Annabeth Neverending Read online

  “Dad, are you sure we need to do this?” I ask, my eyes pleading.

  “We should do what the doctor thinks is best.” My dad’s pinched expression shows he doesn’t necessarily think Dr. Zaki knows what’s right, but he doesn’t argue either. If only my dad had a little more backbone. He always caves. I don’t want to be with a guy who blindly gives in to all my whims. Although a practitioner of black magic is probably going too far in the other direction.

  My eyelids snap open like rubber bands that have been pulled to their limit and released. I’m doubled over, my arms curled into my torso while lying in a rumpled lump on the hard, speckled linoleum. While my stomach doesn’t hurt, exactly, it feels like it should be aching. It’s as though there’s a phantom pain emanating within me. Wracking my innards, pulsating through my midsection.

  There are several nurses lying on the ground, surrounding me, crying softly to themselves. I run to give each of them aid in turn, struggling a bit as I yank them to their feet. Their joint gratitude leaves something to be desired. They thank me in a decidedly low-key, unappreciative fashion.

  Why are they eying me so angrily? Why do they bristle at my touch? It’s obvious that I sleepwalked, but what exactly did I do?

  “You attacked us,” says one of the nurses stiffly.

  The stark apprehension of what I’ve done makes me feel so awful that a survival mechanism goes off, making me feel nothing. I’ve gone dead inside. How do I respond to such an accusation? Yet, it has to be true.

  “I’m so sorry! I don’t even remember…How could I know?”

  I fly over to Dr. Zaki, who’s sitting on the ground, nursing his eye. He’s moaning, milking it for all it’s worth. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself to relieve the guilt. The remorse. Over crimes I don’t even remember having committed. Good thing they can’t put you in juvie for such things, or I’d be serving quite a sentence.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” I say sincerely, wringing my hands and waiting to hear him out. Because like it or not, he’s going to have a lot to say, a lot that I won’t want to know. “I can’t believe I did that to you. I could have sworn I strapped myself down.”

  “You did. You broke the straps. I don’t understand how a little thing like you exhibited such brute strength, but I suppose the body is capable of amazing things,” he explains, getting to his feet. He places his hands on his head and rotates it around until it cracks. “And you weren’t just fighting; you were speaking in gibberish. Sleeptalking.”

  I must have been speaking ancient Egyptian. A language long dead, long lost. It never occurred to me that the ancient Egyptian language I spoke in my memories might spill over into my dreams. I mean, I know that’s supposedly a sign of fluency. It really is a shame that ancient Egyptian (specifically my dialect, which is today referred to as “Late Egyptian”) seems to be a language known only to me. I’d try to recapture it while awake, but that would make for one dull conversation.

  “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t control yourself, your mind or your body, when you’re sleeping.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about…injuring others. The very people who’ve been trying to treat me.”

  “Before we start discussing that, I want you to see what happened.”

  “How?”

  “I’m sure we caught the whole incident on the surveillance camera.”

  I drag my feet while following the doctor to the dingy security office, where they zip through the grainy footage of visitors passing through the hallway, nurses checking on patients, and doctors doing their rounds. Finally, we arrive at the dreaded black-and-white footage of me. I don’t even want to watch it…and yet I do. My enquiring mind wants to know about my paranormal activity.

  Because it’s late at night, the area surrounding my room is empty. I lurch outside my entryway. I can tell that I’m still dozing by the staccato rhythm of my breathing, but my eyes are open. I’m in a trancelike state, looking like a zoned-out zombie. As I continue on my way, the various needles that have been taped to my limbs are pulling out of my skin.

  I wince watching it, grateful that it happened when I couldn’t feel the accompanying discomfort. The IV drip continues to hang on, and its metal stand follows after me like an obedient dog. I grab it, taking it into my arm as though it’s a weapon.

