once or twice. She was Tony’s big sister. I’d go over to their house to play every once in a while…” He gave a slight knowing smile. “Good job, Zig.”

“You’re welcome, Admiral, though I am not certain how locating the photograph helps Dr. Beckett to accomplish his mission.”

“Well, it jogged my memory and that is exactly what was needed. I can point out Hetty to Sam when I get back to him. Now, all we need is Hetty’s address…”

“That information will take more time, Admiral, without more data concerning Hetty Calhoun. If you could provide further insight into Miss Calhoun, such as the names of her parents, I should be able to locate their residence in Manhattan - more specifically, East Harlem - in October of 1938.”

“I was four, Ziggy, and I don’t have eidetic memory,” Al reminded the computer. “But I’d bet my mother knows where she lives.” And knows a few answers to other questions that are on my mind, he added mentally. He again headed towards the Waiting Room, hoping to figure out not only how to save Hetty but also his unborn little brother.

Walking into the room, he looked on the woman sitting on the bed, noting the at-ease expression on her features. “Hi,” he greeted gently, giving her a gentle smile.

Jillian Calavicci had only just awakened from a most refreshing nap a few moments before. Being the only person in the large blue and white room had been unnerving when she first arrived, causing her to swoon. But, over time, it gained an air of safety and calm about it, a reflection, it seemed to her, of the people who had attended to her needs, assuring her that she was, indeed, safe. She’d only just sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed when her attention was caught by the soft whooshing sound as the only door into or out of the room opened.

The older man who entered paused at the door, allowing her to look him over before coming to stand near the bed. He had an air of... authority about him, and she wondered if a problem had cropped up concerning her. Whatever concern had gripped her immediately vanished when he greeted her, a slow, warm smile dispelling the last wisps of uncertainty as she looked into his brown eyes.

“Hello,” she ventured carefully.

Al let her study him another moment. From somewhere came a new memory fragment of a cherished old picture that he recalled Jillian kept tucked away in her prayer book. Not wanting to startle her, Al chose not to make the observation that he, at his current age, bore a fair resemblance to his grandfather, her father. Especially his salt and pepper gray hair.

“How are you feeling?” he inquired. Seeing her glance at the bedside table, he asked, “Would you like some water?”

“Yes, thank you. I was just going to pour myself a glass.”

“Allow me… ma’am,” he responded, moving to the table and filling a glass half full. Handing it to her, he smiled again, silently grateful that he hadn’t let his first thought slip from his lips when he’d almost said "Mama", instead of "ma’am." He allowed her to take a drink of the clear liquid, smiling at the expression on her features as she relished the cleanness of the refreshment.

“Don’t know where you get your water but it’s very nice,” she commented. She placed her glass back on the end table beside the bed before looking up at the older man, waiting for a moment before tilting her head slightly. “You look awfully familiar to me. Do I know you?”

Al gave a small laugh at her words. “It’s entirely possible, ma’am,” he answered. He extended his hand towards her in greeting. “My name’s… Well… you can call me Al.”

She accepted his hand graciously. “Jillian,” she introduced herself. Once their hands separated, she again regarded her surroundings. “Interesting place you have here, Al. Not sure where I am, though. That nice black woman sure had a lot of questions. And that Mexican nurse…”

"Actually," Al interrupted, "Aurora is Puerto Rican and a doctor."

Jillian’s eyes widened at his words. “Really? How interesting. Are you a doctor as well?” She took in his wardrobe with a raised eyebrow. “Or perhaps a circus performer,” she amended. “That is very colorful attire you have on.”

Al glanced down at his wardrobe with raised eyebrows. He was dressed in orangish maroon trousers with his favorite mottled fuchsia top, a swirled green and burnt orange neck tie with thin diagonal orange stripes and a pair of copper loafers that perfectly matched his cufflinks. He couldn’t help but give a smile as a memory came to him of the last time he'd worn that particular outfit around his mother.

"You look like a prairie splendor rose but without the stem," she commented. It took a moment for Al to realize that the comment came from the woman now in front of him instead of his own memories.

"So I've been told," he replied with a laugh. "My... My mother liked it."

"I do too," Jillian decided with a nod. "It suits you. Are you in show business, Al?"

"Well, I did a little acting when I was much younger, but I'm actually a retired Navy admiral."

Jillian's eyes widened at his words. "Well, this day is full of surprises, isn't it."

"You have no idea," Al muttered to himself before clearing his throat. "Umm... I know that Dr. Beeks asked you a few questions earlier..."

"Dr. Beeks is the Puerto Rican doctor?" Jillian interrupted.

"No, that's Dr. Lofton. Dr. Beeks is the black woman," Al clarified. "Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?"

"Not in the least," she assured.

Al thought for a moment about the right questions to broach in order to glean the needed information regarding Hetty Calhoun. The smile on his lips warmed a bit, enjoying the memory of her expression, her gaze fixed and unblinking on him as she waited for him to speak.

“You have, if I may say so,” he began, his eyes twinkling at her, “a very direct gaze. I... my mother had a similar way of looking straight through to the back of my collar when I was a child. Especially if she caught me in a fib.” His heart fluttered with a special happiness when Jillian’s laughter burst forth.

“Oh, I do know what you mean,” she chortled.  “I recall once when my son, Allie... I think he had just turned four... decided one afternoon that he didn’t need a nap. So, the scamp sneaked out and marched himself up the block to the Calhoun’s apartment building to play with his friend, Tony.” The trip down memory lane was apparently good for Al’s mother, as she laughed aloud, her demeanor and face softening. “Until someone knocked at the door, I didn’t know he was gone. It was Hetty, Fiona Calhoun’s girl. Her mother had her come to ask if I’d sent Allie down to their house to play with Tony.” She laughed again. “I was startled spitless! I asked Hetty to stay with the baby while I retrieved my son. When I got over there… thankfully the Calhouns live just four doors up from us…. the boys were playing on the front steps of their boarding house. I just stood there, looking at him.” She chuckled again. “He’s got his father’s eyes, so when Allie looked up at me, I just stared, didn’t say a word. After a couple of minutes, he got the idea that it wasn’t working and got up and came to me. When he passed in front of me, I swatted the seat of his pants and told him to march himself home.”

Al laughed at her tale, remembering the incident as one of the few he did remember at that age. It had only happened four months ago, from Jillian's perspective. Al had cried silently the whole way home, though it was mostly from having a bruised dignity than a bruised behind. The moment they were home, his mother had him stand in a corner with his nose against the wall until she said otherwise. It had only been for five minutes but, for a boy of four years, it had felt like an eternity. He was allowed to go play at Tony's the next day, this time with permission from both his mother and Tony's.

Tony Calhoun had been his best friend when he was little. Tony never insulted Trudy. Neither had Hetty, for that matter, but he never really knew Hetty all that well. Which explains why I didn't recognize her name when I read it, he thought. He was pretty sure, though, that he'd be able to point her out to Sam, especially since he now remembered - thanks to his mother's tale - where the Calhouns lived.

“Your son sounds like he can be quite a handful,” Al commented on the story.

“He can be,” Jillian agreed, “but he is such a good brother to his little sister. I can't wait to introduce him to another sister or brother.” She gently rubbed her belly, knowing that there was a new life growing within her.

The mention of his unborn little brother brought the next issue at hand to the forefront of his mind. He remembered that, while his father was a regular smoker – about a half a pack a day – Jillian’s only smoked when she was under stress. Unfortunately, life was about to become very stressful for her.

With the construction business slowing due to recession and the increasingly cold weather, the company Julian worked for could no longer stay afloat and was forced to let all their employees go. Consequently, money would become a big issue in the Calavicci household at a time when most of Jillian's friends started to realize that there was something “wrong” with her daughter and broke relations with her. Her dearest friend Ethyl O'Brien moved away when her husband James found another job in a different city, leaving only Fiona Calhoun and Lydia Marcelli, who with her brother Paul owned Ricardo's Italiano on the street level of their apartment building. Even then, Jillian hardly saw them because of their own busy schedules of working and, in her and Fiona's cases, raising children. To top it all off, when Julian got another job, he made less than he had before which meant he worked longer hours, sometimes not coming home and staying with a coworker in order to get to the next jobsite on time after a decent night's sleep.

