Come With Me

by Helen Schulman

  She ignored him. “Jack?”

  “He went straight up to his room. Can’t blame him. Poor guy.”

  “Just get us some peanuts,” said Amy.

  So Donny walked over to the gorilla in the cage and scooped out a plastic basket of nuts. He brought it over to her table.

  “Do you want another drink?” asked Donny.

  “Yes, please,” said Amy, draining the one in front of her. She held up the margarita glass. “Hit me again.” He took it from her, but not before he noted that she looked like hell. Her eyes tearstained and puffy, her underarms sweat-soaked, her hair loose now and in a zigzag part.

  “Sucks, Amy,” said Donny.

  “What?” said Amy. “You mean Kevin? You’ve said that before.”

  “No,” said Donny. “I mean yes. I mean yes totally, the kid, for Jack. Dan.”

  He stopped speaking as Amy flinched.

  “My drink, Donny,” said Amy.

  “Back in a flash,” said Donny.

  He took the glass with him and went back to the bartender. “How about another?” he said. “In fact, how about a pitcher?”

  The bartender looked at him. He looked across the room at Amy. “That your old lady?” he said.

  “You mean my mother?” said Donny. “No. She’s my . . .” For a moment there, he was at a loss for words. “Just bring over the pitcher when it’s ready, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” said the bartender. “She’s a real MILF, that lady who’s not your mother.” He winked—that is, if he didn’t have something in his eye.

  Donny looked across the room at Amy. She looked a lot better from far away. His mom was always talking about how hot Amy was back in the day. He figured his mom was just jealous, because Amy got to hang out with him all the time, but right now, in the dark at the other end of the Nut House, he kind of saw it.

  He went back to the table and sat down across from her. Amy was cracking peanuts and piling up the shells.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I was so busy at Marilyn’s, I forgot to eat.”

  She brushed the shells together with the side of her hand and shoved them off onto the floor.

  “I got us a pitcher,” said Donny. “He’s making it. Here,” he said, pushing his glass toward her. “Drink mine, until it comes.”

  Amy reached for the margarita and took a sip.

  “Wow,” she said. “You must really feel guilty about something. I’ve never seen you share anything before.”

  It was true, thought Donny. He had never been much for sharing. He’d failed sharing in preschool.

  “So cough it up,” said Amy. “What’s all the guilt and generosity for?”

  “I did not understand the gravity of the situation.”

  Amy looked puzzled. Her head turned to one side.

  “When Naresh burst in the office. When I told you not to go. I didn’t understand everything you were up against.”

  Amy nodded. “You mean that everyone under the sun needed me at that same exact hideous moment?”

  The bartender brought over their pitcher and another glass. He smiled at Amy. One of his front teeth was missing. He said, “Anything else I can get for you, pretty lady?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Amy.

  It struck Donny that, wrung out and tired, she looked less like a Palo Alto housewife and had the skanky look guys like the bartender liked. When the dude continued to hover, she turned her focus back to Donny.

  “So you’re expressing regret for being such a selfish little douche bag when the whole world was raining shit down on my head? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Donny shook his head no, slowly.

  “No?” said Amy. Then to the bartender. “Would you mind?”

  “Yeah, sure, sorry,” said the bartender as he backed away.

  “Even he can say he’s sorry,” said Amy to Donny. “Say you’re sorry for telling me to stay put when I needed to help my children.”

  “No,” said Donny. “I mean I guess I’m sorry for all that, too, but that’s not what I meant.”

  “You said you owed me an apology,” said Amy.

  “After you left? I kind of binge-watched your multiverses.”

  Amy looked at him. She reached for the pitcher. She refilled her glass.

  “Hey, I haven’t even had a chance to pour my first one,” said Donny.

  She poured him one, too.

  “Donny, do you know how wrong that is? You binge-watched my multiverses? That’s my information. That’s like reading someone’s diary. That’s the biggest violation of privacy I can think of. I could have you arrested. I could sue you.”