  I’m chanting, looking possessed, foundering in my nightmare. Some nurses turn a corner and seem shocked to find me. They pivot, about to dash off, but I bash the nurses in the legs with my pole without breaking a sweat. They’re scrunched up into terrorized balls, like bits of detritus on a badly littered sidewalk.

  I scream, and then my mouth locks down in anger. I swing around the metal pole like I’m battling an invisible opponent. Dr. Zaki arrives, catching me in the throes of my sleep skirmish.

  In the video, it looks like Dr. Zaki’s going to make a run for it. I glance in his direction, and he looks away, sheepish. Surely he’s embarrassed that I saw his lapse into cowardice. But the sleepwalking me won’t let him off easy. I get up and resume my battle. I head off the physician, who attempts, in vain, to defend himself. But even in a state of sleep, my movements are like quicksilver. I take the pole and slam it into Dr. Zaki’s face. He reels and falls to the floor in a heap.

  Meanwhile, I collapse in on myself as though I’ve been bludgeoned in the midsection. A scream escapes my lips, and my eyes close, only to open seconds later.

  12

  My violent new turn is so much worse than the regular sleepwalking, which was already bad enough. I remember the first time I awakened from one of my episodes, only to find myself in a flimsy nightgown and bare feet on a remote road, awash with confusion.

  A kind hand grabbed my arm, that of a police officer who’d been called to the scene and spoke to me in subdued tones while I regained my faculties. He brought me home and informed my family of my strange sleep-time journey, which turned into an unfortunate predilection, setting off a chain of sleep studies and medical treatments that tapped out my parents financially.

  Initially, my one consolation was that my humiliation was a private one. However, the embarrassment was soon magnified. A mysterious video of my first sleepwalking episode appeared online.

  I can never fully erase the image of what I looked like that night, dead to the world but fully alive. My eyes glazed and glassy, my mouth hanging open. Making my way down a treacherous street without the benefit of shoes. My parents begged YouTube to pull the video down, but it wasn’t considered damaging enough, a clip of a girl sleepwalking. Its existence made me feel like the town weirdo, the local sideshow freak. My parents insist that I’m imagining the full extent of it, and I wish I agreed.

  I absently watch the video again, which I’ve seen more times than I’d like to admit, and notice that the number of hits has had a major uptick of late. Surely news of my hospital escapade has gotten around, renewing interest in my terrible habit. Which is the last thing I need.

  I shut my aging laptop, wishing now that my mother hadn’t relented and brought me back all my dated technology.

  I look around and find that my room seems empty compared to the packed area it was before. Gone are the lights, the blankets, the IV drip. The rest has done me good—all the dreaded side effects of the seizures are now gone, and there have been no recurrences of the sleepwalking/sleepfighting/sleeptalking. Though now I sleep with metal bindings, which is taking some adjustment, seeing as they’re cold and hard on my skin. But otherwise, I’m back to what I once was…well, on the outside.

  During the week over which I’ve recuperated, I’ve suffered from intense cabin fever. After growing accustomed to mentally leaping back to another time and place, being cooped up is especially maddening. And it’s caused me to dwell on things I’d put out of my mind, like the terror of being mugged. Is the “perp” still out there, waiting, watching?

  That’s
why I need to get out of here. I’m not that outdoorsy, but I’d give anything to go swimming in the Atlantic Ocean or hiking up Mount Agamenticus. At the moment, I’d even settle for a trip to the Walmart in Portsmouth. I’d rather do anything than remain a shut-in.

  Now that the ankh is out of my hands, out of my life, I’ve had to search for other ways to connect with my former self, other ways to preserve my memories. I’ve started a “memory diary” of sketches from my flashbacks. While I’ve tried to veer my hand a different way, all of my drawings are of Sethe. I pride myself on how perfectly I’ve captured the angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones. The likeness is so close it seems as though he could jump straight from the page.

  But I’ve yet to draw Kha. I worry that to commit Kha’s image to paper would conjure up his evil. I’ve always been superstitious, but the ancient Egyptian in me has magnified that quality tenfold. And why take chances?