With a precocious five-year old, a special needs child, being pregnant with a third and very little help, the stress level Jillian felt naturally went up and, exponentially, so did the smoking which would lead to Al's younger brother's death from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. It was an event that Al hoped to change, even if it meant Nicky had to grow up in the orphanage system.

“Speaking of the baby…” Al started. He took a breath, wondering how he was going to bring up the subject delicately before realizing that there wasn’t a way to do so. Releasing the breath, he looked into Jillian's eyes and stated, “You smoke, don't you.”

”How…” Jillian began, her startled reaction a near perfect double take to the totally unexpected statement. Catching a breath, she met Al’s gaze. “Yes, but only every now and then. Really, only when it’s been a particularly hectic day.” She chuckled. “If you have children…. or grandchildren, for that matter, Al…”

Al’s smile warmed exponentially at the suggestion of his children and grandchildren. “I do,” he responded.

Jillian’s demeanor relaxed a bit. “Then I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Al nodded. “Yes, when my girls were little there were days when I wondered if they might be changelings! Balls of energy from sun up to sun down.”

Jillian giggled at the image in her mind, her eyes twinkling. “That describes Allie to a ‘T'.” She paused, thinking then added, “It was those times, especially when I was expecting his sister, Trudy, that smoking a cigarette… sometimes two… helped settle my nerves.”

Al considered his next words with care. “Yeah, I know what you mean. With me, it was cigars, until my wife cornered me one day and forbade me to smoke in the house, or the car, or anywhere if any of the children were around.” Inside, he grinned at his mother’s startled reaction to that tidbit of information.

“She forbade you to smoke?!”

“Yep.”

“I wouldn’t even consider forbidding Gino to smoke. In the house or anywhere for that matter. Why?”

Al’s expression changed subtly, becoming thoughtful. “Because,” he began, selecting each word with care, “her doctor told her about some medical studies that had been done with mothers who smoked during pregnancy.” He paused, then went on. “The studies confirmed that the nicotine inhaled from smoking even one cigarette, or even inhaling second-hand smoke from another person smoking near the mother, could be detrimental to the developing baby.”

Jillian shook her head slightly. “I don’t know where your wife’s doctor got that idea but I’ve never heard such thing. My doctor said just the opposite. As long as you limit how many you have, smoking isn’t harmful to the baby and helps calm a pregnant mother.”

Al ran a hand through his hair at her words and exhaled. “1930s,” he muttered to himself before shaking his head. “That’s what they thought back then but they know better now.”

“What do you mean, ‘back then’ and ‘they know better now’?” she questioned with a frown, suspicion growing slowly in her eyes. “You’re telling me I shouldn’t smoke but I can smell those cigars you just mentioned on your breath."

"Yes, I smoke cigars. And I know they aren't good for me and those around me, which is why I limit how many I smoke and who is around me when I smoke. I've never smoked around my children when they were growing up and I don't smoke around my grandchildren."

"So you admit that you smoke but you dare to lecture me about smoking?! Just who are you then to negate what my doctor has told me?”

“Ma… Jillian…” Al started.

“No, you listen to me, retired Admiral Al! Just because I have an occasional cigarette to calm my nerves doesn’t make me a bad expectant mother!”

As a child, Al had never witnessed an argument between his parents - well, only the one argument just prior to his mother's departure - and he had no desire whatsoever to test his mother’s temper now. In spite of that, his uppermost thought at the moment was advocating for the health of his unborn brother. If that meant ruffling Jillian’s maternal feathers a bit, so be it. He thought for a moment, feeling keenly his mother’s sharp, unwavering gaze fixed on him.

“Do you like strawberries, Jillian?”

The out-of-left-field question broke the determined woman’s focus. “Yes, I do. I love strawberries. They’re delicious and good for you, but I can’t eat them. I’m allergic to them, have been since I was a child. I get big red hives that itch like crazy. But, what’s that got to do with my having an occasional cigarette? It’s not the same thing.”

“Actually, it is,” Al responded. “Yes, strawberries are delicious and are good for you. And, lots of people love them but, like you, can’t eat them.”

“What’s your point?” she demanded, her irritation steadily rising.

“My point is that, no matter how good those strawberries are, you know you can’t eat them. You’ve learned to do what is best for your health. And, as an expectant mother, I’m sure your doctor told you to be careful of what you eat, since the baby gets its nourishment from you.”

Jillian was about fit to be tied. Jumping up from the bed, she marched the few steps to the end of the bed where Al stood. “True, but I do not now, nor ever intend on EATING a cigarette!”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “But you eat good food to provide nourishment for the baby.”

Jillian edged a step closer toward the older man, her palm itching with a temptation to smack him. “All I do is inhale the smoke and blow it out. It calms me and, as my doctor said, being as calm as possible while pregnant is best for the baby.”

Al wasn’t deterred, continuing his train of thought. “When you breath in, you’re breathing oxygen into your lungs, which is infused into your blood, thereby providing oxygen to every part of your body.”

“So?”

“What you breath in, be it a little or a lot, gets into your bloodstream, which also provides oxygen for the baby. Be it something good, like a medicine in an oxygen tent, or something bad…”

“Like cigarette smoke?” Jillian didn’t hear the sarcasm in her voice, but her son standing toe to toe with her wasn’t intimidated in the least.

“Like the nicotine in the cigarette smoke that you inhale. While it may help to calm you, nicotine is a chemical found in tobacco, and it can and does harm unborn babies.”

“That is the most…” It wasn’t exactly fair, but Al added one more thought.

“Almost every pregnant woman, who wants her baby to be healthy from even before it’s born, will do whatever it takes to ensure that. Even if it means giving up something that they like, whether that’s strawberries or chocolate… or smoking.”

“Oh, so you’re a doctor as well as an admiral?” Jillian countered. “My doctor said that if I need a cigarette to calm me, then I can have a couple and that it isn’t going to hurt the baby in the least. Am I supposed to listen to someone who knows nothing about medicine rather than my own doctor? Where do you get off telling me what I can or cannot do?! Just because your wife’s doctor told her about some… смехотворный study that probably was done by some чокнутый doesn’t mean that my doctor isn’t right!”₆

Great. Now she’s speaking in Russian! Al thought, his own frustration starting to get to him. “I forgot how stubborn you could be sometimes,” he grumbled. “Mama, would you just listen, dammit?!”

Jillian gasped at his words. “What… what did you call me?”

There was no recalling the word that caught his mother so abruptly off-guard. His own frustration with how the conversation with his mother was going, Al changed gears minutely into admiral mode.

“Я сказал мама!” Al replied in halted Russian, his attitude, it occurred to him somewhere in his mind, bearing a striking resemblance to hers. “мать! Mamushka!”₇ Al took a careful breath before adding firmly, “You are, after all, my mother, Jillian Marie Stanislaus Calavicci!” His frustration was forgotten when Jillian’s face went white, making her brown eyes look huge on her face as she gaped at her full name falling from his lips. The revelation was out and there was no going back as he stepped to her side, sliding an arm behind her waist. “Mama… here, let me help you back on the bed.”

Jillian couldn’t have uttered a word, Russian or English, at that moment if her very life had depended on it. She could barely breathe as she stared up at the older man, unblinking, as if imprinting his face indelibly in her memory. It was only when she was seated on the side of the bed again and he - her... son - leaned down to gaze into her eyes. “У тебя все нормально, мама?”₈

“да,” she whispered, searching his face. Bringing her hands up, she cupped his face as she did whenever she wanted her precocious, exasperating, loving little son’s undivided attention. She gently turned his face from side to side, noting the unmistakable crow’s feet around his eyes that one only acquired in later years in life. A thought occurred to her and for long seconds it balanced on her lips. Dare she say it? The whispered, almost frightened query was at last uttered. “Are you really my... Allie? But... that’s impossible. My Allie is only…”

“Four years, four months and two weeks old,” Al confirmed for her, more gently, now in English. When she simply continued to stare at him, Al did something that he’d missed doing for years. Moving slowly, he straightened up and drew her to her feet, gathered his mother into his arms and hugged her. “Yes, Mama,” he whispered close to her ear. “It’s me… Allie.”

Jillian hesitated as she calmed her mind, allowing herself to feel his presence. There had always been an unique connection between her and her little boy, something she couldn’t explain. Sometimes it took a little while to kick in - especially when her emotions were too high - but it always did – that warm, cozy feeling she would get, like being under a comforter. It was a gift that she had cherished, one that, she would later learn, was inherited by her granddaughter Julianna. She felt it now, just as she always did when she hugged her son.

