We introduce ourselves, but he is glancing past us and doesn’t seem to be listening. “Come in,” he says. “Come in.”
We follow him into his office, Nick placing himself between us with his shoulders wide and his body tensed, like a lineman just before the snap. We sit patiently while he flips through a file on his desk. On the table behind him there’s a wedding photo, and it takes me a moment to realize the groom is Dr. Grosbaum because he looks so young and so…normal. His bride’s face is partially obscured, but it’s obvious they’re both radiantly happy. I wonder what went wrong, because I seriously doubt she’s still living here—this place hasn’t seen a woman’s touch in a good long time. I look around and realize there are pictures of that same woman all over his office. In each, her face is slightly unclear, but I can tell she’s young, and my initial disdain for him turns to pity. I assume she died, and it appears it wasn’t far into their marriage.
“So, you’re Quinn,” he says. “And who is your friend?”
I knew he wasn’t listening before. I introduce Nick again and Dr. Grosbaum’s head cocks to the side, observing us both like pieces in a museum. “Interesting,” he says, rubbing a pen against his mouth vigorously. “Very interesting.”
Nick already looks irritated. “Your website said you’re affiliated with Princeton?” he asks, his voice heavy with doubt.
“I was,” says Dr. Grosbaum. “The university, in their infinite wisdom, no longer permits me on campus.”
Great. I’m beginning to see all this through Nick’s eyes, and it increasingly looks like a fool’s journey. Nick’s hand squeezes my thigh and I’m not sure if he’s trying to comfort me or signal that we should leave, but either way I remain in my seat. We’ve come this far, and I have to at least try.
“Have you had a chance to look at the images I sent over?” I ask.
He nods. “Didn’t need to, though. Based on your description of the events, I knew what was happening, and your MRI confirmed it.” He flips on a light board, where my scans already hang. “Dr. Reilly, tell me something. Do you see anything unusual about Quinn’s brain? Not the tumor. The brain itself.”
Nick studies the images. “The amygdala. They’re maybe a bit larger than normal. More oval in shape.”
Dr. Grosbaum nods, a teacher rewarding an apt student. “What else do you see?”
Nick sighs heavily. Irritated, perhaps, or maybe he’s just reluctant to answer. “You could argue that the frontal lobe has more density and nerve endings than is typical.”
“Exactly,” says Dr. Grosbaum, turning to me. “Quinn, the frontal lobe performs higher-order thinking. And yours, if I were to venture a guess, has about twice the capacity of a human’s.”
A small laugh escapes. “You say that as if I’m not human.”
He shrugs. “Whether you are or are not is arguable. You’re certainly a different variety of human than most. You are thorax laneus tempore.”
I look from him to Nick, who is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Time jumper?” Nick asks. “Are you actually trying to say she jumps through time?”
“I am indeed,” says Dr. Grosbaum.
For a single moment I’m speechless with shock. And then common sense returns. “I’m not jumping anywhere. I’m dreaming. And this is the only time I know of.”
“Except it’s not really the only time you know of, Miss Stewart, since you appear to be remembering others, yes? Tell me something: these dreams of yours…are they particularly realistic? Do you emerge from them certain they happened and knowing things you couldn’t possibly know?”
The accuracy of what he’s said is unsettling, but just because he guessed something correctly doesn’t mean his insane theory is right. “I suppose. But I’m remembering things that happened in the past few years, when I know for a fact they didn’t. My passport very clearly shows that I’ve never been to London.”
He leans back in his chair, the springs groaning beneath his weight. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d say there’s been some foul play. Someone has gone back in time and done something to change the course of your life. I could jump back twenty-eight years ago, for instance, and give your father the job of his dreams somewhere in Germany. Suddenly, you are no longer here. You are Frau Stewart, dining on wienerschnitzel in Munich with your German best friend. One small tweak can alter everything.”
