Relativity

by Cristin Bishara

  I’ll be home—back in what I’m calling Universe One. Back in Ennis, Ohio. Easy enough.

  Even if the gardening gloves didn’t save me from the static shock of the doorknob, they should make it easier to turn the cold, slippery disk. Holding the flashlight with one gloved hand, I twist the wheel with the other, counterclockwise, aiming for two notches back.

  “Move!” I put my soul into it, but I can’t get it to turn. “Come on, come on, come on,” I chant, but the wheel stubbornly stays put. Reluctantly, I click off the flashlight and slip it into my backpack so I have both hands free. The darkness is immediately sickening, strangling my senses. I’m shaking, my nervous system amped into overload.

  The wheel still won’t budge. I keep at it until the tendons in my hands and wrist stiffen.

  It’s not what I want, but I have no choice. I turn the wheel the other direction—clockwise—and it goes, clanking like an untuned bell, into the next position.

  “Fabulous,” I announce to the tree. “Thanks for cooperating.” Now I’m even farther from home.

  The tree hums and the door opens, bringing fresh air and a familiar landscape. There’s the stone high school with the slate roof and central spire. I’m in Ó Direáin, though I should assume it’s a different version, somehow, some way. The school campus is quiet; it’s Saturday. I circle the oak tree, just to make sure it looks the same in this universe, so I can make a note of it in my data journal. There’s nothing different about the tree itself, but behind it, the land slides downward gently. Below, maybe a half mile off, there’s a town. A full-blown town with sidewalks and shops. This very well may have been here in yesterday’s Ó Direáin, and I just didn’t notice. I never walked around the tree or looked in this direction.

  What to do? I could—I should—hop back into the tree and keep turning the steering disk clockwise, until I go full circle and get back home. That would be the most rational course of action. Step into tree, turn disk, step out. Repeat until safely home. Done. End of story.

  Or I can venture into downtown Ó Direáin. Because I’m curious. And because that eight-by-ten family photo keeps flicking through my mind. No matter how hard I try, I can’t push it away. I can’t hit the delete button. I know my brain’s hippocampus has grabbed the image, and is forcing me to keep it as a long-term memory. And I know that photo represents a bottomless heartache, a deep and penetrating itch. Maybe I can satisfy it, if I just catch a glimpse of Mom. What’s the big deal if I watch her, for ten minutes, from a distance? Just to see her. Just to touch—no, no—just to talk.

  Ten minutes, Ruby. Not a second more. And just watching.

  “There’s no guarantee she’s in this universe anyway,” I announce to myself, trying to clear the bickering voices from my head.

  Absolutely. She might’ve only existed in that other version of Ó Direáin.

  The hill is easy, and a well-worn footpath leads the way, directly to a sidewalk. A newspaper vending machine advertises the Ó Direáin Chronicle. Black lampposts hold the street signs at ninety-degree angles. I’m on the corner of Arainn Street and Breandan Avenue. Pinch me because I swear I’m in a friggin’ Disney park. Coffee shops, toy store, bookstore, banks. The smell of cookies wafts out of a place called Sweet Treats. Shoe store, architect office, Chinese restaurant. There’s a guy with a T-shirt that says CITY OF Ó DIREÁIN JANITORIAL SERVICES. He’s picking up garbage.

  It’s perfect. The only thing that’s missing is the theme music.

  After about five minutes of walking, I catch myself smiling. It’s cloudy, but there’s a sunshine vibe in the air. Kids with ice cream cones hold their parents’ hands. People read books under the canopies of stupendous trees. Couples snuggle on benches, dogs chase Frisbees.

  A fountain burbles, and a bronze statue dominates the center of the park. It’s a man holding a lightbulb, and at the base of the statue is a plaque.

  CITY FOREFATHER PADRAIG Ó DIREÁIN WAS BORN

  IN 1841 IN ENNIS, IRELAND. A PROLIFIC INVENTOR,

  HOLDING 732 PATENTS, HIS MOST FAMOUS

  INVENTION WAS THE LIGHTBULB. HIS OBSESSION

  WITH ELECTRICITY LED TO HIS DEATH DURING AN

  EXPERIMENT WITH LIGHTNING IN 1922.