“Oh, Allie-cat, it is you!” she exclaimed, pulling away from him gently. “But… how is this possible? You're old enough to be my grandfather.”

“It's a long story,” Al replied with a smile. “But the short version is that you've traded places in time with a friend of mine. You’re in the future, Mama.”

"All this time and you haven't been practicing your Russian?! Your Russian is terrible!" she cajoled with a glint in her eye to show she wasn't being serious.

Al chuckled slightly at the rebuke. "It's better than my Romani. My Italian, however, is perfect."

"Good. A son should always do honor to his father." She paused, drinking in the sight of him. “You said you’re married?” she finally questioned to clarify what he had said before. “You have children? And grandchildren?”

“Five daughters. One from a previous relationship, four from my wife. And three grandchildren, a boy and two girls.”

“And your wife doesn’t smoke.”

Al scratched his temple with a single finger. “Well, she did but she quit when she first discovered she was pregnant.” He sighed softly before looking lovingly into his mother's eyes. “Look, Mama, I’m not trying to boss you around. I'm just worried about the baby's health.”

At the mention of the baby, for a split second the heated exchange between them popped back into her mind and, for a moment, Jillian’s temper started to rise. Yet for all the imp on her shoulder was whispering for her to tell him off again, the Observer’s young mother hesitated, searching his expression and looking deep into his dark eyes.

“So like your Papa,” she said, a smile relaxing her expression, as her temper eased. “Waiting for me to see the truth in your side of the argument…”

“But we weren’t... aren’t arguing, Mama,” Al replied gently, internally breathing a sigh of relief. “We are having a discussion.”

Chuckling, Jillian kissed his cheek. Taking a step back, she sat down on the bed again then patted the spot beside her. “Argument… discussion… it doesn’t matter. What matters is that, he isn’t always right; neither am I, but he is always patient.”

As he sat down beside his mother, a thought occurred to him from somewhere long ago. Reaching to take her hand closest to him, Al met her gaze and reminded her with gentle respect, “You and Papa also instilled in me to never be afraid to learn something new.”

Jillian nodded. “Yes, we did... do,” she said simply. "This time travel idea is so confusing." After a moment, she took a careful breath, released it and met his gaze. “I am ready to listen, my Allie-cat. For the sake of your and Trudy’s new little brother or sister, I am ready to listen and do whatever I can to be as sure as I can that he or she comes into the world healthy.”

“If it’s okay with you, Mama, I would like to have Dr. Lofton… Aurora… join our conversation. After all, she’s a mother, too, and is just as adamant about pre-natal care as Beth… my wife... is.” At her assenting nod, Al sent his request to Aurora Lofton via the handlink.

Aurora entered the Waiting Room several minutes later. Within moments of being apprised of her requested presence, she and Jillian Calavicci were focused intently on the subject of smoking and its detriment to unborn babies as well as other aspects of prenatal care. As the two women talked, Al Calavicci did what he did best, observing, listening and learning and, answering when either woman addressed him. It eased his mind and his heart seeing how relaxed his mother was with Aurora. It also helped when, about thirty minutes into the discussion, Ziggy sent a silent signal to him via the handlink: 

“I believe you should check in on Dr. Beckett.”

“If you ladies will excuse me,” he murmured softly, rising from where he sat beside his mother. Pausing just long enough to glance at his mother and Dr. Lofton, Al smiled then exited the Waiting Room.

Once the Waiting Room door sealed behind him, Al spoke aloud as he headed for the Control Room at the far end of the hall. “What’s up, Ziggy?”

"Doctor Beckett appears to be in distress," the hybrid computer replied.

Concerned filled Al and he hurried his pace. "What kind of distress?"

"His pulse rate and blood pressure have increased and he may be suffering from mild dehydration as a result of a lack of fluids." There was a pause. "I believe that Doctor Beckett has vomited."

Al stopped in his tracks at her words and glared at the ceiling, even though Ziggy's voice was coming through the handlink. "He puked? You called me out of the Waiting Room because Sam puked? You do know that there's been some psychosynergizing with my mother and that Sam's been experiencing her morning sickness."

"Given the current time where Doctor Beckett is located being 2243 Eastern Standard Time, I believed prudence was necessary under the circumstances. Excessive vomiting may be an indication of problems during a pregnancy."

Al rolled his eyes at her words. For as advanced Ziggy had become over the many years in the development of her intelligence and personality, she was still, in many ways, still the "bucket of bolts" she had always been since she was first activated.

"But Sam isn't pregnant. My mother is. And given that both Aurora and Verbena have examined her and have determined that both she and the baby are fine, it's safe to say that Sam being sick isn't going to hurt him, even if it is at 2243 Eastern Standard Time."

"2244 now, Admiral," Ziggy corrected. "In that case, I will inform you of my other reason for suggesting that you contact Doctor Beckett."

"And that is?"

"Taking into account your conversation with Mrs. Calavicci and the current discussion occurring in the Waiting Room, I calculate an eighty-seven point four two eight five percent chance that Nicholas Jude Giovanni Calavicci will not die from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome at the age of two months three days." There was obvious pleasure in Ziggy's voice when she stated, "Congratulations, Admiral. You are an older brother. Again."

PART SEVEN

Manhattan, New York

Calavicci Residence

Sunday, October 30, 1938

6:52 AM

It was a sliver of the dawning day’s light filtering under the bottom of the curtains at the small bedroom window that woke Sam. Squinting against the brightness, he started to get up then hesitated, listening. Hearing no interruption of Gino’s soft snoring, he relaxed and lay still for a moment longer. Taking care not to disturb the sleeping man beside him, Sam turned back the covers, sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and started to stand up. His stomach chose that moment to flip uneasily and he froze. “Oh, please no,” he whispered. After a couple of encounters with the psychosynergizing effects of Jillian’s morning sickness, Sam sat back down on the bed, praying he’d be spared another bout of it.

After a couple of minutes with his eyes closed, and swallowing slowly with the hope that it would appease his stomach at least long enough to get to the small washroom at the end of the hall, Sam stood up again. Releasing a sigh of relief when nothing uneasy beset him, he slipped on Jillian’s robe, quietly left the bedroom and tiptoed down the hall.

Some fifteen minutes later, Sam emerged from the small washroom, a bit pale but grateful that his stomach was remaining appeased for the time being. “I need a glass of water,” he murmured under his breath. Turning, he came up the hall and turned left into the living room. Crossing the room, he was just stepping into the kitchen when he heard bare footsteps behind him. Glancing around, he saw Gino, sleepy-eyed, his pajamas rumpled from slumber, heading toward him.

“Jillie?” he asked softly, yawning. “You okay?”

“I just need a glass of water,” Sam responded in equally low tones. “My stomach is a little upset.”

Gino looked on his wife with concern. Normally, Jillian tried her best to keep the Mass fasting requirements but lately her stomach had been bothering her greatly. Padding across to Sam, he gathered the Leaper, whom he saw as his wife, into his arms and hugged him, gently stroking one hand up and down Sam’s back for a moment. Releasing his hold, Gino took a step back and looked into Sam’s eyes. “A couple of times last night, you seemed restless while you slept.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam apologized.

“It’s okay,” Gino reassured his wife. Leaning in, he touched a soft kiss on her forehead. “One time, you mumbled something about Allie.”

“I did?” Sam said, startled; he couldn’t remember whether or not he was prone to talking in his sleep.

Gino smiled. “Yes, you did.” Keeping his voice down, he chuckled, adding, “And whatever you were dreaming, you must’ve been annoyed with him, because you kept saying… 'Albert, where are you?’"

Sam opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the sound of a soft cry from the direction of the children’s bedroom.

“Sounds like Trudy needs some attention,” Sam began.

Gino gave Sam another quick hug. Saying, “Get your water, and I’ll see to Trudy,” he turned toward the door.

“What about...” Sam began then stopped when his stomach chose that moment to flipflop.

Gino paused at the door, looking back at his wife. Seeing her face was again pale, he reassured her, “Get your water and sit down. When I’m finished with Trudy, I’ll help you fix the children’s breakfast.”

“Okay,” Sam murmured. Getting a glass from the cupboard above the sink, he drew a glass of water. Sitting down at the table, he sipped the cool liquid slowly, doing some slow breathing between each sip. 

