Echo Prophecy

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  I gave my dad a huge, grateful grin before glancing at my mom, eyebrows raised in hope.

  She blew out a breath. “Okay … but you have to promise to be careful.”

  “Of course, Mom.”

  Attempting to not appear in too much of a hurry, I excitedly told my dad everything I knew about the excavation—which wasn’t very much—and the supervisory role I would be playing. My mom had already heard it all back in Seattle, but she didn’t seem to mind. Eventually, I finished my breakfast and offered to help with the dishes. After all, I’d created most of them.

  “Don’t worry about it,” my dad told me. “Why don’t you just go get ready and then head over to Grandma Suse’s?”

  Surprised, but not wanting to waste my escape route, I rushed out of the kitchen to prepare for the day. I got ready in record time.

  ***

  Sitting in my mom’s parked, ruby-red sedan, I stared out the windshield at my grandma’s home. A true product of its time, the house was all bricks, winter-barren ivy, white trim, and huge windows, with a large arched porch that led to the front door. Its street was filled with other brick Tudors that looked just like it and yet were completely different at the same time, all remnants of the early 1900s.

  After a few contemplative moments, I abandoned the warmth of the car and crunched across the de-iced driveway and pathway that spanned the front yard. I walked through Grandma Suse’s unlocked front door, shut it loudly to let her know someone was there, and hung my coat and mittens on the antique coatrack set off to one side in the narrow entryway. The house wasn’t small—it held enough bedrooms that each of Grandma Suse’s three children had grown up with their own room—but it had been built before the “bigger is always better” ideal truly took over. Throughout the house, the floor was a dark hardwood, and the rooms were smaller, the hallways narrower, and the doors just a little bit shorter than those in a modern home.

  Making my way down the hallway toward the family room, I could hear the quiet chatter of the TV. “Hi, Grandma,” I chirped, poking my head around the doorway into the cozy room.

  Susan Ivanov, otherwise known as Grandma Suse, was lounging in her favorite blue suede armchair with a fuzzy yellow blanket draped over her legs. Her hair was perfectly arranged in a gray halo and her sparkly red and green sweater screamed Christmas!

  “Lex?” she asked, evidently surprised that I wasn’t my mom, who she’d expected to pick her up. Before she could stand, I rushed over to hug her. Tiny bells jingled on her sleeves as she wrapped arms that were more frail than I remembered around me.

  “Well, this is a surprise! What are you doing here, honey? Not that I mind …”

  Her bright, hazel eyes stayed locked on me as I flopped into an oversized, brown leather chair a few feet from hers. It had been my late grandpa’s chair and was by far my favorite place to lounge in the entire house.

  “I convinced Mom to let me pick you up. She had so much stuff to do and I haven’t seen you in, I don’t know, a year … so I thought, you know …” I shrugged.

  Grandma Suse watched me as I spoke, her eyes keen. “Oh, and how are you, honey? Your mom said she told you about your dad—said you’ve been having a tough time. Sweetheart, is there anything I can do?” she asked, radiating grandmotherly warmth.

  I hesitated, a little surprised at her directness. “I don’t know, Grandma. I guess … I just wish there was a way for me to know who my real father is.”

  “Honey, Joe Larson will always be your real father. Whether or not you share his genes, he’s still a part of who you are. Nothing will change that,” she said, her eyes glittering with moisture.

  I clenched my jaw as the crushing weight of a handful of emotions momentarily overwhelmed me. In my heart, I knew Grandma Suse was right—my dad really was my dad. He’d always been there to pick me up when I fell, and he’d fostered my love of both history and reading. He’d helped shape me into the person I’d become. In every way that mattered, he was my dad, but I didn’t feel the same assuredness in my own identity. I didn’t feel like I was still his little girl … still me. Part of me was lost, and I didn’t know where—or how—to find it again.

  I sighed. “You know what I mean … I’m not trying to replace Dad. I just want to know who my biological father is because, you know, what if some freaky disease runs in his family and I don’t know to watch out for it?” I’d voiced a reason, but not the reason for my curiosity. What I really wanted to know was what kind of a person he was. I wanted to know if I was like him, even the tiniest bit. I wanted to know something … anything.

