Annabeth Neverending Page 4

  I shiver as I go to one of the deserted reference stacks in the far back and fill my arms with heavy leather-bound volumes on ancient Egypt. I sit down at a table covered with doodling on its topside and, as I discover with a poorly placed hand, chewed gum on its underside.

  Until I started poking around, I had only the shallowest knowledge of the era. King Tut. Cleopatra. Sarcophaguses…sarcophagi? And that they pulled brains through the nasal cavity during the mummification process. That’s a little factoid I picked up while catching the last few moments of a special on the History Channel. It’s one tidbit I wish I could forget.

  As I page through the books, I become overwhelmed with the wealth of information available. Ancient Egypt is not a short and specific period but a catchall term for thousands of years of early Egyptian history. Knowing what dynasty, or more specifically, what pharaoh’s reign to pinpoint is like finding a grain of sand in a giant dune. But I’m determined, and there’s no stopping me from figuring out more about my past identity.

  I feel like a detective solving a mystery, my own real-life mystery. For once, I’m so focused on what I’m studying that I can’t bear a single disruption. I’m tempted to shush the few students at the table next to me because they’re so loud, but I don’t because I hate being shushed myself. Despite the racket, I still manage to pick up some good base knowledge about the general reign of Ramses the Great, but nothing that gives me real insight into my past self.

  The bell rings, ushering in the next class period, but I don’t even hear it. I’m intrigued—obsessed—with finding out more about my former incarnation. It’s all the more exciting because I know so little about my present self. While we may be intimately acquainted, I still have so much to learn about her.

  Could it be that there are lives in between that continued to shape me? Am I supposed to get better in each subsequent life? Because in many ways, I feel like I’m vastly inferior. Regression can’t be the desired result of reincarnation. If it is, I’m doing it wrong.

  Finally, after a series of texts where Bernadette threatens to disown me unless I disclose my whereabouts, she hunts me down in the library with a concerned look on her face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Stuff…,” I say vaguely.

  “What’s going on with you anyway?”

  “I met someone,” I announce, and though this should be the biggest news I’ve ever told her, I have something even more earth-shattering going on that I can’t share.

  “And where exactly did you find this Prince Charming?”

  “At the flea market,” I mutter, waiting for an obnoxious response.

  “Gross,” she replies, scrunching up her nose in disgust. She never disappoints.

  “He’s really cute, very smart, and he’s going with me to Kerry’s Halloween party.”

  “You have a date on your birthday? That’s big. You better not blow it, Annabeth.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  Falling rust-colored leaves dance in the air as I pass one clapboard house after another. I’ve embarked upon what feels like the longest walk down the street in history. I need to unload, to confide in somebody trustworthy who’d consider the strange, the supernatural. And Mrs. Lansing likes to listen. Or at least she’s good at pretending. I must fill her in on the latest developments. Otherwise I fear I’ll bust open.

  “Oh my. You’re rather…bundled,” says Mrs. Lansing upon seeing me in my glut of wintry gear. I must look ridiculous. Not being satisfied with my multiple sweaters, I’m now wearing an unseasonably puffy parka and a ski mask. I remove my outer layer but continue to shake, despite my cable-knit wool cardigan and crocheted scarf.

  Mrs. Lansing leads me into the bowels of her sprawling home, which is closer to Hoarders than Raiders. Though it’s charming in its own junked-up sort of way.

  The tables and shelves are crammed with dusty collector’s plates, porcelain dolls still in their boxes, and pitchers painted with swirling flowers. There are even some peeling wagon wheels set up against the wall. I can’t decide whether it smells more like potpourri or Bengay, but the pungent odor of mothballs hangs in the air, overriding both of the others.

  Even though I’ve spent many an hour at Mrs. Lansing’s because she used to sit for me and Howie when we were little, I’ve only been in her outer rooms. Neither she nor the dearly departed Mr. Lansing permitted us to enter the inner depths, where the precious antiques are stored. But now that I’m her employee, I guess I get full access to the VIP area.