By the time Gino returned, Trudy in arms, Sam felt well enough to take the little girl from him. He was grateful when Gino retrieved the simple wooden highchair from its place beside the icebox and placed it close to the table. As he was settling Trudy in it, he heard the best sound he’d heard since opening his eyes a short time ago, that of the Imaging Chamber door’s familiar clunk-schoom, as Al stepped out.

For a moment, Al just stood, imprinting the scene in his memory; it had been more than sixty years, but Sunday morning breakfast before church was a fond memory. He smiled to himself, watching his father put a pot of water on the small stove then go to the cupboard just a few steps away and get the box of Quaker Oats. Stirring a measure of the oats into the water, he put a lid on it before leaving the kitchen.

“Morning, Sam,” Al said genially, moving to stand opposite him.

“Where did he go?” Sam responded.

“Uh, the usual greeting is ‘good morning’, Sam,” he began. The paleness of the Leaper’s face, coupled with the narrowing of those green eyes, was all the response he got. “Okay, okay,” Al said. “In answer to your question, my dad went to get me… Allie… up for breakfast. Unfortunately… or maybe fortunately, based on the color of your face… you and Papa can't have anything until after Mass."

“I seem to recall that Catholics had to fast for an hour before Mass,” Sam began.

“That’s true after 1965,” Al responded. "But in the year you're in, you have pre-Vatican II rules. That means, for anyone who's had their First Communion, they have to fast starting at midnight before Mass. For adults, it's no food or drink - including water and medicine. Technically, you couldn't even brush your teeth, just in case you accidentally swallowed some toothpaste. But for babies and small children, because they don't receive Communion, they're allowed something to eat on Sunday before going to church.”

Sam kept his voice low, saying, “At the moment, my stomach is in total agreement with that particular rule. Though I did have some water. Gino didn't seem to be bothered about that."

“My parents were a little relaxed about the rules, like the part about brushing your teeth. I don't think a little water, under the circumstances, will break the fast." Al looked carefully at his friend's features and noticed just how pale he was. "Pukies?" he asked, sympathetically.

A sigh escaped Sam’s lips. “Thankfully, no, but it wasn’t because my stomach didn’t threaten me with them.” His and Al’s attentions were diverted just then when Trudy cooed and clapped her chubby little hands on the highchair’s tray.

Recalling how he always greeted his sister every morning, at this age, Al stepped around his friend, squatted down beside the highchair. Smiling, he cooed in a sing-song voice, “Good morning, Trudy! How’s my best little sissy?” His heart flipped with remembered joy as his baby sister squealed and giggled as she reached for him. Al also felt a bittersweet twinge, knowing that he couldn’t give Trudy a kiss on each cheek as he would do every morning. His momentary visit down memory lane was diverted when he heard his father’s voice calling.

“Jillie,” Gino’s voice came clearly as he reappeared in the kitchen doorway, a small pair of trousers in each hand. “Which trousers do you want Allie to wear? The brown flannels or the gray ones?”

“Oh, Sam, tell him the gray ones,” Al prompted quickly. “The brown ones always itched. Oh, and my gray knee socks.”

For a moment, Sam forgot about everything he was here to do, as well as his queasy stomach, enjoying the rare glimpse of an ‘up close and personal’ moment of Al’s childhood. “The gray ones,” he replied.

“And my Sunday shirt should be in the little closet in my room,” Al went on. “Mama always ironed on Thursdays.”

Sam considered the Observer’s almost reserved attire of a silver-gray single-breasted suit, with a light mango button-down shirt and narrow silver tie, and matching silver loafers; he couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Murmuring under his breath just for Al’s ears, “Why am I not surprised that this started when you were this age?”

Al hadn’t missed a syllable of Sam’s murmured comment. “I heard that. And, for your information, both my parents always dressed as well as they could afford on Papa’s wages. But, Mama… Mama loved color. Lots of color.”

"So, you got your dress sense from your mom?" Sam questioned, causing Al to shrug slightly.

Glancing at the little wind-up clock sitting on top of the icebox, Al said, “Sam, you better look sharp. It’s almost seven fifteen.”

“So?” Sam responded.

“Well, we always went to 9:00 o’clock Mass, but before then, you’ve got to finish fixing Allie's oatmeal for breakfast, and you’ve got to feed Trudy and get her and yourself dressed.”

For the next hour and ten minutes, Sam experienced the hustle and bustle of getting young children fed and dressed. He gave a slight smile - now that his stomach had finally settled down - as Allie, dressed in his Sunday best, hurried into the kitchen and enacted what his holographic future self had just done with Trudy, adding a kiss on each cheek. Then, after making sure the children were fed with Gino's help, Sam handed Trudy over to Gino for her to have a diaper change before being dressed while Sam went into Gino's and Jillian's bedroom to face the task of what figuring out what he was going to wear.

For at least once in his years of leaping, Sam was grateful for Al’s fashion sense. It also helped that Jillian only had four nice ‘Sunday’ dresses from which to choose. One was a long-sleeved, ankle-length dress of navy-blue worsted wool with polka dots (“That’s more for colder weather, Sam. It’s just the end of October right now."). The one that Sam initially reached for was a rose-colored dress, also long-sleeved, but Al also put the ‘no’ on that one.  “That’s one of Mama’s summer dresses.”

“Jillie, haven’t you decided what you’re going to wear yet?” Gino called out from the living room.

Al, nudged by his father’s words to Sam, glanced again into his parents’ closet, his gaze falling on ‘the’ dress. “Sam! That one!”

“The… what?” Sam whispered tensely, growing frustrated from the morning's events.

“The aubergine dress!”

“You mean the purple one?”

Al rolled his eyes and sighed. “Okay, yeah, the purple one.”

At that moment, Gino came into their bedroom to retrieve and pull on his dark blue suit jacket. “You’ve got about ten minutes before we need to leave. Mass starts at 9:00 o’clock and it’s a fifteen-minute walk to church.”

Sam risked rolling his eyes as both Gino and Al’s comments came at him almost simultaneously.

“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” Sam came close to snapping, then pressed his lips together and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

Gino got the hint. “It’s okay, hon. I’ll get Trudy’s sweater on her, and make sure Allie uses the washroom,” he said gently and exited the room.

Turning back to Al, Sam followed the direction where the Observer was pointing. Reaching into the closet, he grabbed the dress and pulled it out. Taking it off the hanger, Sam bit his tongue as he pulled the garment over his head and wiggled and shimmied the smooth thin dark purple woolen dress skirt down into place. As he fastened the cuff buttons on the long sleeves, Al heeded the wearing-thin patience expression on Sam’s face. Gently he guided his friend to find a dainty white lace collar in Jillian’s top dresser drawer. 

While Sam fastened the collar around his throat and smoothed it down, a snippet of another memory came to the Observer and he said softly, “Mama’s grandmother gave that collar to her for her sixteenth birthday.” His dark eyes took on a mistiness as he added, “She said her grandmother told her that every young lady needed a nice lace collar to wear to church.”

A pair of simple black oxfords with small black bows on them completed Sam’s outfit, or so he thought.

“Wait, Sam!” Al admonished. “Don’t forget your veil.”

Sam paused in the bedroom doorway, sighed again and turned to face Al again. He really was grateful for his friend’s help, especially right now. So, he swallowed what had been about to fall from his lips and said simply, “What and where is it?”

“Women have to wear a veil or hat in church,” Al supplied patiently. “Since Mama didn't own a hat, you have to wear the veil. It’s in the second drawer, next to Mama’s prayer book and her white gloves.”

With just a couple of instructions, he watched Sam settle the veil properly over his head, then pull on the white cotton gloves. Without prompting, he watched his friend pick up the clearly well-used prayer book and turned to face him.

“Will I do?” Sam asked quietly. The expression on Al’s face was all the answer needed to wipe away the last vestiges of impatience and tension inside Sam.

“I always loved it when Mama wore that dress,” Al said softly. “It was her favorite.”

Sam smiled at his friend, glad for being able to afford his friend a few moments dusted with happy memories from his early childhood. “I think my five minutes are about up,” he said with a smile. “Now… Allie… since you’re dressed for it, you’re coming to church with us. Ah, ah, ah!” Sam warned firmly. “You’re going to get me through this church service so I don’t make a fool of me… er, your mother. So, let’s go.”

