“See you in school tomorrow,” George says.
“Right,” I say, but I know we won’t. Maybe he’ll see Other Ruby in school tomorrow. Once I leave, maybe she’ll be back. I’ve got six more universes to click through. If I’m back in my own bed, in Universe One, before nightfall, maybe all will be set to right. No harm done. No one will be permanently displaced from where they belong.
So I need to keep moving, regardless of how tempting it might be to stay here. Besides, I realize now that the “real” George back in Universe One can be mine. All I have to do is make a move like I did here. I mean, if I can spontaneously kiss him on a park bench in a parallel universe, I can do the same in my own universe, where we already have a spark. It’s not too late. We’re not too far apart.
I replay what Chef Dad said to me yesterday: Call it what you like. Fate, destiny, effort, coincidence. True friendship defies distance.
Then I remember telling Dad he could use that as an ad headline. For an airline.
The plan forms itself instantaneously in my mind: I’ll get a part-time job, working after school and on the weekends. It won’t take long to save enough money for an airline ticket back to California. I can tell Dad I’m going to tour Stanford, which I want to do anyway. I’ll make a trip every six months until we graduate, until we can make plans to live in the same city.
George pushes the restaurant’s front door open for me, and I brush past him to walk outside. We barely touch. My shoulder connects with his wrist, but it feels electric again. Suddenly, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him for another kiss. His lips are soft and taste faintly of soy sauce. His tongue brushes across mine, and I’m light-headed, delirious.
I want to remember how this feels.
“Bye,” he says, ruffling the hair on the back of my neck.
“Until we meet again,” I say, walking away, trying not to limp. My leg is suddenly throbbing mercilessly. I wish I hadn’t spent my only useful money on coffee and a mini-scone when what I need is extra-strength ibuprofen and fresh bandages.
“Au revoir!” George yells.
I look over my shoulder and wave. I hate saying good-bye to him—again—but this time feels much better than last week’s farewell in Walnut Creek. I’m beginning to understand the expression “head over heels,” because after kissing George I feel like I’m in zero gravity. Like I’m upside down, floating.
I’m trying to focus enough to cross the street without getting flattened by a truck, when a familiar—and frantic—voice jolts me from behind.
“Ruby!” Before I can react, Patrick has my forearm in a viselike grip.
“Oh, it’s you.” Not on my agenda.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Would you let go of my arm? You’re kinda hurting me.” I try to get around him, but he blocks my way, left then right.
“One minute you’re behind me on your bike, the next your bike is lying on its side.” Patrick’s voice escalates. “You’re no longer on it. You’re nowhere to be found.”
People are stopped on the street, watching us. Patrick’s on a roll. “Vanished! Gone!”
I turn around and head back the way I came, toward the downtown shopping district. He follows, screaming, “What’s that on the back of your neck?”
Oh boy. Here we go again. “I got a tattoo.”
“You did what?” His voice is straining with worry. He puts his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to stop. His breath is fast on my neck as he looks at the tattoo. “What does it mean, and what did you do to your hair?” he demands. “Is that where you’ve been?”
“Yep, that’s what I’ve been doing these past few hours. I cut my hair and got inked.”
“Oh my God.” The veins in his neck are popping. I pull away and hurry on, thinking about the Ruby who normally resides here. She disappeared. She was riding her bike one minute and was gone the next. What happened to her? Where did she go? I’m guessing the second I set foot in this universe, she was displaced. I shudder, hoping she’s okay. I’m definitely causing ripples, distortions in space-time.
Patrick’s suddenly in front of me, walking backward.
“Hey, so what time would you say your Ruby—I mean, what time did I disappear?” I ask, trying to remember when I left Chef Dad’s house and entered this universe. “Around ten a.m.?”
He ignores my question. He’s got too many of his own. “Where did you get these clothes?” He points to my pant leg. “Is that blood? Are you bleeding?”
I look at the stain on my jeans. A trickle of red has made its way onto my white shoelaces. “It’s nothing.”
Patrick stops me by the shoulders again. Smoke practically comes out of his ears. He’s beyond furious. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.” I adjust my backpack. “I’ve got data to gather, people to see, things to set straight. Now move.”
“No.” He forces me to face him. That slightly pointed nose, that dimple in his chin. So much like Dad. Patrick points to the Jeep parked across the street. “Get your ass in the car.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m your big brother, and I’m in charge, and you’ve been missing for hours.” He’s trembling. Tears are welling up in his eyes. “Because the divorce is making us both crazy, and it’s my job to take care of you, to get us through all this.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” I feel the urge to wipe the tears from his eyelashes, but he brushes them away first. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on Patrick, considering how things look to him. I’d be pulling my hair out with worry too. “I’m sorry about the way she … the way I disappeared on you.” I’m just not used to this kind of intense attention. I mean, it’s tough getting Dad to detach himself from his computer for ten minutes, let alone ask me how I’m doing.
