Echoes of Time

by Calia Read

  The doctor sees the expressions on our faces and hesitates. “Do you think it should be different?”

  “No, no,” I rush out. “That day sounds right. We’re just in shock. That’s all.”

  I reach out and squeeze Étienne’s hand before he can say another word.

  Dr. Greenmorrow takes my explanation at face value and smiles. “That’s understandable.”

  She continues to click buttons, zooming in on the baby, and then points at the white speck. “See the blinking?”

  Lifting my head and squinting, I find where she’s pointing. “Yes.”

  “That’s the baby’s heartbeat.”

  Another few clicks and the sound fills the room. It’s a heavy, methodical sound like horse hooves thumping against the ground. Étienne moves closer, one hand curling around my shoulder and the other around my wrist. I don’t need to look at him to know he’s gawking at the screen like I am.

  The specifics of my due date are forgotten as we listen and watch the heartbeat. It’s a surreal moment. One that I will never forget. Étienne’s grip imperceptibly tightens.

  “One hundred sixty-four beats per minute. That’s a strong heartbeat,” Dr. Greenmorrow says.

  Feeling soothed from her words, I lay my head back and look at Étienne from the corner of my eye. I expected him to sit back like me and then meet my gaze, but he won’t stop looking at the screen, at our child, until the doctor turns off the ultrasound machine and personally escorts him out of the room. As for me, I’m on cloud nine right now.

  Several minutes pass as Dr. Greenmorrow continues to move the wand around my lower stomach.

  “All right. We’re done with the ultrasound.”

  “Everything looks okay with the baby?” I say.

  Less than fifteen minutes ago, I was able to hear the baby’s heartbeat, but I need a verbal confirmation, extra reassurance that everything is okay with my and Étienne’s child.

  She hands me a towel to wipe the gel from my stomach and gently smiles. “The baby is fine.”

  All I can do is rapidly nod. If my head moves any faster, it’ll fall off.

  “Do future mom and dad have any questions for me?”

  This time, Étienne and I do look at one another.

  Mom. Dad.

  I’ve been toying with the word in my head, trying to adapt to the new title. To have a virtual stranger call me mom is unexpected but causes my heart to race with anticipation.

  Clearing my throat, I shift on the exam table. “No, I don’t think we do.”

  She’s already shown us everything we needed to know.

  “If that’s all, then I’ll see you in four weeks. You’ll want to schedule your follow-up appointment at the front desk.”

  She slips out of the room, and while I fix my clothes, the nurse steps back into the room. She hands me a stack of papers about pregnancy and my prescription for prenatal vitamins.

  Following my doctor’s directions, we schedule an appointment at the front desk. I take the first appointment the receptionist presents. I’m just anxious to be alone with Étienne and hear his thoughts on this experience.

  As we walk out of the doctor’s office, I look at the appointment card the receptionists gave me. Friday, April 27th at 9:30 am. Will I still be in the present day to make it to this appointment?

  “How the hell do you know November fourth is on a Wednesday?”

  “Because I have my calendar memorized.”

  “Wow … just wow. I barely know what I’m doing in two days, and you have calendars memorized. Right when I think I know everything about you, you say that.”

  “It’s important to remain up to date on meetin’s. And cross-check bank balances.”

  “I agree.”

  “Considerin’ Edward so easily slipped through the cracks, I have to stay vigilant.”

  “Is that when you began memorizing and cross-checking your balances? After he left?” I ask gently.

  Étienne looks straight ahead. A sign he’s deep in thought or doesn’t want me to see what he’s really feeling. I take his silence as a confirmation.

  To get his mind off past betrayals, I nudge my head in direction and grin. “Come on. Let’s go. I have a surprise for you.”

  Staying true to her word, Serene lets me drive after her appointment although there are stipulations.