Al grinned and obediently responded, “Yes, ‘Mama’,” then followed Sam out of the bedroom and into the living room where Gino and the children waited.

It was a bright, crisp autumn Sunday morning, and Sam enjoyed the walk to church. He was also grateful that Gino was carrying Trudy, who was wearing a simple green frock. Allie, wearing what Sam now knew were his favorite gray flannel pants, a long-sleeved white shirt and polished black shoes, walked quietly beside Sam, holding his hand. 

The Observer followed along behind, keeping up a running commentary about the neighborhood they passed through. Only once during the walk did he have Ziggy change his location, shifting him about a hundred yards ahead of the others. It gave him a chance to impress another precious picture into his memory: his parents, still together and in love, and walking to church as a family.

The ringing of a church bell refocused his thoughts, and he resumed his position behind the family group as they reached the corner and turned onto East 116th Street. There, about three hundred feet ahead was the front of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church: the church where he and Trudy had been baptized, where he had learned his Catechism and took his First Communion. While those memories were sweet, other later memories tried to push in and mar the moment. Al ignored them.

“No,” he murmured under his breath as they came closer to the church steps. “You’re not going to ruin this memory.”

The memory of how and why he'd left the Church for thirty-five years appropriately squelched, he turned to Sam. "Follow my lead exactly. Keep your veil and gloves on throughout the service. Mass will be in Latin save the Gospel readings, hymns, and sermon which will be in English, and the 'Kyrie', which will be in Greek." Seeing the surprised expression on Sam's face, he reassured, "Don't worry. As long as you do what I do and say what I say, you'll be fine."

Sam knew that he could speak Latin and he thought that he could speak ancient Greek but even that wasn't enough to prepare himself for the intricacies of the Latin Mass. He seemed to recall being at a couple of Catholic services with Al. Those hadn't been in Latin and were a lot easier to follow but he'd never had to be an active participant. Well, once he did, he suddenly recalled. He remembered standing at the front of the church with Al, Beth and another woman whom he couldn’t remember. He was the only non-Catholic in the small group as the priest said words and blessings before gently pouring water over a baby's forehead. The baby was surprisingly calm about the whole thing, having slept through the process. A baptism, Sam realized. But if I was up at the baptismal with Al and Beth and… whoever… that means I'm a godfather!

He glanced at Al, wondering which of Al's daughters was his godchild, and noticed that they had entered the foyer of the church. Al mimed dipping the tips of his fingers into a holy water fount before making the Sign of the Cross and, by a nod of his head, encouraging Sam to follow suit. Once Gino, Sam and Allie had blessed themselves, they entered the church itself.

Gino led them down the center aisle while Al instructed Sam on the next step in a respectful low tone.

"When we get to the pew, you'll go in first, followed by Allie and then Papa and Trudy. But first, you have to genuflect on your right knee, facing the tabernacle, and cross yourself." He demonstrated exactly how to do the task and then waited until the family was in the pew before continuing. "Now lower the kneeler and kneel on it. You're supposed to pray before Mass begins and make sure Allie does too." While Sam obeyed Al's directions, the Observer retrieved the chair he kept in the Imaging Chamber in order to participate as best as he could.

Over the next hour and fifteen minutes, Al guided Sam in the rituals of the Mass. Sam was especially grateful for Jillian's prayer book as it helped him keep track of what to say and when to say it without having to repeat Al constantly. The page that indicated which readings were read for the day was marked with an old photograph, which Sam regarded for a long time with interest. It was of an older man and a younger woman in traditional Russian peasant clothes. It was clear that they were a happily married couple. In one hand, the man held an aged guitar while his other arm was wrapped around his wife's shoulders. He had kind eyes that glinted with humor, curly salt and pepper hair, and a slightly curled moustache. The scenery behind him showed what looked remarkably like a gypsy caravan. Another look at the man's face caused Sam to look towards Al with surprise, having noticed a remarkable similarity to the Observer.

Al smiled at the surprise on his best friend's features. "My grandparents on my mother's side. They were Ruska Rom. Lots of mixed heritage there, including Russian and Italian."

"You're part gypsy?" Sam whispered. Al just shrugged at the question before pointing towards the priest, indicating to Sam that he needed to focus on the Mass.

When it came time to receive Communion, Allie remained in the pew with the great task of watching Trudy - not a difficult one as the girl had fallen asleep and rested on the pew - while Gino and Sam went up the center aisle, hands respectfully folded.

Sam felt ridiculous when he obeyed Al's instructions on how to receive the Eucharist, kneeling in front of the priest. When the priest presented the small blessed wafer and stated, "Corpus Christi," Al replied, "Amen", which Sam mimicked.

"Now, stick out your tongue like you’re saying 'ah' for a doctor but don't say it and tilt your head slightly so Father can put the Eucharist on your tongue," the Observer told him. "Close your mouth and cross yourself. Good. Don't chew the Eucharist! It has to dissolve on your tongue. You can swallow it once it's soft enough. Now go to the deacon there."

Again, Sam knelt, this time in front of the deacon. When the deacon presented the chalice to Sam and stated, "Sanguinem Christi," Al and Sam replied, "Amen."

"Take a sip from the chalice. Don't take it from the deacon; just help him tilt it so you don't get sacramental wine all over Mama's favorite dress. Good. Now cross yourself and head back to the pew by the side aisle. Keep your hands folded! You just received Christ; you need to be humble. Sit on the pew until Papa comes back and let him take his place. Good. Now, kneel and pray until Father is done giving Eucharist, has put the Eucharist back in the tabernacle, and has seated himself. Allie needs to kneel and pray too."

The rest of the service was simple, mostly requiring standing and replying appropriately to the priest's blessings. At last, after the priest said, "Ite, Missa est,₉" followed by a hymn during the exit processional, the family quietly exited the church, repeating the actions they took entering the church only in reverse.

Once outside, Gino conversed with fellow parishioners while Sam kept an eye on the children and attempted a conversation with one of Jillian's friends. The woman was extremely verbose - Seems like a trend with Jillian's friends, Sam thought - but he was grateful that he didn't have to say much as Anna Fabini commented on everything from the weather to the style of dress Honorata Trace wore at the service. Even as she was speaking, another woman stepped up and interrupted Anna's current tirade, which focused on "the exorbitant amount Hetty Calhoun charges to wash clothes." Anna immediately shut up as the woman told her, "I'm sorry that you can't afford my daughter's services, Anna. Perhaps you should save your money and wash your clothes yourself."

Anna huffed at her words and stormed away, seemingly astonished that anyone would dare to talk to her in that manner.

Al gave a slight chuckle at the sight of Mrs. Fabini's failed attempt at retaining any dignity she had left. "Sam, as you can probably tell, this is Fiona Calhoun, Hetty's mother." Seeing Sam give him a surprised glance, he gave him a shrug.

Fiona was shaking her head as she watched Anna go to her husband to convince him that they needed to leave immediately. "I don't know how you put up with her, Jillian. She's such a gossiper and has nothing positive to say about anyone or anything."

"Maybe she's lonely and just needs a friendly ear," Sam replied to Fiona's assessment.

"Maybe but she shouldn't be accusin' my Hetty of chargin' too much," Fiona argued. "She's a good girl and a hard worker and worth every penny. You know that yourself."

Sam just nodded at her statement, agreeing that, based on the laundry he'd put away yesterday, Hettie was indeed a good laundress.

Fiona sighed. "I best be going. Lots to do before the potluck. I'll see you there, Jillian." With that, she left Sam.

"Hetty's mother?" Sam whispered to Al. "Where's Hetty?" He quickly glanced around, hoping to be able to see the girl despite not knowing what she looked like.

"She's leaving with the rest of her family," Al responded, prompting Sam to in the direction Fiona had taken.

Gino stopped Sam with a frown. "Jillian, where are you going?"

"I need to talk to Hetty," Sam said urgently.

'You can talk to her at the potluck, dear. It's time to go home."

Al nodded in agreement. "Papa's right, Sam. Don't worry. I'll fill you in with the details once we get home."

Sam gritted his teeth in frustration but nonetheless relented, allowing Gino to escort him and the kids back to the Calavicci's apartment.

It was almost eleven o'clock when they got back to the apartment. Sam immediately went into the small master bedroom to change clothes while Gino tended to Trudy, making sure that she had a clean diaper and was changed into clothes she could play in. Sam came to take over, after he had put on a more simple skirt and blouse, to make sure Allie had changed out of his Sunday best, giving Gino a chance to change clothes as well.

