by Blake Crouch
“Jason.”
“Please don’t lie to me. That, I can’t take.”
“Yes. It was different.”
“Better.”
“Like it was the first time again. You did things you never did. Or hadn’t in a long time. It was like I was something, not that you wanted, but that you needed. Like I was your oxygen.”
“Do you want this other Jason?”
“No. I want the man I’ve made a life with. The man I made Charlie with. But I need to know you’re that man.”
I sit up and look at her in this cramped, windowless bathroom in the middle of nowhere that smells faintly of mildew.
She looks at me.
So tired.
Struggling onto my feet, I give her a hand up.
We move into the bedroom.
Daniela climbs into bed, and I hit the lights and crawl in beside her under the freezing sheets.
The frame is creaky, and the slightest movement bangs the headboard against the wall, which rattles the picture frames.
She’s wearing underwear and a white T-shirt, and she smells like she’s been riding in the car all day without a shower—fading deodorant tinged with funk.
I love it.
She whispers in the dark, “How do we fix this, Jason?”
“I’m working on it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ask me again in the morning.”
Her breath in my face is sweet and warm.
The essence of everything I associate with home.
She’s asleep within a moment, breathing deeply in and out.
I think I’m right behind her, but when I close my eyes, my thoughts run rampant. I see versions of me stepping out of elevators. In parked cars. Sitting on the bench across the street from our brownstone.
I see me everywhere.
The room is dark except for the coils of the space heater glowing in the corner.
The house lies silent.
I can’t sleep.
I need to fix this.
Quietly, I slide out from under the covers. At the door, I stop and glance back at Daniela, safe under a mountain of blankets.
I head down the noisy hardwood floor of the hallway, the house getting warmer the closer I get to the living room.
The fire is already low.
I add several logs.
For a long time, I sit just staring into the flames, watching the wood slowly crumble into the radiant bed of embers as my son snores softly behind me.
The idea first occurred to me on the drive north today, and I’ve been mulling it over ever since.
It seemed insane at first.
But the more I pressure-check it, the more it seems like my only option.
In the living room beside the entertainment center, there’s a desk with a ten-year-old Mac and a dinosaur printer. I power the computer on. If there’s a password required or no Internet connection, this will have to wait until tomorrow, when I can find an Internet café or coffee shop in town.
I’m in luck. There’s a guest login option.
I open the web browser and access that asonjayessenday email account.
The hyperlink still works.
Welcome to UberChat!
There are currently seventy-two active participants.
Are you a new user?
I click No and log in with my username and password.
Welcome back Jason9!
Logging you into UberChat now!
The conversation is much longer, with so many participants I break out in a cold sweat.
I scan everything, down through the most recent message, which is less than a minute old.
Jason42: The house has been empty since at least midafternoon.
Jason28: So which of you did this?
Jason4: I followed Daniela from 44 Eleanor St. to the police station on North California.
Jason14: What was she doing there?
Jason25: What was she doing there?
Jason10: What was she doing there?
Jason4: No idea. She went inside, never came out. Her Honda is still there.
Jason66: Does this mean she knows? Is she still in the police station?
Jason4: I don’t know. Something is up.
Jason49: I was nearly killed last night by one of us. He got a key to my hotel room and came in with a knife in the middle of the night.
I start typing…
Jason9: DANIELA AND CHARLIE ARE WITH ME.
Jason92: Safe?
Jason42: Safe?
Jason14: How?
Jason28: Prove it.
Jason4: Safe?
Jason25: How?
Jason10: You fucker.
Jason9: How doesn’t matter, but yes, they’re safe. They’re also very scared. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I assume we all share the same basic desire, that no matter what, Daniela and Charlie can’t be harmed?
Jason92: Yes.
Jason49: Yes.
Jason66: Yes.
Jason10: Yes.
Jason25: Yes.
Jason4: Yes.
Jason28: Yes.
Jason14: Yes.
Jason103: Yes.
Jason5: Yes.
Jason16: Yes.
Jason82: Yes.
Jason9: I would rather die than see anything happen to them. So here’s what I’m proposing. Two days from now, at midnight, we all meet up at the power plant and conduct a peaceful lottery. The winner gets to live in this world with Daniela and Charlie. Also, we destroy the box, so no other Jasons find their way here.
Jason8: No.
Jason100: No way.
Jason21: How would this work?
Jason38: Never.
Jason28: Prove you have them or fuck off.
Jason8: Why chance? Why not fight it out? Let merit decide.
Jason109: And what happens to the losers? Suicide?
JasonADMIN: For the sake of this conversation not becoming incomprehensible, I’ve temporarily frozen all accounts from participating except me and Jason9. Everyone else can still watch this conversation. Jason9, continue please.
