"But only those particular calls were delayed?" I asked. "And Finn already said he never made the calls."
"So theory number two: the calls were from someone else."
"Someone who called me by name? Told me he loved me?"
"Okay, strike theory number two," Lindsay said. She eyed me nervously. "Which brings us to theory number three."
I knew where she was going. I didn't like it, but it wasn't like I hadn't thought about it myself. "You think Finn's lying."
"I don't think anything. I'm simply throwing out theories."
"Yeah, well, I don't like that one." I let out a heavy breath, air hissing between my clenched teeth. "But I have to admit it's possible. The question is, Why?"
Lindsay thought about that. "I don't know. Why would a guy who's basically choosing you over his family make a bunch of weird phone calls, and then say he didn't?"
"It doesn't make sense. None of this does."
Lindsay folded up the list and put it in her bag. "Well, there's only one thing to do, really."
"What?"
"Finn said he'd call again, right?"
"Yeah," I replied slowly. "Tomorrow."
"You need to let that call go to voicemail. Get a recording of it so you have some proof. Then you can confront him with it."
The thought made my stomach churn. "That feels kind of . . ."
"Brilliant?" she offered.
"I was thinking more like sneaky."
Lindsay huffed. "Look, Ro. If it really is Finn making these calls, and he is lying to you, there's only one way to find out. I mean, what's the alternative?"
"I don't know," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I just can't imagine why he would do something like that."
"Well, what other explanation is there?"
"There has to be one," I said, getting to my feet. "We just haven't figured it out yet."
"Okay, fine," Lindsay said, catching up to me as I headed down the street. "But it won't hurt anything to record the call, right? If anything, it'll help prove that it's not Finn. Then you can solve this together." She held out her hands, palms up, and smiled innocently. Hopefully.
Deceitfully. I didn't buy it for a second.
But she had a point. At least I'd have proof that it wasn't all in my head - that I wasn't imagining it.
Or maybe, I thought nervously, it would prove exactly that.
6:06 AM
Wednesday
My phone didn't wake me the next morning. It would have. I chose the most annoying ringtone I could find and cranked up the volume, terrified that I'd sleep through the next call from Fi— the next call from Private Number. Lindsay wanted to stay with me, but I fought her on that and won. She had an early-morning exam and I didn't need or want a babysitter.
I could do this on my own.
Fortunately, I didn't have a midterm until Friday, and it was in my Intro to World Religions class, which had been a piece of cake so far. There was no way I could have studied anyway. So Lindsay stuck around for a while and watched bad reality TV with me, and we ate popcorn and ice cream until I felt like I'd burst. She didn't leave until I promised her I was tired enough to sleep, and that I'd call her as soon as I heard from Finn. Or whoever.
But in the end, my phone didn't wake me because I hardly slept that night. Instead, I tossed and turned, moments of fitful dozing interspersed with hours of staring at the ceiling. I was mid-stare when the Macarena jolted me out of a daze, and I shot up into a sitting position, reaching for the phone at the same time.
But no. It had to go to voicemail.
It seemed like forever that I sat there staring at the screen, the words Private Number mocking me, and the electronic music harsh and grating in the silence. Everything in me ached to answer, to try again, but I knew Lindsay was right. I couldn't answer. Not this time.
So I waited until the music cut out and the little voicemail icon popped onto the screen. Then, with trembling fingers, I pressed it.
"You have one unheard message."
I held my breath, waiting.
"Hi, it's me . . . "
Before I heard another word, I forced myself to let out my breath slowly, calmly, and press the 9 button.
"Message saved."
Proof.
I replayed the message and put the phone on speaker, feeling a need to look at the screen as the message played back, as if watching the display somehow linked me more solidly to Finn. He sounded far away again, the call filled with extraneous noises, but I could still make out his words.
"Hi, it's me . . . oh, sorry, you must be sleeping. I forgot it's still early there."
I glanced at the clock to see it was just after six.
"Anyway, I'll be in meetings all morning, so if you call and I don't answer, that's why. I'll, uh, call when we get a break for lunch, okay? I really want to hear your voice." I heard a shuffling in the background, an intake of breath as if he was going to say something more. "Okay, then. Love you."
A click as the call ended, then, "You have no more saved messages."
I played it again . . . and again. Listening to the rising and falling tones, the structure of his words— searching for anything, any clue that would tell me it wasn't Finn.
But I couldn't find one.
With each passing second, each time re-playing the message, I only became more and more certain that it was Finn's voice on the phone. And while that answered one question, it only raised a thousand more.
Why?
Why did he insist he never called? That it wasn't him? Was something wrong with him? Was he calling me in his sleep or under some kind of hypnosis?
If not, why would he lie?
I wanted to call him. No, really, I wanted to see him. Play the message and watch his response when he heard his own unmistakable voice on the crackling connection. I was already on my feet and reaching for my keys when Finn's words registered.
". . . forgot it's still early there. . . meetings all morning . . . when we break for lunch . . ."
What was he talking about? He'd told me about trying to get back in school for the next quarter, but why would he be in meetings all morning? And how could he forget it’s early here?
