I felt like I was going to be sick. Kipling and Cannon’s revelations, shocking as they were, had elicited more questions than answers. For one thing, everyone was acting strange, though it was difficult to put my finger on why. They were irritable and out of it. Twice, when they weren’t aware I was watching, I saw Kipling and Cannon exchange long, knowing glances, the meaning of which seemed vaguely ominous. What was going on? What were they planning?
And though Martha was coaching us, assuring us it was going to be fine—August twenty-ninth, nine-thirty-five a.m., Villa Anna Sophia, Amorgos Island, Greece, that’s all you have to remember, okay?—the fact that she of all people was in charge of this operation only made it worse. What was she up to? Was she pushing us to follow in the footsteps of characters in The Bend so she could condemn us somehow, trap us in some train compartment of time? Or was it only about the vote for her?
The vote. The vote. The vote.
Now, hunched beside Whitley in the backseat, I could feel the wake coming over me, that familiar ocean-wave immensity pressing down on my feet, inching into my shins. Abruptly, the radio belched with static, then began to cough and stutter “Boys Don’t Cry” by the Cure.
The rain grew louder, as if the volume had been turned way up.
“I don’t feel so swell,” said Kip, pressing a hand to his throat.
Martha turned to him. “I feel it too. And it’s not just the wake. It’s the open window. It’s happening.”
She was filled with excitement—as much as someone as deadpan as Martha could be filled with excitement.
“Can you feel it?”
I did. There was an electrical charge in my hands, as if I’d just shuffled across a heavy carpet in socks. I held my hand an inch from the steamed window. It made a print. I waved it back and forth, and it magically wiped the window clean. I held my hand a few inches behind Whitley’s hair hanging outside the hood of her poncho, and the gold strands leapt right into my hand like the tentacles of some strange sea creature.
“Two minutes,” said Martha. “Let’s move.”
She nodded at us and scrambled out, Cannon and Kipling taking off after her without a word. I opened the door and was instantly drenched by a blast of rain. Whitley grabbed my arm.
“I can’t do this, Bee,” she whimpered. “I can’t keep it straight in my head.”
“What?”
She was crying. Never in my life had I seen her so afraid.
“I’m going to get lost in the past. I know it.”
“No. You’re not.” I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Listen to me. August twenty-ninth. Nine-thirty-five a.m. Villa Anna Sophia. Say it.”
“Villa Anna Sophia.”
“Remember the sea. The sky. The pristine white beauty of it all. The curtains. The smell of oranges.”
“Oranges. Right.”
“You’ve got this.”
She blinked at me, unsure. I held out my hand. She grabbed it. Then we both climbed out of the car into the downpour.
I hadn’t anticipated how chaotic it would be. The rain felt like nails. There was a gravitational pull intent on thrusting us back to the car. My thoughts turned to liquid, splattering the inside of my head. All we had to do was approach the spot of the accident and lie down in a Black-Footed Sioux Carpet the way Kipling had explained it. So far only Martha had made it. She was lying on her back along the faded yellow line. I headed toward her, trying to drag Whitley after me, but I was dizzy, and every step was like lifting four cinder blocks tied to my feet. Kip was standing in the road, turning in a circle like a cork caught in a toilet flush, and Cannon was on all fours, trying to crawl. I forced my thoughts to slow. I took big steps, one at a time, squeezing Whitley’s hand. Finally we reached the spot and lay down beside Martha. A minute later Cannon arrived with Kipling.
I blinked, raindrops pounding my face. I couldn’t see. The rain was falling too hard, so I closed my eyes. The wake had crept up to my knees, pushing me into the pavement.
August twenty-ninth. Nine-thirty-five a.m.
I could picture the rocky, windswept cliff, the modern white house poised there like an eagle’s nest, nothing in the windows but a reflection of the sea.
“Fifty seconds!” bellowed Martha.
Villa Anna Sophia.
“I can’t do this!” Whitley screamed.
Someone scratched me in the face. I moved my arm to shield my eyes, realizing it was a giant oak branch torn off a tree. It had careened over us before cartwheeling down the road.
Whitley was sobbing, trying to scramble to her feet. Cannon held her in place.
“Stop it!” he shouted.
“Let go of me! I can’t do it!”
“Calm down!” shouted Martha.
“I can’t! I keep thinking of other things! I can’t stop my thoughts!”
I heard the roar of the approaching engine. Howard Heyward, age fifty-eight, drunk and half asleep, was seconds away now. My entire body was shaking. I squeezed my eyes closed, my fingers gripping the pavement, trying to hold on.
Amorgos Island. Greece.
Someone else was screaming now. Kipling.
“Stop it! Stop it!”
“Don’t you see? We’re going to lose each other!”
“It’s a trick! It’s a trap!”
Thunder exploded like an atom bomb. My ears blew out, squeals and whines ricocheting strangely around my head. The wake was pressing down on my heart now, so strong it took a moment for me to realize something was viciously stabbing my neck. I cried out in pain, my cold, numbed fingers fumbling to see what it was. I felt something small, hard. I yanked it out of my neck, screaming.
It was the bumblebee pin, the one Jim had given me, the one stolen from me.
The rest happened at once. Headlights sliced through me. The truck was honking, careening toward us. Raindrops fell in slow motion. A howl of brakes. Someone was still screaming. I opened my eyes, catching a fleeting glimpse of a figure in a green poncho sprinting away, vanishing into the woods. Clanging metal. The truck was jackknifing, massive tires sliding on the wet pavement right toward my skull. A smell of scorched rubber. And hell.
One…two…
Bumblebee pin.
Jim.
When I opened my eyes, it was daylight.
I was facedown in the grass. I lifted my head, heart pounding, feeling an overpowering wave of nausea. I was sick to my stomach, my body spasming. It took a minute to catch my breath. I wiped my mouth, looking around, my eyes stinging in the light.
I was not on any coastal road. I was not being run over by Howard Heyward’s tow truck—at least, not anymore. I was in no physical pain.
I also wasn’t in the back of the Jaguar. For the first time in a century it wasn’t raining. The sun was shining. I was lying on the ground—dead leaves, dirt, surrounded by trees. It was brisk out, a bite in the air, the sky hard blue. I held out my hands, opening them.
They were empty.
The bumblebee pin. Where is it?
I looked around. I definitely wasn’t near Villa Anna Sophia or on any Greek island.
I was in the middle of a forest. I stared down at my clothing.
The burgundy Ann Taylor wool coat my mother had picked up years ago at a secondhand store in Woonsocket. Black tights. Black wool dress. Scuffed black leather pumps.
Puzzled, I stumbled to my feet. My shoes were too tight, my dress scratchy. I lurched forward, staring through the trees at a grassy clearing. There was a lake littered with small white sailboats, people milling around the perimeter. I stumbled toward it, wondering if I looked like some deranged lunatic. But as I stepped out of the woods and down the bank, no one gave me a second glance. There were at least twenty sailboats out on the lake, children and a few teenagers operating them by remote control.
I understood where I was: Central Park. The Conservatory Lake. I’d visited here a long time ago with Jim.
“There you are.”
Hearing his voice was like having the floor drop out under my feet. I couldn’t breathe. I closed my eyes, my mind jelly. I was falling through a hole a mile deep.
“Where’d you go? Are you already trying to get rid of me?”
He was alive. He was right behind me, his hand on my shoulder. He smelled the same: peppermint soap, wind, and fresh laundry.