Nick’s lips press together, amused and irritated simultaneously. “So you’re saying she’s jumping between her life as it is and her life as it could have been?”
“No, I’m saying she’s jumping between her life as it is and her life as it was,” replies Dr. Grosbaum. He sighs. “Although I have no idea how. I’ve met many like Quinn but none who were able to go back and forth between different timelines the way she must be.”
“Why would anyone reset my timeline in the first place?” I ask. “It seems like an awful lot of trouble for someone to go to, given that I lead a pretty uneventful life.”
He gives me a small smile. “Maybe you do and maybe you don’t. You have no idea which of your actions now could have a lasting impact on someone else down the line. Maybe she’s trying to stop you from doing something in the future. Maybe she wants something you have,” he says, nodding at Nick.
It’s a struggle not to roll my eyes. He’s just like one of those palm readers who pulls tiny facts from what a customer is wearing or asks about to make predictions that feel real. He sees me here with a particularly attractive man and assumes jealousy is a motive I’d understand. I guess he’s not entirely off base, but I resent it all the same. “And the culprit would need to be a female, and from the sound of it a jealous female, because…?”
“Because only females can jump. I’m not sure how, but it appears linked to the X chromosome. Men can carry the mutation, but that’s it. So, your husband here might carry the markers for it to pass on to your children, though it would be incredibly unlikely, but nothing more.”
“Dr. Reilly is not my husband,” I remind him. Nick is tense beside me, ready to walk out the door. “Forgive me for my uncertainty, but this is a lot to swallow. How did you, um, come up with this theory about time-jumping?”
“It’s not a theory. It’s a fact,” he replies. His eyes soften and he looks almost vulnerable. For the first time I see a bit of who he was in those wedding photos. “My wife…she was one of you.”
“Was?” I ask.
“Time travel is far more dangerous than you can begin to imagine,” he says, frowning at his desk. “She jumped back to check on something and never returned.”
Ah. It’s easy enough to see what happened and my heart aches a little for him. This poor guy was left by his wife—maybe he was already crazy, or maybe her leaving made him so—and he’s created this whole myth to justify the fact that she’s gone.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I reply. I pick up my purse to signal the meeting’s end. “Well, I guess that’s about it. I appreciate you taking a look at the images and seeing us on such short notice.”
Dr. Grosbaum shakes his head. “You don’t believe me, but you should. Jumping into another timeline, inexperienced as you must be, must be deadly. It’s shearing your brain as surely as I could with a pair of scissors.”
I still don’t believe him, but a part of me wishes I did. I want to think there’s a way to stop what’s happening in my head. And he seems so damn sure of himself when he says it.
“Okay,” I reply, sinking back into my chair. “So how do I stop doing it then? I have no interest in these dreams, or jumping if you want to call it that. So tell me how to make it stop.”
“You don’t stop. You get better. You embrace your abilities instead of repressing them.”
“Are you saying that would heal my tumor?” I ask.
“It could,” he says. “I can’t promise you that, obviously. But I can promise you that repressing them will only make things worse.”
Nick’s knee is bouncing and I can tell he’s five seconds from calling
this guy out for the quack he is. And I’d agree with that assessment. Despite the fact that there have been incidents in my life I can’t explain, I don’t think I truly have some kind of paranormal ability. Certainly nothing as extreme as the ability to travel through time.
I rise. “You’ve given us a lot to think about.”
Grosbaum jumps up, blocking my path. “I’d love to run a quick DNA test before you go.”
Nick, already standing close, steps slightly in front of me. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re not doing her any favors, young man,” Dr. Grosbaum says, his voice tight. “Whoever is resetting the timeline will continue to do so until she gets what she wants from your wife. If the resets don’t kill her in the first place, that is.”
“Quinn is not my wife.”
Dr. Grosbaum throws his pen down in disgust. “And she never will be if the two of you refuse to listen.”
