Carefully, I reached for my wine glass with a trembling hand, hoping to numb myself with its contents. As my fingers touched the smooth stem, fear cleared my thoughts. Fear, and unexpected anger. If I was someone else’s daughter because my mom cheated on my dad …
“What do you mean, exactly?” I asked, voice sharp and eyes narrowed. It felt like eons had passed since my mom initially asked the question, but my chaotic thought process had borne conclusions in less than a minute.
Hesitantly, my mom raised her warm brown eyes to search mine, and then she shifted them to focus on the wall behind the couch. “Grandma Betsy had a really hard time having kids. She was given certain drugs. At the time, doctors were giving specific hormones to women who were at risk of miscarrying. Betsy, well, she was one of the women treated that way.”
“So … ?” I prompted, impatient.
Suddenly my mom was looking at me, weariness in her eyes. She sighed. “The treatment had an unforeseen side effect on the children. They were sterile, Lex. Your dad couldn’t have children.”
Dad couldn’t have kids? That meant Mom never had an affair … they never separated …
Relief flooded my body. It began in my lungs as I involuntarily inhaled a delicious breath of air, and it flowed out toward my nerve endings. Mom and Dad were never separated … my family is real! I was ecstatic.
My mom furrowed her brow.
Abruptly, relief fled from my body. If Dad couldn’t have kids … “Then who’s my father?” This can’t be happening.
“We went to the best place, where the donors were all guaranteed to be intelligent, talented men with a healthy family history.”
But none of those intelligent, talented men were Joe Larson, my dad—or rather, the man I’d believed to be my dad until two minutes ago. Despite my best efforts to hold it together, my chin began to tremble. The quivering spread to my cheeks and then throughout my entire body, but I didn’t cry. I was too stunned to cry.
Watching my devastation, my mom said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you, but your dad thought …” Again, she sighed.
I pulled my legs up to my chest and fit my head between my knees. My mom tried to comfort me by rubbing my back, but I flinched at her touch. I stared down at the hardwood floor, trying to focus … trying to breathe.
Me, the very essence of my being, retreated inside, seeking the only haven available: solitude.
Thud-THUMP. Thud-THUMP. Thud-THUMP.
I focused on my heartbeat. It was still the same. It hadn’t changed in the last few minutes, unlike everything else I knew about myself … or thought I’d known.
I’m still me.
Right?
CHAPTER THREE
Nightmares & Dreams
“Are you sure you—”
“Let’s just go already, Mom,” I interrupted. I knew I was being a brat in the worst way—my mom felt awful for lying to me about my parentage for twenty-four years, and I was taking out my inner turmoil on her, but … she’d lied to me. So had my dad. And it wasn’t just a little, I-broke-your-favorite-vase-and-told-you-it-was-the-cat lie, oh no. It was a whopper of a lie, requiring me to do a complete identity overhaul. I couldn’t just pretend that everything was hunky-dory. I’d never been a good liar.
Searching for a safe place in my mind, I focused on the beads of rain clinging to the passenger window of my mom’s dark red sedan. As the car picked up speed, the droplets seemed reluctant to stream across the glass, moving in a stuttering rhythm.
Part of me worried about leaving Thora alone so abruptly, but I knew Annie would take good care of her. I’d sent her a text in the wee hours of the morning, asking her to cat-sit for the next three weeks, and she’d agreed immediately. She hadn’t asked a single question. Annie had the kind heart of a saint, and I loved her for it.
As I felt myself falling asleep, a small sense of relief washed over me.
“Haven’t you ever wondered why you don’t really look like your dad?” my mom asked, her voice echoing all around me.
I was standing in front of a wood-framed mirror hung at eye level on a seemingly endless wall. A picture of my dad’s face was pinned to the mirror’s frame. I examined his features closely, and then did the same with my own, attempting to reconcile their many differences.
Maybe his lips, I thought … those could look a little like mine. But after cross-referencing the reflection of my own narrow, rosy mouth with his, I realized they weren’t a match.