Jason9: I realize there are many ways this could all go wrong. I could decide to not show up. You’d never know. Any number of Jasons could choose not to participate, to essentially wait in the wings for the smoke to clear and then do to one of us what Jason2 did. Except that I know I’ll keep my word, and maybe this is naïve on my part, but I think that means all of you will too. Because you wouldn’t be keeping your word for us. You’d be keeping it for Daniela and Charlie. The other alternative is for me to take them and disappear forever. New identities. A life always on the run. Always looking over our shoulder. As much as I want to be with them, I don’t want that life for my wife and son. And I don’t have the right to keep them for myself. I feel so strongly about it, I’m willing to submit myself to this lottery, where, judging by the sheer number of us involved, I’m almost certain to lose. I have to talk to Daniela first, but in the meantime, spread the word. I’ll be back online tomorrow night with more details, including proof, jason28.
JasonADMIN: I think someone already asked, but what happens to the losers?
Jason9: I don’t know yet. All that matters is our wife and son living out the rest of their lives in peace and safety. If you feel otherwise, you don’t deserve them.
—
Light coming through the curtain wakes me.
Daniela is in my arms.
For the longest time, I just lie there.
Holding her.
This extraordinary woman.
After a while, I disentangle myself and grab my pile of clothes off the floor.
I dress by the remains of the fire—nothing but a bed of coals—and throw on the last two logs.
We’ve slept in.
The clock on the stove reads 9:30, and through the window above the sink, I see sunlight angling down through the evergreens and birches, making pools of light and shadow across the floor of the forest as far a
s I can see.
I head outside into the morning chill and step down off the porch.
Past the back of the cabin, the property slopes gently to the edge of a lake.
I walk out to the end of a snowcapped pier.
There’s a rim of ice a few feet out from the shore, but it’s too early in the season, even with the recent storm, for the rest of the lake to have frozen.
I brush the snow off a bench, take a seat, and watch the sun creep up behind the pine trees.
The cold is invigorating. Like an espresso shot.
Mist rises from the surface of the water.
I register footsteps squeaking in the snow behind me.
Turning, I see Daniela coming down the pier, following in my footprints.
She’s carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, her hair is a gorgeous wreck, and she has several blankets thrown around her shoulders like a shawl.
As I watch her approach, it occurs to me that in all likelihood, this is the last morning I’ll ever get to spend with her. I’ll be returning to Chicago first thing tomorrow. Alone.
Handing me both mugs, she takes one of her blankets and wraps it around me. Then she sits on the bench and we drink our coffees and stare out across the lake.
I say, “I always thought we’d end up in a place like this.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to move to Wisconsin.”
“When we’re older. Find a cabin to fix up.”
“Can you fix things up?” She laughs. “I’m kidding. I know what you mean.”
“Maybe spend summers here with the grandchildren. You could paint by the lakeshore.”
“What would you do?”
“I don’t know. Finally catch up on my New Yorker subscription. Just be with you.”
She reaches down and touches the piece of thread that’s still tied around my ring finger. “What’s this?”
“Jason2 took my wedding ring, and there was a point early on where I was beginning to lose my grasp on what was real. On who I was. If I’d ever been married to you. So I tied this string around my finger as a reminder that you, this version of you, existed.”
She kisses me.
For a long time.
I say, “I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“In that first Chicago I woke up in—the one where I found you at this art installation about the multiverse—”
“What?” She smiles. “Did you fuck me?”
“Yeah.”
The smile dies.
She just stares at me for a moment, and there’s almost no emotion in her voice when she asks, “Why?”
“I didn’t know where I was or what was happening to me. Everyone thought I was crazy. I was starting to think so too. Then I found you—the only familiar thing in a world that was completely wrong. I wanted so badly for that Daniela to be you, but she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Just like the other Jason isn’t me.”
“So you were just fucking your way across the multiverse then?”
“That was the only time, and I didn’t realize where I was when it happened. I didn’t know if I was losing my mind or what.”
“And how was she? How was I?”
“Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“I told you.”
“Fair enough. It was just the way you described this other Jason coming home that first night. It was like being with you before I knew I loved you. Like experiencing that incredible connection all over again for the first time. What are you thinking right now?”
“I’m figuring out how mad I should be at you.”
“Why should you be mad at all?”
“Oh, is that your argument? It isn’t cheating if it’s another version of me?”
“I mean, it’s original at least.”
This makes her laugh.
That it makes her laugh says everything about why I love her.
“What was she like?” Daniela asks.
“She was you without me. Without Charlie. She was sort of dating Ryan Holder.”
“Shut up. And I was this successful artist?”
“You were.”
“Did you like my installation?”
“It was brilliant. You were brilliant. Do you want to hear about it?”
“I’d love to.”
I tell her about the Plexiglas labyrinth, what it felt like to walk through it. The startling imagery. The spectacular design.
