The Best Gift

  The life inside of her is still in the embryonic stage, just a few millimeters long and not yet a fetus.

  Maybe that’s why she doesn’t feel the same reassuring sense of connection to this pregnancy that she does three years from now. She can’t see the evidence that the baby is in there, and she can’t feel movement . . .

  It’s just too early for kicking. Too early to be showing.

  Too early, too, to put aside the nagging worry that something might go wrong.

  What was that statistic she read? At least twenty percent of pregnancies are lost in the first trimester.

  Once it’s over, she’ll breathe more easily.

  But what if this pain means—

  Stop that! she tells herself sharply.

  Drew was right. What ifs are toxic.

  Focus on what happened yesterday—the real yesterday. Then you can figure out what you’re going to do today. The real today.

  She vaguely remembers Drew’s return from his walk. She was dozing on the couch, and he told her to go up to bed.

  But it was too early for bed, and she couldn’t have gone if she wanted to; her body seemed incapable of moving.

  Now she knows where the term bone-tired came from. Whoever coined it must have been pregnant.

  So Drew covered her with a blanket; later he asked her if she wanted some soup.

  She didn’t. She wanted only to sleep.

  She vaguely recalls waking up sometime in the evening to make her way up to the bedroom. Drew was already there, asleep. Rather than lying awake, as she had feared, she drifted off again, swaddled in dreamless slumber.

  If only she could go back there right now, so she wouldn’t have to think about any of this.

  But she’s wide awake.

  Wide awake, and sick, or starved, or both.

  She sits up and her stomach roils.

  Food. She needs food. Now.

  She gets out of bed, grabs her robe, and hurries down the hallway to the stairs. As she descends, she hears movement in the kitchen and stops dead in her tracks.

  Then she hears a whimper. Oh! The dog. Dickens. She’d forgotten all about him. By the time she’s reached the kitchen, he’s barking and, quite literally, rattling his cage.

  She flips on a light and is promptly taken aback at the miniature version of the dog who made Gerald and his owner run for his life just yesterday.

  “Dickens, shhh! You’ll wake up Drew!”

  She heads for the fridge, but the puppy barks even louder. With a sigh, she does an about-face back to the cage.

  “You’re not going to let me get something to eat before I let you out, are you?”

  The dog pants eagerly and wags his tail.

  Clara hurriedly opens his crate. “You’d better just hope I don’t barf on you,” she advises him as he scampers past her legs.

  She opens the refrigerator and is greeted by a blast of cold air—and a distinct aroma. Dairy, produce, leftover Thai . . . all of it mingles to create the most nauseating smell ever.

  Gagging, she slams the door closed and leans against the counter, swallowing hard.

  After a minute or two, the nausea subsides just enough for her to make it to the cupboard. Grabbing the first box of cereal she sees, she shoves a handful into her mouth, mechanically chewing and swallowing. Another handful. Another.

  Oh, ick. She doesn’t even like Cap’n Crunch on a good day. But somehow, the sickly sweet corn cereal does the trick and after a minute or two, she feels—well, not good, but definitely better.

  She returns to the cupboard, finds a loaf of bread, and puts two slices into the toaster. Starting to put the cereal box back on the shelf, she thinks better of it and takes another handful.

  Hearing a whimper, she looks down to see Dickens at her feet, in a classic sit-up-and-beg pose.

  “Hey, I thought you weren’t trained.”

  He glances at the cereal box in her hand. So does she.

  “Can dogs eat Cap’n Crunch?” she asks him, and he seems to nod eagerly. “Oh, what do you know? You ate someone’s coat. For all I know, you want to eat the box. You like paper, right? Probably cardboard, too.”

  He seems to nod.

  “Sorry, pal. I don’t think that’s very good for you.”

  She fixes him a bowl of puppy chow, then sits on a stool, watching him eat it and thinking back to yesterday’s conversation with Drew.

