Asimov's Science Fiction 03/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “I guess,” Marian said, trying to hold her voice steady. “What else, apart from meal-times?”

  “Well, we go shopping sometimes. There’s Christmas, of course. And holidays used to be a big deal, though nowadays we try to ditch the parents as soon as we can. At first we tried to do our own thing in the evenings, and then we made a break for it earlier and earlier: in the afternoons, in the mornings straight after breakfast. It’s the escape tunnel again. God, it sounds awful, doesn’t it? But that’s how it is. When kids get older, they don’t want to hang out with their parents. Moms aren’t cool, are they? We haven’t talked about this before because your mother’s dead, and I didn’t ever want to complain about mine in case it sounded . . . well, you know. And ‘complain’ is the wrong word, anyway. I love my mom; it’s just she can be a bit of a pain. As for spending time with her, we used to do a lot of crafts and stuff. Sewing and crocheting and embroidery. I haven’t done any of that for a while. Maybe I could get back into it, if I ever had the time. . . .

  “Oh Marian, I’m so sorry. Don’t cry. No, no, let it out. Let it all out. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  On Sunday, when Della turned up wearing a short skirt and bizarre shoes that looked like sandals with high heels—were they fashionable on some other Earth?—Marian made an instant decision as to the afternoon’s activity.

  “Let’s go walking,” she said. She rarely went on hikes, tending to despise it as the hobby of tourists and eco-freaks. In her free time she much preferred going to Manchester or Leeds and doing some proper shopping, in a proper city where they had McDonald’s and HyperSilk and lots of little market stalls selling sparkly bangles that Marian might occasionally steal on days when she felt particularly mischievous or melancholic.

  But she knew the local paths and vantages, and she had a cruel impulse to drag Della up and down the steep sides of the valley. Let’s see how much you want it. You wanna spend time with me? Come on, here we go. She recognized it as nasty manipulativeness, yet she was drunk on the power of being desired. And, she rationalized to herself, everyone did it. All teenagers took advantage of their parents, extorting pocket money, treats, privileges of staying up late and having boyfriends over. . . .

  They headed out of town and walked across the little cobbled bridge to the riverside path. “There used to be mills all along this river,” Marian said. “We did projects on them at school. One year we built a waterwheel, or we nearly did, but we kept spending all the lessons splashing each other.”

  Now the mills were coming back, in the grand new era of localism and renewable energy. A few full-size waterwheels belonged to businesses claiming to be off-grid and fully sustainable. “It’s a load of hype,” Marian said. “They put a picture of a waterwheel in their adverts to attract eco-freak customers and justify higher prices. We see it in the shop—crushed herbs and all that.” She parodied the broad Yorkshire accent used on TV adverts: “Locally grown, and locally crushed under the waterwheel trip-hammers, driven by the pure water of the Pennines, powering mills for hundreds of years. Like it makes a difference how the hammers are powered! We had a drought last year and the river was too low for the wheels. Somehow the supply of waterwheel-crushed herbs didn’t seem to diminish. . . .”

  Della frowned. “That’s the second time you’ve complained about this New Age stuff. Why does it bother you so much?”

  “I only mentioned it because we’re out here by the river and the waterwheels. Look, there’s one now.” The wooden paddles moved slowly, majestically. The sun, reflecting off drips of water, made the great wheel glitter like a cascade of cheap jewels. Marian went on, “It’s just that everything is so fake nowadays. I shouldn’t complain: I go shopping and I can’t afford brand-name handbags, so I get cheap knock-offs instead. But at least I know they’re fake. Does that mean everyone who comes to the Cauldron knows it’s all fake as well, the whole pile of New Age bullshit? Why do they bother? This entire town is fake, full of restored old buildings recreating the ‘authentic mill experience.’ And on Friday when I was wondering which friends to invite to my party, I realized half of those friendships are bogus. You never know who’s going to smile at you one day, and backstab you the next. It’s a fake town full of fake people buying fake stuff. . . .”