* * *
We cannot get into the Jeep fast enough. Nick holds the door and I practically leap inside, feeling like the good Dr. Grosbaum could, at any moment, come running after us with a meat cleaver and a tranquilizer gun. And yet…as impossible as they are, Grosbaum’s theories would explain everything. If only they’d been slightly less bizarre.
“I think I see why he’s not permitted on the Princeton campus anymore,” Nick says, backing out of the driveway.
I feel like an idiot for bringing him up here. If Grosbaum’s theories were hard for me to buy, to Nick they must seem outrageous. “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this,” I tell him.
His mouth stretches into a grin. “I forgive you, wife.”
“Yeah, what was up with that?”
He laughs. “I have no fucking clue. So, are we safe to go eat lunch or do you think the crazy time-jumping lady, who wants to stop you from destroying the world, will interrupt?”
I grin. “I think we’re safe. Besides, the impression I got from him is that this is about you, husband. Some woman wants to steal you away. Bitches be crazy and all that.”
“You should explain to her what a dud I was on our honeymoon. Maybe that will dissuade her.”
I curl up in my seat to face him. “I never said you were a dud. I said I don’t remember.”
The corner of his mouth turns upward, that dimple blinking into existence for just a moment. “That’s kind of the same thing. All I can say in my own defense is that it’d be memorable now.”
My stomach clenches with desire. I think of Trevor’s question—haven’t you ever wanted someone so much you think you’ll die if you don’t get it? I think I finally do.
* * *
We get back to D.C. just at the start of rush hour. I wish the drive had lasted longer. “Thank you for today,” I tell him when he pulls up to my office.
“It was surprisingly fun,” he says. His gaze brushes over my face, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “Will Jeff be home this weekend?”
The mention of Jeff’s name replaces all my wistful infatuation with guilt. “Yeah. He wants to go look at houses. He’s not going to be happy to hear I want to spend my inheritance on a degree instead.”
His nostrils flare. “Only a selfish dick would try to tell you how to spend your money. Especially under the circumstances.”
I shake my head. “Jeff’s just looking out for our future. You probably make enough money that you’ve never had to worry about whether you’ll be able to support a family. Jeff and I are not in that position.”
I turn toward the door and his hand snakes out, framing my jaw. An intimate gesture, one neither his girlfriend nor my fiancé would appreciate, but I can’t seem to pull away. “Please give it some thought, okay? Don’t agree to anything with him just yet.”
My pulse races. I get the feeling he’s talking about more than just the house. I shouldn’t agree, but with his palm pressed to my skin and the way he is looking at me, I’m unable to do anything else.
20
QUINN
The model home is cute but generic. To listen to Jeff, however, you’d think we were in Versailles. He fell in love the moment we pulled up. And once he saw the huge back yard, he was ready to put a ring on it.
“Think how awesome that yard would be for kids,” he says. “It’ll be just like how we grew up. Room to roam.”
There’s an unhappy little twist in my chest. Nick’s question yesterday comes to my head—do you want this more than a degree? And the answer is still no, I absolutely do not. I’m not even sure I want it without the degree. I don’t want what I grew up with. I want the city. I want to be able to order Thai food at midnight, walk places, be anonymous occasionally.
The agent gives us a tour and then suggests going to his office to look at pricing. Jeff is all in while I stand back. “Can we have a moment?” I ask the agent, who nods while Jeff’s eyes dart impatiently between us.
“I think we need to discuss this,” I say, after the agent walks away.
“It won’t hurt to look at it,” he argues. “We could write a check for the deposit today. We have forty-eight hours to change our minds.”
I feel a tiny spark of anger. Has Jeff always pushed this hard for what he wants? Because I’ve made it pretty clear I’m not interested, and yet here he is using his hackneyed sales techniques on me, his future wife.
But maybe he’s never needed to push this hard, because until now I’ve always just rolled over when he wanted something I did not. I’m not sure why it’s taken me this long to see it.