  “Trust me, I wouldn’t wear this if it weren’t totally necessary.”

  She nods in understanding, which must just be a force of habit.

  “Do you have any books on reincarnation? Or ancient Egypt? I’ve exhausted the school library.”

  “What about the Internet?”

  “I’ve tried it, but I’d rather page through books than scroll through digital files and websites. Things seem more real when you hold them in your hands, you know?”

  “Pity, I was hoping you came to tell me that you like Gabriel,” responds Mrs. Lansing as she smooths back some wayward sparkly hairs.

  “I do. Trust me. I really do…I mean, I can’t even express how much in words. But I’m dealing with some highly time-sensitive personal stuff, and ancient Egyptian history is so dense.”

  “Just to clarify, you have an ancient Egyptian emergency? That’s a new one. I take it this has something to do with the ankh?” Mrs. Lansing asks.

  “You could say that.”

  Mrs. Lansing peruses an overstuffed bookcase and hands me a World Book.

  “This might have something useful.”

  I pore through an entry on the New Kingdom, a period of ancient Egypt’s ambitious expansion and increased influence. I turn a page and shudder when I find a photograph of Ramses’s mummy. He has a hooked nose and pencil-thin neck. His skin is sunken and leathery, and his lips are drawn together in a jagged frown. Seeing him in this state brings tears to my eyes.

  I still recognize him. Even after his successful evasion of tomb raiders, centuries of slow decay, and a bout of nasty fungus. His features are unmistakable, extreme, like something from a caricature. This is an actual photograph of the only biological father I’ve ever known.

  I start to dry heave, and I almost lose my lunch right there in the middle of Mrs. Lansing’s sitting room. It’s one thing to see a strange mummy in a museum, where the object before you has been so removed by time and circumstance that it doesn’t compute as real, but this is hitting far too close to home. It’s especially sickening because I just read about how mummies are made.

  Internal organs were removed and dried in a natural salt called natron before being wrapped in strips of linen and placed in canopic jars for use in the afterlife. The cavities were then filled with resin and incense, which prevented the body from caving in on itself, while warding off infestations of insects. In an ironic twist, the brain was discarded because Egyptians thought it served no real purpose.

  Surely the image of my Egyptian father’s blackened, preserved corpse will disturb me for the rest of my days. There’s a reason that thoroughly wrapped mummies were placed inside coffins inside coffins inside coffins inside sarcophagi like a macabre set of Russian nesting dolls. Hello, they were never meant to be seen by human eyes!

  A disconcerted Mrs. Lansing hugs me close, having to pull me down toward her while doing so.

  “Honey, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “That mummy…was my daddy.”

  Mrs. Lansing laughs, but grows stoic when she realizes that I’m not kidding around.

  “You’re the only person I know who might possibly begin to believe what I’m going through. My fainting spell was only the beginning.”

  “The beginning?”

  “The ankh does represent a key. The key to eternal life! Which is why holding it
doesn’t conjure up dreams but memories. My memories,” I cry, impassioned.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “That I’ve been reincarnated, and in my former life I owned the ankh. And get this—I was the daughter of Nefertari and Ramses the Great!”

  “The most powerful pharaoh of all time?” she asks, mouth gaping.

  I nod, shrugging slightly.

  “Well, if that is the case, it makes sense that the ankh would be the catalyst,” she says in wonder.

  “Though my research on Ana hasn’t turned up a thing. It’s like she didn’t exist, even though she—we—did. But Ramses sired over a hundred children, and few of them were recorded.”

  “I’m sure that’s why. There were too many to follow.”

  “I suppose. It’s just…It would’ve been nice to substantiate my story,” I say with a sigh of longing.

  “If you know it to be true, then it probably is.”

  Mrs. Lansing is right. Maybe it’s time to rely on faith.

  “What I don’t understand is how I got a hold of something from ancient Egypt in coastal Maine. How did it travel all the way from there to here?”