Horrified, I stared at the photo of my dad, watching his mouth disappear completely. When I tried to scream, there was only silence. I looked into the mirror, and with gut-wrenching terror, realized that my own mouth had vanished as well.
My ears were next, as were my dad’s in his picture. And then my long, dark brown hair.
I brought my hands up to my face, attempting to hold the remaining features in place. As my nose vanished, so did my ability to breathe. I panicked, trying to suck air through a smooth expanse of unbroken skin.
I watched my frantic brown eyes until the lack of oxygen caused dark spots to wash over my vision. I glanced one last time at the picture of my dad before my world faded to black.
All I could think was, I am nothing.
I woke with my head resting against the chilly car window. Involuntarily, I brought my hand up to feel my face. Everything was right where it belonged, including the salty tears streaming down my cheeks.
Glancing out the window, I realized the rain had turned to light snow and we were nearing my hometown. Yakima, the central Washington city where I’d grown up, was really quite demonstrative in terms of the stereotypical seasons. There are four distinct times of the year: sweat-inducing summers, reddish-gold falls, snowy winters, and flowery springs. I was always amazed by the way the fruit trees in the countless orchards accentuated the seasons. Nothing screamed winter like bare branches sheathed in ice, or heralded spring like apple and cherry blossoms.
As the familiar, mostly barren landscape of the high desert glided past, I wondered if coming home and seeing my dad was going to make the realignment of my identity any easier. Or, would it become infinitely more difficult?
***
Silently, each unique, beautiful snowflake found a home on the deck around me. In the back of my mind I felt envious of the moonlit flakes—each was well-defined and individual. I, on the other hand, was vague, undefined. They didn’t have to worry about where they might fit in, let alone where they came from. They would just … land. Where am I supposed to land?
I’d been home for two weeks, and so far, the frigid Yakima winter had proven to be the only thing that could bring me peace. The falling snow offered a distraction from my morose thoughts. And because it rarely snowed in Seattle, sitting outside in below-freezing weather didn’t belie my sanity too much. It was snowing, after all.
At a knock on the sliding glass door, I jumped. I heard it open partially. “Lex?” It was my mom.
“Yeah?”
“Cara’s on the phone, sweetie. She said she tried your cell but it went straight to voicemail. She sounds really worried—you should talk to her.” My mom had always been a master guilt-tripper.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and surrendered. “Fine.” I could only avoid talking to people for so long. And if I was being honest with myself, even I was getting sick of the moping, sullen woman I’d become. I needed to rejoin the world, bask in the sunshine, seize the day, and … you know, all that bullshit.
As I entered the house, my mom handed me the phone with a sympathetic smile. I wandered upstairs to my old bedroom and shut the door, sitting cross-legged on the burgundy duvet. I focused on taking long, deep breaths, then closed my eyes and raised the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Cara,” I said in a reluctant, slightly hoarse voice. Not speaking for days tended to do that to a voice.
“Oh my God, Lex! It’s so good to hear your voice,” she said enthusiastically. “So, are you going to let me know what the hell’s going on? Why’
d you just take off? I mean, weren’t you planning on staying in the Yak with your fam for only a few days during Christmas? How much family time can you really stand? Aren’t things still bad with your sister?”
I really didn’t want to lie to Cara—at least, not outright. After searching for the courage to respond to her barrage of questions, I spoke carefully. “Uh, yeah … I was planning on only being here for a few days.” True. “But when my mom was about to leave, I suddenly felt like I needed more time with her.” Also true. “So, on a whim, I just sort of decided to ride back to Yakima with her and stay until after Christmas.” True-ish … success! But I couldn’t ignore the sick feeling churning in my stomach.
“So … you’re not, like, dying or anything?” she joked.
“Nope … not that I’m aware of. I guess I’ve just been really distracted here. It’s been a long time since I’ve been home.” The partial truth was coming more easily.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll see you when you get back,” Cara said, and I smiled sorrowfully at her usual term of endearment.