I was missing something — something huge that tickled at the edge of my consciousness, but I couldn't figure out what it was. Words and ideas flitted through my mind, theories created and discarded, and I found myself scribbling in a notebook, creating a more detailed list than the one on the back of Lindsay's receipt.
I stared at the ink-filled page, neat columns marred by arrows pointing left and right, and reached for my phone to text Lindsay.
Coffee after your class?
The response was almost immediate.
Absolutely. Done at 9. See you then.
Then, barely a second later.
Did he call? Are you okay?
Was I? I took a shaky breath.
I'm fine. Just not sure what to do now.
I had to laugh at the next text.
I suggest a shower. See you at 9.
And since I had a few hours to kill, and nothing else to do but worry, I followed Lindsay's advice.
9:11 AM
I was on my second latte— which probably wasn't the best choice, given my current state of mind— when Lindsay blew through the coffee shop door and spotted me at our usual table in the back. The place was all but empty, a guy on a computer by the front door and the barista behind the counter our only company. Lindsay slid into the seat across from me, concern evident all over her face.
"How was your midterm?" I asked, tapping out a rhythm on my coffee cup with jittery fingers.
She waved away my question with an impatient frown. "Come on," she said. "Spill."
I let out a heavy breath and spun my phone on the table, letting it slow before I picked it up to dial into voicemail and switch on the speakerphone. I watched Lindsay with bated breath as the message played back.
"Hi, it's me . . . " I chewed on my thumbnail and focused on Linds
ay as she stared, forehead creased in concentration, at the phone lying on the table. She jumped when the automated voice kicked in and looked up at me.
"I don't understand," she said slowly.
"I know it's kind of a bad connection," I replied, thumbing at the phone. "Listen again."
"Ro—"
"No, shh," I said as the message started again. "Listen."
Lindsay sat obediently, watching me this time, instead of the phone. She continued to stare as the message ended and I disconnected the call. I didn't know what she was waiting for, why she was so quiet.
"Well?" I kind of snapped, impatient and on edge.
"Well what, Ro?" Lindsay said quietly. Too quietly.
Unease prickled up my spine at her confused, concerned expression. "You don't think it's him," I said, already knowing the answer.
At least I thought I did.
"You . . . " Lindsay swallowed. "You think Finn left that message?"
"Well, yeah. Of course I do," I replied, anxiety knotting in my stomach. "I know it's kind of hard to hear him—"
"You hear him?" She reached across the table and grabbed my hand, stilling my unconscious fidgeting. "What did he say?"
I stared at her blankly for a moment. "What do you mean? You heard him. He said—"
"Ro." She squeezed my hand. "I didn't hear him."
"But—" That couldn't be right. "Of course you did. It's not that loud in here."
She shook her head, eyes soft and sad. "I didn't, Ro. All I heard was some static."
"No. No, listen." I fumbled for the phone, switched it off speaker and dialed into voicemail again. "Put it against your ear this time."
"Ro—"
"Just do it!" I thrust the phone at her, oblivious to the others around us. "Please."
Lindsay took the phone and held it to her ear. I could hear Finn's voice even across the table, and I watched for her reaction, my heart racing. She had to hear it. She had to.
But after a moment she just slid the phone across the table. "I'm sorry, Ro."
"Nothing?" I whispered.
She shook her head.
"I . . . I don't understand," I said, my eyes still focused on the phone long after the screen went black. "No. No, it's him. I know it is." I shot to my feet and grabbed the phone, searching the coffee shop frantically until my gaze focused on the barista behind the counter.
"Ro, wait," Lindsay said, getting to her feet.
"No, I heard it. I know I did." I hurried to the counter, dialing along the way. "Excuse me," I said to the barista. "I need your help."
He smiled and reached for a cup. "Sure, another latte?"
"No, no more coffee. That's the last thing I need," I said with a forced laugh. At his confused expression, I held out the phone. "Would you listen to this voicemail please?"
He blinked. "You want me to—"
"Ro—" Lindsay reached for me, but I shook off her hand.
"Please," I said to the barista, not even embarrassed that I sounded so desperate.
Lindsay stepped up beside me, smiling. "It's a bet," she said. "I've got ten bucks on it. Could you just tell us what you hear?"
The barista looked back and forth between us, then shrugged and reached for the phone. I pressed the replay button and he held it to his ear, pursing his lips as he listened. After a moment, he handed it back to me.
"Some static," he said. "You got a crank caller?"
My heart sank. "You didn't hear anything else?"
He took a step back, probably because of my crazy eyes. Or my crazy face. Or my whole crazy demeanor.
"Not really." He turned to wait on a customer and I resisted the urge to ask him to listen again.
Lindsay took my arm gently and led me back to the table. I sank back into my chair, confusion and fear bringing tears to my eyes.
"Am I . . . am I losing it, Linds?"
To her credit, Lindsay didn't rush to reassure me, but looked at me closely, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "No," she said softly. Then, a little firmer. "No. You're not losing it. But something strange is going on here."
I exhaled a snorted laugh and brushed away my tears. "Yeah. That's putting it mildly."
