The Grand Finale

I’m not from here. Not exactly. But how to explain that I jumped from another time? That my old life ended in 1896, and that my new one started nearly a century later?

It’s complicated.

In my former life, my brother and I were perhaps the most celebrated circus performers of our day—and not just because we were twins. We were acrobats, most famous for our high wire and flying trapeze acts, although you’d have loved to have seen us on horseback. As kids, we were virtually fearless—always climbing something treacherous; doing aerial backflips off any and all surfaces; launching off each other’s shoulders to great and ever-surprising heights. We grew up in Brooklyn, drawing crowds everywhere from the laundromat to the market to the city park, where a big top scout eventually found and recruited us. Since our parents were German, folks called us “The Wúnderbirds”. The name stuck. Even as teenagers, it was always “Wúnderboy” and “Wúndergirl”. Most people didn’t even know we had real names (Lukas and Mia, in case you were wondering).

Life on the road wasn’t always glamorous. It certainly wasn’t easy. But we loved it. Curious as they were, our troupe was our family. The old-timers became surrogate grandparents, especially Madam Clara, the palm reader who snuck us French Chews and spoke exclusively in couplets. We shared sleeping quarters with a mute clown named Prattle and a burlesque dancer named Peep, but most of our downtime was spent coddling Smoke and Mirror, the “twin” albino elephants who went bananas for chin scratches and wildflowers.

Did I mention that we also loved to travel?

The circus took us from one glittering city to the next, and eventually to Europe, where the opulent old-world architecture was unlike anything we’d ever seen. Sometimes we revisited our favorite places in our sleep. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for us to wake up describing the same alleyway or brasserie or limestone garden fountain—as if we’d both been there. Every once in a while, we actually popped into each other’s dreams. We never really

tried to do it. It’s just something that we did.

As it would turn out, we could travel like this in waking life as well. Something we also discovered by accident.

It was 1893. We were gearing up for another tour, had just spent nearly six hours practicing our aerial routine, and were taking a rest, sitting back-to-back with our eyes closed. We weren’t quite awake, but we weren’t quite asleep. Just some hazy space in-between. And then something indescribable happened. We—how do I say it—jumped through space. One minute we were sitting beneath the high wire, the next we were standing in front of the soda fountain in the middle of town. I guess we’d both been thinking about milkshakes when—whoosh! It was all quite surreal, quite thrilling. A bit like the launching off the swinging trapeze. Miraculously, no one saw us. But when we made it back to our training grounds—two milkshakes and twelve miles later—Madam Clara gave us “the look.” She knew, and we knew that she knew. She snuck us a handful of Chews, shook her head, then leaned in close.

“Careful dancing between realms,” she whispered, “lest you’re sure you’re at the helm.”

We knew she was right. Still, after our first leap through space, we were eager to do it again. It’s not like we were afraid to jump.

After a few months of trial and error, Lukas and I learned how to travel through space…and time. I can’t really explain it, but it had a lot to do with not trying so hard. That, and we had to be touching. Either sitting back-to-back or holding hands. We were vaguely aware that we were completing some kind of circuit. But what did we really know? Not much.

On our off days, we practiced traveling short distances—five miles or five minutes—careful to keep our little stunt to ourselves. Although Clara was onto us, Smoke and Mirror were the only souls to have ever watched us leave or return. They never seemed too concerned, especially since we brought them treats from our escapades. Sunflowers were always a big hit.

We weren’t bored with our little adventures, per se, but we were curious to know just how far we could jump. A decade? One hundred years? It seemed like a bit of a risk, but, then again, risks were kind of our specialty.

So, we made a pact. We’d attempt to leap forward one century, buy ourselves a milkshake if we made it, then jump back.

That was that.

The night before the big launch, once Prattle was mewing in his sleep and Peep was off “entertaining” a guest, we snuck out of our quarters to meet at the elephant barn, where we’d jump at dawn. Having known we were coming, Madam Clara was there, sitting in the dark. She’d already seen how things would play out, but she never meddled. She knew we wouldn’t listen if she tried.

“I am not here to change your fate. I’m here to kiss you at the gate,” she told us, wrapping her frail arms around each of us before placing her cracked lips on our foreheads.

We promised we’d be back for breakfast.

“How grand to see the future first,” we chimed.

Clara held her tongue. She placed a French Chew into each of our palms, held our hands for a quiet moment, then said something that still gives me chills:

“If one shall remember and one shall forget, begin anew with no regret.”

We hadn’t a clue what Clara meant, but we nodded anyway. Her ditties often made sense in hindsight.

Once Clara left, we climbed into the stall with Smoke and Mirror, whose pink eyes cracked open when they whiffed the treats we brought them.

We emptied our tote of the wild sea of ragweed we’d snagged from the roadside at golden hour. The elephants loved it, munching blissfully as we fed them flower spike after delicious yellow flower spike until—achoo!

I sneezed first. Then Lukas. Then me again.

On and on this went until one of the elephants doused us with a trunkful of water from their trough. Turns out we were allergic to ragweed—a bit of an awkward time to find out—but if the circus taught us anything, it’s that the show goes on. Within the hour, at the first blush of light, Lukas and I prepared for take-off. We held hands, set the intention of jumping one hundred years through time, felt that familiar buzz of energy, and—

We must have both sneezed—and let go of each other’s hands. I landed here, in 1989. Seven years shy of a century! Thirty-three years ago! As for Lukas? I still don’t know. We were 18 when we jumped. We’ve been apart longer than we were together.

Sometimes, as I’m drifting off to sleep, I can feel his presence. Like he’s traveling toward me, if only for a visit. But even if we do find each other, I know now that we can never go back. Not really. Because, here’s the truth: you can’t jump without letting go.