Echo Prophecy

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  I sat in the chair on the right, unable to repress my desire to examine the cluttered bookshelves lining the walls on either side of the office. They were filled with volumes of every color and size. Many of the spines were faded with age, some even flaking, making them stand out next to their younger brethren. Beside books on many of the shelves lay little trinkets and photographs from all over the world. Like always, I felt the overwhelming urge to examine each item, to discover its meaning, origin, and personal value to Dr. Ramirez.

  “So, Alexandra,” Dr. Ramirez said, interrupting my visual reverie. He’d seated himself in his old-fashioned, brown leather executive chair. “How do you think this quarter went?”

  Unashamed, I said, “Really well.”

  Dr. Ramirez smiled. “Specifically, what do you think your top achievements were?”

  I crossed my legs, pursed my lips, and thought for a moment. Finally, I said, “My dissertation proposal was accepted several weeks ago, as you know. I’m really excited to move forward with it next quarter. My ability to translate hieroglyphic, hieratic, and demotic texts has progressed really well … and I started learning Coptic, too.” I wiggled my foot. “Umm … I won’t know for sure until after I’ve graded their final papers, but I think my undergrads did really well this quarter.” I paused, knowing I was forgetting something. “Oh, and I was published in a major archaeology journal,” I added proudly.

  Leaning back, Dr. Ramirez intertwined his fingers and rested his hands on his belly. For a moment he merely studied me, and I tried not to fidget under his pondering gaze. “You know, I don’t usually take on graduate students … but I have to admit, accepting you was a very good decision on my part,” he stated, giving himself a verbal pat on the back. I half-expected him to physically do it, reaching his arm over his shoulder. He didn’t.

  “Thank you,” I responded, stifling the sudden urge to giggle. I glanced down at my hands.

  “I’ve spoken with all of your professors. They’re all very impressed with your progress. And your proposal—I’m really quite excited to see where this project ends up taking you. I’m expecting great things from you, Alexandra.”

  At the moment, all I could do was smile … and blush. Dr. Ramirez’s overt praise stunned me.

  “Now, unless you have any questions, I believe we’re done for the quarter. Grade your students’ papers early and make sure you enjoy your break—and get some well-deserved rest,” he ordered with mock severity.

  Hearing the dismissal, I stood. “I will. Thank you, Dr. Ramirez,” I said before heading for the door.

  “Oh, and Alexandra …”

  Pausing with my hand on the doorknob, I looked back at him over my shoulder.

  “I hope the excavation works out—I know you’re perfect for the job,” he told me, grinning before turning his attention to some papers on his desk.

  “Thanks,” I replied quietly. “Have a nice break, professor.” I slipped out of his office, gently pulling the door shut behind me.

  ***

  An hour later, I was unlocking my apartment door. I was more than ready to begin winter break—even if it was as low-key as hanging out with my cat in my seventh-floor apartment, grading mind-numbingly boring final papers and overindulging on pop culture via the television. The only thing to break up the glorious couch time would be a three-day Christmas visit with my family in Central Washington.

  My little brown tabby, Thora—I’d named her after the adored Egyptian goddess, Hathor—greeted me with a soft meow from her perch on her favorite windowsill. The building was nearly one hundred years old, and it had the single-pane windows, scuffed hardwood floors, and steam radiators to prove it. It worked out well for Thora—the windows made the cars, busses, and pedestrians who trafficked the street below sound like they were in the apartment and thus provided her ample entertainment—but it was more of a bummer for me. I liked quiet … and sleep.

  “Hey, Thora. Are you ready for break?” I sang, crossing the cramped living room to scratch under her chin. I earned a loud purr in response and watched her bright green eyes narrow to happy slits.

  My apartment was pretty standard to a century-old building—the kitchen was tiny, with ceramic tile countertops, a deep, porcelain sink, and absolutely no dishwasher; the living room was cramped, with barely enough room for a sienna microsuede couch, an antique walnut steamer trunk that doubled as a coffee table, a pair of tall, matching bookcases finished to resemble walnut, and a small, flat-screen television; and beyond the living room, the small bedroom, adjoining bathroom, and closet were equally as spacious—as in, not at all. The place was cozy, and I loved it.

  I dropped my messenger bag on the couch and headed straight for my room to change into comfy, dry clothes—a plain white T-shirt, a zip-up hoodie displaying the name of my favorite band, Johnny Stopwatch, and some black sweatpants that had long since faded to gray. Finally feeling more like a human than a swamp monster, I sat on the couch, pulled out my thin, steel-gray laptop, tapped the power button, and waited. As the slender machine hummed to life, I stared through the rain-streaked window. I had a view of the university campus, an artful arrangement of graceful brick buildings and emerald-green grass and pines. People hurried along crisscrossing paths like ants in an ant farm, eager to get to their next class, if only to be out of the incessant drizzle.

  Unexpected anticipation fluttered in my stomach as my attention returned to the computer screen. The email window was open—it almost always was—and there was a new message from Professor Bahur. Hesitantly, I opened it and began to read.