“Definitely,” I replied.
“Love ya, Lex. Don’t be a phone stranger. I mean, you can only expect me to survive for so long with Lex deprivation …”
Surprising myself, I laughed. “Got it. Love ya, too.”
After goodbyes were said and the call was disconnected, I stood and stretched. Still clad in my winter deck-wear, I was extremely overheated and a little sweaty. I tore off my mittens, unzipped and removed my navy-blue down jacket, and slid my feet out of my waterproof, fur-lined boots. I traded my jeans for some purple and blue plaid pajama bottoms before curling up on a bed that had always been mine, in a room that had always been mine, with the odd sense that neither belonged to me anymore. That Lex no longer existed.
***
Unsure of how I’d fallen asleep so early in the evening, I awoke. Night had fallen completely, darkening the room. My first thought was of being cold, so I quickly maneuvered myself under the covers. My second thought was one of relief—for the first time in two weeks, I had slept without having the nightmare. My third thought was about the strangely vivid dream I’d just awoken from. It had taken place in my parents’ house, and it could easily have been real, except that the dream switched back and forth between two time periods. The more I thought about it, the clearer my memory of it became.
Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, I saw my mom sitting at her brand-new, oak dining room table, her hands clasped together on the surface. My dad was sitting across from her.
Shaking her head, she said, “I just think it’s too late. We’ve gone such a long time with this secret … it just seems easier to keep it.”
“But Alice, don’t you see? The girls have a right to know who they are … where they come from.” My dad reached across the table and covered her hands with his. “It’s just not fair to keep hiding it from them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Suddenly, the scene shifted—I was still in the dining room, but the table was our old, battered one. My mom and dad, who seemed to have lost a couple decades, still sat in relatively the same places.
“I just don’t know, Joe,” my mom said, shaking her head. “I think we should wait until they’re old enough to understand why we had to do it.”
My dad sighed. “I wish we wouldn’t ever need to have this conversation with our little girls. I just … okay, I guess a couple more years couldn’t hurt. But we will tell them eventually, Alice.”
Closing her eyes, my mom nodded.
In the blink of an eye, the scene shifted back to my mom and dad sitting at the new table, his hands covering hers.
“Alright, Joe … this weekend, I guess I’ll visit Lex and tell her. If she doesn’t take it well, I’ll just bring her back with me. But, if it’s too hard for her, then we’re not telling Jenny—she’s just not as, well … as strong.” When my mom glanced up at my dad, her eyes were as fierce as those of a lioness.
My dad scooted his chair back, stood, and walked around the table to her. As I followed him with my eyes, I noticed a flicker of movement just beyond the wide, arched doorway leading into the living room.
Lying in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d really been present during my parents’ conversations. A sense that a dream was more real than, well, just a dream was something I’d experienced before. But it had only happened when I’d awakened from a dream that was really a memory.
Once, when I was a freshman in high school, I forgot my locker combination. It happened near the beginning of the school year, but I’d already stashed a couple of books inside. After sharing a friend’s locker for more than half the year, I had a sudden need to get into mine—the library was going to send a bill home for the books I’d “lost” in my locker, and I really didn’t want to pay the fee to reset the combo. The day before the library fine was due, I went home, resolved to pay the reset fee the following morning. That night, I had a vivid dream. In it, I was sitting on my bed after the first day of school, going through my backpack. In my hand was the card displaying the elusive combination to my locker. When I woke from that dream, I hastily jotted down the locker combination, absolutely positive of its accuracy. Later that morning, I opened my locker for the first time in months, saving myself a hearty sum of money. That dream had felt the same as the one I just had: absolutely real.
But, so had the dream of Dr. Ramirez getting hit by a car, and that never actually happened. I couldn’t possibly have “remembered” the conversations between my parents in my dream because I hadn’t been there. It’s nothing, I told myself. I’m just being obsessive.
