Children of the Crossing

The elevator was glossy and overlit, a box of mirrors and brushed steel, and Andy saw Laura's reflection a dozen times as the doors slid shut. Two identical Lauras, each standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, both faces turned up in the hazy gold of the LEDs. Her eyes swept the control panel and the ceiling and their joined hands—like she’d forgotten how elevators worked and was delighted to learn it again.

She looked different. Not just the ring, though that was hard to miss, but something in the way she held herself. The guilt that had hunched her shoulders since the morning of her resurrection was gone. She wasn’t fidgeting. Her smile came and stayed, slow and steady, nothing forced or brittle about it. Both her bodies stood close to Andy, and when he glanced down, he realized her hands had sought his on their own.

“I think I love elevators,” she said, the voices neatly layered, like a chorus that had practiced for years.

“First time for everything,” Andy said, and squeezed her hands.

They rode in silence for a moment, the soft hum and click a kind of background song. Andy couldn’t help but catch the details in the mirrors—the little creases at the bridges of Laura’s noses when she smiled, the way her hair slipped over her collarbones, the faint color that rose on both sets of cheeks when she realized Andy was watching her.

When the elevator reached the top, the doors slid open to the familiar antechamber of the Master’s Suite. The hallway was sunlit, the morning bright and clean, and Andy half-expected to see some sign that their entire day in Warrenville had actually happened. There was nothing: the air smelled of lemon and sea salt, the walls were just as he remembered, and the only evidence of the impossible was the weightless gold band on his finger.

“We could just stay up here,” Laura said. “You know, forever.”

“I thought you’d want to see everyone else,” Andy said, a little surprised.

Laura’s two faces traded a look. “I do,” she said, “but this place—” she gestured, encompassing the suite, the island, the world— “feels different now. Like it’s actually real.”

Andy nodded. He knew what she meant, but didn’t trust himself to put it into words.

The place was exactly as they’d left it—Katherine’s painting on the wall, the bed still rumpled from last night, the faintest whiff of sunscreen in the air. Laura’s eyes landed on the painting and lingered for a second, but there was no dread in her gaze, only a kind of amused curiosity.

Andy took a deep breath, then turned to her. “So. What do you want to do with your day?”

Laura didn’t hesitate. “Private beach,” she said, both voices perfectly in sync. “You promised me ocean, and I want to see if it’s as good as everyone says.”

Andy grinned. “Private beach it is. I’m pretty sure that ring means you get first pick of the good spots.”

Laura’s twin mouths dropped open, then snapped shut as she realized the joke. She shoved his shoulder with both bodies, laughing in stereo. “You’re not funny,” she said, but she was smiling.

Andy shrugged. “I try.”

They made quick work of gathering supplies—a backpack, towels, a pair of water bottles. Laura was still in the white dresses she’d worn that morning, but she looked at them now as if they were a costume she could cast off at any moment.

“I don’t have swimsuits,” she said. “Didn’t really think I’d need them.”

Andy moved to the bedroom to check, and found, on the end of the bed, not one but two swimsuits: twin bikinis, matching right down to the cut and the tiny silver ring clasp at the hip. Both were the same shade of deep blue as Laura’s hair highlights in sunlight. A card was tucked between them, written in Arabella’s precise, looping hand:

For our Queen of the Crossing. Enjoy the day.

He held up the card so Laura could see, and both her faces lit up at once. “She’s so weird,” Laura said, but it was affectionate, not annoyed.

They each took their suits, and Andy tried not to be embarrassed at the prospect of changing with two Lauras in the room. But Laura was ahead of him—she took both sets of suits and vanished into the bathroom, emerging a minute later as if this were perfectly normal.

The suits fit as if they’d been measured for her, hugging her bodies in all the right places. Both Lauras wore the same half-shy, half-proud smile as they inspected themselves in the mirror, turning and posing in sync. For a moment, Andy was struck by the surreality of it—the woman he’d grieved for more than half his life, now here, doubled, radiant and absolutely at ease in her own skin. For the first time, she looked genuinely happy to be alive.

Andy changed into his trunks and a t-shirt, then returned to find Laura’s selves perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, the rings on her fingers glittering against the dark blue of the bikinis. “I feel like I’m in a commercial,” she said, “but for what, I have no idea.”

Andy couldn’t help himself: “Sunscreen,” he deadpanned. “Definitely sunscreen.”

Laura rolled her eyes, but both bodies grinned. She stood, gathering her hair into two quick ponytails, then checked her reflection once more. “Ready?”

