He surges forward, nearly falling down the stairs, an arm outstretched, palm jutting, fingers splayed. “Please,” he implores, “don’t scream.”
She doesn’t. She just stands before him, ashen, her feet rooted among the vegetables and broken bottles and packaged baked goods.
Jonas plasters on as reassuring an expression as he can conjure. He speaks slowly and calmly. “It’s me, Mrs. Gomez. It’s Jonas. I know that is confusing, but it’s really me. You’re not looking at a ghost. I promise.”
“Mr. Jonas,” she exhales, her shoulders slackening with relief. “They said that you died.” She genuflects urgently.
“It’s a very long story. Suffice it to say, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” This is greeted with a blank stare. Jonas stoops to begin collecting the wayward groceries. “Here. Let me help you with these. I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He sorts items into the shopping bags. Salvageable items in one. Shards of broken glass in the other. “Do you know if Amanda’s home?”
Mrs. Gomez just shakes her head, apparently struggling to regain the power of speech.
Jonas is placing a head of cabbage and a container of instant coffee into the “salvageable” bag when he spots Amanda amid the bustle of Riverside Drive. She’s on the opposite side of the street, obscured behind a curtain of commuters and cars, but it’s her.
Instantly abandoning the groceries, he springs to his feet and throws himself into traffic. Time slows and the world shrinks to a seventy-square-foot patch of asphalt covered with Jonas and protesting traffic. Tires squeal. Brakes whine. Car horns bleat in protest. A taxi driver unleashes a swarm of epithets. A bike messenger extends his middle finger as he whips past Jonas, close enough to blow his hair back.
Then, he sees her.
She doesn’t look surprised. If he didn’t know any better, he would say she had been expecting him. And why not? Five years earlier, he promised an alternate version of her that he would find her. If the multiverse is replete with points in time that are universal—fated—then this Amanda’s Jonas must also have vowed to find her in any lifetime. It makes sense to Jonas that she would hold him to that oath.
They collide in the middle of the street and throw their arms around each other, holding on for dear life. Neither speaks. There will be time enough for words later. There will be questions and answers and more questions. They’ll talk through the night and into the morning. She’ll thank him for finding her. He’ll thank her for waiting. They’ll plan the rest of their lives.
When he finally takes her head in his hands and finds her lips with his, their kiss is desperate. Hungry. Jonas feels slickness on her face and sees that she’s crying. Tears of joy and relief cascade down her cheeks. He moves to wipe one away, and it’s only when she does the same that he notices that he’s crying too.
And he goes pale. Jonas’s connection to Amanda shatters. His whole body goes cold.
Macon is standing on the sidewalk.
“What’s wrong?” Amanda asks plaintively.
Jonas shakes his head. How can he explain? He peeks over Amanda’s shoulder again and sees that Macon’s still visible behind her. The man’s remorseless stare drills into Jonas, nothing in his eyes but cold professionalism.
Careful not to alarm Amanda, Jonas takes her hand. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s get out of the middle of the street.” As they make their way back toward the brownstone, Jonas maneuvers himself slightly behind Amanda, placing his body between her and Macon.
“What’s wrong?” she asks again.
“Nothing.” He doesn’t have the presence of mind to come up with a more convincing lie. As they step back up onto the sidewalk, the thought of getting inside, taking refuge in their home, is all-consuming. He’ll call the police. The customs officer mentioned that he’s a Nobel laureate here. A minor celebrity. He should be able to get protection for them both. All he needs to do is get them inside . . .
But Mrs. Gomez is intercepting them now, her arms again full with her bags. Tears are falling down her face, her groceries bouncing in her arms with her excitement, as she turns toward Amanda. “Es un milagro, Mrs. Amanda,” she exclaims. “Un milagro.”
“I know, Mrs. Gomez,” Amanda says. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“We should get inside,” Jonas urges, finally dropping all pretense of calm.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain once we’re inside. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” He takes her hand again and—
Somewhere, a car backfires. Jonas startles. In front of him, Amanda’s worry morphs into confusion. “Jonas?”
Her face remains baffled even as her legs give way, and she crashes to the pavement like Mrs. Gomez’s groceries. Jonas has no idea what’s happening, but then he’s on his knees, pulling Amanda to his chest. Mrs. Gomez is screaming in Spanish. Jonas’s hands feel damp and slick, and when he turns one over to examine it, the wetness is red.
Jonas can’t breathe. In a panic, he jerks his head back over his shoulder and glimpses Macon behind the passing traffic, still on the other side of the street.
“Jonas?” It’s Amanda. Still looking up at him with a child’s puzzlement.
“It’s going to be okay,” he reassures her, because that’s what one does.
“I warned you,” comes another voice.
Jonas turns his head in its direction. Behind him—on the sidewalk, standing just a few feet away with a gun in his hand—is Victor.
“I gave you fair warning,” Victor says. “You’ve got to allow me that much.”
“Jonas?” Amanda again.
“I’m here. I’m here.” A wail of sirens seeps into Jonas’s limited perception. Hope. “Help is coming.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the wink of light that accompanies Victor’s escape from this reality.
There are gasps and exclamations, various reactions to the incredible phenomenon of Victor’s disappearance into thin air, but they sound to Jonas like they’re coming from a million miles away.
“How . . . ,” Amanda is saying. “How did you find me?”
“I love you.” It’s both an assertion and an explanation.
With trembling fingers she reaches to touch his cheek. “I should have known . . .” Every word is a labor. Each one launching tiny droplets of blood, which spatter her chin. “. . . that you’d keep your promise.”
NOW