For the second time in two weeks, I laughed out loud. If I mentioned anything about my crazy dreams to my mom, all of her worried looks and concern over my mental stability would quickly give way to a leather couch in a psychiatrist’s office. No, thank you.
Regardless, I couldn’t ask my mom or dad if they’d had any conversations like the ones in my dream … for their sake. I was pretty sure I’d been making the past few weeks fairly hellish on them, and I wasn’t about to make it worse.
I eventually chalked up the dream to my overactive obsession with understanding who I was … where I came from … who my father was …
Gradually, like a dimmer switch lighting up my thoughts, I knew where I could get more information—from Grandma Suse. My indecisive mom discussed nearly everything with her mother. Tomorrow, I told myself, I’ll drive over to Grandma Suse’s house and hopefully get some much-needed answers.
CHAPTER FOUR
Answers & Questions
When I cracked my eyes open, the glowing green numbers on the clock on the nightstand read 7:43. For the first time since I’d been home, my cheeks and pillow were dry of tears, and even with the odd dream earlier in the night, it had been the best night of sleep I’d had in weeks. Groaning, I stretched languorously and tossed the covers to the foot of the bed. I pulled on a sweatshirt and some socks, arranged my hair in a loose ponytail, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
The coffeemaker was my first stop. My delightfully over-prepared mom had already loaded the filter with fresh grounds and the machine with water, so I just had to push the start button and wait. My favorite mug, covered in cheesy, cartoony Egyptian images, was already set out on the counter beside two other, far more grown-up mugs.
Catching my reflection in the window above the sink, I raised my eyebrows. I’d been smiling … for no apparent reason. Maybe I really am still me, I thought with wonder.
To distract myself from too much pre-coffee psychological analysis, I decided to make a big, fancy breakfast for my parents. I still had about a half hour before they came downstairs for their oddly rigid morning routine—plenty of time to make a Christmas Eve breakfast feast. After filling my mug with coffee, a splash of milk, and a spoon of sugar, I gathered some necessary ingredients on the counter. I was going to whip up a scrumptious batch of French toast.
As I cooked,
the sound of footsteps on the stairs forewarned me of my mom’s arrival. I turned from the stove to see her watching me from the doorway, smiling.
“Smells great, Lex,” she said cautiously. “What brought this on?” Translation: Why are you acting normal?
“Oh, I don’t know. Consider it a ‘thanks for putting up with me’ breakfast,” I replied, returning my attention to the bacon popping and crackling in a large frying pan.
Just as my dad entered the kitchen, I set a platter of food on the table. Joe Larson was a big man—a little over six feet tall and thicker around the middle than was probably healthy. His face had gained wrinkles and a certain middle-aged plumpness, but his crinkled eyes and easy smile still bespoke his gentle, friendly nature. His light brown hair was damp from his morning shower, and his face was freshly shaven. I smiled, thinking his morning routine hadn’t changed over the years.
Although he’d probably been attempting something resembling stealth, I caught the questioning look he aimed at my mom, as well as her answering grin. By the time I sat down across from him, my dad’s expression had changed to a self-satisfied smile that glowed with a silent “I told you so.” I refused to focus on the fact that, in the dream, he’d expressed confidence in my ability to handle the information about my paternity.
It’s not real! The thought was closely followed by another: I need to talk to Grandma.
“Mom?” I asked, drizzling syrup over my French toast.
She was chewing, so she only looked at me and mumbled, “Hmm?”
“Well, I know how you have a lot of cooking and whatnot to do today, so I was thinking I might do something to make it a little easier for you,” I said, my eyes wide in an attempt to look innocent.
“You want to help me cook?”
Forcing a smile, I replied, “Um … I’d love to when I get back. I was actually thinking I could go pick up Grandma for you. That way, you guys won’t have to leave at all. You won’t have to drive in the snow …”
Echo in Time: A Time Travel Romance (Echo Trilogy, #1) Page 3