  “Then along comes your fake mother,” said Della. “You think I’m false. But I haven’t pretended to be anything I’m not.”

  “No, it’s not about you. I’ve felt this way since long before you turned up.” But you’re right, thought Marian, you are a fake.

  Della looked at Marian but didn’t speak, silently creating a space for Marian to talk on.

  “I know what the psychobabble explanation would be,” said Marian. “It’s projection. My life feels fake because my mom died; it’s not what my real life should be. I’m imagining something perfect where Mom’s still alive, where Dad isn’t in prison. Maybe there is a universe like that somewhere—I guess there has to be. But this world is just a bad fake, like one of those cheap replica handbags where the stitching is all wrong. This isn’t my real home.”

  As Marian spoke, she walked faster and faster, fueled by futile anger, and Della trotted behind to keep up. At the end of the riverside path, they walked along the road till they reached the woods of Hardcastle Crags. Here the road veered away up the moors, and only a graveled track continued through the trees. Rivulets splashed and gurgled across the track; Della’s shoes soon became encrusted with mud, but she made no complaint.

  Marian thought about the world Della came from, just one of an infinite range of worlds where things had happened differently—mostly going wrong in various ways. It felt like there was one real universe, a shining summit where everything happened as it should: a needle-thin pinnacle, surrounded by endless swampy lowlands full of bad decisions, unlucky accidents, and damaged people. As you slogged through the mire, could you clamber up to some better state? But how, when you couldn’t see the landscape of probability? You’d find yourself flailing inevitably downward to your doom, confronted with far more wrong options than right. And everyone else in the world plummeted down too, dragging you with them. Even if you did the right thing, you had no control over other people’s mistakes, their car crashes and jail sentences. Every time you slept, the world fell a little further during the night.

  No wonder Della wanted to find a better Earth. Flitting across universes, she was like someone driving a car where everyone else walked. But even with a car, the lowlands were immensely vaster than the highlands. The perfect peak of utopia was so lofty and slender that you couldn’t see it. Yet somewhere there might be smaller local peaks, like islands in the swamp. If there was only one real universe and an infinite number of fakes, maybe a few of those fakes would be tolerable—just as high-class counterfeits were almost indistinguishable from designer goods.

  How to find even a tiny pinnacle? Marian was overwhelmed by the thought of all the necessary choices: so many paths in the wood, so many mistakes she could make.

  At last they reached the café at Gibson Mill. The site had been a cotton mill in the nineteenth century, then a dance hall and skating rink in the early twentieth century; then after long dilapidation, it had been restored by the National Trust, complete with smugly worded display boards proclaiming the virtues of environ-mentalism.

  “What would you like?” asked Della.

  “Apple juice,” said Marian, “or whatever they’ve got.” It was nice to have someone along who’d pay for things.

  “Anything to eat?”

  “Let’s see . . . we’ve walked a couple of miles, with some up and down, so that’s at least two hundred calories. I guess I could have a scone. It’s a freebie!”

  Della queued at the counter and came back with a tray of drinks and snacks. Marian put some blackcurrant jam on a scone, after moving the butter-dish behind the teapot so that she didn’t have to look at it. The sight of butter or margarine always made her feel queasy—the yellow lumps of fat were repulsive.

>   She sensed Della’s gaze, the hungry maternal gaze that absorbed everything about her, but Della didn’t comment. Marian was pleased that Della didn’t lecture her on fretting about her weight. She hated being told that weight didn’t matter, when it so obviously did. It was just another way that adults lied, pretending the world was different, pretending that the fake surfaces didn’t eclipse anything real that might lie underneath.

  Della said, “Look at that guy. What a platter! If he’s calibrating miles to calories, he must be walking the Pennine Way.”

  “All in one day,” said Marian, laughing.

  Conspiratorially, they glanced around at the tourists in the café, speculating on their private habits. It was trivial conversation, but all the more enjoyable for that.