  I remind myself that in essence they are two disparate beings. Kha was Mr. Hyde, and Gabriel is Dr. Jekyll. I suppose that’s why thoughts of the two make me react so differently. Kha gives me shivers of revulsion, while Gabriel causes chills of excitement.

  Maybe my fears stem from the sheer, bottomless pit that is the unknown. While I can no longer relive my past, I’ve begun my bid to create a personal history for Ana.

  According to everything I’ve read, Ramses was the most powerful pharaoh in history. And Nefertari was his chief wife. Their marriage wasn’t just about politics or providing suitable heirs. They had a relationship famed even now for its depth of feeling. They were, by all accounts, legitimately in love.

  Judging from the number of immense monuments that still stretch across Egypt to this day, huge statues Ramses built in Nefertari’s image, theirs was a love for the ages. Apparently, the temple at Abu Simbel was one he had constructed in order to deify her—make her a goddess on earth. Ramses clearly adored my mother above all else. At least he was a wonderful husband, even if he was lacking as a father. It must have been hard to be hands-on when he had a hundred children vying for his attention.

  Apparently, producing massive families was a common aim for the rulers of ancient Egypt. Multiple spouses maximized the number of offspring, strengthening the line of succession. This was obviously a high priority for Ramses, who had to have spent every waking moment wringing out all the seeds he could. I’m amazed he had time to rule.

  While entire volumes devoted to Ramses abound, I can’t find anything—anywhere—on a daughter of Ramses the Great named Ana. Because all these events happened so long ago, more remains unknown than known. Most of it a perpetual puzzle. I should count myself lucky that I’ve retrieved anything; I suppose. My family could’ve belonged to a much earlier dynasty, one that was lost to the sands of time.

  Because I can’t be surrounded by my own family from the past, I’ve attempted to cultivate a passion for Egypt with my family in the present. But they aren’t interested in learning about the fascinating lives of the pharaohs and their wives. They have no curiosity about the bizarrely advanced science, the all-encompassing religious practices, or the highly stylized art of the ancients.

  My parents have tried to humor me nonetheless, probably figuring that having an outside interest will help me heal. And so my current kin come by to drop off load after load of library books for me to explore.

  I page through one musty old leather-bound text, rattling off facts as I go.

  “In ancient Egypt, when a man died, the women in his family would smear mud all over their bodies and publicly beat themselves!” I announce with a sickened flare of my lip.

  “I didn’t know that. I’m not sure I needed to,” quips my mother.

  “I still don’t understand where this interest came from,” my father says while rubbing his forehead in consternation.

  “Who wouldn’t want to learn about the golden age of civilization?” I cry defensively.

  “She needs an Egypt-vention. I vote we send her to rehab…forever,” moans Howie.

  Perhaps knowing you were a member of the greatest culture on Earth allows one to truly appreciate its wonders…and its horrors. But maybe they’re right. I need to start living this life and stop dwelling on the past. Being trapped in this drab, antiseptic hospital room doesn’t help.

  “Any chance we could get out of here and go for a walk?”

  “It’s too soon,” my mother cautions.

  I tell her that I need to take a jaunt around the yard to get some fresh air. If I sit around too long, I could get a blood clot, and that could lead to a stroke, which could cause me to lose the ability to speak, talk, walk…

  “We’ll take you out before we leave!” Mom practically shouts.

  As I head back to my room, feeling energized by some rare exposure to fresh air and sunshine, a nurse runs up to me.

  “Your friend Gabriel is waiting for you.”

  I’ve been longing to see him, talk to him, now that friends are finally allowed to visit. Even after what I witnessed. Somehow I can show him the way to avert his destiny, distill whatever latent evil may be simmering below the surface.

  I rush in, hoping for a tearful reunion, for him to throw his arms around me. I yearn to bury my face in his neck, for him to run his fingers through my hair. But when I greet him, he isn’t meeting with me a smile but with a look of outrage. For there, with an array of brightly colored flowers lying on the bed next to him, sits Gabriel, flipping through my sketchbook.

