33
I wake up panting.
I’m too afraid to open my eyes. What if the ritual didn’t work and I’m stuck in Brooklyn forever, waiting to learn some invaluable
lesson? After a few breaths, I say a silent prayer, peel one eyelid open, then the other. It’s only when my eyes focus that
I realize I am back home. In my bed. In Chattanooga. Quickly, I glance at my wrist. My tattoo is there, and I trace my fingers
over it, letting out a giant exhale.
I glance at the bed next to me, but Ben’s not here. “No, no, no.” I rush to my phone and stab the side button to see what
day it is. I gasp when I realize that no time has passed since the first full moon ritual. It’s simply the next morning after the full moon. Not a month later, like in the other time line. I triple-check that this is possible, which would mean Ben
is still at his workshop and that I am really home and no longer stuck in some insane alternate time warp.
My fingers shake as I look at the last text exchange from Ben, which simply said good night. I collapse back against the bed, reeling. There’s no way all of that was a dream. Was it? Brooklyn. Liam. The gallery. Our relationship. Finding Ben again. I sit up. Am I just supposed to pretend I haven’t seen such a strange, realistic glimpse into another life?
I check my phone again to find Liam has texted too, asking if I’m okay. I don’t know how I can see him now. Not after what
I just experienced and the emotional roller coaster we just went through together. I’m afraid to get too close, afraid to
look into his eyes, because he will read everything there: my fears, my feelings, my uncertainty about what lesson I learned...
all of it.
But then another thought rises to the surface. Last night Ben attributed his healing to the Joe Dispenza workshop. And here,
in real life, Ben is at the same workshop. A blade of hope, as sharp as a dagger, pierces my heart. Maybe this is the lesson. Ben is at this workshop to get better, but I must give him the space he needs to heal. Could it really be
one week away that saves his life?
Just as I am settling back into reality, Wren sends me a frantic text.
Where are you? You were supposed to open today. I’m off this morning, remember?
I stare at the text, perplexed. Open what? I respond.
Oh my God, Harper. Are you hungover? The gallery! We have people waiting to get in!
The gallery? A sickening feeling of déjà vu creeps over my skin as my fingers hover over the phone. Did I somehow promise
her I’d open her gallery for her last night? I don’t think I did. After a quick assessment that I am really here, and that I am not, in fact, still dreaming, I type out a quick reply.
I’ll be right there.
It’s all I can say until I know what’s what. Before I make a cup of coffee or change clothes, I send Ben a text. I practically hold my breath as I see the text bubbles with his reply.
Going to be tied up most of today, but I feel great. Hope you slept well. Love you so much.
Placated for the moment that Ben still exists and is still at the workshop, I decide to take a quick shower but pause as I
prepare to climb into our somewhat grimy tub and shower combo. It’s been completely renovated, replete with a separate soaking
tub. I blink in stunned surprise and open the glass shower door, sure I’m going to be sucked down the drain and spit out into
the 1950s. How is this here?
There’s no time to dwell on this change, however—how it got here or what exactly it means. All I know is that I am back in
Chattanooga, and even though it already feels like the Twilight Zone, being home means I get to see Ben in a few days. That
is my main focus. That is all that matters now.
After sucking down two cups of blistering coffee, I swipe my keys and rush out the door. A warm glow of sunshine greets me
as I tip my face to the sky and take a moment to stand still. There are no angry car horns or heavy foot traffic here. It’s
still early and quiet, and a swift punch of both gratitude and grief hits me right in the heart. Even in such a short time,
the city sounds became almost like a lullaby. It takes me a moment to reacclimate to this city, which is punctuated by mountains, not New Yorkers.
I’ve seen the other side—all the things I once wanted, all the things I once dreamed of—but at this moment, I’m grateful to be home. Wren’s gallery isn’t far, just a quick jaunt downtown. She snagged a killer corner space that gets a ton of foot traffic, and when I arrive, a few people sit on the curb, some scrolling through their phones, others smoking. As I approach the door, I realize I have no way to get in.
