But Betsy is shaking her head before Elisa has even finished speaking. “No, regular size. Like with stars and galaxies and everything. Like this one.”
At the words like this one, Elisa experiences a chill. For a moment, she can’t believe it—she is actually talking about this.
She says, “Wouldn’t it… blow everything up?”
“Nope. It would occupy its own space. Another space.”
“And you could make this. A person could make this.”
“Yeah. Well—in theory. You would need to smash the right particles together. To make the seed. And then, to trigger the expansion—it’s tricky. I mean, nobody has done it. As far as we know.”
Elisa leans forward. A cloud has covered the sun, the quad is in shadow, but light is still striking the corner of the building that is visible from the office window. “But maybe somebody has.”
“Maybe this is it! The universe somebody made.”
After a moment, Elisa says, quietly, “A person could go there?”
“In theory.”
“But in reality?” Elisa asks. “Is that possible? Can you go there? To the other universe?”
“Well…” Betsy says, and there must have been something in Elisa’s tone, some excess of hope, that is causing her to pull back from her initial enthusiasm. “You’d have to go through the black hole somehow. Which of course there’s all kinds of complications there. Like it would compress you into a stream of atoms, which is to say you’re dead. And then, you know, it’s a black hole. So.”
“So?”
She shrugs. “Even if by some miracle you survived the trip. You could never come back.”
27.
“But listen to me,” Betsy is saying, “blathering like an idiot.”
Elisa shakes her head. “No, this is exactly what I wanted.”
“I am kind of giddy, having a nonstudent visit my office. So, wait, you’re… what’s your deal then? Do you work on campus?”
“I’m an administrator,” she says carefully, “in the biology department.” After a moment, she says, “I used to be a scientist, too.”
This seems to please Betsy. “So okay, wow. Physics? Not physics.”
“Plant biology. Genetics.”
“So how did you get interested in this? This stuff?”
Up until now, the meeting has seemed like a lovely bit of serendipity—the realization of a fantasy she didn’t realize she’d harbored. Betsy Orosco is perfect: a probing intelligence wrapped in a sheath of innocence, good humor, and charming clutter. Indeed, Elisa could not have invented a better person to explain these things to her. It’s almost as if she has created this strange little room, up in this obscure dusty corner of campus.
Elisa’s palms are sweating. She grips the greasy burlap armrests of the chair. If this universe, if any universe, could have been created by someone, then who? Could she have created it herself? By accident? Is there a universe where she stuck with science? Moved from biology to physics? Worked on a particle accelerator? Smashed the right things together? Created new iterations of herself, her husband, her sons? Could this be only one of many? Could this be only one of an infinity? Did she mean to do it, or was it a mistake? Does she even know she did it? Maybe she didn’t even notice that it happened. Maybe she thinks the experiment was a failure.
She is vaguely aware that an awkward silence has sprung into being. She looks up to find Betsy looking at her, biting her lip.
Elisa says, “I’m… trying to understand something. That happened to me. That is happening.”
Betsy’s response is quiet and tentative: “What happened to you?”
“I’m not sure I want to say.”
The two of them gaze frankly at one another for a moment, and then Betsy turns away, leans back in her chair. The cactus pots clank.
Here it is again, the moment to tell or not tell. She thinks of the billions of women throughout history who have silently endured this same moment of indecision, the little fermata before confession. A last breath before the uncomfortable intimacy is forced onto the friend, or the lover, or the mother, or the sister. I was raped. I’m married. I’m in love with you. I’m gay. She’s lying to Betsy: she is quite sure that she does want to say. What she isn’t sure about is whether she wants to be heard. Because there are only a few possible good outcomes, and an infinitude of bad ones. Sorry, I have to go. No, that’s crazy. Why are you telling me this? You need help. It’s narcissistic, isn’t it, this need to tell—to hear oneself give voice to one’s feelings, to watch them register on another person, to watch the person shoulder the burden. There’s no rational reason for it, just the relief from solitude. Betsy says, “Then maybe you shouldn’t.”
Her face is alert, the eyes wide, the lips pulled back revealing straight white clenched teeth. She appears alarmed—whether at the possibility of further, perhaps unwanted, intimacy, or at the sound of her own words, Elisa can’t tell. Both, probably. The words are not unfriendly; Elisa senses, strongly, that Betsy likes her, likes that they are both women, both scientists. There is a great deal, it seems, that they might understand in one another, that they wouldn’t have to explain, should they become closer. Elisa would like coming here, to the physics building, to meet her friend for coffee. She would like to hear more about Betsy’s work, about her strange ideas, her speculations.
Too close, too soon: that would ruin it. Elisa is disappointed and relieved. She nods, grips the armrests of the chair, readies herself to get up and leave.
“No, wait,” says Betsy, “I’m sorry.”
“I should be sorry,” Elisa says. “I’m taking up too much of your time.”
Betsy’s half out of her chair, her hand extended over the desk, the fingers splayed. “No, no, no. Please.”
They are frozen like that for a moment. Okay, then, Elisa thinks, we’re going for it. She relaxes back into her seat, and Betsy returns to her chair.
