NOW

NOW

THREE YEARS AGO

NOW

THREE YEARS AGO

NOW

NOW

NOW

NOW

TWO YEARS AGO

NOW

NOW

TWO DAYS LATER

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In a universe of infinite possibilities, the only constant is love.

—Henri Thibault, PhD

TWO YEARS AGO

In the quiet moments since his world was shattered, Jonas Cullen would reflect that fate had a sense of humor, which wasn’t exactly a quality he associated with a supernatural power—nor, for that matter, was an appreciation of irony. But both were applicable in ways that alternated between comedic and tragic. In the midnight hours, when sleep refused to come, he’d think back on that night, which started off as the best of his life—filled with milestones he had aspired to only in dreams—yet ended as the worst, the stuff of nightmares.

He had stood backstage at Aula Magna, the largest auditorium at Sweden’s Stockholm University, cracking his knuckles against his rising anxiety. His wife, Amanda, had never managed to cure him of the fixation, but he found the habit oddly calming, the bones of his hands giving way with a series of satisfying pops, like kernels of corn or plastic packaging bubbles, as he imagined his stress evaporating into the air.

The Aula Magna was built deep into the ground, which served to hide its massive size. Outside, visible beyond its glass facade, old oaks rose from the ground like giants, their limbs burdened with tufts of snow. The night sky was black silk festooned with diamonds.

The building had been designed by Ralph Erskine, a British architect who had lived in Sweden for most of his life. The Aula Magna wasn’t the first project that Erskine had undertaken for Stockholm University, but it was the last one completed before his death. Jonas felt that that piece of trivia lent the building an air of pathos. So appropriate, he thought, that a great man’s final achievement should serve as the site to mark the achievements of other men and women.

The speech that Jonas had labored over to acknowledge his own accomplishment pressed against him: four single-spaced pages, triple folded to fit inside the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He told himself he didn’t need them. He could almost recite the entire thing from memory. His subject was a topic to which he had devoted the previous three years of his life. To expound on it, he reassured himself, was like describing walking or breathing or seeing. And yet his heart punched at the confines of his chest, and his hands felt clammy, and his stomach cursed the glass of champagne he had been convinced to drink at the party held in his honor less than three hours earlier.

For the umpteenth time, Jonas reminded himself that he was comfortable speaking in public. The life of a college professor required at least one lecture a day. But this was no ordinary lecture, and those in attendance weren’t his students. This was the most important speech he would ever give in his life.

Consequently, his tuxedo felt three sizes too small, as confining as a straitjacket. The starched collar grated against his throat. His tie felt like a noose. Even the patent leather shoes were punishing him for anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Jonas found himself running out of ways to calm his nerves and wished for another glass of champagne—or two—despite the protestations of his gut.

He cracked his knuckles again, working one hand with the other, kneading it like dough.

“Stop that. You’ll give yourself arthritis.”

He turned to see Amanda approaching. She looked resplendent in her evening gown, the creation of some designer Jonas couldn’t name even upon pain of death. His wife had no interest in high fashion, but they had both been amused by the offer of free couture. The gown—which was truly a work of art—could be mistaken for the reason she appeared so radiant tonight, but Jonas knew better. There was something different about her that would have come across even if she’d been wearing a baggy sweat suit. She had a glow that was independent of her wardrobe. At thirty-four, Amanda Cullen could hardly be considered old, but this evening she seemed as though—while Jonas had been swilling champagne—she had sipped from the fountain of youth. Her eyes had a sparkle about them. She seemed brightened. Renewed.

“That’s a myth,” Jonas rebutted, not for the first time. “No science to it at all.”

Amanda beamed. They were both riding the night’s special high. “I’m going to be right out there. Front row, center. If you get nervous . . .”

“Oh, I’m already there,” Jonas said.

“If you get nervous,” she reiterated, “just focus on me. Talk to me. You’ve never had a problem doing that before.”

“No, I haven’t,” Jonas said. The love he felt for her was almost overwhelming. He felt himself bathing in it, soaking it in. He wanted to take her in his arms, to find words to capture the feelings that swelled his heart. He had just started to tell her how much he loved her when a bumptious official intruded.

The man, white and in his sixties, with a tuxedo of his own and salt-and-pepper hair in full retreat, spoke with a thick Swiss accent, his fingers tightly interlaced in front of him. “We’re just about ready to start, Dr. Cullen. How are you feeling?”

“Probably best not to ask,” Jonas deadpanned. He felt a wave of nausea well up inside him.

“He’s going to do great,” Amanda reassured him, her hand gently caressing his back.

Jonas remained unconvinced.

The official excused himself with servile politeness, and Jonas wondered how it was that his life had taken such a surreal turn. His only ambition had been to ask questions of the universe, to probe the contours of existence. Every child pondered why the sky was blue, or what created the universe, or how animals got their names. Jonas was simply one of the small subset of such children who ultimately made those questions their calling. And the questions were themselves the answer, the reason for his existence. They had nothing to do with awards or accolades or spectacle. Jonas didn’t ask these questions so he could lecture to an audience of almost two thousand people. He asked these questions and sought the answers because he had no choice. Receiving an award for it was like being honored for learning how to walk or tie his shoes.

He felt Amanda’s eyes on him, watching him the same way he occasionally caught himself watching her, trying to breathe her whole being into him, to consume her soul through his gaze, an expression of astonished bewilderment that asked how he could ever be so lucky to share his life with this other person.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, though he could not remember seeing her more content. Trying to identify what was different about her tonight was like trying to catch smoke.

“I feel like tonight is a very special night,” Amanda answered, pulling a small box from her purse. It was white and tied with a red ribbon. She handed it to him.

Jonas turned the box over in his fingers. “What’s this?”

Amanda leaned over and stared at the box in mock fascination. “Hmm. It appears to be a gift of some kind.”

Jonas chuckled. He hated the cliché that scientists lacked certain human graces, but he had to admit that some clichés rang true. He stripped the ribbon off the box and opened it. Inside was a thin stick. Two pieces of plastic glued together. One blue, one white. A faded cobalt cross peeked out from the tiny window cut into the blue side.

He felt his breath leave him as his mind raced to catch up. The plastic rod felt firm between his fingers. He wasn’t dreaming. This was real. He stared at his wife in gobsmacked disbelief. He struggled for words. His heart raced and swelled in his chest. He looked down again at the pale-blue intersection of lines and felt his whole world change. “I—I—” Words refused to come. “The doctors said,” he croaked, “that you—” He breathed hard. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream. He was overwhelmed with the desire to do all three with no regard for who might take notice.

“I know,” Amanda said. Her eyes gleamed, or maybe it was just the light hitting the thin film of tears welling in them.

Either way, Jonas had never known his wife to be so radiant or happy. “I—I didn’t even know this was possible,” he said, staring in disbelief and awe at the tiny pregnancy test. “How?”

“And here I thought you were a scientist,” Amanda teased with a puckish grin.

Jonas marveled at the little device in his hand. “Even a scientist can recognize a miracle.” She had gifted him a miracle.

“This wasn’t easy, you know.”