  How many times, over the years, had she imagined telling him the truth? How many times had she rehearsed the scenario in her head?

  How many times had she searched Drew’s brown eyes for some sign that he might already know?

  Once or twice, she thought she saw a flicker of awareness—but she could never be sure.

  Then yesterday, he mistakenly referred to his sister as Doris. . . .

  Doris.

  Doreen.

  She wondered, standing there in his parents’ foyer, if he somehow knew, somewhere deep in his subconscious mind. Wondered whether that slip of the tongue was evidence that memories of his other lifetime might be poking through.

  Then, mere minutes later, Drew mentioned that aqua table with the chrome trim and the speckled aqua linoleum—things he remembered so clearly from his childhood, and no one else in his family even recognized.

  Jed Landry’s house had an identical aqua table with chrome trim, and identical speckled aqua linoleum.

  Even more telling: tucked among the Landry family’s discarded odds and ends in the loft over the garage, Clara had seen a game called Magnetic Jack Straws, stacked on a shelf with Tiddlywinks and Monopoly.

  Jed had mentioned that it had been his favorite when he was a child.

  Had he lived, Jed would have been around the same age as Grandma Becker is now.

  Clara knew, then and there, that none of it was a coincidence.

  She knew it was time to tell him the truth. The whole truth.

  But they never got to finish their conversation yesterday.

  She still needs to tell him about traveling to 2012, and about the earthquake. The Big One.

  Today is the day.

  She’d realized that the moment she’d seen yesterday’s weather forecast.

  This is going to be the only sunny day of the week. Tonight, the rain sets in, and it doesn’t let up until after New Year’s.

  She glances at the bank of windows above the sink and sees only her own reflection. But out there, beyond her troubled face and the glare of kitchen light, she knows the sky is still pitch-black.

  For the time being, they’re safe.

  But it’s coming.

  How can she just sit here, knowing what she knows, and let the town be demolished?

  I can’t.

  The toast pops up abruptly.

  She stands, retrieves it, butters it, eats it.

  But she doesn’t even taste it and her morning sickness is all but forgotten. By the time she’s brushing the last crumbs from her fingers, she’s got a plan. Not a great one, but at least it’s something. Even if it doesn’t work, at least she’ll have tried. At least she’ll be able to live with herself . . . afterward.

  She returns Dickens to his crate and shakes her head at his reproachful look. “I’m sorry, puppy, but it’s only for a little while longer. It’s almost morning, and I’ll probably be back before Drew even wakes up and if I’m not, he’ll let you out. Okay?”

  Clearly not okay.

  Feeling guilty, she turns off the kitchen light and returns upstairs. Five minutes in the bathroom, two more to get dressed, and another to scrawl a quick note to Drew in case he wakes up before she gets back.

  Had a craving. Went to the store. Be back soon. Love, Y.W.

  Y.W, means your wife.

  Y.H. means your husband.

  She and Drew always sign notes and e-mails to each other that way. It’s just one of countless, comforting married rituals they share. Without them—without him—she’d be lost.

  For a moment, she stands, dressed, at the foot of t
he bed, watching him sleep.

  She could wake him up right now and tell him the rest of the story—about the earthquake that’s coming.

  But no need to do that right now. If today is the day, then it’s going to be a while before Drew—or anyone else in San Florentina—sleeps so peacefully again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The woods are blanketed in snow, and he can see his breath in the air as he stands by, waiting for Doris to make the final verdict on the tree.

  “But I really love that one,” she says plaintively, and he looks up at the towering pine in amusement.

  “Let it go.”

  “But it’s so beautiful. Come on, Jed, let’s get it.”

  “Maybe if I were Paul Bunyan.”

  “Please?”

  “Even if I could cut it down and drag it to the DeSoto and somehow get it all the way home, there’s no way we’d ever get it into the house. Hurry up and choose one, Toots. It’s freezing out here.”

  “But I don’t want a dinky little tree. I want a big one!”