  “Well, you sort of can’t, because Furrier.com isn’t regulated, it isn’t even really a thing just yet, and anyway you were a willing subject. Actually, you came to me. You kind of begged me, Amy. I’m just saying.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Amy. She rested her head in her hands. “Could any of this get any worse?”

  “Well,” said Donny. “Actually it could. I mean, in several of your multiverses, it gets a whole lot worse.”

  “What?” said Amy, looking up. “What happens to me?”

  Donny sighed deeply. He took a big sip of his margarita. There was not enough salt around the glass rim but it would do.

  “I’m not sure I should tell you,” said Donny. “I mean, in some of the multiverses you might be a little better off, I mean, in one you live in a lot less shitty house, but in others, it’s pretty fucking bad. As a friend, I’m telling you, you might be best off staying where you are.”

  “Friend? You’re my friend?” said Amy.

  “Trust me, I’m just looking out for your best interests.”

  “What happens in my other lives, Donny?”

  “Same life, other variations,” corrected Donny.

  “You tell me. You tell me right now! Do I stay married to that other guy? Do I meet someone else? What happens to me?”

  “You have children with other people and you love them and shit happens. But I’m not sure this does you any good to see or know unless I can take you there. And I’m ashamed to say it, I just don’t have the technology yet. I mean, I’ll get there. I know I’ll get there. But I’m wondering about the Furrier. I mean, I think people will want to watch it; I mean, even I wanted to watch it, and it was your multiverses, Amy. I mean, I was at that computer for about eighteen hours, I forgot to eat, I didn’t go home to sleep; I even shat in my pants and I didn’t realize it.”

  “You shat in your pants watching different iterations of my life?”

  “Just a little. Look, what I’m saying is it’s addictive. It’s way addictive. I mean, it’s crack, but it’s really crack. We could make a lot of money but we don’t want everyone shitting in their pants. Especially over other people’s stuff, you know? I mean, we could get in trouble. That’s where Miles comes in.”

  “Miles comes in?”

  “He’s brilliant.”

  “Miles? My Miles?”

  “He’s a fresh new voice.”

  “He’s eight years old.”

  “That’s right. That’s why he can think outside the box, and me, I’m just too inured and jaded.”

  Amy rolled her red eyes.

  “Miles is the one who taught me that the real money will be in actually being able to go there. To multiverse-hop. To shop for the best variation or take what we find in one place and transplant it to another, having our cake and eating it. You know, escaping illness and accidents and herpes, as long as we possibly can.”

  “Are you saying i.e. can cure death, Donny?”

  “That’s not my purview. I mean, none of what I’m talking about is going to keep you from dying eventually. I mean, you’re still going to die, you’re going to die infinite times.”

  “Whew,” said Amy. “That’s a relief.”

  “I’ll leave curing death to Peter Thiel to solve. He’s a lot older than me so he’s hungrier, you know what I’m saying? For that meal, at least. I’m a Happy Meal kind
of guy myself.”

  His left leg was starting to fall asleep and he stamped it on the floor next to him.

  “My leg fell asleep,” said Donny. “Anyway, you called me. You asked me to meet you?”

  Tears started to slip from her eyes.

  “Don’t cry, Amy. Please don’t cry,” said Donny. “Do you want me to get us another round?” Even though there was still plenty of that yellow-and-green moonshine left in that plastic pitcher. It would be better to look at the toothless bartender than to face Amy’s tears.

  “You know, when I saw all the stuff you were going through, I felt you. Deep feels, Amy. I mean, I felt what you felt. I never felt what another person felt before.” Donny sensed his own cheeks getting hot. That had never happened before, either. “Tell me why you called?”

  Amy brushed the tears from her face with her left fist.

  “I wanted to be sure, I wanted to be sure that . . .” said Amy. “I mean, in any of these multiverses, do I try harder, and am I ever more careful, do I ever not fall down from the loft bed? Does the baby ever not die? I miss that baby. I’ve missed her my whole life.”

