Page 41 of Parallel

He reaches out, his hand brushing my cheekbone, resting there for a single beat. “Hey,” he says. “It’s going to beokay.”

I feel a sudden burst of love for him in this moment, warm as the sun. I love that he came here, even though he thinks this is a wild goose chase. I love that he’s willing to support me, justfor me, when it will cause him nothing but trouble. “Thank you for doingthis.”

His fingers trail away, a hair’s breadth from my mouth—I kind of wished they’d stayed—and he smiles. “Even if this doesn’t amount to much, I’m glad I got this time withyou.”

We walk to the door together. I knock, and after a few breathless moments we hear shuffling coming from inside the house. The door opens and Dr. Grosbaum appears—looking far older than I’d have expected for a man of his age. Though he’s probably in his early sixties, he could easily pass for seventy-five. It’s less about age, I think, than that he’s so grave and unkempt. His white hair is in desperate need of a trim, and he’s wearing clothing that should have been donated long ago. This trip just became even less promising, ifpossible.

We introduce ourselves, but he is glancing past us and doesn’t seem to be listening. “Come in,” he says. “Comein.”

We follow him into his office, Nick placing himself between us with his shoulders wide and his body tensed, like a lineman just before the snap. We sit patiently while he flips through a file on his desk. On the table behind him there’s a wedding photo, and it takes me a moment to realize the groom is Dr. Grosbaum because he looks so young and so…normal. His bride’s face is partially obscured, but it’s obvious they’re both radiantly happy. I wonder what went wrong, because I seriously doubt she’s still living here—this place hasn’t seen a woman’s touch in a good long time. I look around and realize there are pictures of that same woman all over his office. In each, her face is slightly unclear, but I can tell she’s young, and my initial disdain for him turns to pity. I assume she died, and it appears it wasn’t far into theirmarriage.

“So, you’re Quinn,” he says. “And who is yourfriend?”

I knew he wasn’t listening before. I introduce Nick again and Dr. Grosbaum’s head cocks to the side, observing us both like pieces in a museum. “Interesting,” he says, rubbing a pen against his mouth vigorously. “Veryinteresting.”

Nick already looks irritated. “Your website said you’re affiliated with Princeton?” he asks, his voice heavy withdoubt.

“I was,” says Dr. Grosbaum. “The university, in their infinite wisdom, no longer permits me oncampus.”

Great. I’m beginning to see all this through Nick’s eyes, and it increasingly looks like a fool’s journey. Nick’s hand squeezes my thigh and I’m not sure if he’s trying to comfort me or signal that we should leave, but either way I remain in my seat. We’ve come this far, and I have to at leasttry.

“Have you had a chance to look at the images I sent over?” Iask.

He nods. “Didn’t need to, though. Based on your description of the events, I knew what was happening, and your MRI confirmed it.” He flips on a light board, where my scans already hang. “Dr. Reilly, tell me something. Do you see anything unusual about Quinn’s brain? Not the tumor. The brainitself.”

Nick studies the images. “The amygdala. They’re maybe a bit larger than normal. More oval inshape.”

Dr. Grosbaum nods, a teacher rewarding an apt student. “What else do yousee?”

Nick sighs heavily. Irritated, perhaps, or maybe he’s just reluctant to answer. “You could argue that the frontal lobe has more density and nerve endings than istypical.”

“Exactly,” says Dr. Grosbaum, turning to me. “Quinn, the frontal lobe performs higher-order thinking. And yours, if I were to venture a guess, has about twice the capacity of ahuman’s.”

A small laugh escapes. “You say that as if I’mnothuman.”

He shrugs. “Whether you are or are not is arguable. You’re certainly a different variety of human than most. You arethorax laneustempore.”

I look from him to Nick, who is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Time jumper?” Nick asks. “Are you actually trying to say she jumps throughtime?”

“I am indeed,” says Dr.Grosbaum.

For a single moment I’m speechless with shock. And then common sense returns. “I’m notjumpinganywhere. I’m dreaming. And this is the only time I knowof.”

“Except it’s not really the only time you know of, Miss Stewart, since you appear to be remembering others, yes? Tell me something: these dreams of yours…are they particularly realistic? Do you emerge from them certain they happened and knowing things you couldn’t possiblyknow?”

The accuracy of what he’s said is unsettling, but just because he guessed something correctly doesn’t mean his insane theory is right. “I suppose. But I’m remembering things that happened in the past few years, when I know for a fact they didn’t. My passport very clearly shows that I’ve never been toLondon.”

He leans back in his chair, the springs groaning beneath his weight. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d say there’s been some foul play. Someone has gone back in time and done something to change the course of your life. I could jump back twenty-eight years ago, for instance, and give your father the job of his dreams somewhere in Germany. Suddenly, you are no longer here. You are Frau Stewart, dining onwienerschnitzelin Munich with your German best friend. One small tweak can altereverything.”

Nick’s lips press together, amused and irritated simultaneously. “So you’re saying she’s jumping between her life as it is and her life as itcould havebeen?”

“No, I’m saying she’s jumping between her life as it is and her life as itwas,” replies Dr. Grosbaum. He sighs. “Although I have no idea how. I’ve met many like Quinn but none who were able to go back and forth between different timelines the way she mustbe.”

“Why would anyone reset my timeline in the first place?” I ask. “It seems like an awful lot of trouble for someone to go to, given that I lead a pretty uneventfullife.”

He gives me a small smile. “Maybe you do and maybe you don’t. You have no idea which of your actionsnowcould have a lasting impact on someone else down the line. Maybe she’s trying to stop you from doing something in the future. Maybe she wants something you have,” he says, nodding atNick.

It’s a struggle not to roll my eyes. He’s just like one of those palm readers who pulls tiny facts from what a customer is wearing or asks about to make predictions thatfeelreal. He sees me here with a particularly attractive man and assumes jealousy is a motive I’d understand. I guess he’s not entirely off base, but I resent it all the same. “And the culprit would need to be a female, and from the sound of it a jealous female,because…?”

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