"Okay, we need to focus," Lindsay said, reaching into her bag to pull out a pen. "Tell me what he said."
"Here." I produced my own notebook, flipping it open to my scratched out columns. Lindsay smiled tightly and clicked her pen to the ready.
I didn't even have to think this time. I'd heard the message so many times it was etched into my memory. I recited it to her with the same pauses and inflections, and described the noises in the background. Lindsay wrote it down word-for-word, then sat examining the page, the pen caught tight between her teeth.
"It's like . . . " She underlined a few words. "It's like he's calling from somewhere far away."
I gasped— not from shock, not really— but because she'd put voice to my own thoughts. "But he's here," I protested. "He lives ten minutes from here."
"Maybe . . . " Lindsay looked off over my shoulder, lost in thought.
"What is it?" I asked.
Lindsay's gaze focused on mine and she worked her jaw. I knew that look. It was the same look she had right before she said something about my aura or mentioned her sixth sense. The look that said she knew I didn't totally believe her, but that I would listen.
It was ironic that she wasn't the only one feeling like that lately.
"Tell me," I said.
"I think . . . what if? What if you've found a . . . portal of some kind?"
"Portal? Portal to what, exactly?"
Lindsay shrugged. "The spirit realm? Another dimension? I don't know."
My first instinct was to laugh. It spoke to my desperation that I clung to her words, though. I needed to believe there was an answer beyond that I was imagining things.
"You think I'm getting phone calls from Finn's spirit?" I asked, a chill running down my spine. "But . . . I mean, wouldn't he have to be dead for that?"
Lindsay sat back and laced her fingers together— her teaching pose. "You're thinking too linearly," she said, drawing a straight line with her finger in the air. "There is no time on the other side."
"So, you're saying, what? It's Finn's ghost, from the future?" It all sounded so ridiculous. But then again, so did getting voice mails that only I could hear.
"Or perhaps another Finn."
Okay, what? "Okay, what?"
Lindsay smirked. "It's kind of arrogant to think we're all there is, you know? There are theories of other dimensions, other universes or realities. Some that are very similar to our own. Maybe, somehow, you've been communicating with a Finn in one of those other realities."
I slumped back in my seat. "Come on, you don't really believe that, do you?"
"How else would you explain it?" She raised a brow in challenge and lifted a finger. "You're sure it's Finn on the phone. You don't think Finn— the Finn here and now— is lying about not calling you." She ticked off the items on her fingers. "The Finn on the phone seems to be calling from far away. And apparently only you can hear him." Lindsay leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Face it, Ro. You've opened a portal to another realm or something."
"Through my phone," I said flatly. "I can barely get service in Costco and you're telling me it's getting calls from another dimension?"
Lindsay just shrugged. "Don't make me quote Spock again."
"Sherlock."
"Whatever." She grabbed my hands across the table. "The point is, something is happening to you. And, like it or not, it seems to be something not of this world." She waved her hands wiggling her fingers to emphasize her words, then picked up her pen and tapped it on the list. I knew she was waiting. Waiting for me to respond, to acknowledge what she'd said.
To believe.
I wasn't quite there yet.
"Okay, let's say you're right." At her victorious look, I hurried to add, "Not that I'm saying you are, but hypothetically speaking." I waited until she no
dded slightly.
"How would it happen? And why? Am I supposed to, I don't know, do something?"
She frowned. "Like what?"
"I don't know." I threw up my hands and sat back. "But I would assume things like this happen for a reason. And if I've created some kind of portal, couldn't it cause a tear in space-time or something?"
Lindsay snorted. "Now who's quoting Spock?"
"Okay, touché," I said, rolling my eyes. "But you're the one who's so big on destiny and fate and . . . and karma and everything. Shouldn't there be a reason for all of this?"
Lindsay pondered that for a moment. "Yes, I would think so. It would seem Finn— the Finn on the phone— has a message for you. He has to be trying to tell you something."
"Tell me what, though?" I asked, more than a little exasperated. "He hasn't been saying anything significant."
Lindsay visibly deflated. "I don't know."
I reached for the notebook and flipped it around to study the list. "It's all outrageous anyway," I muttered. "Alternate realities and portals." I scanned the page before me.
I forgot it's early there.
We can make it through this.
"There's got to be some other explanation," I said.
The coffee stain - when did he change his shirt?
"Got to be . . . "
He's different. Something's different.
…meetings all morning…
Different
...it's early there.
"Ro?" Lindsay's voice jolted me out of my thoughts.
"What is it?" she asked.
I looked down at the notebook again, the pieces beginning to fit together in a strange, outlandish puzzle.
"These alternate dimensions or whatever," I said slowly. "If people can communicate between them . . ."
"Yeah?"
"Could they actually . . . God, this sounds so crazy." I slumped back and hid my face in my hands.
Lindsay reached across the table to pull my hands away. "Not crazy, Ro. What are you thinking? Tell me."
"Okay." I took a breath and went for broke. "Could someone actually travel between these realities?"
She frowned in concentration for a moment. "I'm no expert, Ro. But . . . yeah. From what I've read, it's theoretically possible with the right focus and if the veil between the realities is thin enough."
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