  “Nah,” said Donny. “Not that baby. I mean, yes, that baby never gets born, Amy. You keep missing her. In all your lives. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever brought her up. I mean, you don’t always fall down from the loft bed, but you never carry her to term. My guess is that it just wasn’t a viable pregnancy, you know. I mean, there are other multiverses where that marriage plays out, you do try harder, in one you guys are really happy, I mean, eventually. In some you’re unhappily married, you get divorced, or you just drive each other crazy.”

  “Do we have other children? Do we have other children together?”

  “Yes, just not that one. I mean, there’s other good stuff; in one you’re a movie producer, not a big deal, kind of Roger Corman-y, but you make some money. In one you stay friends with Dan after you break your ankle. In fact, in one you two get kind of cozy, you even have an affair with him, even though you stay with the other guy. I mean, that part happened really late at night and I think I was floating in and out of consciousness. I mean, weirdly, though Dan is, I think, in all your multiverses, at least the ones I saw, I mean, there are infinite multiverses, I just saw the tip of the iceberg, but he was in all the ones I saw, even one where you just sit down next to him on the subway. They all had Dan in them or ended with Dan, even when you married the other guy. Or a couple of guys you don’t even know about, that you haven’t met here. I think there was a woman, too, maybe when you were really bitter?”

  “Dan?”

  “Yeah. A lot of times he’s your husband, or he’s your lover, or your friend, or, like I said, he tries to pick you up. He’s like Waldo or something. Your multiverses are chock-full of Dan, Amy.”

  “Fuck Dan. What about my boys?”

  “No boys.”

  “No boys?”

  “No boys, without Dan. Not these boys anyway. Well, even you can figure that out, no? I mean, no Dan means no Things, no Jack. I mean, maybe boys with someone else? I’m a little not clear on that. I got pretty dehydrated.”

  “You shat your pants.”

  “A little bit, Amy. C’mon.”

  “What about girls? Did I ever have a daughter?”

  “Not with Dan. I guess all his little swimmers are XY, at least with you, I don’t know what happens in his multiverses, but at least in the ones of yours I found online, his sperm are all of the male persuasion. The fast ones.”

  “So I never had a daughter?”

  “Yes, in one you have a daughter. Yes, in one you stay married to the dude downtown. Yes, in one you are happy,” said Donny.

  “All in the same one?” said Amy.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I need to see her.”

  “It’s not the same daughter. I mean, the one that you lost so many times. I mean, it got kind of heartbreaking, watching you lose her over and over again. In none of the multiverses I watched, at least, does that baby ever get born.”

  “I know. But I need to see her,” said Amy. “My daughter.” Daughter. She said the word like it was a prayer. She picked up her bag. She slid her feet back into her shoes. She stood up.

  Donny was still sitting down.

  “Let’s go,” said Amy.

  “Go where?” asked Donny.

  “Back to the office.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘why’?” Amy was totally fed up. “So you can get me high and make me put on those horrifying headphones and goggles. So you can torture me.”

  “Unnecessary,” said Donny. He whipped out his phone from his front pants pocket.

  “You can do the Furrier by phone already?” said Amy. “No way. You’ve progressed that quickly? Don’t tell me you’ve already got an app for it.”

  He could tell she couldn’t help herself, but that she was in fact impressed.

  For a second, Donny thought about allowing her to remain impressed. But then his better side took hold.

  “Nah,” said Donny. “No app yet. I just took a screenshot. I knew this moment was coming.”

  He held up his phone. Amy took it in her hand.

  He watched her light up. He watched Amy smile.

  In his whole life, Donny had never seen anyone look that radiant.

  Maybe there was a way to monetize this. He made a mental note to discuss it with Adnan and Miles.

  * * *

  It was already dark outside when Amy walked home, there was a chill in the air, and a handful of stars were thrown scattershot across the sky. Donny had asked her for a ride back to the dorm, but she couldn’t bring herself to hike all the way back to the Choi house. She’d go tomorrow, she thought.