  This could be an important bit of data, so I copy it into my notebook and snap a digital photo. As I work, my mind whirls. There was a scientist named Ó Direáin. So this city is obviously named after him. He was born in a place called Ennis, in Ireland, which means that Ennis, Ohio, is probably named after his birthplace. So he made his mark in more than one universe.

  But hang on. Thomas Edison invented the lightbulb, am I right?

  I start walking again, trying to wrap my brain around all of this, when I see the library. Seriously, catch me before I swoon and face-plant. It’s majestic! It’s a castle, I swear. Gargoyles, towers, stained-glass windows. If I could build my fantasy library, this would be it. Thick wooden doors, quarried stone floor. I’m brimming—no, I’m overflowing—with happiness.

  Three things I can accomplish here: 1) get a book or two on string theory, 2) figure out what language the inscriptions are in, and 3) look up Mom’s address.

  “Hi, Ruby,” a librarian says to me as I walk past the information desk.

  “Uh,” I say. “Hi.” I read her name tag. “Carol.”

  “Good to see you,” Carol says softly. “Your hair looks cute short.”

  I run a hand through my bangs. “Thanks.”

  My face is burning. The computers are in sight, so I flash Carol my best gotta-go smile, and run for it. Okay, so it’s bad when you don’t recognize someone who knows your name. But in a parallel universe, it causes anxiety to the tenth power. Maybe my parallel-Ruby comes to the library a lot, maybe Carol is related, maybe she’s my neighbor. Who knows, and I can’t ask without sounding like a lunatic: Oh, you’re my aunt Carol? Sure, of course, sorry. I just didn’t recognize you, ’cause in my usual universe I don’t have any aunts.

  At the computer, I let my hands hover over the keyboard while I think. There’s no recognizable icon for an Internet browser, but I try each one anyway. Finally, a spiderweb icon launches a security screen that asks for my library card number and a password. Forget it.

  So I try the library catalog instead, typing Gry kbo iye coousxq? into the subject search field. The most logical way to translate a language? No. But right now I just need to know which language I should be tackling. An hourglass icon appears next to the words “Searching Database.” The search engine is having a hard time; it’s as confused as I am. Finally it responds with “No Matches Found.” Of course not.

  I try Gry alone, then coousxq. Both times, the computer directs me to Keyword Search Tips, telling me to check my spelling, simplify, and make sure I’m entering the info in the correct fields. Basically the library’s search system is screaming “Idiot!”

  This is a total dead end. Shift gears. I type “string theory” into the subject search field, and there’s plenty to choose from, though it’s odd that the bestselling books I’ve read aren’t listed. Where are Brian Greene’s books? Where are Michio Kaku’s? They’re the guys I want to call when I get back to Ennis; we’ll make history together, proving that string theory is a reality. Wrinkles in space do exist!

  I tap my pen against my forehead. It bugs me. Where is String Theory 101? Where’s Lisa Randall? I haven’t read her book on hidden dimensions yet, but it’s on my list. Do these people have different names in this universe? Did they decide to become chefs instead of physicists?

  Maybe the unfortunate truth is that they don’t even exist in this universe. If I have an older brother in Universe Two, then people may or may not exist in parallel dimensions. If Brian Greene’s parents decided they weren’t in the mood for sex on that fateful night of his would-be conception, he just wouldn’t be. One decision, many repercussions. One nuance, different outcomes.

  I scribble down the name of a book by Hugh Everett III called Fluid Universe, published last year. Wacky that
Everett exists here in Universe Four because—I’m pretty sure—he died young, like twenty or thirty years ago. Wow. That’s a major deviance, a fork in the road of space-time. Hugh Everett III skipped his heart attack here in Universe Four and kept on living. Could be. Which means that Mom could’ve done the same—dodged death—in multiple universes.

  Mom could be alive in more than one universe.

  The thought lodges itself smack in the middle of everything.