  “There’s an old-fashioned rucksack,” Marian said, “the one with the badges sewn all over it. I can’t read them from here—where do you reckon the owner’s been?”

  “Amsterdam . . . twenty times.”

  “No, I reckon they’re all in England. He looks like someone who’d boast about how virtuous his holidays are—I bet he’s the type who volunteers to restore canals or repair footpaths.”

  “I’ll go and ask.” Before Marian could stop her, Della walked over to the rucksack’s owner and spoke to him.

  Marian couldn’t hear what they said, but she watched Della smiling and gesturing expressively. My God, is she flirting with him? I can see how she caught a dose!

  Della returned and said, “You were nearly right. The badges are all bird stuff—he’s one of those guys who’ll go two hundred miles to see a weird-looking duck. But he’s also a volunteer: he guards the nesting sites of rare birds to protect them from egg thieves. The breeding pairs are imported from less polluted Earths, and he helps to establish them here.” She grinned, as though impressed by his idealism. “It takes all sorts, as they say at the liquorice factory.”

  Marian smiled in return. It almost felt normal, to sit and eat and chat, dissecting other people’s little quirks. But she couldn’t quite relax, because Della kept staring at Marian, as if memorizing her face for later description to the police.

  “I’m sorry. I’m being rude,” Della said. “It’s just so hard for me to look at you. I thought I’d got over it, but I haven’t. Every time I see you, I think about what happened, what I threw away. Why did I do it? Well, I know why. . . . But it was the worst decision of my life.” Her voice trembled. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Around them, the noise of the café swelled and faded—the clatter of cutlery, the hiss of the coffee machine, the thud of the door as tourists came and went, their boots echoing on the stone floor. Marian wished she could hear a fire alarm going off, so that she wouldn’t have to answer this question. It wasn’t real to her, the fact that in another universe her mother had aborted her. She was alive here and now. What did it matter that in some other world, she didn’t exist? If a different sperm had hit the egg, or if her parents had used contraception, Marian wouldn’t exist. Why was it different to have an abortion? It meant nothing to Marian, but she knew she couldn’t say that.

  She squeezed Della’s hand. “It’s all right,” she said, hoping that Della wouldn’t break down in tears and cause a scene. “It’s all right. I’m here. I forgive you.”

  “Really?” said Della.

  “Really,” Marian said, projecting as much sincerity as she could manage.

  Della swallowed hard, and tried to smile. It was like watching a fallen fledgling struggle to take flight—flapping pathetically, squirming on the floor. “Let’s go home,” Della said, her voice high and tight.

  They walked out of the café arm in arm. On the way home, Marian tried to lighten the mood by talking of inconsequential things—cats and shoes and sports. Della proclaimed herself an occasional badminton player. “I don’t play as often as I should, but it’s great for getting in shape and working off tension. If you’re feeling frustrated, you can whack the shuttlecock as hard as you like, and it won’t fly off into the distance. I did try playing tennis, but my friends got tired of chasing the ball after I kept smacking it way out of court!”

  When they arrived back at Marian’s house, it was late afternoon. Della plonked herself on the sofa and started flicking through TV channels. “Make yourself at home,” Marian said pointedly. “It’s the end of the weekend—I need to look at my schoolwork.”

  In her room, Marian began her usual homework-procrastination routine of checking her messages, texting friends, and looking for the latest gossip on the Net. An hour or so later, the bedroom door opened.

  “Thought you might want a cup of tea,” said Della.

  Marian took the drink. “Thanks. But this is my room—knock before you come in!”

  “Sure; I’m sorry.” Della lingered in the doorway, gazing at everything in Marian’s room, from the Lester Todd posters on the wall to the discarded jeans and lipsticks and nail-polish bottles on the floor.

  “You can’t stay here, you know,” Marian said. “My grandparents will be back tomorrow.”

