“How about explaining how I got here. How all of this . . .” I lifted a hand, gesturing to the kitchen around us. “. . . is possible?”
“Well, I know less about that than you may imagine,” she answered. “I honestly don’t know how it began. My mother told me what her mother told her—that any woman in our bloodline will see that door at one point or another, and eventually, she’ll walk through it.”
That choice of words made me sit up straighter in the chair. “What do you mean eventually? Like, it’s inevitable?”
“There hasn’t been a Farrow I know of who’s managed not to go through the door. It doesn’t stop appearing. Sure, you might decide you’ll never walk through it, but it comes again. And then again. Until one day, you’ve finally got a good enough reason to open it.”
Her eyes studied me, head tilting like she was trying to see if I knew from experience what she meant.
“It wasn’t like that for me. I didn’t even know about any of this until yesterday.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you were six years old or if you were eighty. We’re like moths to the flame, and once you cross, it begins.”
“What begins?”
“The fraying.”
I waited.
She set her elbows on the table, as if settling in. Had she been the one to tell me all of this before? “I’ll explain it to you the way it was explained to me. Time is like a rope, made of many fibers, and when they’re bound up together, they make one strong timeline.”
She stared at me, waiting to be convinced of whether I was following.
“But once you cross it, it begins to fray. Those fibers loosen. Unwind. Eventually, they are bound to unravel. Then you don’t have one timeline anymore.”
Two places at once. Two times at once. The episodes weren’t hallucinations or delusions or any other kind of conjuring in the mind.
“So, they’re real? The things I’m seeing and hearing?”
She nodded. “They’re just parallel threads.”
“But.” My mind went to that notebook tucked under my mattress. “I only went through the door yesterday. If it starts after you cross, why did the episodes start a year ago?”
Esther squinted. “A year ago?”
“Yeah.”
“Exactly?”
“Almost. The first one was July second, 2022.”
There was an unmistakable reaction that rippled through Esther’s body, but she recovered well, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and clearing her throat. “Well, this isn’t the first time you’ve crossed, June.”
As soon as she said it, I realized I already had the pieces of that puzzle. My mother disappeared when she was pregnant with me. She most likely gave birth to me on the other side.
“Are you saying that I was born here, in this time?”
“Well, not in this time, obviously. You were born in the year 1912. But your mother took you to 1989. The fray is different for all of us. Sometimes it takes months for it to begin, sometimes years. Decades.”
The explanation was a sound one, practiced and carefully constructed, but she still looked shaken. Uncomfortable, even.
“For my mother,” She continued, “it began only a few months after she crossed, and it was swift, breaking her mind in a matter of years. For me, it took a long time to come on, and it’s been slow and steady.”
“So, you’re . . . ?”
“Sick? It has nothing to do with being sick. It’s more like having two sets of eyes, one that sees this world and one that sees the other. Eventually, they start bleeding into each other, and that’s where the madness lies.”
“But how do you stop it?”
“You can’t. The door appears to the Farrow women, and at one point or another, they will walk through it. And once you’ve crossed, your mind never fully crosses back.”
I stared into the steam rising from my coffee cup, that familiar, bleak feeling settling back over me. I’d felt that pull. The draw to the door had been like a string tugging me toward it. Had I even hesitated before I reached for the knob? I couldn’t remember now.
“I suppose at one time or another, it was a useful gift.” Esther paused. “But like everything else, it comes with a cost.”
“And Susanna?”
“What about her?”
“What happened to her?”
“Susanna was—” She stopped herself, as if trying to find the right words. “She met him—Nathaniel—the first time she crossed. Only days after. We told people she was a cousin visiting from Norfolk, Virginia. I thought she’d be here a few weeks and go, but those two . . . they were like crashing waves. I’d never seen twin flames like that before, two people dragging each other so deep, so fast.”
That’s what had kept Susanna here, I thought. Love.
“Nathaniel and Susanna were both a little broken, to be honest, but they were passionate. They were never good for each other. She knew that, but she couldn’t help herself. His father was the minister, and our family isn’t exactly welcome in the church, so of course, he didn’t approve. They were meeting in secret for some time before I ever found out, and then it was much too late. A few months later, she was pregnant with you.”
A shadow flitted past the window, and Esther’s eyes followed a young man in a denim shirt walking toward the fields with a digging fork propped on one shoulder.
“I convinced Susanna to cross back, but she returned months later. Once you were born, there was no undoing it.”
“But why would she take me back to her time and just . . . leave me there?”
Esther said nothing.
“Why would she do that? Why stay here without me?”
“I don’t know why Susanna did a lot of things. I told you. She was broken.”
My hands slipped from the table and I sank back into the chair, staring at her. There was more to the story than she was telling me. I could see that. But this woman was different from Gran. Her edges were harder, her gaze sharp.
“She got sicker. The doctors here in this time call it ‘hysteria,’ and it was too much for her. Eventually, she took her own life.”
The image of my mother standing up at the top of the falls, her eyes drifting over the drop, made me tremble.
“I thought it was over then. But five years ago, you showed up here looking for her.”
“And then?”
“Not so different from Susanna, you met Eamon. Fell in love. Got married. And then one day, you were gone.”
“And you don’t know why I left? Or where I went?”
She shook her head. “You were here one day and then you weren’t. This is the first we’ve seen of you in nearly a year. It’s never happened like this before—an overlap.”
“Overlap?”
“A younger version of you showing up after an older version does. I don’t know what else to call it, and I don’t know what to make of it, either.”
Just listening to her say it out loud made me feel dizzy. “So, what? Does that mean there are two versions of me?”