  I close my eyes and try to clear my head, heave my backpack on, then climb a flight of stairs to the science section of the library. The wrought-iron handrail is unbearably cold, but I need to steady myself. Every time I put weight on my bad leg, pain wraps around it and penetrates my shin, nearly forcing me to stop and sit. A man passes me with a worried look. He glances over his shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine, thanks,” I manage, though I’m grinding my teeth.

  I sit on the top step for a full minute, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Once I feel steady, I stand up and take in my surroundings. Despite the nagging pain, my mood lightens. All around me are books about cosmology, inorganic chemistry, nuclear physics, you name it. Little wooden benches, painted teal, are placed at the end of each aisle.

  It’s those benches that remind me of the Golden Gate Bookstore. The place where everything changed between George and me.

  Jamie was browsing the poetry journals, and George had followed me into the science section. A book was lying open underneath a bench, abandoned, as if the reader had given up on the intimidating equations. I picked it up and closed it, ready to slip it back onto a shelf.

  “Wait!” George had said, his voice full of interest. “What was that?”

  “An explanation of sine and cosine.”

  “No, no. Flip back. A couple more pages. Those graphs. There.”

  In that moment, something clicked inside George’s consciousness. I could feel it in his body language. In the way he leaned over the book, fidgeting over the pages. He’d made a discovery that day. And I was standing right next to him when it happened. “They’re beautiful,” he gasped.

  “You’ve never seen calculus functions graphed before?”

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  “Graphs of polar equations make all sorts of cool shapes. Flowers, spirals, butterflies.”

  “Are you serious?” He was breathless. “This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is exactly what I need to finish a sketch I’ve been stuck on. I never thought I’d find it in a math book.”

  I grin at him. “Did you ever have one of those spirograph toys when you were a kid?”

  “Yeah, with the plastic plates that guide your pen.”

  “To make pretty looping patterns. You probably didn’t realize that you were tracing hypotrochoid and epitrochoid curves.”

  I’d waited for him to give me a look, the kind I normally get when I shift into geek-speak. But he only seemed more interested.

  “It’s all connected,” I went on. “Math, nature, art, physics. People think subjects are separate, but they’re not. They’re linked. The shape of a spiral galaxy, or the spiral on a snail’s shell, gets translated into architecture as a spiral staircase. There are logarithmic spirals in so many things. In hurricanes, in fingerprints. In the cochlea of the ear! And this math equation”—I tapped the book—“creates a spiral when graphed.”

  He said nothing, processing it all. So I kept going, pointing to the ice that was melting at the bottom of his drink. “You see ice and think what?”

  “That it’s cold?”

  “What else?” I pressed.

  “It’s translucent with little fracture lines,” George said.

  “Yeah, but what about the fact that the crystalline structure of ice makes a stunning geometric pattern. It’s hexagonal. I’ll show you sometime. Remind me and I’ll bring some of my books the next time we get coffee at the café.”

  From that point on, I was more than just Jamie’s friend who sometimes tagged along. And George became something to me other than Jamie’s cute boyfriend. We had our own connection, our spark.

  Now I’m trying to make my own discovery as I browse the Ó Direáin library shelves.

  String Theory Basics looks good, as does Parallel Places & Peculiar Physics. I sit on a bench and lean back against a shelf. Extending my legs gives me a little relief. After scanning the index of Parallel Places, I turn the smooth, thin pages to read a passage about Hugh Everett III’s PhD dissertation, which was written in the mid-1950s. His many-worlds theory explained that an observer, simply by observing, can change the outcome of an event. The observer then becomes correlated to the system, and is in turn affected.

  I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, as if this will help me understand.

  Observation causes the collapse of wave functions. Wave functions map the possible states of a system. So, if wave functions branch in different directions, independent of each other, then there are countless alternate realities playing out.

  Mom could be alive in more than one universe.

  The math is completely beyond me, but it sure is pretty. Theorem 4’s equations are spectacular; they’d make a great tattoo.

  I flip through the other books, scanning some more passages, grumbling with disagreement over this one:

  Traversable wormholes would require the center of a black hole—a singularity—deep in outer space, at such a distance that it would take millions of lifetimes to get there. If you somehow survived the long journey, you would then learn that black holes are unapproachable. They emit enormous amounts of deadly radiation and are defined by crushing gravity.