Once again, a strange sense of déjà vu nearly stops me in my tracks as I extract my keys and find that one is not like the
others. Why would I have a key to Wren’s gallery? I think back to my wish last night: I wish for the new to return to old but still have all that I behold. If what I just experienced was real, does that mean I could have possibly changed something in this time line?
Part of me must already know the answer is yes, considering I still live in the same place but have a brand-new bathroom.
“Please make this stop,” I say. A woman smoking a cigarette jerks her head my way as she hears me talking to myself. With
a nearly trembling hand, I stick the key in the lock. It turns, and I give a shocked little gasp. I hold the door open for
those who are waiting and step inside after them. I have to hold back an actual scream as I stare at these walls, walls that
are partially covered with my art.
“What is happening?” I whisper as I move numbly to a section carved with my name on the wall. Just like in the other time
line, it seems I am now a gallery owner. But instead of Rita, it’s with Wren?
I definitely need more coffee.
I welcome the guests and then charge back to Wren’s office, which is divided by two desks. I close the door, gulp a few deep
breaths, and attempt to steady my quaking nerves. “It’s okay. You’re going to figure this out. There is no way you’ve entered
yet another parallel universe. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s all going to be fine.” What do I do first?
My phone buzzes. It’s Liam again.
Hey, Harper. Really hope everything’s okay after yesterday. We’re scheduled for an interview this morning. Is that still good for you? I can come to you. You’re at the gallery, right? I can bring coffee.
“What?” I drop the phone and scurry away from the desk as if I’ve just seen a spider the size of my hand. Why would Liam come
here? How would he even know I’m supposed to be at the gallery? And what happened yesterday? I struggle to think back to my
pre–time warp world and remember the picnic followed by the night at Wren and Jenna’s and then our conversation before we
went our separate ways. Did that still happen, or is there something else he’s referring to? And how in the world do I find
out without sounding completely insane?
“Think, Harper, think.” I retrace my steps once again. In this life, in my actual existence, the last thing I remember is the full moon ritual that would send me on a monthlong head trip into that whole
parallel universe thing. Yet now I’m back, which means I must have learned my lesson. But what have I changed? I think of
my wish again: I wish for the new to return to old, but still have all that I behold.
Do I now behold being a gallery owner and a working artist? And having a nicer bathroom, apparently? I type out a frantic text to Wren.
Need to talk. I know it’s your day off but it’s an emergency! GET HERE NOW.
I respond to Liam and ask if we can push the interview until later today. With both of those things sorted, I pour myself
another cup of coffee, even though the last thing I need is more caffeine, and frantically check every few seconds to make
sure I’m really here.
A few minutes later, a very hungover Wren bursts through the office door. Her giant sunglasses, piled dreads, and visible neck tattoos give her the appearance of Zo? Kravitz or an edgy rockstar. “You rang?” She whips off her sunglasses, winces, and puts them back on before collapsing in her desk chair. “Jenna’s still sleeping. Last night was too much.”
“Yes, it was too much,” I snap, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Can you walk me through what you remember?”
She tilts her head at me. “Why do I feel like this is a trick question?”
I tap my foot impatiently. “Well, here’s what I remember. Liam and I came to your house. We left. You walked me through that
insane full moon ritual, told me you’d see me on the other side, where I then woke up in Brooklyn , with Liam as my romantic partner and as a gallery owner for Rita Clementine! Then, when I managed to locate you there, you
told me I had to wait an entire month until the next full moon and that I had to learn some sort of lesson before I could get back, which I guess I did, because
now I’m here, but everything is different! I mean, not everything, but most things. Exhibit A: I work here now. And I have
a renovated bathroom.”
Wren massages her temples. “I’m sorry, I’m having trouble following. What full moon ritual? And where did you work before
here?”
