You’re having that dream again, the one where you and Tim are in Jaipur for Diwali. Everywhere you look, every doorway and window, there are lanterns and candles, firecrackers and fairy lights. Courtyards have become flickering pools of flame, their entrances surrounded by intricate designs of colored rice paste. Drums and cymbals throb and sizzle. Surrendering to the din and confusion, you surge with the crowd through a market, the stallholders urging platters of sweets on you from every side. On an impulse you stop at a stall where a woman decorates skin with beautiful Hindi patterns, the smell of sandalwood from her brushes mingling with the acrid, savory cordite from the firecrackers and the aroma of kaaju, roasting cashew nuts. As she paints you, deft and quick, a cluster of young men dance past, their faces painted blue, their muscular torsos bare, then come back, dancing just for you, their expressions deadly serious. And then, the final touch, she paints a bindi on your forehead, right between your eyes, telling you how the scarlet dot marks you out as married, a woman with all the knowledge of the world. “But I’m not,” you protest, almost pulling away, fearful you’re going to offend some local sensibility, and then you hear Tim’s laugh and see the box he produces from his pocket and even before he goes down on one knee, right here in the midst of all this noise and mayhem, you know this is it, he’s really going to do it, and your heart overflows.
“Abbie Cullen,” he begins, “ever since you erupted into my life, I’ve known we have to be together.”
And then you’re waking up.
Every part of you hurts. Your eyes are the worst, the bright lights searing into your skull, the ache in your brain connecting with the stiffness in your neck, soreness all the way down your spine.
Machines beep and whir. A hospital? Were you in an accident? You try to move your arms. They’re stiff—you can barely bend your elbows. Painfully, you reach up and touch your face.
Bandages encase your neck. You must have been in an accident of some kind, but you can’t remember it. That happens, you tell yourself groggily. People come around from crashes not remembering the impact, or even having been in a car. The important thing is, you’re alive.
Was Tim in the car as well? Was he driving? What about Danny?
At the thought that Danny or Tim might have been killed you almost gasp, but you can’t. Some change in the beeping machine, though, has alerted a nurse. A blue hospital uniform, a woman’s waist, passes at eye level, adjusting something, but it hurts too much to look up at her.
“She’s up and running,” she murmurs.
“Thank God,” Tim’s voice says. So he’s alive, after all. And right here, by your bedside. Relief floods through you.
Then his face appears, looking down at you. He’s wearing what he always wears: black jeans, a plain gray T-shirt, and a white baseball cap. But his face is gaunt, the lines deeper than you’ve ever seen them before.
“Abbie,” he says. “Abbie.” His eyes glisten with tears, which fills you with alarm. Tim never cries.
“Where am I?” Your voice is hoarse.
“You’re safe.”
“Was there an accident? Is Danny okay?”
“Danny’s fine. Rest now. I’ll explain later.”
“Have I had surgery?”
“Later. I promise. When you’re stronger.”
“I’m stronger now.” It’s true: Already the pain is receding, the fog and grogginess clearing from your head.
“It’s incredible,” he says, not to you but the nurse. “Amazing. It’s her.”
“I was dreaming,” you say. “About when you proposed. It was so vivid.” That’ll be the anesthetic, you realize. It makes things richer. Like that line from that play. What was it? For a moment the words elude you but then, with an almost painful effort, a clunk, you remember.
I cried to dream again.
Again Tim’s eyes fill with tears.
“Don’t be sad,” you tell him. “I’m alive. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? We’re all three of us alive.”
“I’m not sad,” he says, smiling through his tears. “I’m happy. People cry when they’re happy, too.”
You knew that, of course. But even through the pain and the drugs you can tell those aren’t everything’s-going-to-be-all-right-now tears. Have you lost your legs? You try to move your feet and feel them—slowly, stiffly—responding under the blanket. Thank God.
Tim seems to come to a decision.
“There’s something I have to explain, my love,” he says, taking your hand in his. “Something very difficult, but you need to know right away. That wasn’t