  “I understand,” said Della. “I don’t belong in this world, so it’s difficult for me to fit in. Maybe you could come back to my world sometime. I’ll show you the sights, and take you to a few parties.”

  Marian smiled. “It’s a school day tomorrow.” She spoke lightly, but recoiled from the idea of accompanying Della back to her home universe. However short a visit it might notionally be, she wondered whether she would ever come back. There’d be some excuse, some hitch to prevent Marian’s return and ensure she stayed in Della’s orbit.

  “Maybe next weekend?” said Della.

  “Maybe,” said Marian. She realized that by saying I forgive you, she’d given Della the impression that they’d had a moment of bonding, a stepping-stone toward a deeper relationship. That wasn’t something she was keen to encourage, having seen the depths of Della’s neediness. Yet she couldn’t bear to refuse Della directly.

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” Della said.

  “Well, I didn’t know you were carrying your Enthusiasm Quantification meter. If I’d known, then I would have spoken with 50 percent more glee and delight.”

  Della made a dismissive gesture as though batting away Marian’s sarcasm. “Why don’t you want to come and visit me?”

  “Because it’s too soon. You only turned up two days ago.”

  “And already you can’t wait for me to leave and disappear?”

  Marian sighed. “Must we have this conversation? I feel as though you’re trying to push me into a corner.” It was creepy, like being haunted by Mom’s ghost.

  Della marched into the room and flopped onto Marian’s bed. “If I’m pushing, it’s because you’re resisting. Here I am, offering to do anything for you, and you’re skulking in your room reading trash on the Internet. I’ve crossed universes to come here! You’re an ungrateful little hussy, just like the others. When your mom died, you would have given anything to have her back. Now I’m back, and you can’t wait for me to be gone!”

  “What do you mean, just like the others?”

  “Hah! That’s you all over—ignoring everything else and focusing on yourself. I mean the other versions of you, obviously.”

  Marian stared at Della, waiting for her to explain. Della preened at being the object of attention. She sat on Marian’s pillow and drew up her legs, hugging her knees, looking like an older and not-so-wiser version of one of Marian’s friends arriving for a heart-to-heart.

  “This isn’t the first universe I’ve visited,” Della said. “When I decided to see the child I never had, I hired the Navigators to do some mapping. There are worlds where my alternate—your biological mother—died at different times, or ended up in prison, or ran off with another guy and left you with your father. . . . I tried them all. That’s how it feels, anyway. You’re maybe the sixth or seventh version I’ve met. I thought it might be different this time, but you’re just like the rest.” Her head sank into her knees, muff
ling her voice. “You’re always selfish. You always reject me!”

  “If this is how you always behave, I can see why.” Marian felt a tinge of pity for Della, but she also reckoned Della was laying on the pathos with a trowel, trying to guilt-trip her into . . . well, what? What had Della imagined would occur?

  “This would have happened anyway,” Marian went on, “even if you hadn’t had an abortion. Your own child would have grown up and rebelled against you, rejected you, called you a shriveled old bitch who doesn’t understand. That’s how it is. Deal with it!”

  As soon as she spoke, Marian experienced a stab of remorse. She’d been too harsh. It was as though four years ago someone had told her, “Your mom’s dead—deal with it!”

  She moved to the bed and squashed up next to Della. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know it’s hard for you.”

  Della rubbed her eyes. “No, you’re right. If I’d had children, they would have defied me, insulted me, hated me—everything. It’s not all sweetness and light, is it? Parents know there’ll be bad days. But when a child reaches the rebellious phase, her parents can draw on years of happy memories, years of togetherness to help them through the sticky patches. I haven’t had that. I wanted the good times! I came to see you and we had . . . what, a weekend? That’s after a few weeks with the other versions of you. Why, I only need to visit another hundred universes, and I might even get a whole year of good times! But then I’ll have been rejected a hundred times as well. . . . I don’t think I can stand that. I can’t go on like this.” Her voice cracked. “I just can’t.”