  Ms. Larson,

  I am excited to hear of your interest in participating in my excavation. Attached you will find a document containing further details of this project and your potential position. I would like to set up a time to meet so we can solidify your participation. I also want to make sure you know what you are getting into and that you have time to prepare—it will be quite the adventure. Are you available to meet up the Thursday or Friday before the start of the new quarter? Please let me know what time is good for you, and I will rearrange my schedule accordingly.

  I am looking forward to meeting you, Ms. Larson, as you come very highly recommended.

  Marcus Bahur

  Professor of Classical Archaeology

  University of Washington

  University of Oxford

  For the first time, I wondered what the mysterious, visiting professor looked like. His permanent position was at Oxford, so I figured he was British, and his formal language patterns indicated someone older and gentlemanly … possibly with a crazy mustache or overgrown eyebrows. Shaking the frivolous thoughts away, I opened the attachment and scanned it, looking for dollar signs. I found them.

  Oh. My. God. I sat back on the couch, staring at the screen. I could more than afford to participate in the dig. Housing and food would be provided, and along with a stipend for leisure and travel expenses, I’d get paid a sizable commission for my finds. The bigger the discovery, the more money in my pocket. It was, in a word, unbelievable.

  Without hesitation, I sent a quick reply to Professor Bahur, informing him that I was eager to participate and that I was available to meet with him on either that Thursday or Friday, whenever worked best for him. Despite my curiosity about the professor and his extravagant excavation, I could wait the three weeks … barely.

  Just as I clicked send, my phone vibrated. I plucked it out of the little pocket on the side of my bag, and seeing the caller’s name, answered. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, honey,” my mom, Alice, replied. Disappointment was heavy in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, instantly concerned. “Is Grandma okay?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that. I was hoping to surprise you by showing up at your place tonight, but the darn pass is closed. But … I should be able to make it over there by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh … well … I didn’t know you were coming! That’s so sweet, Mom!” I said, genuinely excite
d. It had been more than six months since I’d seen my mom, and I missed her. Besides, I could barely wait to tell her the great news about the excavation. “I’m excited to see you!”

  “Me too, sweetie. Let’s just hope the weather behaves.”

  “My fingers are crossed,” I said, actually crossing my left index and middle fingers. “Will you call me when you leave?”

  “Of course!” she exclaimed, laughing. “I want to make sure you have time to clean up all the piles on your floor.”

  I rolled my eyes, avoiding looking at the various mounds of books, clothes, and mail strewn haphazardly around the apartment. “Thanks, Mom, that’s so thoughtful of you,” I said dryly.

  “I’m just being your mom, Lex … trying to take care of you,” she stated with mock concern.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I paused, then added, “And Mom?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m glad you’re coming.”

  “Me too. Bye, sweetie.”

  “Bye, Mom.” I tapped the screen to end the call. After only a few seconds of thought, the phone was back up to my ear.

  In the middle of the third ring, I was greeted by the voice of Cara, a young, prosperous businesswoman and one of my best friends. “Hey, Lex.”

  “So … I just found out something amazing,” I said, leading her with my excitement.

  “What?”

  “Guess,” I ordered.

  “Umm … you’re a princess?”

  I laughed out loud. “Definitely not.”

  “Didn’t think so. You won a Caribbean cruise?”

  “Nope.”

  “You dropped out of grad school and decided to pursue life as a nun?”

  I choked on nothing. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Alright, I give up,” she sighed, and I could hear a smile in her voice.

  After listening to me tell her about the two emails from Professor Bahur and that I would almost certainly be working as one of the leaders of an excavation in Egypt—my dream—Cara squealed. Very, very loudly.

  Unfortunately, I pulled the phone away too late, and my ear rang from her high pitch and volume. Even Thora stirred from her study of the pedestrians far below to glare at the phone.

  With obvious urgency, Cara blurted, “This calls for immediate, emergency celebrating! I’ll call Annie right now, okay? We’ll be over in a couple hours for dinner before we go out.”

  “Umm … I don’t really have anything to make …”

  “No problem. Annie and I’ll stop by the store on our way—we’ll surprise you!” she said, her words bursting with enthusiasm.

  “Sounds good,” I replied.

  “Great! See you soon!” She hung up before I could say goodbye.

  Glancing at my laptop screen, I noticed there was a new message in the inbox. It was from the professor—I couldn’t believe how quickly he’d replied.

  Ms. Larson,

  Very well. How about Friday at 3:30 in the afternoon at the café in the Burke Museum? Please let me know if either the time or location is unsuitable to you.

  Until then,

  Marcus Bahur

  Professor of Classical Archaeology

  University of Washington

  University of Oxford

  “If nothing else, Thora, this should be interesting,” I muttered, reaching over the arm of the couch to rub the top of the tabby’s head.

  ***

  I’d been waiting at the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder with dozens of other patrons, for about ten minutes. Finally, a harried bartender finished making the three drinks I’d ordered—all vodka cranberries—and set them on the bar. I paid in cash and reached for the drinks just as the woman on my right lurched against me. In my attempt to grab the bar for support, I knocked two of the glasses over, and bright red liquid splashed directly onto the man beside me.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, leaning away too late.