  “Well, sweetheart … I don’t know who he is. The clinic your parents used was very careful about keeping that information confidential.” She suddenly looked frustrated. “They said it was ‘to protect the donor.’”

  An idea formed in my head—what if the information was confidential then, but isn’t anymore? “I don’t suppose you know the name of the clinic, do you?” I asked.

  She paused before answering. “Maybe.”

  “Will you please tell me, Grandma? Please? Nothing has ever been so important to me,” I pleaded, desperate.

  Grandma Suse held my eyes for a moment, wariness adding new creases to her wrinkled face. “It was in Seattle,” she finally said. “But I don’t know if it’s still there. If I remember right—which really would be amazing—it was called Emerald City Fertility.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Thank you so so much, Grandma!” Emerald City Fertility, I repeated silently. I quickly made a note in my iPhone. With my history of random acts of forgetfulness, not writing it down somewhere was far too risky.

  “Do your parents know you’re looking into this?” Grandma Suse asked, her eyes sharp behind her thick, rosy-rimmed glasses.

  The question took me by surprise. In my haste to dig up answers, I hadn’t considered the possibility that Grandma Suse might tell my parents about my sleuthing. I bit my bottom lip as my stomach grumbled.

  “I didn’t think so,” Grandma Suse said with a frown. “Well, maybe it’s best if we just keep this between you, me, and the lamppost for now, dear.” She rose and shuffled across the several feet separating us to pat my knee, then said, “Let me go finish getting my things together and we can be on our way. I’ll be quick as a bunny.”

  “Take your time, Grandma,” I said, grateful she would keep my inquisitive secret … at least for a little while.

  Suddenly exhausted, I rested my head against the back of the cushy leather chair. Years ago, when Grandma Suse’s mobility had dwindled to the point that going up and down the stairs was akin to playing Russian roulette, my mom and I had moved her into the single downstairs bedroom. Currently, I could hear my grandma’s soft voice as she puttered around in her room, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to register her words.

  My grandma was sitting on the left arm of the same chair where I’d fallen asleep. She looked younger than I’d ever seen her. A very handsome man sat in the chair, his hand resting on Grandma Suse’s lower back. With his dirty blond hair and strong, chiseled features, he was easily recognizable from photographs—my grandpa. On the couch opposite my grandparents sat my mom and dad, holding hands. Judging by my mom’s hairstyle, I figured she was around twenty-five years old. Before she had kids … before she had me.

  From my position in the doorway between the family room and the hallway to the front door, I observed their conversation, watching … listening. Everything about the room was wrong. Where are all the knickknacks? And the pictures on the walls didn’t belong in my grandma’s house—they were supposed to be at my parents’ house. In fact, the painting hanging on the wall above my grandparents’ heads—of a dusky, sunlit forest—was currently in my old bedroom.

  An unfamiliar male voice interrupted my confused examination of the room. Strong and clear, it was faintly accented with Italian. It belonged to my grandpa. “I asked around,” he said. “I think I found a good place for you kids to go. The doctor is
very reliable. I know another family he helped.”

  At hearing his voice, my confusion tripled. I’d never heard anything about him being from Italy, and I never would have guessed based on his appearance; he was so fair. In fact, I was pretty sure my mom had told me his ancestors fought in the American Revolution.

  “We’re ready to try anything, Dad,” my mom said, and beside her, my dad nodded. “So, where’s this place?”

  “It’s called Emerald City Fertility in Seattle. It’s run by a Dr. James Lee. He is one of the best in his field.”

  “Do you know if they’re accepting new patients?” my dad asked.

  My grandpa glanced down sheepishly before meeting my parents’ eyes. “Well … yes. In fact, I may have already set up an appointment for you.” He rushed his next words. “I know you were planning on spending the afternoon here, but I thought you’d want to meet the doctor as soon as possible. They’re expecting you in about four hours, so …”

  “Oh! Um … thanks?” My mom said, giggling nervously. “I guess we should hit the road.”

