The Other Life (21 page)

“Missus!”

The man’s voice got fainter as she pulled farther away. Quinn glanced back and saw him talking with some other men. She kept moving, and felt she was getting closer, though it was hard to tell if she was actually sensing something or just so anxious that wishful thinking had taken over.

She looked out on the horizon. Should she pull left or right? The water was one clear sheet. She kept her eye on the lush island she had first noticed when she had emerged from the water and used its highest mountain as her north star and made a path.

She heard a motor and looked back. Two of the men were now in a boat, racing toward her. This was bad. She had to find the spot fast. Quinn closed her eyes for a moment, hoping to block out the distractions long enough to feel where she needed to be. She wasn’t quite there. She rowed harder. At last, Quinn felt something definitive. She was getting close!

But so was the motorboat. It was gaining on her. If she could just get a few more yards away before they caught up with her, she could make it.

The boat closed in on her. When it got within a few feet the engine went quiet. One of the men stood and shouted, “Stop, missus!”

Quinn kept rowing.

The man dived into the water and swam toward her boat. Quinn rowed on, but slowly, because she sensed that she might be in the right spot. She stopped and peered over the side into the clear water. She could see straight to the ocean floor but nothing looked like a way through. She felt a jolt as something knocked against her small craft. Quinn turned around and saw the man who had been swimming after her. His arms were latched onto the other side of her boat. It was now or never. She dived in.

She let her feelings guide her as she swam. Something silvery flashed on the ocean floor, and Quinn wondered if that could be her portal. It moved, and she realized she was looking at a fish. Beyond it, though, was a coral garden with fingery protrusions. Was that where she had come through? Then she saw something yellow caught on the coral. It was her snorkel!

Quinn glanced behind her and saw the swimming man moving toward her underwater. She was a strong swimmer and tried to pull out ahead, but he wore flippers and moved even faster. Before she could reach the coral, he grabbed her ankle. She struggled to kick free, but he held fast. Quinn stopped struggling and turned to him. She puffed her cheeks to indicate that she needed air, and pointed to the surface. The man let go of her ankle. Instead of breaking for the surface she headed straight for the spot that called to her.

Quinn remembered learning that there were two types of coral, hard and soft, and the type she was about to plunge into was definitely not soft. But it didn’t matter. She had to risk it. She plowed headlong into the scratchy sea life, paying no attention to the scrapes she endured, even as she saw her own blood floating toward the surface.

And then it happened. Quinn felt that familiar tugging and was at last sucked into the darkness, leaving Fiji behind. The journey was cold and rough, nauseating her. But it didn’t matter. She was on her way back.

Naked, wet, and bleeding, Quinn emerged through a crack in the stone fireplace. The chapel was now dark and cold, as night had fallen. She felt around for her clothes, which were in a pile by the fissure, just as they had been in her basement. Trembling, she dressed quickly and hurried through the grounds to her car.

“I was so worried about you,” Lewis said, when she finally got back to Aunt Bunny’s house. He hugged her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“What took you so long?”

“I ... I went to see that resort and got lost on the way back. And then my cell phone died.”

“Your hair is wet. And your face is bleeding. What happened?”

Quinn looked into the eyes of her loving, trusting husband and felt herself break in half.
I didn’t cheat on him,
she told herself. I didn’t. It was another life. Another body. The important thing is that I got back. She covered her face with her hands and started to cry.

“Oh, my God,” Lewis said. “Did someone hurt you? Should I call the police?”

“No! I’m fine, really. I was just . . . stupid. I was upset about getting lost and thought a swim would calm me down.” It was a story she had invented during the drive from the resort.

“You went for a swim in that cold lake?”

She nodded, hating herself for telling these lies.

“How did you cut your face?”

“It was dark and there were rocks. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure.”

He pulled her close and hugged her tightly. “I was scared to death. I love you so much, Quinn. Promise me you’ll never do that again ... promise me you’ll never disappear.”

I should promise, Quinn thought. I should promise to never go through a portal again. But when she closed her lids, she saw the way her mother looked when she visited her the other day. She saw her deep in concentration as she swept her brush over the canvas. She saw the light in her eyes when she turned and noticed her daughter standing behind her. She remembered the smell of her perfume, the touch of her hand.

“Okay,” she said to Lewis, but wondered if it was a promise she could keep.

AFTER THEY GOT BACK FROM A LATE-NIGHT DINNER AT A cozy New England inn, the couple sat on the floor in front of the fireplace warming their feet. Quinn used Lewis as back support and he used the sofa. He wrapped his arms around her. She watched the fire’s graceful dance with the flue, the flames flouncing and swaying, interrupted occasionally by a crackle from the log as it gave way to ash. Quinn relaxed, comforted that this fireplace bore no portal.

She leaned into her husband and rested her hands on her swollen belly, now even more distended after a full meal. This body, she thought, is not the same one that had sex with Eugene. The idea that she had cheated on Lewis was already starting to fade. Since it hadn’t happened in this physical reality, was it any different from dreaming she had sex? She considered her next-door neighbor’s definition of infidelity, which excluded everything but actual physical contact.

“Did Georgette ever tell you about her, uh . . . extracurricular activities?” she asked Lewis.

“You mean the cybersex?” he said. “She mentioned it in passing.”

Quinn smiled. “She talks about sex the way most people talk about the weather.”

“Two topics near to my heart.”

Quinn paused, considering whether to advance the conversation. Did she really need to hear Lewis say Georgette’s transgressions were forgivable? Were the situations even analogous?

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “A cup of tea?”

“I’m stuffed. But if you want anything . . .”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” she said. “It wouldn’t bother me if you had a glass of wine.”

“I know,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “Do you miss it?”