Andy nodded, slinging the backpack over one shoulder. “Let’s go make the most of your day.”

Laura reached for his hand again—both right hands, each threading her fingers through his like they were old, practiced partners at this. Their arms swung in perfect harmony as they stepped out of the Suite, into the long corridor that led to the elevator. The gold rings on their fingers caught the morning light and threw little sparks onto the walls.

As the elevator doors closed behind them, Andy realized he was smiling too. There was no heaviness here, no dread, only the anticipation of a day that belonged to them, and the sense that, for once, they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

The beach was empty except for the two of them. Even the sand looked new, raked smooth by the morning wind, its surface blinding in the sun. The cove was hemmed in by black volcanic rocks and twisted palms, a secret place with nothing but blue and gold on all sides. Andy unzipped the pack, shook out the towels, and watched as both Lauras paced the shore in perfect step, bare feet leaving double tracks in the sand.

For a second, neither moved, just stood with their toes in the foam, heads tilted to catch the salt-and-citrus tang of the breeze. Then, at the same instant, both Lauras peeled off for the water, running fast and reckless, arms pumping, shrieking in perfect harmony.

Andy took a shortcut and barrelled after them, vaulting a driftwood log and splashing headlong into the shallows. He got there just in time to catch both of Laura’s hands—one from each body—and, with a practiced pivot, yanked her off balance into a laughing heap. All three of them tumbled in the surf, the noise bouncing off the rocks and out over the flat, waiting ocean.

It was pure, uncomplicated play. No points to be scored, no rivalries or rankings. Laura used her duplication with zero restraint, one set of arms dunking Andy while the other tickled him mercilessly, both bodies cackling as he sputtered and fought back. He finally broke free, scooped her up (both of her, which took no effort at all), and spun them all in a mad, spinning whirl that left Andy dizzy and Laura gasping for breath, doubled over with laughter.

“Unfair!” both of her shouted, chest-deep in the water. “You’re not supposed to be this strong. I should file a complaint.”

Andy grinned. “You’re the one who’s got two sets of arms. I call that an unfair advantage.”

Laura pursed her lips, thinking. “Not if you’re Mr. Hulk,” she chorused. “I can barely swim, you brute.”

“That’s because you keep trying to swim by alternating both bodies. Like a relay. Let the sync take over.”

Laura’s selves stuck out their tongues, and Andy flicked a splash of water at her, which she returned with a twin barrage that soaked his face and hair. It turned into a water war—Andy’s brute force versus Laura’s uncanny coordination. She was better at dodging now, but he still managed to catch her, pinning both bodies with an arm each.

“I win,” he announced.

Both of her glared at him, eyes narrowed and wet with salt. “Only because you cheated.”

“Don’t all the best winners cheat a little?”

“Not if you’re playing with me.” Laura’s voice had dropped, both bodies speaking low and soft.

Andy looked at her. Really looked, the way you might look at a painting that once hung in your bedroom and now, impossibly, was real and right in front of you. Her eyes were alive with mischief, but also something older and sadder and deeper than words.

Andy let her go, and both of her floated free, rolling onto her backs to drift in the gentle tide. The black of her hair spread around her heads in a perfect fan, and both faces closed their eyes at the same moment, soaking in the heat and the salt and the fact that, for once, nothing was chasing them.

Andy joined her, arms outstretched. They drifted in silence for a while, two Lauras and one Andy, the only sound the hiss of the tide and the occasional plip of a hermit crab scuttling over a rock.

After a few minutes, Laura spoke. “I never saw the ocean before I died.”

Andy turned his head, the sunlight hot on his lids. “I know.”

She shook her heads. “I used to watch the Discovery Channel with you, remember? We said we’d go when we were older.”

Andy did remember. Blue planet documentaries, endless summer afternoons in front of the TV with the shades drawn, the two of them swapping theories about what kind of sea monster they’d be.

“I always thought you’d be a shark,” Andy said, grinning.

Laura smirked. “That’s not true. You said I was an orca. Because I was cute but secretly mean.”

He laughed. “I stand by that.”

The tide carried them slowly, gently in to shore. Laura walked out first, squeezing salt water from her heads of hair. Andy flopped onto the sand, his skin tingling with sun and exertion. Laura’s two bodies lay down on either side of him, heads propped on hands, identical faces turned to watch his chest rise and fall.

Neither spoke for a long time. There was no need.

When Andy finally sat up, Laura mirrored him. “Are you happy?” she said, together but quiet.

Andy let the question hang in the air. The word was too small, maybe, but it would have to do. “Yeah,” he said. “I really am.”