“I’ve actually been thinking about going back to Georgetown,” I venture quietly. My hands begin to sweat as I say these words aloud to him, far more directly than I have in years.
His face goes blank, uncomprehending. “As a student?”
I look up, rubbing my palms over my shorts. “Yes. I want to finish my degree.”
“Quinn…Jesus. Are you serious? You…can’t. Do you have any idea how much that will cost?”
Is he really asking me this, like I’m some naïve little girl who has no idea how much tuition would be? I’m the one who went there for Christ’s sake. “Of course I do. But I’ve got that money from my dad, and I think that’s how he’d have wanted me to use it.”
“On some overpriced degree you’re never going to use? Are you kidding me?” Jeff asks, rolling his eyes. “He’d roll over in his grave.”
My jaw drops. “Are you actually trying to say you know better than I do what my father would have wanted for me?”
He digs his hands in his hair, then pulls me around the corner, away from the raised eyebrows of other people touring the model. “I don’t understand what’s going on. We’ve been talking about buying a house for years, and now, when we’re finally about to pull the trigger, you think you want to go to school? I mean, is the brain tumor…I don’t know, influencing you? Because it’s coming out of nowhere.”
Blood pounds in my ears so loud I can barely think. I can’t believe he’s trying to blame the brain tumor. I’ve been talking about school on and off since we first got together, and he just conveniently managed not to hear me. But before I can levy the accusation, he sinks into the stupid wing chair some designer has placed in the model home’s mudroom and buries his head in his hands. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I’m just under a lot of stress at work right now, so your timing isn’t great.”
I feel sympathy welling, and I resent it. I don’t want to feel sympathy for him right now—it’s an emotion that always ends with me giving something up. “What’s going on at work?”
“They’re laying people off. Our profits tanked last year and haven’t come back…rumor is that they’ll have cut forty percent of the sales force by the end of the year.”
Forty percent? My eyes squeeze shut. I’m going to have to pay the mortgage alone again. And why the hell are we looking at houses if that’s the case? “What will you do if that happens?” I realize, too late, that I didn’t ask what we would do. Fortunately, he doesn’t notice.
He stares at
the ground, unable to meet my eye. “I have no idea. I can’t go back to the farm.”
Though I never, ever, wanted to live on his parents’ farm, his words shock me a little. He loved that life and only gave it up to follow me here. I suppose I’d begun to think that maybe, if we didn’t work out, if my doubts got the better of me, he would at least have that to fall back on.
“Why couldn’t you go back to the farm?”
He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t respond.
Fear makes my voice sharpen. “Jeff, what happened to your share of the farm?”
“I sold it,” he says. “That first job I took down here, when I followed you? It was a total pyramid scheme. I had no idea until it was too late. I was so desperate to make you happy, to impress you, that I just didn’t see the signs, and I wound up so far in debt that I thought I’d never get out from under it. So I sold my share of the farm to my brother. I already knew for a fact you weren’t ever going to want to live there, so it seemed like the best solution.”
Shock knocks me backward. My mouth opens and for a moment no words emerge. The man in front of me is suddenly a stranger. How could he have gotten into that much debt and never mentioned it? “Why am I just learning this now?” I finally ask. I sound winded and I feel it too.
He buries his face in his hands. “I didn’t want you to know. I was so fucking ashamed that I’d gotten played like that, and I just wanted you to be proud of me.”
My hands clutch my throat. He loved that farm. He loved owning a piece of it, and I never wanted him to give it up. I just didn’t want to be part of it with him. He brought all of this on himself and yet none of it would have happened if I hadn’t insisted on moving to D.C.
He still won’t look at me, so I sink to the floor and put my hand on his knee. This has been my role for a long time—soothing his wounds, holding him together. It comes naturally, but I’m a little tired of doing it. “We’ll figure it out, okay? But if you’re worried about your job, why are we out here looking at a house we can barely afford?”
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