  My parents quickly said their goodbyes and departed, slamming the front door in their excitement. After they were gone, Grandma Suse twisted on the arm of the chair to gaze down at my grandpa.

  “Are you sure this is safe, Alex?” she asked, more than a hint of anxiety straining her voice. “You know what could happen if he …” She trailed off, pressing her lips into a thin line.

  “I’ve seen all of the possibilities, Suse. He won’t interfere in this generation. The child will be fine. It will be normal,” he assured her.

  What the hell does any of that mean? This generation? Interfere? He, who? Normal?

  “He’s right, Susan,” a man said from the living room’s other doorway, the one leading to the dining room. “We’ve kept the two lines separate for more than four thousand years. Nothing he’s tried has worked so far, and that’s not going to change in the next twenty-five years. The prophecy will be invalidated and all will be right.”

  My confusion increased with every additional word. What does he mean by “prophecy”? And there’s that “he” again. I abruptly realized there was something familiar about the hidden man’s voice. Slowly, I crossed the room toward it, toward him, but something stopped me … someone. Long, golden-brown fingers were gripping my shoulder.

  I turned my head and started to raise my eyes …

  I awoke to Grandma Suse shaking me by the shoulder. With a rush, realization dawned on me. The dream I’d just had felt the same as the one the previous night … and the one with Dr. Ramirez. It felt too real, too much like a memory. Oh my God … I’m losing it, I thought.

  “I made us a snack before we hit the road,” Grandma Suse said, setting a plate of food on the wide chair arm.

  Eyeing a delicious-looking sandwich piled high with sliced turkey, cheddar, lettuce, and tomatoes, I said, “Aw, Grandma, you didn’t have to do that. It’s only fifteen minutes back to Mom and Dad’s, and … I would’ve helped if—”

  “Nonsense, dear. You looked so peaceful … I wanted to let you rest for a while longer,” she said as she carried a second plate to her usual chair.

  “Thanks, Grandma.” I took a bite and savored the flavors that only she could coax into something as generic as a turkey and cheese sandwich. I was pretty sure it was the combination of toasted bread and real mayonnaise, but my sandwiches never tasted as good, even when I did my best to mimic her methods.

  “Yum,” I mumbled as I swallowed. “So, Mom told me the painting in my room—the one of the forest—used to be here,” I lied. “Where was it?”

  Chewing, Grandma Suse pointed to the exact location where I’d seen the painting in my dream—on the wall behind the chair I was sitting in. My blood seemed to transform into liquid nitrogen, giving me chills as it circulated throughout my body. How’d I know that … dream that? It was one hell of an odd coincidence.

  In archaeology, all claims must be substantiated by hard evidence, usually in the form of artifacts, ruins, or historical texts. The methodology was ingrained in my bones. I needed to dig deeper—to find more evidence—so I could know what was going on. Was I was losing my mind? I just needed to know.

  Thinking of another, relatively safe piece of information from the dream—the doctor’s name—I asked, “So, this Dr. Lee, did you ever meet him?” I was surprised that my voice didn’t tremble as I spoke.

  Grandma Suse nodded, watching me while she finished her bite. “Yes, honey. I went with your mom to a few of her appointments. He was a very competent doctor. He was a little young, but …” As she trailed off, her thoughtful smile disappeared and worry temporarily shadowed her face, but she quickly masked her features with a pleasant, placid expression.

  I took another bite, feigning obliviousness. How did I know the doctor’s name? The painting’s location could have been a coincidence, but the doctor’s name … ? It just didn’t seem possible. What the hell is going on? My heart was pounding so hard that I feared my grandma would be able to hear it. I finished my sandwich, playing at normalcy, though I’d lost my appetite somewhere between maybe I’m losing it and I’m definitely losing it.

  After minutes passed with only the low sounds of a tennis match intruding on our silence, I picked up Grandma Suse’s empty plate. “I’ll take care of the dishes, then we can head over to Mom and Dad’s. I know Mom would love some help in the kitchen.”