  “The same way you did, I suppose.”

  I consider this. And it does seem to make sense. We were destined to be together.

  “If I’ve been reincarnated, then maybe Sethe has been too. And if the ankh found its way to me, then so could he.”

  “Maybe. But one thing at a time,” says Mrs. Lansing thoughtfully.

  Despite my misgivings, despite my dread, I want to know. I need to know: how did our relationship transform from that of a master and her slave into something more? Something that, according to my rudimentary research, would have been forbidden, punishable by death.

  The ankh has spurred on countless questions. If he was reincarnated, does that mean I’m fated to be his? What about Gabriel? Can I fight my destiny? Do I even want to?

  I take my scarf and wrap it around my neck again.

  “Why are you so cold exactly?” she asks.

  “I’ve been getting weird side effects from accessing my memories. They don’t seem to last long. Before, I had beer cravings; now I have cold flashes,” I say, trying to downplay it.

  Mrs. Lansing ponders this. She pulls out a large old volume on ancient Egypt and flips through it.

  “According to this, the Egyptians loved beer. Sometimes they even settled debts with it. Goodness, it sounds like you’re having acute physical responses. Maybe you’re cold because you’re having a hard time readjusting to these temperatures after being exposed to such extreme heat. What does your mother have to say about all this? I mean, I’m surprised she hasn’t checked you in at York General already!”

  I guess that would seem like the obvious move on her part.

  “She will, if it happens again.”

  Thankfully, my mother is so self-conscious about my health, the neighbors know better than to bring it up with her. It’s a good thing too. But Mrs. Lansing looks at me, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Annabeth, does she know that the ankh is the cause of all this?”

  While Howie may be somewhat gullible, Mrs. Lansing knows better. No doubt she can see my twitch twitching.

  “No, and she can’t. She’d never understand.”

  Mrs. Lansing shakes her head in disbelief.

  “Well, this much is clear. If you’re having side effects, you need to get rid of it,” she insists.

  I don’t respond, but my silence is deafening.

  “Annabeth, it’s becoming dangerous. You need to let the ankh go.”

  “That’s what you would do if you were me? Throw away your only chance at knowing your own past? Your own family? Maybe even your own true love?”

  “I’d focus on what’s in front of you. In this life, you have a family who loves you and a boy who cares about you. Why risk hurting yourself while searching for more? For something that isn’t a sure thing, when you have certainty in your hands? Odds are that Sethe is nothing more than a relic from the past.”

  She’s right, even if I hate hearing it.

  “Fine. I’ll do what you ask. But I’m keeping it. I can’t lose it! It’s too important. But I’ll put it away and never touch it. I swear!”

  I wipe away tears as I look at Mrs. Lansing with all the sorrow I can muster. She has to buy this. She has to believe that I’ll never hold the ankh again, even though it’s the thing I crave at this very moment.

  “I believe you.”

  Mrs. Lansing trusts me to avoid it. But can I trust myself?

  5

  “You’re all set!” gushes Mrs. Lansing while she smooths out my bodice. Of course, she’s in part congratulating herself (and rightfully so!) because she sewed my entire Halloween costume with her own two hands, basing it closely on sketches pulled straight from my memories.

  I gaze into the mirror, taking in the modern gold-and-silver-lamé twist on my Ana dress. It has an empire waist, with a flowing skirt made of accordion-pleated material. Wearing this outfit…Well, it makes me feel as though I’m again the princess I once was, and maybe to some extent still am.

  “It’s lovely,” I say in dazed admiration.

  I touch up my dramatic makeup, complete with swooping eyeliner, bright blue lids, and ruby-red lipstick.

  “Well, I had to give you something special for your sixteenth birthday.”

  I already celebrated with my family, but for me, it’s an event tinged with sadness. I’m sure that my birthday is hard on them too. It’s a loaded day, a brutal reminder of the fact that I’m adopted.