“You were going to say something that’s important to you. I shouldn’t have interrupted.”
“You don’t know me,” Elisa says.
“Maybe that’s good.” They both sit in silence for a minute. Somewhere a door slams. “So.”
“It’ll sound crazy.”
She’s hoping for a No, no, it won’t, but instead Betsy shrugs. Her face is expectant, but what is she expecting? To feel interested, compassionate? Or for a good story to tell her boyfriend, about the crazy lady who came to her office?
Well. No matter. Elisa sits up straight and looks out the window where the corner of the building is visible and says, “I was on a road trip. A few weeks ago. And everything changed. Everything around me. And me. My job, my body. My car. Things in my family are different.”
She ventures a glance at Betsy, who is scowling in concentration.
“I mean, everything changed at once. It was all different. Instantly. The whole world. Or that’s how it seemed to me.”
They are both quiet as Elisa gathers her thoughts. The room is very hot. Now somebody walks past in the hallway outside. By the sound of it, this person is dragging a large cardboard box along the floor. Eventually there is silence.
“It still seems that way. It’s still happening. It’s like amnesia. Things have happened that I don’t remember. Except I remember a whole other life in its place. My real life.” She gazes directly at Betsy. “It feels like I switched from one life to another. And I’m not crazy, I don’t think. Do I seem crazy to you?”
“No,” Betsy says, but she is still scowling, still thinking, thinking, and it’s not clear if she means it.
“I started doing research. Into different explanations. I’m… I thought maybe this… this theory could explain it.”
Betsy’s expression hasn’t changed. She’s sitting very upright in her chair, with one leg tucked underneath her, like a child. One hand hangs out of sight by her side and the other rests flat on the desktop. If she lifts it up, there will be a print there, outlined in condensation. Elisa closes her eyes a
nd waits, and eventually Betsy says, “You mean you think you’re in a parallel world?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think… you think that could be a possible explanation for your situation.”
“I’m saying that’s what it feels like. I am trying not to draw any conclusions.”
Elisa opens her eyes again: it’s time to look. The younger woman wears a curious expression, head tipped back, eyes unfocused, her lips slightly parted. Both hands lie flat on the desk now, and she is biting her lip. She says, “It’s hard to see how it’s possible.”
“I’m just saying how it feels.”
“No, no, I know, I get it.” Betsy appears to lose herself in thought for a long minute. When she turns back to Elisa, she says, “You know this whole multiverse idea, you know where it came from? Who thought it up?”
Elisa shakes her head.
“William James. The psychologist. He wasn’t talking about physics—he was talking about morals. Like, he was rebelling against the idea of predestination, of a universe that was a finished creation. A finished world. Where you have a role to play. And a God that cares about that role.” Betsy is sitting up straighter now and gazing directly at Elisa. “For him, in a moral multiverse, your choices matter. You have free will. And what you do means something. It makes something happen.”
The physics Lisa, she thinks, smashing the right things together. “Are you saying I made this happen?”
“I’m saying… that something made something happen.”
“You think it’s all in my head. Not out in the world.”
Betsy is shaking her head, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot of conviction in it. “I don’t know what it is or where it is. Maybe your head and the world are the same thing.”
Elisa is exhausted. Her hands are shaking and she is slumped in the chair. She is given to think of Silas, the interview she found. Games, he said, have to invent themselves. Rain, briefly, spatters the window, then abruptly stops. Did she do that? Did she make the rain? She is suddenly very confused; it’s as if she is drunk, or high. “I don’t think I know what you mean.”
“Me neither,” Betsy admits. She seems resigned to something, it is not clear what. “But let me have your e-mail. I know a guy. He would probably find you… interesting to talk to.”
28.
Since Monday she and Derek have kept their distance from one another. When they have spoken, it has been politely. There has been no more sex. They’re too nervous. He appeared thoughtful when he returned from the therapy session she didn’t attend, but he has said nothing about it. So far she has resisted asking, but now, Friday night, over dinner, she looks up at him with the intention of doing so.
He’s looking at her. They both turn away, then turn back. She smiles. He doesn’t.
She used to talk a great deal, she remembers. Before Silas. When she drank, she would talk even more. She loved it—it felt… low class. They would go out with friends, or with another couple, and Elisa would find somebody to talk to, to talk at, and she would just go for it. Sometimes she would be off-putting to this person, and the person would notice, and would shift her attention to the group, or to someone else. Sometimes her interlocutor would be patient, would endure her. Sometimes something would click and this person would respond with equal enthusiasm. If the person was a man, the encounter would sometimes feel sexual. Derek both liked and didn’t like this. He liked that she relieved him of the need to make conversation, he liked her energy. He didn’t like it when she became too intimate, too quickly, with strangers. His heavy hand would grip her leg under the table, midway between the knee and the waist. This was a warning but it, too, was sexual. His fingers would land close to her crotch and they would stay there for a while. Sometimes she dialed it back a bit; sometimes she kept going, just to bother him. At these times his grip would tighten. They would argue on the way home, then go to bed.
