Page 1 of Parallel

Prologue

Ihad a nightmare as a child. A nightmare that visited me again and again. I’ve never forgotten it, not a single detail, although if my parents hadn’t kept the psychologist’s report, I’d probably assume the years had added and detracted from it in various ways. But they didn’t. It’s all in writing, exactly as it rests in myhead.

Quinn,age four, was brought into our clinic due to recurrent nightmares. Parents report that patient wakes several times a week, crying for her “husband” (“Nick”), and claiming they’ve been separated by someone. Patient insists she “isn’t supposed to be here” for hours and sometimes days afterward. There are no further signs ofpsychosis.

At first those nightmares—theirweirdness, their specificity—made my mother scared for me. Over time though, she also became scaredofme, and that taught me a lesson I’d continue to find true over the coming years: the things I knew,realthings, were safest kept tomyself.

1

QUINN

2018

Déjàvu.

It translates toalready seen, but really it sort of means the opposite: that youhaven’talready seen the thing, but feel like you have. I once asked Jeff if he thought they actually call itdéjà vuin France or perhaps keep a better, more accurate expression for themselves. He laughed and said, “you think about the weirdest shitsometimes.”

Which is so much truer than heknows.

“Everything okay?” he asks now, as we follow my mother and his into the inn where we will marry in seven short weeks. I’ve beenoff, somehow, since the moment we pulled into town, and I guess itshows.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve got the start of a headache.” It’s not entirely true, but I don’t know how to explain this thing in my head, this irritating low hum. It makes me feel as if I’m only halfhere.

We step into the lobby and my mother extends her arms like a game show hostess. “Isn’t it cute?” she asks without waiting for an answer. “I know it’s an hour from D.C., but at this late date it’s the best we’re going to do.” In truth, the lobby reminds me of an upscale retirement community—baby blue walls, baby blue carpet, Chippendale chairs—but the actual wedding and reception will take place on the lawn. And as my mother pointed out, we can no longer afford to bepicky.

Jeff’s mother, Abby, steps beside me, running a hand over my head, the way she might a prize stallion. “You’re being so calm about this. Any other bride would be in apanic.”

It’s posed as a compliment, but I’m not sure it is. Losing our venue two months before the weddingshouldhave made me panic, but I try not to get too attached to things. Caring too much about anything makes perfectly reasonable people go insane—just ask the girl who burned down the reception hall her ex was about to get married in…which happened to be the reception hallwewere getting married intoo.

My mother claps her hands together. “Well, our appointment with the hotel’s events coordinator isn’t for another hour. Shall we get some lunch while wewait?”

Jeff and I exchange a quick look. On this point we are both of one mind. “We really need to get back to D.C. before rush hour.”Are my words coming out as slowly as they feel?It’s as if I’m on delay somehow, two steps behind. “Maybe you could just show usaround?”

My mother’s smile fades to something far less genuine. She wants giddy participation from me and has been consistently disappointed with my inability to provideit.

She and Abby lead the way, back to the porch where we entered. “We’ve already been discussing it a bit,” Abby says to me over her shoulder. “We were thinking you could walk down the stairs and out to the porch, where your fa—uncle, I mean, will wait.” She pauses for a moment, blushing at the error. It shouldn’t be a big deal at this point—my dad’s been gone almost eight years—but I feel that pinch deep in my chest anyway. That hint of sadness that never quite leaves. “And then we’ll do a red carpet out to thetent.”

Together we step outside. It’s a gruelingly hot day, as are most summer days anywhere near D.C., and this thing in my head only gets worse. I vaguely notice my surroundings—blinding sun, a technicolor blue sky, the rose bushes my mother is commenting on, but all the while I feel displaced, like I’m following this from far away.What the hell is going on?I could call it déjà vu, but it’s not really that. The conversation occurring right now, with this group of people, is wholly new. It’s the place that feels familiar.Morethan familiar, actually. It feelsimportant.

They’re discussing the lake. I’m not sure what I’ve missed, but Abby is worried about its proximity. “It would just take one boatful of drunks to create chaos,” she says. “And we don’t want a bunch of looky-looseither.”

“Most boats can’t reach this part of the lake,” I reply without thinking. “There’s too much brush under the water on the wayhere.”

Abby’s brow raises. “I didn’t realize you’d been here before. And when did you eversail?”

My pulse begins to race, and I take a quick, panicked breath. They know I haven’t been here. They know I don’tsail.

I don’t know why I let it slipout.

“No,” I reply. “I read up a little before I came.” The words sound as false to me as they are, and I know they sound false to my mother too. If I were to glance at her right now, I’d see that troubled look on her face, the one I’ve seen a thousand times before. I learned early in life it bothered her, this strange ability of mine to sometimes know things I shouldnot.

Jeff’s phone rings and he turns the other way, while my mother walks ahead, frowning at the ground beneath her. “I hope they’re going to water soon,” she frets. “If it stays this dry, that carpet will be covered with dust by the time the ceremonystarts.”

She is right, unfortunately. I can see the soil shift loosely before me, the grass burned and threadbare beneath an unrelenting sun, all the way to the pavilion. If there were even the slightest breeze, we’d be choking on it rightnow.

We round the corner of the inn, and the lake comes into view, shimmering in the early July heat. It looks like any other lake, yet there’s something about it that speaks to me. I stare, trying to place it, and as I do, my gaze is compelled upward, beyond its sapphire depths, to a cottage in thedistance.

It’s a tap, at first. A small tap between my shoulder blades, like a parent warning a child to pay attention. But then something shifts inside me, invisible anchors sinking into the ground, holding me in place. My stomach seems to drop as theygo.

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