  Black holes? The closest one to Earth is in the constellation Sagittarius, thousands of light-years from here. But obviously a wormhole can function without a black hole. The tree isn’t relying on one to work.

  “Ouch,” I mumble. This time it’s my neck that hurts, not my leg, from craning over the book too long. My stomach is grumbling too.

  I crack my neck and my knuckles and head for the phone books. Perhaps this will be easier than decoding Gry kbo iye coousxq? and noodling through string theory. I flip to the residential section and look for Wright.

  My finger trails down the silky-thin pages until it reaches WRIGHT, SALLY … 1104 CIUNIÚINT STREET.

  It’s like a jolt of electricity. Mom? My Sally Wright? I flatten the phone book across the glass of a nearby copy machine. Sure, I could write down the address by hand, but this is proof. Like the eight-by-ten photo, this is evidence, data, a precious piece of documentation. It’s Mom’s name and address, for real. I want a photocopy, an ink-on-page, black-and-white artifact.

  The copy machine keeps spitting out my dimes. I’ve only got three, and it doesn’t like any of them.

  Behind me, a white-haired man sighs impatiently. He reaches around me and inserts a coin. “There you go.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I guess it wanted a quarter.” I flip to the Ó Direáin street map at the back of the phone book and copy that as well. “Sorry to hold you up.”

  The papers are still warm as I fold them and tuck them into my backpack. 1104 Ciuniúint Street. That’s where I’m heading. Ten minutes, Ruby. Not a second more. And just watching.

  “Ready to check these out?” Carol asks when I lay the books on the counter.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  “Card?”

  My face goes blank. “Oh, geez. I—uh.”

  Carol laughs. “Oh, Ruby. Don’t worry. We’ve got all your info in here.” She pats the top of her computer. “I’ll just pull you up.”

  “Thanks,” I say, tapping my foot nervously.

  “I talked to your mom today,” Carol says, adjusting her glasses. “Seems like she’s doing okay. What a rough breakup. So sad.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say vaguely.

  “Do you like her new apartment?” Carol scans the barcodes on each book and demagnetizes them.

  I cough, choke. “Sure, I guess.” H
ow old is that phone book? Carol said new apartment. Did Mom just move? Is the address in the phone book right?

  “It must be hard on you,” Carol says. “My parents got divorced when I was ten. I remember how confused I was.”

  What am I thinking anyway, trying to find my not-dead mom? It makes me lightheaded. What if she sees me? What if I can’t help myself and I run to her? What if I wrap my arms around her, kiss her warm cheek, smell her hair, hear her voice? Then what? How will I ever let go? Will I ever care about getting back to Ennis?

  Carol gives me a warm, sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your reading, honey,” she says, handing me the physics books.

  I should just ask Carol: So what is my mom’s new apartment address? I keep forgetting it. Can’t put my finger on it.

  But I don’t want to deal with Carol’s perplexed and concerned reaction. She might call Mom, tell her I’m here. Then the whole thing is out of my control. I slide the string theory books into my backpack and take a step toward the door.

  “Wait, honey,” Carol says. “Something’s off kilter here.”

  My heart pounds. “Excuse me?”

  “Strange, very strange,” she says, staring into the computer.

  “What’s wrong?” My voice quivers. Did she just figure me out somehow? Does she realize I’m the wrong Ruby for this universe? “I really need to get going. I’m—uh—late for—”

  “Looks like you overpaid on a late fee, honey.” Carol shakes her head in dismay, like this is the most mysterious thing to happen since the Big Bang. “We owe you two dollars.” She opens a desk drawer and hands me two bills. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” I manage a smile before quickly shoving the money into my pocket and heading for the exit sign.

  Outside, I take a deep breath and force myself to laugh. It’s funny, right? I owe library late fees in a parallel universe. Hilarious.

  As I walk down Arainn Street, the smell of fried food hangs in the air, a major temptation. Takeout at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe just a bowl of wonton soup, though I know it’s unwise to blow my limited cash supply.