But they had the lanterns.
She climbed into the tree house, stopping twice to catch her breath, and made her way from the balcony into the interior. She went to the cabinet where they stored the lanterns, pulled one out and lit it, then hung it in the window that faced the house. He might see it if he looked out of the kitchen window; he might as he came over the bridge. If the magic let him.
She sat on the futon, a blanket wrapped around her and she rested her hands on her belly, on the baby. She prayed that he would see the lantern. And she waited.
“Who’s up there?”
The voice sounded far away, but it was shouting and angry. Sarah woke and realized she’d fallen asleep. For a moment she was confused. She wasn’t in her bed. She was in the tree house, the lantern was still burning and tendrils of fog were curling around the windows.
But her hands were still curved over her belly, and she remembered. Her breath caught in her throat. “Sam?” she shouted.
“Sarah?”
She heard feet on the ladder and, an instant later, he came through the door. Sam. Sam alive, with the fog swirling in behind him. They held each other, and wept, and kissed. But this time neither of them hurried to turn the futon into a bed. This time, they had to talk, and both of them knew it.
“I saw the light from the house, coming through fog on the island,” he said. “But ... it was real? You’re real?”
“I don’t think I can prove I’m real to you. I know you proved you’re real to me. I’m pregnant.”
He stared at her. “After Samantha, you had your tubes tied.”
“Samantha?” she whispered. “We lost Samantha. She ... I had a miscarriage almost five months in, and nearly died. She didn’t make it. You had a vasectomy a month later.”
He thought about that for a long time without saying anything. That was Sam. She watched his face, watched him working through the different connections, how all the pieces fitted, the same way he’d designed houses and office buildings. Carefully, methodically, he was putting things together, visualizing how they worked, seeing actions and consequences. She waited. As she’d always waited.
“So you’re pregnant and I had a vasectomy. And there are going to be people who know you who know that.”
She nodded. “Dr Gruber tested me today because I thought I was dying: ovarian cancer, uterine cancer, something like that. He found out I was pregnant, and when I told him it could only have been you, he didn’t believe me.”
“He doesn’t matter. How are you?”
“Lots of morning sickness and I’ve lost weight.”
“I noticed. Let the kids ... let the boys help you out.” He rested his hand on her belly, and pressed his face against her hair. “We’re still us, Sarah. You and me. But different. Slightly different pasts, very different futures. You’re gone in my world, and the kids are lost without you. I’m lost without you.”
“I know. I can’t sleep at night.”
“But . . . where you are ... I left you taken care of?”
She nodded. “Everything’s paid for. The investment accounts are still growing, the college trusts are fine, the passive income’s fine. We’ll be all right. But, Sam, it’s like I can’t breathe without you.”
“How can I be here for you? I’ve tried to get back to you every night since that night. This is the first night I’ve made it. And I don’t know why I made it, what I did, what you did, how to make it happen again.” He took her hands in his and said, “If I could, I’d bring the kids here and hire someone to deliver food and I’d never leave this place again.”
“I know. But could we bring the kids? Could they meet themselves?”
“I doubt it. I can’t figure out how we can both be here. I can’t figure out how this works.”
“We’re supposed to be together,” she said. “We were always supposed to be together, and we both knew it.”
“We still know it. Maybe that’s the . . . the magic that makes this work.” He closed his eyes. “Or maybe you were supposed to have Samantha, and you got this second chance, and once she’s born you’ll never be able to get back here again.”
Sarah said, “I don’t want to think of that.”
He hugged her. “Sarah, know that whether I can touch you or not, whether you can see me or not, I am with you every minute of every day. And I can’t leave the kids alone every night, but I’ll come out here for a little while and light the lantern. Look for it at twilight. If you can see it, and if you can get out here, come.”
She buried her head in his chest and he wrapped his arms around her. And finally they did fold down the futon and they made love.
The pale pink of dawn woke them both. He lay looking at her, tracing his finger along the tiny scar on her chin. “Where you fell off your bike,” he said. “When you were twelve.”