  “How about this one? The shape is perfect, and it’s not dinky,” comes the voice of reason. Clara, in a red coat and hat and mittens, looks like a beautiful cardinal perched against the monochromatic backdrop.

  “It’s not big, either.”

  “It’ll look plenty big when we get it into the house,” he promises his kid sister, who grudgingly agrees at last.

  He picks up the ax and begins to swing the blade against the evergreen’s trunk. With every thwack, the rich scent of pine further saturates the air. Beside him, Clara and Doris are singing, “Oh, Christmas Tree.”

  Thwack . . .

  Thwack . . .

  Thwack . . .

  And then another sound, distant, out of place.

  Startled from the dream, Drew sits up in the predawn darkness, instantly alert. “What was that? Clara? Did you hear that?”

  When his wife doesn’t stir, he turns to look at the bed beside him. Even in the dim light, he can see that it’s empty.

  Somewhere outside, a car engine turns over.

  “Clara?” he calls out, seeing the arc of headlights swing across the bedroom ceiling through the window. She can’t be out there, driving away in the middle of the night . . . can she?

  She doesn’t reply. Downstairs, the dog is barking.

  Drew gets out of bed, concerned. A glance out the window at the driveway below tells him that her car is indeed missing. And in the bathroom, he finds a note on a yellow Post-it stuck to the mirror.

  A craving?

  He can’t help but smile as he returns to the bedroom and crawls back between the sheets. Closing his eyes and hoping to slip effortlessly back to sleep again, he opens them immediately when he remembers the dream he was having.

  He and Clara were in the woods chopping down a Christmas tree with his sister . . . Doris?

  Everything Clara told him yesterday roars back into his mind like a tsunami, sweeping away any chance of returning to slumber. Wide awake, he again tries to grasp the incredible tale his wife told him.

  It isn’t that he doesn’t believe it.

  Or even that he doesn’t want to believe it.

  So many things would make sense if it were true.

  Of course it’s true. Clara would never lie.

  She did lie, though. About how she knew Doris. She told Jed that the woman was a soap opera fan who had become a friend, and Jed believed her.

  Why wouldn’t he? He’d had no reason to question his wife’s relationship with a little old lady; truth be told, he’d barely given Doris a second thought.

  Now he finds out she’s his sister?

  He supposes it’s going to take some getting used to—the idea that he lived another life, decades ago. That he existed as a total stranger, as someone other than Drew Becker. Someone who had a kid sister named Doris—

  “Come on, Jed . . .”

  “Maybe if I were Paul Bunyan . . .”

  But he wasn’t. He was Jed. Jed Landry.

  And the dream from which he’d awakened just now hadn’t really been a dream. Maybe none of his dreams have been.

  He sits up again, staring into the darkness, wishing he could accept all of this and move on without this feeling of . . .

  Betrayal.

  Admit it.

  Yes, that’s what it is—this sick feeling in his gut that began gnawing at him yesterday when Clara told him. He went for a walk, hoping to get rid of it somehow, as if he could somehow sweat or breathe it all out and come back without the burden.

  With Dickens on a leash he walked down to the road and then made his way down the rocky coast and along the beach, deserted in the December dusk. Ordinarily, he would have relished the solitude, the sight of fat seals on the rocks, the chance to let the dog run free to chase after gulls and waves.

  But the whole time, all he could think was, She didn’t tell me. How could she not have told me?

  No, she would never lie. But for all those years, Clara kept the truth to herself. Isn’t that the same thing?

  Of course it isn’t. You know it isn’t.

  And yet . . .

  He was glad she was asleep when he returned. He wasn’t ready to talk about it again.

  He still isn’t.

  He glances at the clock, then gets out of bed abruptly.

  Technically, it’s not time yet for him to get up and head for the office. But he can’t sleep anymore, and it’s never too early to hit the desk when you’re new on the job, and . . .