  “Please, let me explain…”

  “Yes, I’d like to know why you’ve been drawing my brother over and over and over again. With the pens I gave you!”

  He’s angry. Seething. And it’s understandable why he’d feel betrayed. It looks suspicious, to say the least. They’re drawings of Sethe, the irony being that he thinks they’re all pictures of C. J. Though I’m not sure that pointing out that fact will help my case. It’s a losing proposition.

  “How did you find that?”

  “Look, I know I had no right. I was rifling through your drawer. I’m not sure what possessed me to search in there. And for that, I’m sorry. Maybe I had a weird feeling…”

  “It isn’t what it looks like,” I say quietly.

  Gabriel tosses the book aside. He takes his glasses off and polishes them with his shirt. Even at a moment like this, I gasp at his finely chiseled looks. “There’s no room for interpretation here.”

  Gabriel gets up to leave, but I head him off.

  “You’d be surprised. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I knew how you’d react.”

  “Just say it.”

  “OK, here goes. Remember when I asked you about reincarnation?”

  “Annabeth, this is already sounding ridiculous.”

  “It’s not! I’ve been reincarnated. Maybe just once, maybe a thousand times. But I know for certain that I lived in ancient Egypt. I was the daughter of Nefertari and Ramses the Great, or Ramses the First. Whichever you prefer. The thing is…You were in my past life too,” I say, my lip quivering, dreading what his response will be.

  “Oh really. And who was I?” he asks, his interest piqued…I think.

  “Your name was Kha, and you hailed from Luxor. You were the high priest and chief advisor to Ramses.”

  Then Gabriel does the unthinkable. He scoffs! “I’m worried about you. I thought you were recovering, but clearly you’re hallucinating. And I know hallucinating. My mom did it before she died. This must have something to do with your…condition.”

  “You don’t get it. That isn’t your brother in those drawings. Not exactly. That’s a different incarnation of C. J. He was in ancient Egypt as well,” I reply, ashamed yet defensive.

  “Say, for the sake of argument, that all of this is true. Just who was he, Annabeth? Who was my brother when it came to you?”

  I bite my lip, just short of drawing blood. “He was my slav
e, my bodyguard. And we were in love,” I confess, even though it pains me deeply. Even though I can feel my heart constricting tighter and tighter with each word.

  “I see. And how did you feel about me?”

  “I don’t think I should answer that question. You were different then,” I admit with reluctance.

  “How?” he demands, his features growing hard. Making him look more like a cold statue than the warm boy I adore.

  “You weren’t…the nicest guy. But people change! Isn’t how I feel now what matters? To me, that’s all that counts,” I say as resolutely as I can.

  Maybe together we can avoid the seemingly inevitable. There has to be a chance that I can help him prevent the evil from surfacing.

  Gabriel’s voice gets louder and deeper as his anger rises in a torrent. “Let me get this straight. You think that I was some sort of villain in your past, but my brother was a martyr?” he barks.

  I shrug, not allowing myself to make eye contact with him, knowing that if I do I’ll melt into a puddle.

  “And just how do you feel about him now?”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between my old feelings and my new. You have to understand how confusing this is,” I say openly.

  “It seems pretty straightforward to me. You think I haven’t seen the way C. J. looks at you?”

  He sighs audibly, watching me, waiting for me to deny it all. To scold him for his audacity, to laugh at him for being so silly. But I stand there mute, knowing there’s no way for me to win. Especially when there’s a kernel of validity at its core.

  “Well then, obviously I need to step aside, give you the chance to be with your soulmate,” he spits out bitterly.

  I wipe away the torrent streaming from my eyes with the edge of my sleeve. I start to walk toward him, but he backs away, his hands flying up to force me to keep my distance.

  “No, please, Gabriel. I really care for you.”