Both of her selves grinned, her teeth white and sharp against her lips. “Good. Me too.”

They watched the waves for a while, the horizon perfectly straight, the world reduced to three colors—sea, sky, and Laura’s eyes, which picked up both and made them new.

After a time, both of her selves reached for Andy’s hand, and he took them, one left and one right. They sat in the sand, the breeze drying salt on their skin, and for the first time in a long time, Andy felt like nothing was missing.

Laura spoke again, her voices softer now. “Your parents didn’t freak out,” she said. “Not even for a second.”

Andy squeezed both hands. “Well, maybe for a few seconds. But they missed you. They always did. It was like losing a daughter for them.”

Laura nodded, the movement perfectly synchronized. “Your mother hugged me like I’d never left.” Both voices caught on the word, trembling just a little. “Your father called me ‘kiddo.’ Nobody’s called me that since before… you know.”

Andy looked at her. “They meant it. You’re part of them. You always will be.”

The left Laura leaned her head on his shoulder, and the right one stared at the sea, eyes bright and wet. “I wish my mom could see me now,” both voices said. “I wish she knew I got out. That I’m not trapped with him anymore.”

Andy said nothing for a second, then: “She’d be proud of you.”

Both Lauras made a noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “She tried,” Laura said, voices blending. “She really did. But she couldn’t stop him. He was… everywhere. Like gravity.”

Andy held both hands tighter. “You’re safe now,” he said, not sure if it was enough, but needing to say it anyway. “You’ll never have to worry about him again. Or about losing me, either.”

Laura nodded, her faces peaceful. “I know. I just wish it could have been like this before. Back then.”

Andy shrugged. “Maybe it couldn’t be. Maybe we had to get here to make it work.”

She considered that, then smiled. “Always the glass half-full.”

The sun climbed higher. The cove filled with light, and the sand grew hot enough to burn. Andy and Laura lay side by side, still holding hands, until the tide cooled their feet and the wind dried their hair. After a while, both of her selves sat up, shaking sand from their arms. “You want to swim again?” she said, perfectly matched.

Andy grinned. “Yeah. Let’s race this time.”

They charged into the water together, laughing so loud that even the seagulls seemed to pause and listen. For the rest of the morning, there was nothing but sun, and salt, and the joy of being alive.

They ate lunch on the sand, the remains of a cheese-and-fruit platter Andy had smuggled from the Suite’s minibar. Laura demolished the grapes (“There’s two of me!”) and made fun of Andy’s sandwich-building technique (“You call that a stack?”), then sprawled out to sun herself, arms flung wide, toes digging tunnels in the sand. It was as if the morning’s play had unlocked something deep in Laura—both bodies radiated a warmth and contentment that Andy hadn’t seen since they were kids.

He watched her for a long while, not speaking. Laura caught his gaze, both faces tilting toward him in the same slow, curious way. “What?” she asked, one after the other.

“You look happy,” Andy said.

Both of her smiled, small and real. “I am. I never thought I’d get a shot at this. At being… here, with you, like this.”

Andy squeezed sand between his fingers, the grit sharp and grounding. “You never lost your shot. Not really.”

She shook her heads. “You’re wrong. I did. But then you pulled me back, like a magician.” Her eyes sparkled. “I don’t know how you did it, but I’m glad you did.”

Andy looked down at the rings, the gold catching in the sun, and felt the same wild disbelief he’d felt on the bridge, the certainty that all this could vanish if he let go for even a second.

“Do you ever think it isn’t real?” Andy asked, the words slipping out before he could catch them.

Both of her sat up, knees pulled to her chests, and considered. “I used to,” she said, “but not anymore. Not since the river.”

Andy shivered, even in the heat. “It felt like a dream.”

Both of her reached for his hands, both steady. “It wasn’t,” she said. “It was the most real thing I ever felt.”

Andy knew what she meant. They sat like that for a long time, the only sound the steady hush of the tide, the distant caw of gulls. Time slowed, then stopped altogether.

Laura broke the silence. “Do you ever miss Warrenville?”

Andy thought about it. “Sometimes. But it’s not the place, really. It’s the people. You, my parents, the friends I left behind.”

Both of her nodded. “That’s what I thought. Sometimes I miss my house, even though it was…” She trailed off, then finished, “bad. But I miss the good parts, too. I miss the way the kitchen smelled when Mom baked bread. Or the way the floor creaked by the laundry room.”

Andy smiled. “We used to sneak cookies before dinner, remember?”

She grinned in stereo, her eyes lighting up. “You always got crumbs on your shirt.”

