Replay (7 page)

When he woke up with a hangover that reminded him he was long past the age of binge drinking, he found himself missing Valerie. He missed her intensely—as badly as he missed that apparition of a single night who had, for whatever reason, put him under her spell. But Valerie was his wife, and the other woman was an illusion. And Andrew couldn’t stop thinking about Valerie’s letter.

He had made a terrible mistake—one of the worst he had ever made. He thought about his article; if it brought him some fame and recognition then he wanted to share his sense of satisfaction with Valerie. He had to make things right with her again; he needed a second chance.

*

On Monday morning he went out for his run, going down Charles Street as he did every morning and jogging towards the river.

He waited for the lights to turn red and crossed the West Side Highway. When he reached the central traffic island the little illuminated figure was flashing, but Andrew stepped into the road anyway the way he did every morning, responding to the blaring horns by lifting his fist, his middle finger pointing to the sky. Then he turned into the Hudson River Park path and picked up his pace.

He’d knock on Valerie’s door that very evening to explain and ask her to forgive him. He no longer had the slightest doubt about his feelings for her. He felt like hitting his head against a wall; he asked himself what madness had possessed him to make him act like he had.

A week had gone by since their separation—a seven-day nightmare he’d inflicted on the love of his life because he was a selfish bastard. But it would never happen again; he’d promise her that. Starting now, he’d do everything he could to make her happy. He would beg her to put it all behind her. And if she wanted him to jump through hoops before she’d forgive him, he’d do it.

When he got to Pier 40 there was only one thought running through his mind: how he could win back his wife’s heart.

Andrew felt a sudden, vicious bite on his lower back and then a terrible tearing sensation inside, all the way up to his stomach. If the pain had been higher up, in his chest, he’d have thought he was having a heart attack. His breathing felt restricted. His legs gave way under him, and he had just enough strength left to stretch out his arms and protect his face as he fell.

Lying facedown on the asphalt, he tried to turn over and call for help. He couldn’t understand why there was no sound coming out of his mouth. Then a terrible coughing fit brought up a thick liquid.

Andrew realized the pool of reddish liquid trickling along the Hudson River Park path in front of him was his blood. It was draining out of him as if he were an animal in a slaughterhouse. His vision blurred and darkened.

He thought he’d probably been shot, though he couldn’t remember hearing a gun go off. Maybe he’d been stabbed. But who would want to kill him, Andrew thought, as he struggled to stay conscious.

He was now finding it practically impossible to breathe. His strength was ebbing out of him. He resigned himself to his fate.

He thought he would see his life flash before his eyes, a bright light at the end of a tunnel, a divine voice guiding him to some other world. None of it happened. His last few moments of consciousness were just a long and painful plunge into nothingness.

At 7:15 on a Monday morning in July, Andrew Stilman realized he was dying.

F
reezing cold air rushed into his lungs, and an equally icy liquid was flowing through his veins. A blinding light was making it impossible for him to open his eyes. He was terrified of what he’d see if he did open them. Where was he waking up: in purgatory or hell? Heaven was probably too good for him, considering the way he’d treated Valerie.

He could no longer feel his heart beating. And he was cold, terribly cold.

Death was supposed to last for eternity, and he could hardly stay in the dark the whole time. He plucked up his courage and managed to reopen his eyes.

To his amazement, he found himself leaning up against the traffic light on the corner of Charles Street and the West Side Highway.

Hell didn’t look anything like the way it had been described in catechism class at the Catholic school he’d gone to in Poughkeepsie, unless this crossing was the entrance to it. But considering the number of times Andrew had run past it, surely he’d have figured it out before this.

He was trembling like a leaf in the wind, and his back was covered in sweat. He glanced at his watch without thinking. It was exactly 7
A.M.
—fifteen minutes before he’d been killed.

That made no sense at all. He glanced around. Everything looked just the same as it did every morning. Cars were streaming north on the opposite side of the traffic island. The cars heading south towards the Financial District were bumper to bumper, while joggers advanced along the Hudson River Park path at a brisk pace.

Andrew tried to collect his thoughts. The only good thing about dying, as far as he knew, was that it freed you from physical suffering. But he was feeling acute pain in his lower back, and seeing stars. Surely that meant his soul was still firmly anchored to his body?

