The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1 (3 page)

I
slumped in a spindly
, antique, hand-carved, wooden chair in my parents’ study. I managed to catch Sophie before she headed out on yet another business trip. She gave me a big hug and a smooch on my cheek. She was more affectionate toward me right now than she was toward my dad.

They were going through a rough patch, and arguing about how much time Sophie was out of town for work. Dad was a chiropractor and his business, like many small businesses, was a little slow right now. Sophie took every gig that would pay overtime.

I felt awful, completely wiped out from today’s events. “I’m not hungry. Can I go? Can we do this tomorrow night?” I asked.

“You will eat some pizza, absorb whatever nutrition can be garnered from that slop, and be happy about it.” Dad kneeled on the floor, his head all the way under an antique desk. “Besides, I am retrieving your present. And, it’s a big one.”

“I can stay ten more minutes.”

“You’ll stay until I hand you your present.”

I gnawed on a slice of pizza, and looked around the room. It was pretty small, dusty, and from what I remembered—used to be magical. That was when it was Mama’s office.

As a kid I’d sit on the floor with a puzzle or a coloring book, while she hunched over her desk, eyeglasses perched halfway down her nose squinting at her computer, shuffling through papers on her desk, and writing on them. She’d get up and draw lines in different colors on huge, white boards that leaned against the walls. Then she’d lean in, and scribble words next to the lines.

The last time I hung out in her office was when I was six. She was working away, while I sprawled on a little throw carpet on the floor, reading a new book.

Dad hollered from down the hall, “Rebecca! Need some help for a second, please?”

Mama looked up from her papers, stood up and headed toward the door. I hated for our time together to be over. “Are the lines for a new puzzle, Mama?”

“Good question.” She hugged me. That felt so great I decided to ask good questions more often.

“Rebecca!” Dad yelled.

“Coming, Ray!” Mama smiled at me while I pouted. “I’m hoping all the lines I’m drawing will help me solve a very big puzzle. And soon, my gifted daughter Madeline, I will teach you what
your
piece of that puzzle is.” She caressed my hair, leaned in, and kissed me on my forehead. Then she walked out of the room.

“I’m a puzzle piece, Mama?” I yelled. “For real?” But she was gone.

Ten years later, I picked on a piece of pizza in her former office. It was lined with bookshelves packed with books, papers, notebooks, boxes, and a few framed photos covered in dust. Unlike the rest of our free-for-all, aging hippie house—the door to this room was always locked. Being invited in here meant that it was a special occasion, or a scary one. I was hoping for the former, but after today—couldn’t rule out the latter.

Dad knelt on the floor next to Mama’s old wooden desk that had too many drawers to count. A Joey’s pizza box rested next to it on a cheap card table specially set up for this event. A greasy pizza box would not be allowed to lie on Mama’s antique desk.

I heard scrapes and scratches and a few cuss words as Dad fiddled with something. “Darn! It’s been so long since we last unlocked this thing. Sorry. It’s just not opening,” he said and jammed something that sounded metallic into the desk’s underbelly.

“I think you need pizza. Sustenance.” I tore off a piece from the pie, put it on a paper towel, and waved it around near the bottom of the desk.

He twisted half his body around, poked his arm out, and handed me an ancient, worn skeleton key. “Put that in the front desk drawer next to the paperclips.” He took the pizza and munched. “Thanks for the dreck. I’m starving.”

He pulled a Swiss Army Knife out from his rear jeans pocket, flipped open one of those weird attachments, and finagled it into the lock that lay underneath the desk.

“Hello,” Dad said in a deep voice. “My name’s Dr. Raymond Blackford, Chiropractor. Just like you, I bought every gadget imaginable. When I could have skipped all those useless tools, and purchased the amazing Swiss Army Knife.”

“We’ll Google Swiss Army Knives tomorrow, and see if they’re looking for a new spokesman. I need to go work on my history assignment.” I bit my lip. “Stanley Preston is threatening me.”