Andy laughed, and it felt good.

They traded stories after that, the good and the bad, the stupid dares and late-night bike rides and the endless hours of summer spent in a haze of boredom and hope. It was as if, now that the past had relaxed its grip on them, they could finally talk about it—the pain and the loss and the small, shining joys they’d fought to keep alive.

Eventually, the sun started to slide down the sky, the light going softer, the waves gentler.

Andy looked at both of her selves, her faces flushed with sun and happiness. “What do you want to do now?” he asked.

She lay back on the sand, her arms behind her heads, and closed her eyes. “Just this,” she said. “Just for a little while longer.”

Andy joined her, the heat of the sand soaking into his bones. He listened to the rhythm of Laura’s doubled breathing, and for the first time in forever, he wasn’t waiting for the next thing to break.

They drifted off, side by side, the world reduced to a warm, safe bubble of sand and sun and salt. And for once, that was enough.

The island’s interior trails were shadowy and alive, green upon green, the air humming with the sound of insects and birds that belonged to no continent Andy had ever set foot on. The afternoon sun leaked through the treetops, painting odd shapes on the dirt path as Laura and Andy wandered, fingers twined, the way they used to walk to the library or the pond or nowhere in particular. Only this time there were two Lauras—each taking one of Andy’s hands, their arms swinging in lazy, synchronized arcs.

After the raw, bright excess of the beach, the forest felt like a cathedral. Laura was awestruck; she stopped to touch the spongy moss on a fallen log, to press her palm flat against the trunk of a cypress, to trace the edge of a bizarre red orchid growing from the crook of a branch. Her faces mirrored wonder and disbelief, as if she’d never imagined being part of a world that could produce so much wild, useless beauty.

“It’s all new,” Laura murmured, eyes wide. “I thought it would be the same as before, but it’s not. I feel…” Her voices trailed off, the word hanging, waiting for the right fit.

Andy squeezed her hands. “Safe?”

Both of her nodded. “Yeah. For the first time.”

They walked for a while, not speaking, just listening to the rhythmic squeak of the cicadas and the odd burble of water moving somewhere below the roots. When they came to a clearing, Andy let go and dropped onto the sun-warmed grass, both of her flopping down beside him in a tangle of limbs and black hair.

They lay there, side by side by side, eyes turned up to the swirl of clouds overhead.

After a minute, Laura spoke again, both voices a little dreamy. “I kept waiting to wake up,” they said, “like maybe the bridge was the real dream and this was just the fade-out before nothing.”

Andy turned his head to look at her. “Do you still think that?”

Both Lauras shook their heads, the movement strangely birdlike. “No. I think I’m here for good. Or at least until they kick me out for bad behavior.” Both faces grinned, mischievous.

Andy laughed. “You planning some bad behavior?”

Both Lauras arched an eyebrow. “I’m owed a few more pranks.”

They lay there, talking about nothing—Chloe’s snoring, the unkillable lizards that haunted the patio at dusk, the nature of Mildred herself. Laura made up increasingly outlandish stories about the origins of the HH, each trying to one-up the other. Andy couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard, or for so long.

When the sun started to slide behind the trees, Andy pushed himself up, brushing dirt off his knees. “I should check in with Sam,” he said. “She gets… twitchy if I skip the afternoon hug.”

Both of her nodded, understanding. “I’ll wait for you in the Main Lobby. But don’t be late,” she warned, eyes glinting. “I have plans.”

Andy grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They split off after leaving the elevator—Andy headed for the side path to the HH’s central plaza, Laura winding their way toward the bedrooms, bare feet leaving gentle prints in the dust.

As soon as Laura was gone, Andy doubled back into the Main Lobby, the sun knifing in through the big glass doors and making stripes across the tiles. Andy paused at the entrance, blinking as his eyes adjusted. Laura was nowhere in sight. Typical, he thought, then caught himself smiling—she was probably already gathering her supplies for prank number twelve. He slipped into the elevator and went up.

Inside the Suite, the air was cool and still. Katherine’s painting hung in its usual place in front of the bed, though today she was leaning against the frame, her arms crossed behind her, watching the window. Andy stopped in the middle of the room, considered, then crossed to the painting.

“Katherine,” he said, “I need your help.”

She turned her gaze to him, her painted eyes bright and alive.

“I want to prank Laura,” Andy said, lowering his voice, as if the Suite itself might be bugged. “Nothing big or flashy. I just want to catch her off guard. Make her laugh.”

Katherine’s eyes crinkled at the edges—approval, or at least complicity. Andy outlined the plan.