He was short of breath, but he was obviously still breathing; how else could he be coughing? A wave of nausea overcame him, and he leaned forward to throw up his breakfast in the gutter.

There was no way he could continue; he swore he wouldn’t drink another drop of alcohol as long as he lived, not even a Fernet and Coke. Life had made him pay far too steep a price for him to get caught out again.

He gathered what strength he could and turned around. He’d get back home, have a nice long shower and a rest, and everything would be fine.

The pain in his back began to diminish as he walked, and Andrew persuaded himself he must have simply fainted for a few seconds—a brief loss of consciousness that had disoriented him totally.

And yet he could have sworn he had already reached Pier 40, several blocks past Charles Street, when he’d fainted. He would definitely go see his doctor to check it wasn’t anything serious.

He thought again of Valerie and decided to call the newspaper when he had rested up a little to say he would be late. Then he would jump in a taxi and head for his wife’s surgery ward at the NYPD stables. He needed to tell her he was sorry and ask her to forgive him.

Andrew pushed open the door of his building, climbed to the third floor, slipped his key in the lock and went in. The keys dropped out of his hand when he saw Valerie in the living room. She asked if he’d seen the shirt she had picked up from the dry cleaner’s the previous evening. She’d been looking for it ever since he’d gone out for his run and still hadn’t managed to find it.

She stopped searching to look at him, and asked why he was staring at her in that dazed way.

Andrew didn’t know what to say.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Help me look. I’m going to be late, and today really isn’t the day for it—we’ve got a health inspector coming in.”

Andrew didn’t move. His mouth was dry. His lips felt like they’d been glued together.

“I’ve made you some coffee. And get yourself something to eat—you’re pale as a ghost. You always overdo it when you go running,” Valerie said, taking up her hunt again. “But help me find that shirt first. You’ve got to make some room for my things in your closet. I’m sick of lugging my stuff from my place to yours: look what happens!”

Andrew took a step towards Valerie and caught hold of her arm to capture her attention.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but finding you here is the 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 had been killed, and now he had sixty-two days to find out who had killed him, and why.

W
hen he got to the office, Andrew decided not to make any changes to his routine. He needed to take a step back from the situation and consider it before deciding anything. Besides, he’d read a few science fiction books about going back in time when he was a boy, and he remembered that changing the course of events could have unfortunate consequences.

He spent the day organizing his second trip to Argentina—a trip he’d already organized in his previous life. He figured he could allow himself to change his hotel in Buenos Aires; he kept a very bad memory of the one he’d stayed in last time.

He had a brief argument with Freddy Olson, who had the cubicle next to his. Olson kept shooting him down at editorial meetings and trying to steal his story ideas, the jealous bastard.

Andrew clearly recalled the reason for their spat. Never mind how he had reacted last time; he took the initiative to put an end to his meddling and sent Olson packing. This way he avoided getting their editor involved, who would make him go through the humiliation of apologizing to that moron in front of all his colleagues.

It wasn’t as if he could follow in his exact footsteps, after all, he reasoned as he returned to his desk. He would probably squash a few insects that had survived his morning runs in Hudson River Park over the past two months . . .
the next two months
, he corrected himself silently.

He quite liked the idea of shaking up the natural order of things. He hadn’t asked Valerie to marry him yet—he would only do it in three days’ time, after she had brought up the subject of his trip to Buenos Aires again. He hadn’t broken her heart, and so there was nothing for which he needed to ask forgiveness. All in all, if it wasn’t for the probability that he’d end up in a pool of his own blood in around sixty days’ time, this return to the past was all for the better.

When Valerie phoned at half past six, he made the mistake of promising her he’d join her at the movie theater right away, even before she could ask.

“How’d you I know I was about to suggest going to the movies?” she asked in surprise.

“I don’t know,” he stammered, fingers clenching his pencil. “But it’s a good idea, isn’t it? Um, unless you want to eat out?”

Valerie thought for a second, and opted for dinner.

“I’ll get us a table at Omen.”

“Wow. It’s like you’ve got ESP this evening. That’s exactly the place I was thinking of.”