“Stanley’s a bottom-feeder who’s a necessary evil for you to endure while attending Preston,” Dad said. “Try and stay on his good side. Sophie’s gone, and she’s much better at dealing with that tool than I ever will be.”

Wow, hell had frozen over because I think he got it. “So, I’m going to go, and we’ll finish this gift giving thing tomorrow.” I stood up.

“Park it.”

I did. “If I don’t get my history thing done, you get to tell Stanley Preston why,” I said. “I do not want to lose my grades, my scholarship, or screw up college applications.”

“Stanley Preston and his teeth scare me, sweetie. Besides it’s Friday. You have the entire weekend to do Piranha Man’s homework. Sophie and I debated whether it was the right time to give this to you. Your mama wanted you to have this when you turned eighteen.”

He pulled something rectangular and bulky, covered in silks and other exotic fabrics out from under the desk, and cradled it. “You were born a month premature.”

I knew this story. I’d heard it a hundred times. It was like the retelling of Mary and Joseph’s trip to Bethlehem. “I know, Dad.”

“Your mama was on bed rest for months, but that didn’t stop you from entering this world when you wanted to. I held you in the palm of my hand. You were tiny, and so beautiful that I was almost scared you were not of this world.” He looked up at the ceiling and blinked back some tears. “My allergies, again. This room is so dusty.”

I offered him a napkin, but he wouldn’t take it, and wiped his eyes with his hand. I stared at my gift. It was wrapped in crimson, purple, gold, and silver fabrics.

“I didn’t think you were ready for this, but Sophie said you needed it now. So you decide, Maddie. Give me your gut answer. You’re good when you go with your gut.” He held this mysterious object in front of me. “Yes, or no?”

There were words painted on the fabrics. Some I recognized, but most were in different languages. Now I was more curious than tired. “I’m ready.” I held out my arms toward him, toward my present.

“Ta-da!” He gingerly placed the gift into my arms.

I placed it on my lap. The fabrics covering my present were amazing. Some of the silks were smooth as ice, others rough to the touch. Some of the cottons were fuzzy like they’d just been picked from a bush. What languages were all these words written in? French, Italian, Aramaic?

“It’s so pretty. I almost hate to…” Suddenly I felt like an archeologist who wanted to explore the outside, before discovering the inside of a mysterious site. But I couldn’t wait one second longer, and started to unwind the fabrics and tossed them to the side.

“Careful, Maddie,” Dad said. “Your mama collected those textiles from all over the globe: different artists as well as time periods. They’re most likely priceless at this point, and worth more than your present, so don’t discard them. You can make some cash selling them on eBay someday.”

The present sat half unwrapped in my lap, the fabrics spilling toward the floor. I could see something underneath with pictures, foreign words, painted symbols and decoupage photos. I tried my best to carefully unwrap the rest of the cloth. And revealed a big, beautiful, handmade, leather-bound scrapbook.

It was thick. I opened the cover. The pages didn’t lie flat. I turned them carefully. They were filled with memorabilia, trinkets, and notations in English, as well as foreign languages.
What was this?
It was wild.

“Your mama worked on that book for years—even before you were born. It was her obsession,” Dad said. “When we looked for houses to buy, she had a couple of non-negotiables: one, a decent neighborhood not too far from Preston Academy; two, a small room with windows and plenty of light in her study so she could finish her project. It’s the history of your people from Rebecca’s side of our family. What do you think? It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

I sat on the floor of Mama’s study with this beautiful book on my lap. I knew I was supposed to feel joy. Pride. Family love. But I still felt heartsick, and a little angry.

“I feel… I feel lucky. So lucky that—” I pushed myself to standing, cradling my present. “I’m going to go check out the best present in the world, in my room. Thanks, Dad.” I stretched up on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

I
sat
in my bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, and paged through the book. This is what Mama had been working on before she disappeared. This is what the huge white boards were for, the hours on the computer, all the hand written pages. This was the puzzle she was working on when I was still her puzzle piece.