It makes her eyes light up.
And it makes her sad.
“Do you think I was happy?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“With everything I’d given up to be this woman.”
“I don’t know. I was with this woman for forty-eight hours. I think, like you, like me, like everyone, she had regrets. I think sometimes she woke up in the night wondering if the path she took was the right one. Afraid it wasn’t. Wondering what a life with me might have been like.”
“I wonder those things sometimes.”
“I’ve seen so many versions of you. With me. Without me. Artist. Teacher. Graphic designer. But it’s all, in the end, just life. We see it macro, like one big story, but when you’re in it, it’s all just day-to-day, right? And isn’t that what you have to make your peace with?”
Out in the middle of the lake, a fish jumps, its splash sending perfect, concentric ripples across the glasslike water.
I say, “Last night, you asked me how we fix this.”
“Any bright ideas?”
My first instinct is to protect her from the knowledge of what I’m contemplating, but our marriage isn’t built on keeping secrets. We talk about everything. The hardest things. It’s embedded in our identity as a couple.
And so I tell her what I proposed to the chat room last night and watch the expression on her face move through flashes of anger, horror, shock, and fear.
She says finally, “You want to raffle me off? Like a fucking fruit basket?”
“Daniela—”
“I don’t need you doing something heroic.”
“No matter what happens, you’re going to have me back.”
“But some other version of you. That’s what you’re saying, right? And what if he’s like this asshole who ruined our lives? What if he isn’t good like you?”
I look away from her, out across the lake, and blink through the tears.
She asks, “Why would you sacrifice yourself so someone else can be with me?”
“We all have to sacrifice ourselves, Daniela. That’s the only way it works out for you and Charlie. Please. Just let me make your lives in Chicago safe again.”
—
When we walk back inside, Charlie is at the stovetop flipping pancakes.
“Smells great,” I say.
He asks, “Will you make your fruit thing?”
“Sure.”
It takes me a moment to locate the cutting board and a knife.
I stand next to my son, peeling the apples and dicing them and adding the pieces to a saucepan filled with simmering maple syrup.
Through the windows, the sun climbs higher and the forest fills with light.
We eat together and talk comfortably, and there are moments where it feels almost normal, where the fact that this is likely the last breakfast I’ll ever share with them isn’t at the forefront of my mind.
—
In the early afternoon, we head to town on foot, walking down the middle of the faded country road, the pavement dry in the sun, snow-packed in the shadows.
We buy clothes at a thrift shop and then go to a matinee in a little downtown cinema showing a movie that came out six months ago.
It’s a stupid romantic comedy.
It’s just what we need.
We stay through the credits, until the lights come up, and as we step out of the theater, the sky is already growing dark.
At the edge of town, we take a shot with the only restaurant that’s open—the Ice River Roadhouse.
We sit at the bar.
Daniela orders a glass of pinot noir. I order a beer for me, a Coke for Charlie.
The place is crowded, the only thing going on on a weeknight in Ice River, Wisconsin.
We order food.
I drink a second beer, and then a third.
Before long, Daniela and I are buzzed and the noise of the roadhouse growing.
She puts her hand on my leg.
Her eyes are glassy from the wine, and it feels so good to be close to her again. I’m trying not to think about how every little thing that happens is my last experience of it, but the knowledge weighs so heavy.
The roadhouse keeps filling up.
It’s wonderfully noisy.
A band begins to set up on a small stage in the back.
I’m drunk.
Not belligerent or sloppy.
Just perfectly lit up.
If I think about anything other than the moment, I tear up, so I don’t think about anything other than the moment.
The band is a country-and-western four-piece, and soon Daniela and I are slow-dancing in a mass of people on a tiny dance floor.
Her body is pressed against mine, my hand cupping the small of her back, and between the steel guitar and the way she’s looking at me, I want nothing more than to take her back to our creaky bed with the loose headboard and knock all the picture frames off the walls.
—
Daniela and I are laughing, and I’m not even sure why.
Charlie says, “You guys are wasted.”
It might be an overstatement, but not by much.
I say, “There was steam to blow off.”
He says to Daniela, “Hasn’t felt like this in the last month, has it?”
She looks at me.
“No, it hasn’t.”
We stagger up the highway in the dark, no headlights behind us or ahead.
The woods utterly silent.
Not even a breath of wind.
As still as a painting.
—
I lock the door to our room.
Daniela helps me lift the mattress off the bed.
We set it on the floorboards and kill the lights and take off all our clothes.
It’s chilly in the room, even with the space heater running.
We climb naked and shivering under the blankets.
Her skin is smooth and cool against mine, her mouth soft and warm.
I kiss her.
She says that she needs me inside of her so much it hurts.
Being with Daniela isn’t like being home.