  Donny ended up taking an Uber and Amy walked by herself down California Avenue with a right onto Cornell. From the street, she could see lights on in every room in the front of her house, a little diorama of suburban life. Dan was upstairs at his desk on his computer. He never pulled the curtains. As if nothing had happened! Miles was in the family room, reading a book. There was a little glow behind the shades in Jack’s room. She opened the mailbox at the foot of the driveway; it was packed with catalogs surrounding letters, so she yanked them out in a little paper log and put it under one arm. She headed through the carport and walked around back, where all was blessedly dark and unilluminated, and entered the house. In the kitchen, she put the mail down on the breakfast bar, a domino fall of bills and debts. All the money they owed. God give me strength, thought Amy. She wasn’t ready, but she had no choice.

  She went into the family room.

  “Milo,” she said. “Honey, how are you doing?”

  That cloud of red hair; that darling, sweet, freckled face. “Mama,” said Miles, looking up. He smiled at her. “I love my book.”

  “I love my boy,” said Amy. “I hope it wasn’t too hard being stuck with Donny all day.”

  “It was okay,” said Miles. “But we kind of lost the dog. We took him on a walk to Lake Lag.”

  “He’ll come back when he’s hungry,” said Amy. “He always does.”

  “That’s what I said,” said Miles.

  “Smart kid,” said Amy.

  “Can I finish my chapter?” said Miles. “Before dinner?”

  “Yes,” said Amy, because she hadn’t even thought of dinner. She wanted to go for a run. She hadn’t run all week.

  “I’m going to run first,” said Amy.

  “Good,” said Miles. He returned to his pages.

  Next she walked up the stairs and knocked on Jack’s door.

  “Jack, honey, can I come in?”

  “Sure, Mom,” Jack said.

  He was lying on his bed in the semidark, in shorts and a T-shirt. Dan’s suit and shirt and tie were balled up in a corner of the floor. His laptop was open.

  “Are you talking to Lily?”

  “Yeah, Mom.” He turned the scree
n to face her. In Texas, Lily was curled up on her bed with her white cat, her hair in braids, in sweats and a lacy tank top. She looked exhausted.

  “Hi, Amy,” said Lily. “We’re just cuddling. It was such an emotional day.” She seemed a little nervous, or guilty, like she’d just got caught at something. She seemed sad.

  Poor girl, Amy thought. Maybe “cuddling” was Lilyese for cybersex? Amy said, “That’s good that you’re cuddling,” not exactly sure if Lily really meant her and Jack, or her and the cat, or whatever. Amy just wanted to be reassuring. “I’m so glad you two have each other,” said Amy.

  “Thanks, Mom,” said Jack. “I feel about a thousand years old.”

  She leaned over and gave him a hug. “I am so proud of you, Jack. What you did took so much love and so much bravery. You were a great friend today, to Kevin and to his family.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Would you like me to leave you guys alone?” asked Amy.

  “Thanks, Mom,” said Jack. “That would be great.”

  Amy blew a kiss to Lily and said to Jack, “I’m going for a run, honey. I haven’t given a thought to dinner.”

  “I’m not really hungry, anyway,” said Jack. “Thing One can always have a sandwich.” He gave her a look. “Dad’s still here. Is he staying with us?”

  “I know,” said Amy. “And I don’t know.”

  “Go for your run,” said Jack. “You’ll feel better.”

  “That’s what I’m going to do,” said Amy. She left the room and gently closed the door behind her. Then she walked back down the stairs.

  Her thought had been to go through the kitchen and see if there was a frozen pizza or two to share, but instead she veered right into the laundry room, and after stripping off her dress and her good underwear, she searched around in the dryer and found some clean running tights and a sports bra and put them on. There were no freshly laundered tops in the dryer—it was mostly sheets and towels and socks; she pulled out two that sort of matched. Then she fished one of Jack’s dirty T-shirts out of the laundry pile and pulled it on over her head. It smelled like him, like a crowded Metro in Paris in August where she and Dan had gone for a last hurrah before he was born, like the human equivalent of skunk. How could I live without that boy, she thought, I could never live without any of them. Poor Marilyn! It was unendurable. Amy knew Marilyn loved her children just as much as she did.