I had already flipped through it, but now turned back and examined the first page. Mama had penned in her perfect cursive and underlined our immediate family’s names. She had clipped snippets of family photos and glued them next to her recent entries. A cheesy, photo booth picture of her and Dad when they were in their twenties, and probably on a date. Me at age four wearing a ballerina tutu, smiling, arms overhead. Dad, when he was younger, looking over his shoulder, love burning through his eyes most likely directed at Mama, who took the photo. Finally, Dad’s parents standing in front of their farmhouse in Wisconsin.

And all those notes and words. I’d have to spend some time trying to figure out what languages they were written in, as well as what they said.

Unlike other ancestry charts—which I had seen online and in TV shows—Mama’s book was different. She included tiny pieces of memorabilia scattered throughout the lineage charts, outlined in the book. There were pieces of dried plants, tombstone etchings, old photographs, pressed flowers, pictures of jewelry, snippets of newspaper articles, even a bead and tiny crystals glued onto a page.

There were links to newspaper articles, and websites that were ten-plus-years-old, and might not even exist anymore. She must have spent hundreds of hours on this book that would only mean something to people in our family. I was exhausted, but had to check out just a few more pages. I laid my head back on my pillow and propped the book on my knees.

T
he nightmares
always started the same way: I smelled burnt sage, lavender, and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Mama hunched over the steering wheel of our small car, sprigs of lavender and dried sage hanging next to her from the rearview mirror. She drove up a ramp through a garage with a low, claustrophobic ceiling.

There was no outer wall to the garage: just a skinny, metal chain that separated the concrete ramp from the air, and whatever existed beyond that. I was a tiny kid, and so was still strapped in a booster seat in the back of our clunker, munching on a cookie while driving in circles up this garage.

Suddenly, we accelerated like crazy, and I was sucked back into that seat while we sped up an endless, spiral ramp past parked cars. I wanted to be in one of those parked cars, ’cause I was getting dizzy and felt scared.

“Mama, slow down!” I said.

I saw her in the rearview mirror, her eyebrows pinched together. Then she smiled at me for a heartbeat, and her brows relaxed. She put one hand to her mouth, and threw me a kiss. “Life goes fast, Madeline. Right now we need to be just like life.
We need to go very, very fast.”

Tires squealed. Something strong and powerful slammed into our car from behind. Our tin can on wheels jolted and we were hit again. I heard a loud metal-on-metal BANG!

I
woke up
, startled. This was the first time I’d remembered that moment—probably because I visited the scene. I clutched her book to my chest. I wondered if there was a mistake, or a miracle, and maybe she could still be alive. A few tears leaked out, but I wiped them away.

I tossed and turned in the black of night while memories of her flooded my brain. Until I told myself,
enough,
and looked up at the iridescent, nighttime stars that Dad had painted on my ceiling. I frowned. “Thank you for my beautiful book, Mama. But you shouldn’t have left. I will never forgive you for leaving,” I whispered, closed my eyes, and eventually fell asleep.

“
N
ow
, you’re beyond hot,” Chaka said as she leaned back away from my face, holding a plump, blush brush in one hand.

It was the next day. I looked at my reflection in the huge, brightly lit bathroom mirror at Chaka’s parents’ zillionaire condo in Trump Tower. I was dressed in a miniskirt with leggings, and wore skinny leather above-the-knee boots with sky-high heels. My top was an expensive skanky thing that sunk low on my chest and barely covered my butt. Hookerville, here I come.

“I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but I don’t think this makeover works for me,” I said.

Aaron thrust a black, leather bomber jacket at me. “Put this on,” he said. “It completes your bad girl look.”

“I look like a cross between Amanda Seyfried, Amanda Knox, who I always believed was innocent, and a Miley Cyrus transvestite,” I said. “I want to go home.”

“Not until you have some fun.” Chaka squeezed my arm. “My dad’s friend is having an invite-only party for his new art exhibit. His sons are smokin’. They’re twins, seniors at Latin School. I bet they’ll be there.”

I shook my head. “I’m not feeling the party vibe.”