  She drives out of town. Ignoring my barrage of questions, she assures me once she stops, she’ll explain. The dashboard of this car has all the bells and whistles while the Model T’s is the model of ultimate simplicity. In Serene’s car, you can touch the screen and music plays. There’s the luxurious option of air or heat. I’ve toyed with the knobs nearly every time we’ve been in her car. I can’t seem to help myself. Serene batted my hand away the first few times before she gave up.

  The buttons on the door panel automatically move the windows up and down. And there’s a clever hole in the middle of the roof, which Serene insists is called a sunroof.

  I could spend a whole day inside this car, fiddling with each gadget.

  The car slows to a crawl as she pulls off to the side of the road and turns into an empty gravel lot surrounded by fields. The entire landscape of this city is nothing but cornfields. It is a far cry from the Low Country, and the palmetto trees I’ve grown up seeing. Although I’m pleased not to experience the humidity that consistently lingers in Charleston.

  Serene parks, and the two of us switch spots. The moment I sit in the driver’s seat, my body feels cramped.

  “This will not work.”

  Serene leans across the console and points at the tiny black switches on the bottom left corner of the seat. “Play around with those buttons to find the perfect adjustment for you.”

  She makes herself comfortable and grabs her seat belt. In my time, there were two bench seats. One in the front and one in the rear, typically with fine upholstery work and stapling. You never had the option to adjust the seat. And seat belts? That innovative strap was not around in my era.

  Apparently, it’s for “safety reasons,” but it’s highly uncomfortable.

  “You good?” Serene asks.

  I adjust the seat, taking it as far back as it will go. Once I have enough legroom, my fingers curl around the steering wheel. “Yes. I am ready.”

  “Good.” Serene claps her hands and directs her gaze to me. “Here are the stipulations. You can’t speed.”

  “Are you jestin’ with me?”

  “Noooo,” she drags. “This bad boy is a far cry from the Model T you were driving in the 19th century.”

  I rub my hands and lovingly gaze at the speedometer. “I know.”

  Serene gives me a wary look. “The other stipulation is to please be careful. I don’t feel like dying today.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you have to wear your seat belt.”

  “No. The belt digs into my shoulder and holds me in place.”

  “Étienne, that’s what it’s supposed to do.”

  “To be uncomfortable?” I counter.

  “No, to save you. Now put the damn thing on.”

  Reluctantly, I reach out and grab the seat belt. But not before I mutter, “Insufferable,” under my breath.

  “And you’re stubborn,” Serene replies. Once the belt clicks into place, she points at the pedals on the floorboard. “Now. The pedal on the left is your brake, and the one on the right is your gas.”

  My eyes narrow as I soak in her words. “What about CRB?”

  “What the hell is a CRB?”

  I point at the pedals. “Clutch, reverse, and brake. You’re missin’ the reverse pedal.”

  Serene gestures to the black gear shift between us. “Reverse is right there.” She points at each letter. “Park, reverse, neutral, and drive,” she explains.

  “You don’t need to explain it to me as if I’m a child.”

  “Wow,” Serene whistles, “you hate to be wrong.”

  I don’t respond because I’m engulfed by the amount
of information coming my way. I thought all the conversations Serene and I had in Belgrave about her time would prepare me, but I was sorely mistaken. The updates in her time were sleek in design, ingenious, and long overdue. And Serene knew me too well. I detested being wrong and loathed making mistakes even more. I preferred getting something done right the first time, but driving this beautiful machinery with pedals in the wrong positions? I was bound to make a mistake or two.

  “All you need to remember is don’t use your left foot. You use your right to brake and for the gas?”

  “Why?”

  “Because … because you’re more likely accidentally press the brake if your foot is on the brake. I heard it was called Two Footed Panic or something. Just switch your foot from the gas to the brake, all right? This isn’t a manual. It’s automatic. Once you press your foot on the gas, this baby is gonna go.”

  Anticipation thrums through my body as I place my foot on the brake and put the car into drive. The car shifts smoothly, and when I press on the gas, the car surges ahead. The seat belt pushes me back in my seat.