  “Sounds good, sweetheart.” Grandma Suse smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  While I rinsed our plates in the kitchen sink, I thought about my grandma’s reaction to my knowing Dr. Lee’s name. She’d been worried—or afraid. Why? Because I’m clearly acting like a crazy person, I told myself.

  “I think the dishes are rinsed,” Grandma Suse said from behind me, her voice gentle.

  Startled, I laughed before turning off the water and gathering my things to leave. I slipped my hands into my mittens as I followed my grandma to the front door, sparing a glance back up the hallway. My mind was filled with questions. Who was the hidden man in my dream? Who grabbed my shoulder? What had my grandparents been talking about after my parents left? And most importantly, why are my dreams becoming so … real?

  A single word kept replaying in my mind: impossible.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sisters & Friends

  It was a short, pleasant drive from Grandma Suse’s to my parents’ house. In less than fifteen minutes, I learned everything that had happened to my aunts, uncles, and cousins over the past year. Grandma Suse had always been a font of knowledge when it came to matters of the family.

  As I pulled into the slick driveway of my family’s firmly middle-class home, I stopped beside my sister’s sky-blue hybrid. Evidently Jenny had arrived while I was out and had parked directly in front of the garage door I needed. Irritated, I rolled my eyes and inched my mom’s car as close to the garage as possible.

  “Sorry, Grandma … looks like we’re going to have to walk on the ice for a few feet,” I said as I pushed the little gray button on the garage door opener. When my frail, elderly grandma opened the passenger side door, I quickly added, “Wait a second and I’ll come help you, okay?”

  “Alright, dear,” she agreed, sitting back in her seat.

  I rushed around the front bumper and gripped her arm to steady her as she emerged from the car. Slowly, we traversed the ice to the safety of the garage floor.

  My mom greeted us from the glowing doorway leading into the house. “You didn’t slip at all, did you, Mom?” she asked, concerned.

  “No, no, Alice. Lex and I skated our way to the garage quite gracefully.” She caught my eye, and I spotted hints of a suppressed smile glittering behind her glasses.

  I grinned. “Yeah, Mom. I think we earned a nine-point-five for balance and a ten for our expert spins.”

  “You two!” my mom said, throwing her hands up. “You act more like sisters than Lex and Jenny do!”

  “We look like sisters, too. I only have
a few more wrinkles than Lex,” Grandma Suse claimed.

  My mom rolled her eyes expertly. “Please, Mom. Don’t kid yourself.”

  “Oh, that’s my Alice … such a sweet girl,” Grandma Suse responded, reaching up to pat my mom’s cheek as she ascended the three wooden stairs to the doorway.

  With an exasperated smile, my mom held the door open so we could enter the warm laundry room. Grandma Suse was through the doorway leading into the living room before me, issuing cheerful greetings to my dad and sister. From the sound of the television, they were watching A Christmas Story for the eight-thousandth time.

  “Grandma!” Jenny practically screamed as she bounced up off the couch and flew toward us. She slowed in time to give Grandma Suse a gentle hug and lead her to the cushy recliner next to the couch.

  “Nice to see you too, J,” I muttered. In the back of my mind I was thinking about what I’d recently learned regarding my paternity. I couldn’t help but wonder if we even shared the same biological father. It was a legitimate question, considering the many differences between Jenny and me—she was creative where I was logical, she was sincere where I was sarcastic, and she seemed to spend half of her life sick with the flu, strep throat, or chronic allergies while I couldn’t remember having more than a hint of sniffles.

  “Good to see you, Suse,” my dad said. “Would you like something to drink?” He raised his dark brown beer bottle. It appeared to be some sort of winter ale that no doubt resembled motor oil.

  Grandma Suse smiled. “Yes, thank you, Joe. I’d love some tea.”

  “Oh … I, um, don’t really know …” he stuttered.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll take care of it,” I said, chuckling.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Thanks, Lelee.”

  Lelee. The old nickname nearly brought tears to my eyes, and Grandma Suse’s earlier words replayed in my head. Joe Larson will always be your real father. No matter what, I would always be his little girl … his Lelee. Close to tears—the happy variety for once—I joined my mom in the kitchen.