The plant is still there. I assume, now, that it’s fake. Too much time has passed.
“Yes, well,” I say. “I don’t really know who else to tell.”
“Tell what?”
The truth of what I have learned. That what I saw in that apartment is from the future. It will occur in exactly five months and nineteen days, on December 15. I graduated as valedictorian of Harriton High, magna cum laude from Yale, and top of my law class at Columbia. I’m not gullible, nor am I a fool. What happened wasn’t a dream; it was a premonition—a prophecy sketched to life— and now I need to know how and why it happened, so I can make sure it never does.
“I met the man,” I tell her. “From the dream.”
She swallows. It could be my imagination, but it seems like it’s taking some effort. I want to skip this part, the part where we have to determine what it is and how it happened, the process. The part where she thinks I’m maybe a little bit crazy. Hallucinating, possibly. Working out past trauma, etc. I’m only interested in prevention, now.
“How do you know it was him?”
I give her a look. “I didn’t tell you we slept together.”
“Oh.” She leans forward in her brown leather chair. Unlike the plant, it’s new. “That seems an important part. Why do you think you left it out?”
“Because I’m engaged,” I tell her. “Obviously.”
She leans forward. “Not to me.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just didn’t. But I know it’s him, and he’s now dating my best friend.”
Dr. Christine looks at her notes. “Bella.”
I nod, although I don’t remember talking about her. I must have.
“She’s very important to you.”
“Yes.”
“And you feel guilty now.”
“Well, technically, I haven’t done anything wrong.”
She squints at me. I put a fist to my forehead and hold it there.
“You mentioned you’re engaged,” she says. “To the same man you were with when we last spoke?”
“Yes.”
“It has been over four years since I saw you. Do you have plans to get married?”
“Some couples decide not to.”
She nods. “Is that what you and David have decided?”
“Look,” I say. “I just want to make sure this doesn’t happen again, or happen at all. That’s why I’m here.”
Dr. Christine sits back as if creating more space between us. A pathway to the door, maybe.
“Dannie,” she says. “I think something is going on that you don’t understand, and that is frightening to you, as someone whose actual job it is to discover and prove causality.”
“Causality,” I repeat.
“If I do this, I’ll get this result.” She holds out her hands like a weighted Grecian scale. “This experience does not fit in your life, you have not taken any steps to have it, and yet here it is.”
“Well, right,” I say. “That’s why I need it to not be.”