  Immediately, Serene’s body jerks forward, and she holds a hand out in front of her. One leg extends as she presses her foot against the floor mat.

  “Do you have a brake on your side?” I peer at the passenger side. “I didn’t see any when I was sittin’ there.”

  “No, but God, I wish there was. The gas is very touchy, and can I take a moment to talk about that seat belt?” Serene finishes her sentence with a cheeky grin.

  Cautiously, I tap the gas and look forward with a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. The car moves at a slow crawl.

  “You don’t have to use both feet. Your right should be for the gas and brake.”

  “That sounds complicated.”

  “Not as complicated as what you’re doing right now.”

  Her suggestion is foreign to me. Using both feet seems far easier to me.

  As I turn onto the road, I expect a decent amount of jostling. The suspension on my Model T wasn’t the best. If you were in the rear seat, you spent more time being flung around like a rag doll and clutching to the lip of the seat to remain upright. But the steering wheel spins effortlessly in my hands. The tires quietly move down the road, and the engine is so quiet I’m afraid the car has turned off on me.

  When I look at Serene, she’s staring at me with a wide grin. She wiggles both brows. “What do you think?”

  “I’m thinkin’ this vehicle is far superior to the Model T.”

  Tilting her head back, she laughs. I love the sound of her laughter. It settles me, and I can’t get enough of it. Very rarely do I make people laugh. Even more infrequent is my desire to draw laughter from another person, but I do with Serene.

  She moves through the radio stations until she finds one she likes. Before she settles into her seat, she glances at my speed.

  “You can go faster if you want,” she suggests.

  Watching the arrow on the speedometer slowly rise is more thrilling than I anticipated. I never had the opportunity to go this fast in my time, and if the Model T could, I wouldn’t trust the vehicle to stop.

  Thirty, forty, fifty …

  I expect Serene to panic and tell me to slow down, but when I glance at her from the corner of my eye, I find her window halfway down. She turns up the volume on the radio when “Adventure of a Lifetime” by some band called Coldplay comes on. Which is a very peculiar name to me. What does Coldplay mean?

  All questions I have are momentarily put on hold as I enjoy the moment. I’m rarely afforded the luxury to relax, but right now, I do just that.

  Today I was given the chance to see my child before birth. An opportunity I’d never be afforded in my time. The rhythmic thump of its heartbeat reassured me that everything was okay, and that filled me with a level of contentment I hadn’t felt in quite some time. Serene tilts her head back and extends her hand out the window.

  Smiling, I look forward. I could stay in this time. I could create a new life with Serene, and I know I would be happy. This present day isn’t so bad.

  You’re turning a deaf ear to your niggling thoughts. The past still calls out to you. Something isn’t right, I think to myself.

  Something remains persistent and burns at my stomach. I feel bile building in the back of my throat because I don’t know what is wrong and why the feeling lingers.

  What I do know is as long as life promises me a chance at keeping Serene forever, I’ll do anything to keep her.

  The next day, Étienne and I stand in front of the antique store with the same name as himself.

  The flaps of the dome-shape awning lift gently in the breeze. Even though I checked the hours of operation nearly a dozen times on my phone, my eyes still veer to the hours listed on the door.

  Originally, I’d planned to visit this antique store before Étienne came to the present day. But time got in the way, and everything was put on hold. I’ve been more than anxious to visit this place. The city of Long Grove screams one word to me—affluent. Mini-mansions are nestled behind well sought-after subdivisions. Quaint shops flank the road, and cobblestone walks give this charming town a historic heartbeat. If I knew I was to never leave the present day again, I would settle in a place like Long Grove. It soothes my old soul.

  The plan for today is to go inside and search for well … anything. Am I expecting Asa’s letters sent to Emmeline to be front and center on a rolltop desk? No. If only it were that easy.