  Did my biological mother choose to give me up, or were tragic circumstances to blame? In two years I can access my birth records, sealed because mine was a closed adoption. But until then, the events surrounding my beginnings in this lifetime are cloaked in secrecy.

  I snap a skullcap over my hair and pull on a big black braided wig tipped in gold as the doorbell rings. Mrs. Lansing heads over and lets Gabriel in. They exchange pleasantries, and Mrs. Lansing clasps her hands together in glee.

  “I’m so happy you two hit it off.”

  “You’re good,” I admit.

  Gabriel makes a beeline for me. He’s wearing a well-tailored gray suit and a pinstriped tie. One look at his wardrobe makes me think he’s the flea market’s best customer. Yet somehow he makes all his old clothes seem like they were made just for him.

  Gabriel gives me a once-over and whistles, which causes me to blush under my thick makeup. Hopefully he can’t tell.

  “And here I was expecting Little Orphan Annie or Pippi Longstocking,” says my date.

  My date!

  “Just to be clear, cracks like that will get you nowhere,” I reply, my eyebrows drawn together in feigned anger.

  “Come on. I love your flaming hair, the way it brings out the green in your eyes. But ancient Egypt becomes you.”

  I beam, my whole being aglow.

  “So, who are you exactly? Ancient Egypt isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “A daughter of Ramses the Great: Ana.”

  “I should’ve known. I think that’s a pretty popular choice this year,” he says with a wry smile.

  “I’ve got my finger on the pulse.”

  “What’s your costume?” I ask as Gabriel pulls a microphone out of his pocket and holds it next to his mouth.

  “I’m Mark L. Walberg,” he announces.

  “Seriously? The host of Antiques Roadshow?”

  “Yep. It’s my favorite. Too bad it’s caused the misconception that you can pick up some priceless treasure at a rummage sale or flea market for nothing. I mean, I guess it’s happened. But that’s like a one-in-a-billion occurrence.”

  I figured as much.

  “So, do you have anything you want to wish me?”
>
  “Oh, that’s right! It’s your birthday. I was so focused on Halloween that it slipped my mind,” he says, looking embarrassed.

  “Uh, that’s all right. I’m sure you have a lot going on…,” I say quietly, searching for the words to hide my disappointment, even though I have every right to be upset.

  “Annabeth, do you really think I’d forget something like that? You silly, silly girl,” says Gabriel, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small giftwrapped box. “This is for you.”

  I clumsily tear open the glossy printed paper and remove the lid. Inside is a set of stainless-steel drawing pens.

  “Thank you! They’re amazing! How did you know that I love to draw?”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “Really?”

  “That. And Mrs. Lansing told me,” Gabriel confesses.

  “Maybe I can be your muse,” he says with a laugh, causing my breath to catch in my throat.

  We embark on our journey through the neighborhood. Glowing orange-and-black luminary bags line the sidewalk, and rubber skeletons swing in the wind, greeting the costumed guests. Though it’s chilly, I’m no longer in need of my Michelin Man coat because, thankfully, the side effects from my last vision have long since dissipated.

  We enter Kerry’s enviably large and elegant house, pushing through and brutally demolishing thinly stretched cotton cobwebs on our way inside. Kerry greets us, dressed like a medieval maiden with enhanced cleavage. She shows off her spiky stiletto heels, which are so high I’m amazed she doesn’t fall right over.

  Judging from her choice of costume, I’m sure she’s planning to hook up since she and Billy Jacoby, the biggest jerk at school, haven’t been an item for months. Which also means, thankfully, that he won’t be here.

  “Hey, wench. Where are your parents?”

  “I told them to make themselves scarce. Divorce guilt has its upside.”

  Kerry’s become a pro at covering up her feelings, but I can tell she’s devastated by her parents’ split. Even though the idea of two Christmases and endless leverage for emotional blackmail should help ease the pain a bit, I’m sure it’s not enough. And never will be.