She shrugged. “Maybe a little. Right now it would feel so relaxing.”

He moved her hair and began massaging her neck with his thumbs. “Does this help?”

Quinn closed her eyes. “Mm.” She rolled her head forward.

“I think Georgette will tell anyone who will listen,” he said, continuing their conversation as he kneaded her muscles.

“I wonder if she tells Roger,” Quinn said.

“Doubt it.”

“She might. She told me flat out she doesn’t consider it cheating since they don’t actually touch each other’s bodies.”

Lewis worked his way to the taut place between her neck and shoulders as he considered this. “I’m not sure I’d define cheating that way.”

“No? You think cybersex is cheating?”

“It’s not as bad as having an actual affair,” he continued, “but not quite as benign as looking at porn.”

Quinn dropped her head while Lewis worked out a knot in her trapezius muscle. She knew she should probably change the subject. After all, getting Lewis to forgive Georgette’s cyber affair had no bearing on their relationship. Still, she couldn’t let it rest.

“As sins go,” Quinn said, “I think hers is forgivable, don’t you?”

“You mean like she gets points for not having physical contact?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

“Maybe,” Lewis said. He moved his hands to the other side of her neck. “It would depend.”

“On what?”

“Let’s say you caught me having cybersex,” he said, “and I asked for forgiveness. What would you say?”

Quinn considered that for a moment. “I would say I could forgive you as long as you promised not to do it again.”

“Exactly.”

Quinn took her husband’s hands from her shoulders and wrapped them around her.
I promise to never do it again,
she thought, and tried to imagine her guilt as vapor that dissipated into the atmosphere. Perhaps it would get pulled up into the flue and leave through the chimney.

They sat quietly for a few minutes watching the flames flicker and wave in gentle chaos.

“Are you having a happy birthday?” he asked.

“I am now.”

“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Wait here.”

Lewis went into the kitchen and Quinn heard him opening and closing cabinets and moving things around. Finally he called out, “Okay, close your eyes!”

She did as he said, confident this surprise would be less dramatic than the one with Eugene. When at last he said she could open her eyes, she saw a piece of chocolate mousse cake in front of her with a lit candle in the middle of it. She sat and smiled while Lewis sang her the happy birthday song.

“Make a wish,” he said.

Quinn’s mood changed from cheerful to reverent. Ever since she was a child, she had taken her wishes very seriously. Not that she actually believed in them, but whenever the occasion for a wish presented itself, her cynicism moved to the back burner, if only for a moment. In fact, in that single crystallized measure of time, Quinn felt it was monumentally important not only to make the right wish, but to get the wording precise.

She wanted to wish for the diagnosis of an encephalocele to be a mistake, but that would be like asking for broccoli to taste like chocolate mousse—desirable, but unrealistic. A wasted wish. It would be better to wish that there was no brain tissue involved, allowing her daughter to have normal development. Or she could ask for Naomi’s condition to be 100 percent correctible. Was that also unrealistic? Quinn rolled around more possibilities. She could wish for her daughter to be healthy and strong by the time she turned one, two, or even three. Or maybe she could wish that her daughter would get a chance to blow out a birthday candle on her thirty-sixth birthday, while someone who loved her waited patiently for her to finish making a decision. She closed her eyes.

Quinn opened her eyes and blew out the candle. Lewis reached over and used his thumb to wipe the tear that escaped.

“The baby?” he asked.

She sniffed. “We agreed not to talk about that this weekend.”

“You don’t want to change your mind?”

She shook her head.

“Okay, then,” he said. “I have another surprise for you. But first, eat your cake.”

“With pleasure!”

Quinn adored chocolate mousse. She stuck her fork into the rich dessert and brought it to her mouth. She closed her lips around it and delighted in the sensuality of the bitter chocolate flavor dancing in creamy pirouettes around coffeelike undertones. It was delicious enough for her to believe wishes could come true. She fed Lewis a bite. He kissed her.

After they finished the piece of cake he reached behind the couch to pull out a large, framed picture.

“I wasn’t really just out for a walk earlier,” he said. “That Eliza Macie called while you were in the shower and told me she learned that the painting checked out. In fact, she got the whole history from the artist himself. It
is
a portrait of your mother, Quinn.” He turned the canvas toward her. “Happy birthday!”

Quinn gasped in surprise. How sweet and tender of Lewis to do this for her! Would she ever stop marveling at his love, and how different it was from Eugene’s? While her ex loved her fiercely and desperately and believed he would do anything in the world for her, the truth was that he was too self-involved to consider her feelings. Sure, he would take them into account when she spelled them out in explicit terms, but that wasn’t her nature. So the relationship was always about him and his needs. Lewis, on the other hand, thought of her constantly, always seeking new and creative ways to make her happy.

Surely you knew that,
she wanted to say to the painting. But of course this light, sunny young woman was not the Nan she knew. It was hard to imagine this girl growing into the woman who could be so grave at her own daughter’s wedding. This girl would be happy for her.

Quinn touched the canvas lightly, as if she were reaching for her mother.
What happened to you?
she wanted to ask.
Where did you go?

Quinn remembered something her mother had taught her about art appreciation. She had told her that when one faced a painting, the question that mattered most was “How does it make you feel?”

She stared at this portrait as she thought about that. Funny, but at this moment she didn’t feel angry or resentful toward her mother. She felt grateful. Grateful to know that Nan had once been able to skim the surface of life and enjoy it.

But her gratitude didn’t stop there. Anyone who had lost her mother would ache to have any part of her back. But for Quinn, who could actually slip through a crack in the quantum universe and make it a reality, the longing was unbearable. Without even knowing it—but perhaps sensing it—Lewis had tried to patch that tear in her heart by giving her this gift. What had she done to deserve such a soul?