Page 136 of Here One Moment

When the knock on the door came, I was not surprised. I knew it was the police, and I knew they would ask if there was anyone I could call, and I would have to say no, there is no one. Everyone I loved most in the world was in that car. I went to the door slowly.

I wanted to stay in my life for just a few seconds more.

—

It was Ned. He couldn’t let himself in because he’d forgotten his keys. He was so taken aback when I collapsed sobbing into his arms. He said Jill did take some of those corners too fast, but she was a good driver and he never felt unsafe. I said the pain when I thought I’d lost them all had been unbearable. I didn’t think it would be possible to go on. I felt that I would have to kill myself. He said I mustn’t think about it, I had not inherited my mother’s gift—if she even had a gift—and everyone imagined terrible things, but that didn’t mean they were going to happen. Jill was deeply offended when she heard about my vision and said she had an impeccable driving record, thank you very much.

—

Four years went by. More hikes with Jill and Bert. Our pace as brisk as ever, even after Jill hurt her ankle. She was good with her rehab, she got better. More board games. Ned and I did a road trip on the East Coast of America and visited my old friend Ivy and her husband, as well as some of our friends from when we’d lived in Brooklyn all those years ago.

Jill and Bert had their first grandchild, and two of their three children moved back to Tasmania as they had always hoped. Ned’s nephew (Hazel and Tony’s eldest) got married and Ned was MC at the wedding, and he was marvelous, hilarious, everyone said so. Where did Uncle Ned get all that energy?

I think it’s possible I was as happy as I could possibly be during this time. That vision had really affected me. I felt there was another universe running alongside me, where Ned, Bert, and Jill really had died just as I foresaw, and I was grateful every day to have remained in this one. I remember once, on a Sunday morning, splashes of sunlight on our kitchen floor, a Coldplay song on the radio, I bit into a piece of multigrain sourdough toast with peanut butter and I looked at Ned’s broad back as he stood shirtless in his boxers, chopping up celery for his awful morning smoothie; it was just another normal morning, nothing special, but I felt the most extraordinary feeling of bliss, euphoria, and contentment combined. I have never forgotten it. On the days I believe in heaven, I believe it’s like that moment.

Then Ned pressed the button on the blender so I couldn’t hear the chorus of the Coldplay song and I cried out in exasperation, “Ned!”

—

Now I will tell you what happened on another Sunday morning four months before the flight that made me famous.

Chapter 110

Ethan is at the Opera Bar. He’s found a good table with an unobstructed view of the harbor, and he’s ordered a big bowl of fries and abeer.

He has secretly avoided bars since the prediction, but the mood here is so congenial. There are office workers, backpackers, families, and theatergoers. There are children. Nobody looks like they want to pick a fight with him, or with anyone, in fact. All he can hear is laughter, conversation, the squawk of seagulls and coo of pigeons, the toots of ferry horns as they come in and out of the wharf at Circular Quay. It’s the end of a soft-breezed spring day. He’s definitely not going to be assaulted tonight.

He’s waiting to meet Harvey’s hot sister and a friend, or cousin, or something, he’s unclear on the identity of the other woman, but they have both come up to Sydney from Tasmania for the weekend, and Lila texted and asked if he wanted to meet for a drink. To toast Harvey, she said.

The waiter drops off his bowl of fries and a seagull settles on the railing and looks Ethan straight in the eye.

“Not for you,” says Ethan, and he looks for the guy in the yellow vest patrolling the concourse with a kelpie on a lead. The kelpie wears a Bird Patrol collar and appears to love his job shooing away the seagulls, which used to be a big problem at this bar. Ethan remembers being here with Harvey when he threw a handful of tomato sauce packets at a marauding seagull. The girl Harvey liked had accused him of animal cruelty. Poor Harvey. He was so downcast. He’d thought he was being chivalrous.

Ethan has finally told his parents about the prediction.

“That’s not going to happen.” His mother was adamant. “Absolutely not. You’re not the type.”

“I worry more about your sister,” said his dad. “She’s the one who should be arming herself. Give all that self-defense stuff to her.”

Ethan, mildly offended by the lack of parental concern, was tempted to quote the statistics relating to the death of young adult males by assault versus females, but resisted. It’s good his parents aren’t worried.

Neither is he.

He sees a text from Jasmine. Fish okay?

He sends her a thumbs-up, then puts the phone face down again. He’s become fond of her fish in the three weeks since she’s been gone, but interestingly his crush has been fading day by day into an embarrassing memory. She’ll be one of those friends who come in and out of his life, but she’s not for him. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, to be honest. He could never be himself with her. His personality isn’t big enough to match hers. When he was in her presence he was more like a fanboy than a person. He’s enjoying living on his own. He’s so much more relaxed.

“Ethan?”

Ethan looks up and sees two women walking toward his table.

One of them is Harvey’s hot sister, Lila. She’s still hot. He didn’t imagine it. But his attention is on the other woman. Dark hair in plaits, wearing shorts and a long-sleeved loose shirt, tanned legs and sneakers. She’s laughing at the kelpie.

Ethan stands. Nearly knocks over his bowl of fries. Straightens his glasses.

Afterward he will marvel at the clarity of Harvey’s voice in his head.

This one, mate. Not the other one. This one.

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