"So, the woman I met at church was Hetty's mother," Sam commented as he helped Allie into an outfit of his choosing: tweed shorts that went just above his knees, a cream cotton short-sleeved shirt, cream knee socks, a worn but still usable pair of brown boots, and red and brown plaid suspenders. The clothing was a little worn but still in good shape, telling Sam that it was one of the boy's favorite clothes to play in. "And Hetty was there too?"

"The whole Calhoun family was there," Al answered.

"She was at church and you didn't point her out to me," Sam stated with annoyance.

"It wasn’t appropriate then and she was busy watching after her siblings. Don't worry. Like Papa said, you'll see her at the neighborhood potluck later today. Besides, this finally gives us a chance to figure out how to save her tonight." He checked the handlink for information. "And Ziggy says there's only a seven percent chance we can stop Hetty from killing herself by just talking to her. We need a game plan, Sam."

Sam sighed and nodded, understanding Al's reasoning but still frustrated by the constant delay in accomplishing what he was there to do. "So, what have you got?"

Al again brought up the handlink to help fill in the gaps in his memory, which was still sketchy because of the temporal distance between his past and his present. "Hetty Rose Calhoun. Eighteen years old. Parents are Sean and Fiona Calhoun, the latter whom you met after Mass. Two siblings: Matthew, age ten, and Anthony, age four… who is my best friend."

"Your best friend? You mean to tell me that Hetty's brother is Allie's best friend and you're only telling me this now?"

Al shrugged. "Hey, as I said before, it was almost seventy years ago and I only just remembered his last name. Fortunately, Ziggy found an old photo of Hetty and it jogged my memory. So did a visit with my mom in the Waiting Room." Focusing again on the handlink, he added, "Back to Hetty's family… Sean was injured in an accident at work two years ago and has been unable to work full time ever since. Fiona, Hetty, and Matthew all work so the family can make ends meet. Fiona is a seamstress, Hetty does babysitting, housekeeping, and laundry, and Matthew is a newsie."

"A newsie?" Sam queried, unfamiliar with the term.

"Yeah. He sells newspapers on street corners. I did the same when I was old enough… after Dad got sick."

Having remained quiet while Sam and his older, future self talked, Allie took advantage of the pause in the conversation to announce, “My tummy is grumbly.”

Sam looked down at the child. “What?”

Allie spelled it out. “I’m hungry.”

“So is his Papa,” Gino added, coming into the children’s bedroom, carrying Trudy. Going to the Leaper’s side, he gave Sam a winning smile. “So, Mrs. Calavicci, what have you got to stop the ‘grumblies’ in our tummies until dinner tonight?”

Sam didn’t miss a beat. “Leftover shepherd’s pie. Unless,” he went on, a cheeky smile appearing on his lips, “you want to share a jar of strained green beans with Trudy.”

The Observer laughed as his much younger self and his father chorused in unison, “Shepherd’s pie!”

Lunch at the Calavicci’s kitchen table was lighthearted and relaxing. So much so, that after clearing the table and tidying the kitchen, when Sam picked up Trudy from her highchair, he caught himself yawning along with the little girl.

“I think it’s nap time for my girls,” Gino said softly, hanging up the dish towel by the sink, before moving to Sam’s side. Sliding an arm behind the Leaper’s waist, he guided his ladies out of the kitchen and to the children’s room.

“But…” Sam began, trying and failing to stifle another yawn. It annoyed him greatly. Here he was with a mission still needing to be done and he could barely keep his eyes open! He didn't quite understand how he could be so sleepy until he remembered how nauseated he was earlier that day. More psychosynergizing, he realized even as Gino lifted the already sleeping baby from his arms and placed her gently into her crib.

“But, nothing, bellissima,” Gino shushed quietly. “Come with me.”

"It's okay, Sam," Al assured. "I'll check on Hetty and, if anything happens, I'll come get you. She only lives four doors down the road."

A minute later, Sam found himself stretched out on Gino and Jillian’s bed, his eyes already drooping shut. He didn’t feel the blanket that was draped over him, nor even the soft kiss touched on his hair before Gino tiptoed out of the room, closing the door with great care. Nor indeed did he realize that his Observer, who had watched it all without comment, pressed a couple of buttons on the handlink.

With the same care his father had demonstrated in closing the bedroom door, so did Al study Sam’s sleeping form a moment before softly requesting, “Ziggy, center me on Hetty Rose. I want to see where she is.”

Without a sound and within seconds, the super hybrid computer located and centered on the young woman who was the object of the current leap. Upon the Observer’s "arrival", Ziggy acknowledged his instructions to, “Keep an eye on Sam’s vital signs. Let me know when he wakes up.”

PART EIGHT

Manhattan, New York

Calhoun Residence

Sunday, October 30, 1938

During the walk home from church, Hetty Calhoun remained silent, choosing to enjoy the autumn beauty of the day. At one point, she glanced at her father, his pace measured by the cane he was forced to use, as he too refrained from being drawn into his wife’s indignant rant concerning Anna Fabini’s earlier comments. As the family reached and turned onto the street where they lived, Hetty smiled at Sean Calhoun, great bear of a man that he was, his Irish brogue flowing as he agreed, “Yes, my heart. For certain sure, Anna could try the patience of the Blessed Mother herself.”

Fiona flicked a quick sidelong look at her husband then, satisfied he was being a smart aleck, increased her pace a bit, reaching the stairs leading up to the four-story house where their apartment was situated. As she climbed the front steps, she said over her shoulder, “All I’m sayin', Sean, is that with the fine job her William has, and not having to worry about providin' for her family, and more than able to afford a laundress… at twice what our Hetty charges, thank you very much… she’s got no….”

Following his wife into the house and up the stairs to their second-floor apartment, Sean’s long experience of his wife’s temperament led him to interrupt her. “Fiona?”

As she unlocked and opened the door to their apartment, Fiona Calhoun paused, looking around at her husband as he reached her side. “What?”

Hetty stifled a chuckle, pressing her lips together to prevent it slipping out, when her father asked, a certain little lilt in his voice, “Why don’t we leave Anna here in the hall while we go inside? Sure’n my stomach’s being growlin' since we came in because of the aroma of your heavenly smelling ham and bean soup that’s been simmerin' on the stove since last night.”

All of the indignation about her encounter with Anna Fabini a short time ago vanished when Fiona saw the twinkle in her husband’s blue eyes. The smile that replaced her frown was confirmation that his message had been received.

“Hetty,” she instructed her daughter, as she and the boys followed their parents inside. “Set the table for lunch. Matthew, you and Anthony change your clothes.”

After lunch, while the boys went outside to play and their father settled on the sofa for a nap, Hetty washed and dried the dishes then helped her mother peel and cut up apples for the pie they would take to the community potluck supper at five o’clock.

When the pie was at last in the oven, Fiona glanced at her daughter, noting how rosy her cheeks were from the heat. “Get yourself a glass of water and go down to the stairs and cool yourself, darlin’. Your face is as red as those apples were.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Hetty said gratefully. “You look like it would do you good, too.” Before her mother could respond otherwise, Hetty added, “Please?”

The two women - at eighteen years old, Hetty was already considered a woman in the community - had just walked outside, water glasses in hand, when Al popped in nearby. For about a half hour he stayed, observing them enjoying a cool October breeze on the old Victorian house’s large front stairs. When a couple of neighbor ladies joined them, and the chatting turned to the weather and who was bringing what to the supper, Al almost called it enough. Keying in the code to summon the Imaging Chamber, he put his finger on the button to complete the sequence when a girl about Hetty’s age came hurrying up the sidewalk, waving to her.

“Imogene!” Hetty called, her face and mood brightening at the sight of her best friend. “Hello!"

Imogene “Immie” Kelley, a tall thin girl wearing a reddish brown ankle-length, long-sleeved dress hurried up the steps. Her blonde hair framed her face and drew attention to her sparkling green eyes. She was careful to speak politely to Fiona Calhoun and the other two women before taking Hetty’s hand and pulling her out onto the sidewalk, to which Hetty did not object.

“It’s so good to see you,” Hetty greeted her friend, giving her a quick hug.

“Ohhh, help me Lord, I ran almost all the way,” she puffed with a laugh. “Thank goodness Ma didn’t see me.”

“Why?” Hetty asked.