  Anything worth having takes discipline and effort. And a lot of it. And when effort runs out, you can always fall back on luck. You’d be surprised how luck can be on your side when it feels as though nothing else is.

  I’m not quite to the point where all I have is luck. To achieve that means you’re at rock bottom. And even if I was at rock bottom, at least I have Étienne with me.

  Ever since yesterday, he’s been acting strange. And for Étienne, that’s saying a lot because he’s already a somber dude. Last night, he watched me closely over supper and not with his typical eagle eye. His expression was closed off, and I knew he wasn’t ready to share what he was thinking about.

  Étienne opens the door for me as we step inside. A bell jingles, and the familiar scent that clings to vintage items greets me. Suddenly, I feel a sense of déjà vu rush through me. It feels as though I’m walking through the doors of Past Repeat and getting ready to open the doors for the day.

  Étienne picks up a trinket here and there. His eyes scan the clocks on the wall and the row of Victorian lamps ahead of us. “Remind me what we’re searchin’ for?” he asks idly.

  With a sharp eye, I try to look at each piece. So far, I’m fairly impressed. Whoever runs this store keeps it well stocked and organized the way I would.

  “Pictures. Letters. Really, anything that looks familiar.”

  He takes a few sniffs. “Do you smell that?”

  “Yep.” I dramatically inhale. “Brings back some memories of my store.”

  Étienne slowly shakes his head. “You are a peculiar woman.”

  I merely grin at him. Surrounded by vintage items and Étienne, I have everything I could ever want.

  Just the answers behind why Old Serene came back and who had a hand in selling Étienne’s company.

  Étienne stops in front of what appears to be a reproduced painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

  “I had this as a child.”

  I peer closer at the painting. It’s of a little girl holding a large hoop in one hand and a stick in the other.

  I tap a finger against the canvas. “You had a hoop? Gotta say, your childhood is starting to sound a bit depressing,” I say teasingly.

  “No, not just a hoop. I called it hoop trundlin’. It was a game where you made your best effort to keep the hoop from fallin’. I enjoyed it.” He continues to stare at the portrait. “Livingston cheated frequently.”

  The unexpected walk down memory lane causes me to smile. “What other toys did Mr. Étienne play with?
”

  “I did not play.”

  I quirk my brow. “You didn’t?”

  “No, I was entertained.”

  I’m tempted to call his bullshit, but I can picture him and Livingston sitting outside in the backyard at Belgrave while his mom looks on, drinking sweet tea. While everyone else is fully immersed in playing, Étienne is only mildly amused. Just coasting by until something of true substance captures his full attention. So he chooses a game he thinks best suits him and gives it his full attention because he’s the type of person who can never do something by half-measures. He has to become the best.

  “I had dominos. Enjoyed Jacob’s ladder, whip top, checkers.”

  I can’t help but smile. “What was your favorite game?”

  Étienne gives me a shit-eating grin. “Any game that requires winnin’.”

  “I would’ve never guessed,” I murmur as we continue to scan the items.

  He points at the wooden pins neatly lined up and placed in an equilateral triangle. Two small-sized bowling balls sat next to it. The wood is scuffed and dull. Not even a good rubdown can bring back its shine.

  “Ah yes, nine-pin bowlin’.”

  “A fan favorite in the Lacroix household?”

  Étienne’s eyes take on a faraway look. “Very much so. It was one game my father enjoyed. He would not go easy on Livingston and me. Between us, I only won one game.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twenty.”

  My smile dims at his answer. It was a year before his parents and younger brother passed away. Étienne continues to stare at the pins, his brows furrowed tight and lips drawn into a tight line.

  I feel protective of him, and because of that, I’m tempted to guide him out of the antique shop to share this private moment even though no one else is around and the clerk behind the register is playing on her phone. But I don’t want to interrupt his train of thought.

  Étienne looks me in the eye. “If you can believe it, Livingston won two games against him.” A begrudging smile pulls at his lips.