  “Oh no!” I stared at the blaring crimson stain marring the lower half of his formerly pristine, pale gray shirt. “Oh God! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to …” I trailed off, losing all sense of coherency when I glanced up.

  Eyes the color of Baltic amber held my gaze, too vibrant and rich to be considered brown. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were an artifice. Strong, straight, and defined, his bronze features were equally as striking, especially when paired with the hint of dark-as-night hair covering his shaved head. He was absolutely stunning.

  As he watched me, frustration seemed to blanket his face. “It’s not a problem,” he assured me in a deep, smooth-as-milk-chocolate voice. It was slightly accented, sounding Middle Eastern with a sprinkling of French and maybe a touch of German or Swedish.

  “But … but …” was all I could say.

  The corners of the stranger’s mouth turned down in a partial frown and he shook his head. “Really, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are—are you sure?” I asked quietly, incapable of breaking eye contact but desperately needing to. I blamed my awkwardness on the wine I’d consumed during dinner. He’s just a guy in a bar, I told myself. Get a grip!

  “Yes, perfectly,” he assured me again. “I believe your friends are waiting for you—if those”—he smirked as his eyes flicked to the table where Cara and my other best friend, Annie, were sitting—“are your friends?”

  Following his eyes, I found Annie and Cara, watching us in awe. Their wide-eyed expressions mirrored mine perfectly. “Um, yeah … those are my friends,” I admitted, and then I remembered that they had been two-thirds of the reason I’d been at the bar. “Damn! Their drinks … now I’ll have to wait for another ten minutes,” I muttered.

  Within seconds, the enthralling stranger had snagged a bartender and ordered replacements for my spilled beverages. “I’ll help you carry them … to make sure they actually make it to their destination this time,” he teased.

  I didn’t know how to reply to that, and he didn’t wait, so I just followed him to the table where Cara, a blue-eyed goldilocks, and Annie, a half-Japanese beauty, sat and stared. They gaped at my new acquaintance as he set the drinks on the table.

  “I hope you ladies have a nice night,” he said, flashing us a tight-lipped smile. He met my eyes one last time, then turned and walked away.

  “Whoa!” Cara nearly shouted.

  “Uh … yeah,” Annie added.

  “I know,” I agreed. Wishing the gorgeous stranger had joined us, I searched the crowd for him, but he’d already disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mom & Dad

  I sat down beside my mom, curling my legs under me and relaxing into the couch with a satisfied sigh. My belly was full of the most delicious take-out Thai food the University District had to offer, my mom was with me and nearly as excited about the upcoming excavation as I was, and I had nothing but free time for weeks to come. Damn, life is good.

  “Sweetie,” my mom began in a voice that instantly told me something was wrong. “I came out here for a reason … not just to surprise you.” She took a deep breath, either to calm her nerves or strengthen her resolve. “Your dad and I were talking the other night, and we decided that, well … Lex, haven’t you ever wondered why you don’t really look like your dad?” she asked, gazing intently at the empty wine glass in her hand. Sickly yellow light from the kitchen reflected off its convex, crystalline surface.

  What’s that supposed to mean? Tons of people don’t look much like their parents. Why would she ask me that? Unless … she can’t mean that … Dad’s not my …

  My mom had asked me a question. But her words … I couldn’t figure out what they meant. Deciphering the true, hidden meaning behind words was what I was best at, but I couldn’t decipher these words. They implied that there was something I should have noticed before, something that should have been obvious. But she can’t mean that Dad’s not my … not my …

  Suddenly, I was more aware of the bite-sized living room than ever before
. The bookcases set against the opposite wall were in serious need of dusting, and I had the urge to reorganize the hefty collection of historical fiction and romance books packed onto the shelves. The framed prints on the wall between the bookcases captivated me more than ever before. Dali’s Persistence of Memory stood out beyond all others. I felt a strange kinship with the melting pocket watches, like I, too, was losing form.

  On my right hand, my grandpa’s ring became hypnotizing. Grandma Suse, his widow, gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, and I’d had the wide, silver band resized to fit my slender ring finger. Its inky obsidian stone seemed to suck in the light rather than reflect it back to the waiting world. Was my greedy ring sucking in all of the air too? I couldn’t seem to draw a full breath.

  Haven’t you ever wondered why you don’t really look like your dad?

  It was true—I didn’t really resemble my dad. Had I noticed before? I looked so much like my mom that I’d figured I’d inherited less obvious characteristics from my dad—his laugh, the way he walked, his single-minded determination. But now, I realized those characteristics were undefinable as well. Truth stared me in the face, forcing me to see. She really means that Dad’s not my real dad.

  But why tell me now? How did this happen? Possibilities, vile and corrosive, swirled around in my mind. Had my parents separated and been with other people before I was born? Had my mom had an affair? Had I been adopted? The last, I knew without a doubt, was wrong—other than differences in coloring, I was practically a physical clone of my mom. But an affair or separation was still a possibility. Is my happy family a lie?

  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 …