“I can only stay a short minute,” Imogene said. “I’m supposed to be going to my granny’s to borrow a platter, but I just had to let you know….”

Hetty pressed her friend. “Is something wrong?”

The other girl laughed. “Not in the least,” she assured her friend.

“Then what is it?” Hetty asked, relieved. “The short minute version,” she quipped.

“You know me too well,” Immie grinned. “Well…”

Whatever she had been about to say was forgotten when a red-haired boy, not much younger than she, came running down the sidewalk, stopping once he was in shouting distance. “Immie, Ma says….” At that point the boy put his hands on his hips and mimicked their mother’s message. ”’Terrence, go find your sister. And when you do, tell Imogene Agnes Kelley, that if she’s not back in this kitchen with your granny’s platter in thirty minutes…. to the minute…’”

“Drat!” she muttered. “All right, all right!” she called back. Glancing back at Hetty, she apologized, “Sorry, but I’ll come back… if I get a chance.” Then she was running up the street and disappearing around a corner.

Hetty sighed. “I wonder what it was all about,” she murmured. Hearing her name called just then, she dismissed the rest of the thought as she started up the front stairs to the brownstone. “Coming, Mama.”

Al raised an eyebrow in curiosity as he watched Imogene run towards her destination, agreeing with Hetty's murmur. Given that girls were prone to gossip - he'd heard a lifetime's worth raising five girls - he figured that it was probably about some cute guy. Still, he'd been through enough leaps to know even the slightest bit of information could be helpful. They certainly needed as much information as possible on this leap.

Pressing a button to open the Imaging Chamber door, he glanced at his watch as he exited the room. The potluck wasn't to begin for another couple of hours, plenty of time for him to figure out how they were going to keep Hetty from committing suicide even with his family's busy weekend.

Walking up to the control console, he handed the handlink to Dom as he spoke to the hybrid-computer before him. "Ziggy, run a check on a young woman named Imogene Agnes Kelley. About the same age as Hetty Calhoun. Likely went to the same school."

"May I inquire as to the purpose of this search?" Ziggy questioned, clearly fascinated by the request.

Al shook his head slightly. "I don't know. I just got a funny feeling."

"Ah, I see. A scientifically based reason," Ziggy quipped. "I am assuming that this search may have to do with Dr. Beckett's mission."

"Yes. It does," Al told her bluntly.

"In that case, and considering the time constraints, I will endeavor to obtain the information you requested as quickly as possible."

Imogene sighed in frustration as she waited for her granny to retrieve the platter her mother wanted. Her granny lived a little over half a mile from their home, which meant that it normally took Immie about a half an hour to go to Granny's and get back to the house while taking her time doing so. If she walked at a regular pace and didn't "dillydally", as her mother put it, the trip took twenty-five minutes. As such, when she saw that her mother had given her the customary thirty minutes to finish the errand, she decided that, if she hurried, she had time to tell Hetty what she'd read in the entertainment section of the newspaper.

While her dearest friend in the whole world didn't read fantasy - Hetty was more interested in mysteries and bodice-rippers (the latter being hidden carefully from her parents) - Imogene read the works of Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. She loved science fiction and fantasy. That's why she was so excited. "The Mercury Theatre on the Air" on CBS was going to air an adaptation of her favorite book, H. G. Wells' "The War of the Worlds". Even better, her parents agreed to listen to the broadcast, knowing how much she enjoyed the book. Uncle George - he and Aunt Lucilla were visiting this weekend, which was why the family wasn't going to the neighborhood potluck like they usually did - practically insisted as he was the one who had introduced Immie to Wells' works. Immie had hoped that Hetty would convince her parents to listen to it as well so that they could talk about it the next day.

However, given that granny was taking her sweet time in wrapping the platter, Immie found her chances of telling Hetty about the broadcast were dwindling quickly. As she took possession of the platter, she glanced at the clock on the mantle and sighed mentally. Definitely no time to see Hetty again tonight. She barely had time to make it back home to meet her mother's deadline. She was going to have to hurry as it was.

Kissing her granny goodbye and thanking her for the platter, Immie used her grandmother’s telephone to let her mother know that she was on the way home, explaining that Granny wanted to make sure that the platter arrived at their house undamaged. She then left Granny's house and headed home, deciding that she'd talk to Hetty tomorrow about what she'd missed out on.

She quickened her pace, her mind already imagining how good the radio play was going to be. She wondered how close to the book it would be. Undoubtedly, Orson Welles' rich voice would be very prominent. She liked his voice. She'd never say it out loud - decorum forbade it - but she thought he sounded… sexy. Just another reason to listen to "The Mercury Theatre on the Air", when she was allowed.

She came to her home street and started to cross it so that she was on the correct side. So engrossed in her imaginations and fantasies was she that she didn't see the fire truck barreling towards the intersection...

"Sam!" Al screamed at his friend's sleeping form. "Sam, wake up!"

Sam groaned in protest as he rolled over, wishing his partner would lower the volume of his voice. "Go away," he grumbled.

"Sam! Get up!" Al insisted. "You have to hurry! Ziggy's come up with something!"

At the mention of the hybrid-computer, Sam's attention immediately refocused as he remembered where he was and why. "Is it Hetty?" he questioned, hurriedly sitting up and putting on Jillian's shoes. "I thought you said she commits suicide tonight because of the broadcast."

"It's not Hetty," Al clarified quickly. "It's her best friend Imogene Kelley. I had Ziggy do a search on Imogene and it turns out that she was hit crossing the street by a fire truck on its way to stop a fire. She died almost instantly. But when Hetty finds out that her best friend is dead just after her parents changed the channel on the radio and hears that the world is being invaded, it pushes Hetty over the edge! That's why she committed suicide, Sam. You've gotta save Imogene! And you're running out of time! She's about two blocks from the intersection where she was killed."

Sam nodded as he stood up and headed into the family room, where Gino decided to use his spare time to read the newspaper. "How far away is she?" Sam questioned Al. "Where are the car keys? I'll pick her up and drive her home."

"My parents didn't own a car," Al told him. "Couldn't afford one. Dad carpooled to work. You're going to have to run. Imogene is now one and three-quarters blocks from the intersection and you're two blocks away! When you get outside, go right and run like hell!"

"What does she look like?"

"She's eighteen years old, 5'4" tall, with blond hair and green eyes and she's wearing a lime green dress," Al clarified quickly. "Now, go!"

Gino, hearing Jillian's voice, raised his eyes from his newspaper. "Did you have a good nap, love?" Seeing her hurry out the front door, he rushed to follow. "Jillie? What's wrong? Where are you going?"

Sam didn't bother to answer, bolting from the old Victorian building and immediately turning right. He put his muscles into overdrive, forcing himself to run as quickly as he could towards the fateful intersection.

Running flat out, Sam scanned both sides of the street ahead. “Where are you, Imogene?” he panted under his breath.

Al punched in a code on the handlink, keeping pace with his friend. Hearing what Sam said, he followed the Leaper’s line of focus. Seeing the girl, he pointed her out to Sam. "Right there, Sam! Across the upcoming intersection. I'm going to her to see if I can get through to her." Without further word, he re-centered, appearing less than a foot in front of her.

“Immie, stop!” he shouted. A frustrated sigh escaped him as the tall thin girl, her bemused expression telling him she wasn’t paying attention to anything except her thoughts, sauntered past him. Glancing around, he yelled, “Sam, hurry!”

Spotting the Observer now keeping in step with Imogene, Sam started to speak but whatever he’d been about to say was forgotten as he stumbled over a child’s jump rope laying on the sidewalk and went sprawling.

“Sam!” Al immediately recentered on his friend. “Are you all right?”

“Never… mind me,” Sam gasped, wincing as he started to rise up on his knees. Glancing down at himself, he saw that his left knee had been badly skinned, the stocking having ripped from the abrasion on the sidewalk. “Where’s… Imo…gene?” He dismissed that pain, and that on his hands, struggling to get up.

“Jillian!” Gino called out. Having witnessed his wife's abrupt exit from their apartment, he'd hurried to follow her and was startled when he saw her trip and fall hard on the sidewalk.

At that same instant Sam had tripped on the jump rope, Imogene Kelley’s wanderings in her imagination were ripped asunder at the sound of a man’s deep voice yelling. She stumbled a step. Catching her balance, she looked up and around for the source, then screamed at the sight of a woman sprawled on a sidewalk across the street.