“Hot twins and an art exhibit?” Aaron said. “Oh yes, you are.”

“This is the best idea I’ve had in weeks.” Chaka rubbed her hands together.

T
wenty minutes later
, Aaron, Chaka, and I were on the L train platform waiting on the train to go to a private party that probably had cute, smart guys that might change my mood from rotten to okay. I never rode the train; I hated it. The bus with its creepy overpass was bad enough.

The L platforms towered high above the streets. They were completely fenced in so supposedly, you couldn’t fall off them down onto the sidewalks and onto the streets below. There were people of all ages and attires waiting to go somewhere. A few peered into the distance looking for their trains. Some sat calmly on the skinny benches under the thin, ugly, metal overhangs.

Chaka wore D&G and looked stylish, as always. Aaron hadn’t changed clothes, just jacked upped his attitude. That seemed to work for him.

I teetered on the too-tall boots, and smelled something sweet that I realized was the makeup slathered on my face. I blinked and tried to see past the false eyelashes Chaka had glued on my lids. There was no way this would be my new, standard, party look.

A bunch of gang kids with tats, ratty clothes, and too many piercings bolted up the stairs to the platform, punching each other, swearing, talking trash, and laughing. I covered my ears with my hands.

I didn’t make eye contact with them, but walked away toward the tracks. Other commuters did the same. Chaka and Aaron were debating something, and didn’t even register that I had slipped through the crowd, until I was fifteen feet down the platform.

Two of the gang kids—a girl and a guy—started screaming at each other. A third kid, a tall guy pulled a knife and told them to knock it off, and save it for home turf.

I looked around and saw three suits hitting 911 on their cells. The L train roared toward our station. Jeez, what had I gotten myself into? I should have just gone home.

“Hey, it’s you isn’t it? Dressed a little differently, but it’s still you,” an older guy said. “I think I’d recognize you anywhere.”

I spotted a glimpse of a man wearing a leather bomber jacket slipping away through the crowds. Right then, the gang dispute moved toward me, and suddenly, I was in the middle of it.

“Oh, is she your biyatch, now?” A gang girl with spiked hair said and knuckle-jabbed me in the arm.

“I don’t even know him.” I tried to back away. But someone yanked me from behind, and stopped me.

The gang guy fighting with the girl leered at me, “She’s a finer piece than you.” He ran his finger across my cheek.

My heart raced, and I felt my throat starting to close off. Please no, not another panic attack. Not two in two days.

Chaka noticed. “Madeline! Just walk away from them.” She pushed her way through the crowd toward me. “You leave her alone!”

I tried to step away. But I felt a hard shove in my ribs, which catapulted me sideways. I toppled off the L platform, and dropped toward the train tracks that lay yards below. I had no air in my lungs to scream but others did.

Through the chaos I heard a woman whisper, “
Madeline
.”

She sounded so calm and familiar. But that didn’t matter when my butt hit the gravel next to the concrete wall and a shock of pain blasted up my spine. I felt a pop behind my right shoulder blade, and it took my breath away.

The woman said, “
Madeline. Come to me
.” Her message was drowned out by the screech from the oncoming train.

I lay on the gravel next to the tracks, as voices and sounds swirled around me. Time slowed down like freeze frames in a download that wasn’t tracking properly. This was nothing like my accident when I was six-years-old, and I blacked out.

I was wide awake, heard a piercing whistle, and knew a train was approaching. I tried to swivel my neck to see how far away it was. Not a good idea. My neck and back muscles spasmed something awful, and fiery sensations shot through my back, arms, and legs. My body locked, and I couldn’t really move; I felt like I was caught within a cage. Out of the corner of my eyes I spotted the L train blasting down the tracks, headed straight toward me.

Guess everyone had a time to die. Since I’d skipped death ten years ago, this was most likely my time. Maybe getting run over by a train wouldn’t hurt that much, if I was already numb from my fall. Maybe, I should pray for that to happen. So, I did. That’s when everything shot to black.