most wonderful surprise of my whole life. You’re not going to believe this, but I was getting ready to come see you at the surgery. I absolutely have to talk to you.”
“Good timing. I have to talk to you too. We still haven’t decided about going to Connecticut for the weekend. When is it you’re going back to Argentina? You told me yesterday, but I hate the idea so much I’ve already forgotten.”
“Why would I be going back to Argentina?”
Valerie turned and stared at Andrew.
“Why would I be going back to Argentina?” Andrew repeated.
“Well, maybe because your newspaper’s commissioned you to do, quote unquote, a story that’s going to send your career through the roof. That’s what you told me this weekend. You were ridiculously overexcited about it. And because your editor called you on Friday to suggest you go back to Argentina, even though you’ve only just been there. But she was insistent—she says it’s an incredibly important piece.”
Andrew could remember that conversation with Olivia perfectly. Except that it had taken place when he had returned from his first trip to Buenos Aires in early May, and it was now July.
“She called me on Friday?” he stammered.
“Go have something to eat. You’re flipping out.”
Andrew didn’t answer. He ran to his bedroom, grabbed the remote control from the bedside table and switched on the television. He tuned in to the morning news on NY1.
He realized, dumbfounded, that he knew every single story the anchor was presenting. The spectacular fire that had burned down a warehouse in Queens, killing twenty-two people. The toll increase for drivers coming into the city, taking effect that day. But that day had been two months ago.
Andrew glanced at the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen and the date display: May 7. His legs gave way and he fell on the bed.
The weatherman announced the arrival of the season’s first tropical storm. It was expected to begin losing strength before it hit the Florida coast. Andrew knew the weatherman was wrong. The storm would double in size by the end of the day. He also knew how many it would leave dead in its wake.
His tailor had once told him life wasn’t like one of those modern gadgets where you just press “rewind” to listen to your favorite song again. He’d said there was no going back. Apparently Mr. Zanetti had got it all wrong. Andrew’s life had just gone back to sixty-two days earlier.
He went to the kitchen, holding his breath as he opened the refrigerator. He found what he’d feared he would: a plastic bag containing the shirt his wife—except she wasn’t his wife yet—had put away there by mistake with the yogurt she’d picked up at the grocery store on her way home.
He took it to her. Valerie wanted to know how come the shirt was so cold. When Andrew told her why, Valerie promised she wouldn’t accuse
him
of being absentminded ever again.
“So why were you coming to see me at the surgery this morning?” she asked, picking up her handbag.
“No reason. I was missing you, that’s all.”
She gave him a quick kiss and left hurriedly after asking him to wish her good luck and warning him she’d probably be home late.
Andrew knew there would be no health inspection, because the health inspector was in a car crash on the Queensboro Bridge right this minute. Valerie would call him at the newspaper at around half past six that evening to suggest they go to the movies. Andrew wouldn’t get out of the office in time and so they’d miss the beginning of the movie. He’d take out her out to dinner to make it up to her.
Andrew had an impressive memory. He had always congratulated himself on it. It had never occurred to him that this gift of his might one day plunge him into a state of utter panic.
Alone again in the apartment trying to come to grips with the unthinkable, Andrew realized that what he had decided was a fainting fit was nothing of the sort. He
“Good timing. I have to talk to you too. We still haven’t decided about going to Connecticut for the weekend. When is it you’re going back to Argentina? You told me yesterday, but I hate the idea so much I’ve already forgotten.”
“Why would I be going back to Argentina?”
Valerie turned and stared at Andrew.
“Why would I be going back to Argentina?” Andrew repeated.
“Well, maybe because your newspaper’s commissioned you to do, quote unquote, a story that’s going to send your career through the roof. That’s what you told me this weekend. You were ridiculously overexcited about it. And because your editor called you on Friday to suggest you go back to Argentina, even though you’ve only just been there. But she was insistent—she says it’s an incredibly important piece.”
Andrew could remember that conversation with Olivia perfectly. Except that it had taken place when he had returned from his first trip to Buenos Aires in early May, and it was now July.
“She called me on Friday?” he stammered.
“Go have something to eat. You’re flipping out.”
Andrew didn’t answer. He ran to his bedroom, grabbed the remote control from the bedside table and switched on the television. He tuned in to the morning news on NY1.
He realized, dumbfounded, that he knew every single story the anchor was presenting. The spectacular fire that had burned down a warehouse in Queens, killing twenty-two people. The toll increase for drivers coming into the city, taking effect that day. But that day had been two months ago.
Andrew glanced at the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen and the date display: May 7. His legs gave way and he fell on the bed.
The weatherman announced the arrival of the season’s first tropical storm. It was expected to begin losing strength before it hit the Florida coast. Andrew knew the weatherman was wrong. The storm would double in size by the end of the day. He also knew how many it would leave dead in its wake.
His tailor had once told him life wasn’t like one of those modern gadgets where you just press “rewind” to listen to your favorite song again. He’d said there was no going back. Apparently Mr. Zanetti had got it all wrong. Andrew’s life had just gone back to sixty-two days earlier.
He went to the kitchen, holding his breath as he opened the refrigerator. He found what he’d feared he would: a plastic bag containing the shirt his wife—except she wasn’t his wife yet—had put away there by mistake with the yogurt she’d picked up at the grocery store on her way home.
He took it to her. Valerie wanted to know how come the shirt was so cold. When Andrew told her why, Valerie promised she wouldn’t accuse
him
of being absentminded ever again.
“So why were you coming to see me at the surgery this morning?” she asked, picking up her handbag.
“No reason. I was missing you, that’s all.”
She gave him a quick kiss and left hurriedly after asking him to wish her good luck and warning him she’d probably be home late.
Andrew knew there would be no health inspection, because the health inspector was in a car crash on the Queensboro Bridge right this minute. Valerie would call him at the newspaper at around half past six that evening to suggest they go to the movies. Andrew wouldn’t get out of the office in time and so they’d miss the beginning of the movie. He’d take out her out to dinner to make it up to her.
Andrew had an impressive memory. He had always congratulated himself on it. It had never occurred to him that this gift of his might one day plunge him into a state of utter panic.
Alone again in the apartment trying to come to grips with the unthinkable, Andrew realized that what he had decided was a fainting fit was nothing of the sort. He
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