  Come on, who are you kidding? You know why you want to go early today.

  As he turns the shower tap, he wonders how soon Clara will get back—and whether it’s wrong of him not to want to be here when she does.

  Of course it’s wrong.

  It’s running away—and he’s never been one to avoid conflict.

  I just need a little more time, a little more space, he tells himself, staring at the water rushing from the tap. I need to feel like myself again.

  Hopefully, a few hours is all it will take—because a few hours is all he really has.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The road to town is pitch-black and fog-shrouded at this hour of the morning, and Clara wonders whether she’s made a huge mistake. Maybe she should have waited until daybreak, at least.

  But daybreak means the sun will be up, and the sun was shining when the Big One struck.

  She forges ahead, trying to ignore the dull ache in her stomach. Nerves. It must be. This is a life-and-death mission, and there’s no time to waste.

  She’d had the foresight to bring along the notes from her conversation with her old physics teacher, and she’d been planning to rehearse what she’s going to do and say during the drive. But as she creeps the car along the treacherous curves high above the Pacific, it’s all she can do to focus on getting there in one piece.

  She’ll just have to play it by ear when she does.

  At last, she reaches town.

  Even through the veil of gray, she can see that everything looks as it should.

  There are no unexpected traffic lights or detours, no heaps of rubble or construction sites.

  Swept by nostalgia for what hasn’t yet been lost yet, Clara knows she’s experienced the sensation before.

  This is what it felt like, back in December 1941. This is how she felt, knowing the world around her was about to be hit hard, out of nowhere, and nothing would ever be the same again. Utterly helpless, she could do nothing about it.

  She couldn’t stop the attack.

  And she can’t stop the earthquake.

  But there is something she can do this time. Something she considered—and dismissed—back in 1941.

  San Florentina police headquarters are housed in a Spanish mission-style stucco building a block from the town green. All is quiet at this hour—but then, all is usually quiet here.

  Not for long.

  I have to warn them.

  Clara parks in the nearly empty l
ot, reaches into her pocket, and unfolds the page of notes. Laying it against the steering wheel and cracking the door open so that the overhead light will go on, she reads down the page.

  Fault lines and foreshocks fresh in her mind—and a sense of urgency greater than ever—she marches from the car to the double glass doors.

  The lone uniformed cop at the desk looks up as she enters.

  She recognizes him the moment she sees the blond stubble on his head, the mustache, the round face.

  “Bobby!” She rushes toward him. “I’m so glad you’re the one who’s here.”

  For a split second, he seems taken aback—then, quite obviously, he’s wary, standing. “Ma’am, how can I help you?”

  She glances down at the desk, where a placard reads: officer on duty: robert shelton.

  Not Bobby.

  Oops. She was so happy to see him that she’d momentarily forgotten what year it is. They might be on a palsy-walsy first-name basis in 2012, but right now it’s 2009 and they have yet to even meet.

  Talk about starting off on the wrong foot.

  Then again, when you’re the prophet of doom, is there really a right foot?

  “I, uh—I have some information that I need to share.”

  “About a crime?” He reaches for a clipboard.

  “No,” she says quickly, “not a crime. About a catastrophic event.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know this might sound crazy, but you need to evacuate San Florentina right away . . .”

  Seeing his expression, she amends, “Okay, I know it sounds crazy. But I promise you, I’m not.”

  Even though I’m a total stranger who burst in here in the middle of the night and called you Bobby and ran at you like a long lost friend.

  “Ma’am, I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “Please, Officer—just listen to me . . .” She trails off, feeling a sharp pain in her abdomen. Nerves?

  Of course. Hurry up and get this over with.

  “There’s going to be a major earthquake today,” she blurts, and sees the lines instantly deepen between the cop’s sandy brows.

  “And you know this . . . how?”

  “I’m a scientist. Physics,” she adds. “Earthquake physics, to be specific. I study . . . paleoseismology.”