I blinked. Then blinked again. The dizzy spots receded.
“Oh God…” I moaned, eyes locked with my older sister’s. Her face was shiny with tears and she was breathing fast. I gripped her sweater, holding as tightly as I could. “Oh, Camille…we just…we just…”
“I know,” she whispered, hugging me again, squeezing hard, both of us shaking.
To our right, a tall man raced toward the front entrance, waving his arms and shouting, “We need help! This man needs medical attention! He’s been shot!”
Derrick Yancy, I realized.
Memories began assaulting, hard and fast.
Case…shot in the stomach in Chicago…
Our real lives erased…
“It’s all right, Tish, it’s all right.” As though I was a little girl, Camille held me close, cupping the back of my head. Her breath fanned my cheek as she whispered, “We’re back. We made it back.”
“Then who…what…”
“It’s Marshall, he’s hurt. C’mon,” and so saying, Camille stood and helped me to my feet.
Ten paces away Ruthie, clad in nothing but a baggy gray sweatshirt, knelt supporting Marshall’s upper body with both arms. He was conscious, clutching his right shoulder; the front of his shirt was covered in blood.
Ruthann and Marshall, here in Jalesville in 2014.
Home. They were home.
Sobs broke like glass in my chest. I fell to my knees to hug Ruthie, to kiss Marshall’s face, to touch both of them; it had been so long. And then I heard the front door bang open and my husband shouting my name, brimming with concern, and nothing else mattered. I stumbled to my feet and met him halfway across the lot, crying so hard I couldn’t see.
“Baby, what’s going on? What’s wrong? Who’s been shot?!” Case enfolded me in his arms and I threaded mine around him, clinging for dear life, so grateful my knees became jelly.
Home.
Jalesville, Case, our baby…
We had been restored.
“Oh my God, they’re back,” Case breathed, catching sight of them. Completely floored, he stared with wide eyes, momentarily frozen in place. “Holy shit! Marsh! Ruthie!”
I couldn’t explain a damn thing, too overcome. The parking lot promptly flooded with people, everyone within The Spoke surging outside from the warm, neon-tinted interior to offer help; Mathias, Garth, Becky, the Heller girls. Ruthie and Marsh were inundated. Everyone talking, babbling, freaking out. I recognized the fact that in almost everyone else’s perception Camille and I had only been absent for a few minutes. We would have plenty of time to explain later. For now, I couldn’t think beyond Case in my arms, safe, whole, himself.
I could never be thankful enough.
“Call Clark!” Becky ordered Garth, on her knees beside Ruthann.
“I already did!” cried Lee Heller, Marshall’s cousin; all three Heller girls, Pam, Lee, and Netta, crouched near him and Ruthie, clucking with concern.
“And I called Mom!” Pam added. “They’re all on the way.”
One arm around Marshall’s shoulder and tears on his face, Garth couldn’t stop talking, his deep voice ragged with emotion. “Marshall, you’re back. Oh Jesus, we’ve missed you, we’ve been so scared. Dad said they were going to join us for the music so they might be on the way already. They’re going to lose it. Marsh, holy shit, where have you two been? We’ve missed you both so fucking much…”
Pale and drawn, Marshall could only wag his head side to side – I’ll explain later. He reached with his free hand and Garth gripped it between both of his, squeezing hard.
Sirens sounded, wailing closer.
“Baby, we better call Shore Leave too,” Case said. “My phone’s in my back pocket…”
I reached up to frame his face with both hands. He couldn’t understand in this moment the depth of my gratitude; he didn’t realize what I’d endured in the altered timeline – our separation in these past weeks that for him had passed in a matter of minutes. He had died in my arms on a rainy Chicago sidewalk. I would never forget the horror of that. But Case recognized my raw emotion, gently gripping my wrists and turning to press kisses to my palms, one after the other.
“I’m here,” he murmured, keeping me tucked to his side. “Right here, sweetheart.”
Mom answered my call on the first ring by demanding, “What’s happened? Jilly just called and said something’s happening!”
I choked up all over again; I could hear Blythe and my little brothers, Matthew and Nathaniel, in the background, and pictured them in their cozy kitchen in the cabin Blythe had built for Mom in the woods beyond Shore Leave. Before I could respond a loud truck made a sharp right into the lot and bounced over the curb, slamming to a halt and simultaneously peeling off a parked car’s back bumper with a shrill, metallic screech. The local ambulance roared in right behind the truck, which I recognized as Sean Rawley’s; he, Quinn, Wy, and Clark left all four doors gaping as they bounded out.
“Ruthie! Marshall! Where’s my son?” Clark hollered, running full-bore.
Marshall’s gaze flew toward the sound of his father’s voice and he began sobbing; harsh, chest-heaving sobs. “Dad…”
Everyone else backed away to let the Rawleys close to Marsh and Ruthie, and while they were careful of Marshall’s injury, it was still pure chaos.
Shouting to be heard, I told Mom, “Ruthie’s home!”
Two hours later and well after midnight, we were all gathered in Clark’s living room. Every light on the main floor was glowing. Food covered every flat surface, even though it was sustenance enough to know Ruthie and Marsh were in the same county. In the same century. Tucked close to Mathias on the leather couch, legs curled beneath me, I sat nursing James, an afghan arranged over his chubby little body. I couldn’t bear to let any of them out of my sight and so our tired,