“What full moon... Are you serious right now?” I pace back and forth. “I was an art teacher at Jenna’s school! You know
this!”
She laughs. “You? A schoolteacher?” She crosses her tattooed arms. “Never happened.”
I feel gobsmacked. My kids mean everything to me. Why would I have never been a teacher? It’s why we moved to Chattanooga
in the first place. “Are you telling me that because of whatever voodoo you pulled from that book, my life is now completely different?”
She pulls out some eye drops and dabs a few into her eyes. “Don’t blame me for this, sis. I’m just as lost as you are.”
Sheer panic. That’s what I feel. These aren’t some hypothetical things we’re talking about. This is my life. “Tell me this.
Ben is still a composer, right?”
“Okay, Harper, now I’m actually worried. You know he quit when he was first diagnosed.”
“What?” What could have possibly happened in the other time line to have such a ripple effect on this one? “Humor me. What
does he do instead?”
“He works with a bunch of organizations. Cancer research. That kind of thing. Wait—why am I answering these questions? You
know all this already.”
“Wren, I’m telling you, I don’t .” I stare deeply into her eyes, begging her to remember what she said to me, to remember our world before. Then something
dawns on me. “Wait, if Ben’s not a composer anymore, then why is Liam here?”
“Um, for you, dummy. Well, for us. He’s covering the gallery, because the only paper I haven’t gotten written up in is the
Times , so they sent him to hype up your solo show. Obviously it was surprising that you two already knew each other, but honestly,
your history gives us a bit of an advantage, which I’m not mad about.”
Liam is here to write a story about my career, not Ben’s? “Exactly how popular is this gallery, Wren?”
She smiles. “Very. Can I please go home now?”
I open my mouth to tell her no, she cannot go home, but really, what can she possibly do for me here? It’s comforting that
not everything is different; we still have our apartment, Ben is still at the workshop, and Liam is still here, but now the
circumstances have changed as to why.
“Am I happy at least?” I finally ask. It seems like a silly question, but it’s not. I assumed everything would be great in my grass-is-greener life, but it was more complicated than that. I know that Ben’s diagnosis is not happy, of course, but if I’m a working artist and running a gallery, it has to be pretty good, right?
“I can’t answer that for you,” she says, then shrugs. “But I mean, I think so.”
“I need to take a walk. Can you cover for a while?”
“Seriously?”
I don’t wait for her to answer. I’m dazed as I leave the gallery, so many unanswered questions flowing through my head. No
one knows what I’ve been through, and I have no way to explain it. Not even to Ben. I’ve never been at such a loss with what
to do next. Maybe find a psychiatrist? Get a lobotomy?
I find myself gravitating toward my former students’ warehouse gallery. I remember where to walk, and when I arrive, I steady
myself before knocking lightly on the door. There’s a commotion from inside, a bunch of hushed whispers, and then the door
slides open a fraction. It’s Alejandro.
“Oh, thank God. You’re here.”
He squints at me. “Can I help you?”
I can tell he doesn’t recognize me, and of all the little deaths, this one cuts especially deep. I don’t know why I’m here...
I guess I just need confirmation that I have somehow shifted the fabric of my reality in innumerable ways.
“Sorry. Wrong address.”
I walk away before he can question me, then make a right and head toward my studio. What if I don’t rent it anymore? As I’m beginning to panic about all of these unwanted changes, I find that yes, I still have my studio. Once inside, I deflate, suddenly needing a nap. It’s already eleven, and I panic as I realize I have to see Liam later.
I can’t possibly answer questions or pretend that we are virtual strangers, because we aren’t. Everything is spinning out
of control, and I have no idea what to do next.
Spotting a blanket on my old couch, I curl up underneath it and close my eyes. Yes, I have a gallon of caffeine pumping through
my veins, but I need my brain to stop working overtime for just a little while.
I need to figure out what is happening.
I need to understand this new version of my old life.