Chapter 5: Homecoming

I start the day by putting together a disguise. I borrow one of Mossie’s blazers and throw it over a silky blouse with a mandarin collar and high-waisted palazzo pants. I wear my hair down, letting my curls bounce free to hide any guilty blushes. I complete my art intern look with a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses and alligator green ballet flats.

Taking in my look, I know I’ve achieved my goal. I look young, hopeful, and absolutely responsible enough to have legitimate access to a key card to The Met research labs.

Before I leave the house, I pack a purse. I bring a notebook and pen. I bring a phone charger. And at the bottom of the bag, wrapped in a light rayon scarf, I bring the golden bracelet.

I can’t leave it at home again, lonesome and defenseless on my bedside table. Then again, I can’t wear it until I have some answers. In fact, though my fingers itch to slip it onto my wrist, I haven’t touched it with my skin since yesterday before I left for work. When I decide to bring it with me, I use the scarf to transfer it into my purse and I can still feel a slight buzz of energy and warmth at my fingertips.

It’s a beautiful Friday morning. The sky is a clear blue and the streets are relatively quiet as I walk at a brisk pace back to The Met.

As I walk, I try and put myself in the mind of the fresh young thing I’m trying to embody. I channel my churning stomach and shaking hands into the nerves of an ambitious intern. In that spirit, I slow down and take my time. Treating myself to stop at a bagel shop when I smell the fresh bread aroma on the street.

By the time I’ve crossed the park, I can almost convince myself that I never dropped out of art school. I’ve become someone who applied herself, talked to a professor, and gained this special key in her role as a research assistant. Who knew I had it in me?

I continue to surprise myself. The cantor of my steps changes as I go up the stairs of The Met. My steps are all business, no wandering lost soul vibes here. I scan my membership pass as usual but once I’m in the main building, I head down into the basement.

I wander around, lost and starting to panic, before realizing that an intern that belonged, one with legitimate access to the labs, wouldn’t be afraid to ask for directions. I gather my courage and ask a greying woman with a friendly face framed with thick, fashionable glasses where I can find Lab A:5. She gives me twisty-turny directions and after ten more minutes of taking lefts and rights and getting turned around, I find the first of the ten labs listed on the access key.

I key into the first lab and pop my head into the room. Two people are already there scrolling through computers in the surprisingly basic-looking office. They look up from their work, red-eyed with concentration and obviously annoyed.

“My mistake!” I squeak, before moving on. I’m careful now, looking through windows before opening any more doors. When I open Lab A:9, it’s dark and empty. I feel along the wall and find the light switches, turning on all the fluorescents with a satisfying click and buzz.

This lab is more complicated. A whiteboard, busy with dates, locations, and papers taped in layers among the messy writing takes up the better part of one wall. Another wall is full of wide, thin drawers, labeled with hand-penciled numbers. A jumble of museum glass boxes, scientific instruments, and a computer with a screen the size of my torso takes up the other half of the room. If there’s a place to start snooping, it’s those drawers.

I’ve spent the better part of an hour making my way through the long, flat drawers. Each contains small containers with an organization method that I have no way of interpreting. After dropping a little box and listening to it tumble over and over again, waiting for the tinkling of broken glass, I decide to take a break and regroup.

Carefully placing the box back in its place, I close the drawers and survey the whiteboard with an authoritative air, hands behind my back. I’m very aware that I’m within view of the window.

Half distracted by the cover stories I’m making up in my head, I don’t even realize that I’m looking at a breakdown of some recognizable runes on the whiteboard until I’ve moved on. I double back, starting at the beginning of the symbols.

Gingerly, I take the bracelet out of the bag, using my scarf as a buffer between the gold and my flesh. While the swirling, overlapping pattern disguises the symbols, the resemblance is unmistakable.

All the symbols are there and I write them down in my notebook and take pictures with my phone to boot. Then I notice the papers, taped to the board for reference. I scan over the titles, long winded jargon including something about runes in Northern Africa makes my eyes glaze over. Then I notice that all the papers have the same author, Amun Badawi.

I do a quick search on my phone and my suspicions are confirmed. There’s a reason no one is in this lab. The man that sent me here is the one that works here.

The professional photo shows Amun looking slightly uncomfortable in a suit and tie. His almond shape eyes are set on something behind the camera and I can tell he’s tried, unsuccessfully, to tame his curls with something sticky. If he sent me here, no one is coming to kick me out and shame me in front of The Met as a liar and a fraud.

Sitting down to read the papers, I rest my hand on the bracelet, letting my fingers brush the golden design. Between the words on the page and the voltage of the gold, the story comes to me in sudden, multicolored waves.

Lost runes, discovered deep in the dunes of Tunesia hint at the existence of the reality of a lost tribe. Recorded in songs of multiple nomadic cultures in the region, the matriarchal tribe was said to be blessed with powerful magic, fighting a strange plague in the region.

The songs and stories have different stories but the gist of the ending is the same. The tribe was there one day and gone the next, no trace of the members or of the magic they held could be found.

I moved on to the next paper. Runes on a cave wall, uncovered by construction in the 70s were carved with runes matching the ones on the bracelet I held tightly in my hand. Scientists have been analyzing and attempting to translate the runes for the last half of a century with little to no ability to trace them to other symbols in the region or abroad. Suddenly, the bracelet sends a shock of bright energy up my arm.

In a wave like a migraine, bright light hits my mind.

***

The Man from The Met, aka Amun Bawadi, is crouched in the brilliant desert light. He screams, his handsome face peeling as a woman runs to him with a brilliant red sheet.

The woman covers Amun from head to toe with the sheet and takes him like a child into her lap. She looks back, toward me. She has hazel eyes, a long nose, a full, wide mouth, and curls escaping from the scarf tied around her head. The woman has my face.

***

I come to with a jolt. The papers are scattered on the floor. I grab the bracelet with my scarf and shove it deep back into my purse. Shaking, I leave the lab and my mess. I need to get a breath. I need peace. I need to understand. I need to go home.