Sam forgot the pain in his knee and hands as the girl’s scream rang out close by. “Imogene?!” Sam shouted, panic surging up within him.

Seeing the woman raise her head, Immie instantly recognized her as Mrs. Calavicci. Gasping, she went tearing across the street, just remembering to hang onto her granny’s platter.

Gino reached Sam as he shouted out the girl's name. “Jillie! Che cosa c'é?"₁₀ he exclaimed, grabbing the person he perceived as his wife into his arms and hugging her tight. Then, holding her back a bit, scanning her from head to toe, seeing the raw scrapes on her hands, he demanded, not unkindly, "Honey, are you okay? Jillie, what is going on?”

Even as Gino spoke, the two were suddenly surrounded as several people, who had been enjoying the afternoon on their steps, hurried to his aid. 

“Are you all right, dearie?” An older, gray-haired woman who had reached him first asked insistently. “What on Earth is the matter?”

Sam ignored the questions, desperate to break free to stop Imogene's untimely death. Even as he tried to push people away, the clamor of fire engine bells and sirens shattered the moment. Several people gasped, all turning quickly to watch as the two fire engines came racing up the street, just managing to complete the left turn at the corner though coming close to the curb.

As the people craned their necks, watching the fire engine disappear further down the intersecting street, Al gave a sigh of relief as he noted that Immie had successfully crossed the street a second before the fire engines went through the intersection. Knowing the girl was safe, he moved up close to Sam’s side. "Sam, it's okay. Immie's safe. Are you okay?"

“I’m… fine,” Sam gasped in response to everyone's questions, trying to scan the small group of people who’d coming rushing to help him. “Where’s….” He didn’t finish his thought, when the sound of a young girl’s voice shouting out his host’s name reached his ears.

“Mrs. Calavicci!" Imogene cried out, unceremoniously pushing her way through the small collection of adults. “Mrs. Calavicci, are you okay?!”

Fighting the dizziness as he snapped his head around at the girl’s frightened voice, relief washed over Sam. While he didn't doubt his best friend's word on the matter, seeing the girl in front of him - and matching Al's description of her quite easily - brought him intense joy. Turning a bit to face her, the Leaper quickly stood up, threw his arms around Imogene, platter and all, and hugged her tight. “Imogene! Oh, my God!” he exclaimed. “You’re safe!” He caught a breath. “Oh, thank God, you’re safe!” The words had just fallen from his lips when another feminine voice rang out, “Immie?”

As one, Sam and Imogene turned their heads, peering past the neighbors surrounding them to see who had called out. The girl recognized the voice.

“I’m here, Hetty,” Immie called out. When the other girl reached her, still taking the greatest care not to drop the platter, Imogene turned from Sam to embrace her best friend.

Hetty, having no clue about what had happened, hugged her friend, asking a question that had been posed multiple times in the past five minutes. “What on Earth is going on? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Immie assured her. “I was just walking home from Granny’s house when all of a sudden I heard a man shout; I almost dropped the platter.” She glanced at the paper-wrapped dish then back to her friend. “And when I looked up, I saw Mrs. Calavicci on the ground and I ran over to see what had happened. And then those fire trucks came rushing through a second after I got across the street! If I hadn’t been running, I could've been seriously hurt!”

For Hetty, even that simple explanation was clear as mud. “But what happened?"

“That’s something I’d like to know,” Gino chimed in, straightening up from examining his wife’s scraped and bloody knee. Reaching to gently take his wife by the shoulders, he turned her to face him; his expression was understanding but insistent on an explanation.

“Jillie…” Just as he spoke, unknown to him, his son the Observer moved in closer, standing almost at his elbow. Hearing his father’s words, Al opened his mouth but Sam was already ahead of him, every syllable he spoke imbued with truth in every degree.

Holding Gino’s gaze, Sam took a soft breath. “I was asleep… dreaming,” he began, choosing each word with care. “But then from… somewhere…” The Leaper spared a knowing glance at Al. “Something,” he let the word linger a moment then went on. “Something interrupted my dream. A feeling…”

“What kind of feeling, hon?” Gino asked, the worry easing from his face. Sam smiled at him then glanced around at Hetty and Imogene, their attention on him as rapt as that of the neighbors clustered around them.

More times than he cared to think of, the Leaper remembered other Leaps in which he’d been in a parent’s place. Recalling with lightning clarity each instance that had demanded the same reaction, he explained to Gino.

“The feeling that comes over a… mother when her child, or any other child…” He paused, his gaze straying to the girls again. “That she knows well and cares about… might be in danger.” He took another calming breath, turning back to Gino, looking into his eyes. “That feeling was so strong, so…" His gazed flitted over the man’s right shoulder and into his best friend’s understanding eyes. “So… REAL… about Imogene… that it woke me like someone had thrown cold water on me.” His voice remained calm as he continued. “I couldn’t think of anything else but finding her. That’s why I went tearing out of the house like I did. I HAD to find her and make sure that she was okay.” Sam paused, concluding the explanation with a truth he felt into the marrow of his bones. “When a mother… or father… gets that instinctive feeling about a child, nothing will stop them from doing everything in their power to find and protect that child.” He shrugged his shoulders subtly. “That’s what I was doing.” He sighed. "And then I… tripped on the jump rope," he added, embarrassed.

Al was shaking his head, himself stunned by the events. "Who would've thought you tripping over a jump rope would've been the catalyst to get Imogene to run across the street instead of walk and thereby save her life?" he commented.

As one, Hetty and Imogene glanced at each other, puzzlement on their faces, almost as if they were agreeing with Al's statement.

Gino just nodded, accepting the explanation even as he hugged his wife gently. “I’m just glad that you and Imogene are both safe,” he said softly near Sam’s ear. "Now let’s get you home. Do you feel well enough to walk, hon?”

A chirp from the handlink drew Al's attention and he scanned the information scrolling across its screen. “You’ve saved Imogene but Ziggy’s saying there’s still a fifty point seven five percent chance that Hetty commits suicide.”

Darting a glance at Gino who hadn’t stirred a step from his side, Sam turned his head, ducking his chin a bit and whispered under his breath, “But why…” As fast as the question was asked, the Leaper’s mind moved at seeming light speed.

Al recognized the look on his friend’s face. “Sam… what?”

Sam turned to the girls. Seeing how carefully Imogene hugged the wrapped package she held, he asked a simple question. “Is it okay?”

“Yes,” she answered, a smile of relief on her face. “If anything had happened to Granny’s platter… oh, Lordy!” Her eyes widened just then. “Oh, no, I’m late! Ma is going to have a fit!”

“How about if we…” Sam nudged Gino in the ribs, “…walk home with you? To explain to your mother.”

Gino’s brow furrowed a bit. “Jillie, we need to get you home to tend to your knee and hands.”

Sam made a small dismissive wave. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “After all, it’s not that far…”

“I know, dear heart,” Gino said patiently. “But…”

"Sam, I'm with Papa," Al put in. "You can always give Imogene's mother a call."

Sam softened his gaze. “I will rest so much easier when I have explained to her mother… in person,” he cajoled softly. “Please?”

The Observer smiled, knowing just how his father felt as he encountered, for the first time in his life, the irresistibility of Sam Beckett’s puppy dog eyes. “Don’t fight it, Papa,” he chuckled. “You can’t win against ‘the look’. I know from experience.” It was an unexpected little gem of a memory that Al tucked away, watching his father capitulate to Sam’s gaze.

Gino knew the instant Jillian whispered, “Please?” that he was lost. Giving a big sigh, he smiled, cupping her face gently between his hands. Drawing her closer, he murmured, “When you look at me like that, bellissima, how can I say no?”

Sam knew what was coming and went with it. Fortunately, it was a quick, soft little kiss.

“Now,” he said, turning to Imogene and Hetty. “How about you girls walk ahead of us?” he suggested. “But not too fast.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Immie responded. “Come on, Hetty.”

Falling into step beside her friend, Hetty moved past the Calaviccis and headed for the corner. Glancing back, she saw the couple following them, taking a slow pace after them. She turned back when Immie spoke.

“Where were you going just now?”

Hetty laughed. “I had a little time to spare before the potluck so I was coming over to your house to find out what was so all fired important that you needed to tell me earlier. My curiosity is about to eat me up! So… tell me!”

TO BE CONTINUED...