She is wondering where this person went. This talkative, combative Elisa. She wonders if this Elisa has come back, in this world—if Amos Finley has brought her back, and now here the “real” Elisa is inhabiting the poor woman’s body, dragging her back into reticence, into the realm of mystery. She wants to think of something to say to Derek that will evoke the old days, her wilder self, but she’s at a loss. He lowers his gaze, sets down his fork, draws breath.
She says, “Have you ever played one of Silas’s games?”
He’s surprised. “Silas’s games?”
“Have you?”
“You would know if I had.”
She says, “Where can you get them? Do they have them at the mall? Are they for regular computers, or do you need a thing for your TV, or what?”
Derek shrugs, eyes wide.
“I want to try one.”
He doesn’t say anything, though it appears that he is trying to.
“Come to the mall with me,” she goes on. “There’s a game store.”
He stares at her. Then, as though after long calculation, he nods.
He drives them to the mall in his truck. (In this world, they don’t seem to like her car. She’s glad; she doesn’t like it either. The truck feels good—there is only enough room for the two of them in the cab. For their marriage. It’s their marriage truck!) Elisa is surprised how many people are at the mall on a summer Friday night. She would expect they’d be out having a good time instead. Or perhaps that’s what this is. She and Derek make their way past clothing and gift shops. Elisa, suddenly ebullient, takes Derek’s hand.
He gives her a strange look but doesn’t let go.
The video game store is adjacent to the food court. They walk in and are instantly confused. The walls are lined with little boxes depicting heavily armed and graphically stylized men and women. The games are made for different systems, but they all look the same. Everyone else in the store is under the age of twenty. To Elisa’s surprise, there’s a pretty girl behind the counter. She’s wearing a nose ring and asks if she can help them.
“We’re looking for something by the company Infinite Games.”
The girl nods. She wants to know which game.
“Uh… Mindcrime’s Mirror or something, is that one of them?”
“Mindcrime: Destiny’s Mirror. Yup. It’s pretty okay.” Then she recommends a different game and gives them an appraising look. “The other one’s kind of confusing. If you’re newbs. Are you?”
“Definitely,” Derek says, and Elisa is mildly surprised he even knows the term.
“I think we really want that Mindcrime, though,” she says. She can feel Derek’s eyes on her.
“Okay…”
“Does it run on a regular computer?”
“It’s a console game,” the girl says, more kindly now that she understands how clueless they are. “Do you have an Xbox?”
“No,” Derek says quietly.
“Do you sell them here?” Elisa asks.
“Oh yeah, sure.” The girl shows them a display of boxes. The consoles are expensive but not as expensive as Elisa assumed they would be. She says she’ll take one, and a copy of the game. The girl suggests an extra controller and Elisa says fine. Derek is staring at her.
“You’re serious?”
“It’s one of Silas’s,” she says. “The game.”
He nods as if any of this makes sense. He appears so confused here, among these strange young people, and all the light and color. He belongs in a library, surrounded by brown things. She touches his shoulder, kisses him.
The girl looks on in apparent amusement. “Don’t get discouraged,” she says, as she packs the boxes into a large shopping bag. “This is like the worst first game you could ever play. Do all the training. You need to figure out how to work the controls. After that, it’s about a twenty-hour game.”
“I’m sorry,” Derek says. “What does that mean?”
“That’s how long it takes. To finish.”
He appears flabbergasted. “You’re kidding.”
“For you
, though,” she says with a smile, “longer.”
Now they are driving home. It’s hot and the sun is in their eyes. Derek drives with the stiff, silent precision that indicates there are questions in his mind. Elisa takes the opportunity to gaze at his face. She has not looked at him directly for more than a few seconds at a time since whatever is happening to her happened.
He is harder here, to be sure—cleaner, more controlled. This was always a part of his personality, of his physical self. This advanced containment. She met him, or rather saw him for the first time, at a party a boy had taken her to. The boy was a law student, an undergraduate. The party was mostly grad students. Her date was proud to be invited—he went around introducing her to people he barely knew and tried to burrow into conversations that were over his head. She didn’t find this appealing. One of the conversations was with Derek and two other men, and while the other two men bantered with and gently mocked Elisa’s date, Derek merely stood still, sipping his drink, his face hard. Not angrily so. Impassively. He struck her as a passionate man who had mastered his passions. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him and didn’t learn his name.
The boy took her home and she went to bed with him but never returned his phone calls after that. She started studying at the law library, a place she had never previously so much as entered. At first it was in the hope of seeing the man from the party. But eventually she came to like the anonymity of the place, the inscrutability of the information it housed. All of the facts were there, but none could be seen, not immediately. Not without searching for them, without knowing where to look. This was not like science. Scientists had to generate the data with experiments. The law, its precedents and interpretations, were written down. The law was here—all of it, right here, all around her.
Scientists, of course, didn’t hang out in this library. She was the only one. One afternoon she was sitting at a table in the third-floor reading room and looked up to see Derek coming toward her from the stacks. Deliberately, almost defiantly. When he arrived he crouched beside her, crossed his arms on the tabletop. The hairs of his forearm were touching her notebook. He said, “You were at a party last semester.” Elisa nodded. “Come get a drink.”
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