For a moment Patrick looks exhausted and defeated, but he suddenly gathers his strength and is mad again. “Ass. In. Car.”
There’s no point in arguing. If I try to run, he’ll easily catch up; I’ve got a leg injury and a ten-pound backpack slowing me down. If I walk, he’ll just continue to follow me like an annoying insect, like a moon in orbit, bound to me.
Besides, maybe I can get him to drive past Mom’s place, just so I can see where it is. Just to look. And then it’s urgent for me to get home.
“Fine,” I say. We cross the street. I toss my backpack in the Jeep’s backseat and strap myself in. “Take me to Mom’s. Or take me near Mom’s. Please.”
“We’re going to the ER,” Patrick says, shifting into drive.
“For what?”
“For what? You’re bleeding. You obviously fell off your bike and you probably hit your head. That’s why you’re acting insane! You have a concussion. Your brain could be swollen. You need an MRI.” Patrick stops at a red light and presses his fingers to his temples. “My head is killing me. I need some Tylenol.”
“Maybe you’re the one with the swollen brain,” I say, staring out the window, watching the town go by. Watching the world move. Thinking that the Earth is rotating and orbiting the sun, and the universe is expanding. The universe is expanding 74.2 kilometers per second per megaparsec. Just because we can’t feel it doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
“Doubtful,” Patrick says.
“But anything’s possible,” I say. “You could have encephalitis.”
Patrick lets out a colossal sigh. “You’re the one who’s acting weird. Not me. I’m just stressed.”
Remind me—why did I get in the car with this guy? If I’d only stayed in the library another half hour, Patrick probably wouldn’t have found me. If I’d skipped Sweet Treats, he’d have missed me, or if I’d had one more cup of tea with George. But then again, I could get something worthwhile out of this ER detour. It wouldn’t hurt to have a medical professional take a look at my leg. At this point, I know I need something at the prescription level.
“So what do you think of Mom’s new apartment?” I ask. “Her street looks a lot like this
one, right?”
Patrick gives me a look.
I slide down in my seat. “Never mind.”
“Kandy’s been shoplifting again,” Patrick says, gripping the steering wheel. “I searched the house for you, and I found a bag of new clothes and makeup. So much for her medication working. Between the two of you I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”
A bag of stolen makeup. I think of that bag of lipstick and eye shadow I found in my room, and suddenly I know that Kandy was busted for shoplifting. Question number twenty-one: Have you ever been convicted of, or pled guilty to, a crime other than a traffic offense? That’s why she marked “yes” on her application to design school.
“The clothes weren’t cheap, either,” Patrick says. “I don’t know how she managed to get them through the detectors.”
Deviant and clever. That’s a dangerous combo. That’s the stuff of sociopaths: high IQ, criminal tendencies.
Finally, we turn into the hospital parking lot. Patrick parks and then hurries around the Jeep to my side and opens the door for me.
“How chivalrous,” I say.
“I’m not being polite,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “I’m making sure you don’t disappear again. Come on.”
He practically yanks me across the parking lot and through an entrance labeled EMERGENCY ROOM. It’s quiet, other than a young mother with a baby pressed to her breast.
At the front desk, a woman in scrubs eats the last of a doughnut. “Sign in.” She taps a fingernail to a sheet of pink paper on a clipboard. Powdered sugar cascades across the sheet. “I’ll need your driver’s license and insurance card.”
I wipe the paper clean and sign Ruby Wright. All I have is a student ID with my old California address, which is tucked into the pocket of a wallet I took from Universe Three. So it’s not even my ID, technically. And does Walnut Creek exist here, in this universe? Does it have a different name? Maybe the western edge of the state has cracked off and fallen into the Pacific. In another universe, there could have been a massive earthquake.
Patrick presses his cell phone to his ear. “Come on, Mom,” he breathes. “Pick up.” He shakes his head and tucks the phone in his back pocket.
“Look,” he says to the woman. “Let me cut to the chase. We’re both minors. She’s fifteen and I’m seventeen. Our dad’s on his honeymoon and our mom’s phone is probably buried at the bottom of her purse. Can someone help us?”
The woman sweeps her long hair over her shoulder, revealing a name tag. Amanda. She looks unfazed. “No one gets turned away,” she says, taking the pink sheet of paper away and replacing it with a blue one. “We prefer to get parental consent before we administer treatment. Fill in your address, your parents’ addresses and phone numbers, your parents’ employers, insurance carriers, if you know them. Sign at the bottom. It’s slow at the moment. It’ll only be a minute before Maria calls you back.”
I take the clipboard and sit down. Patrick sits next to me. I blink at the questions I can’t answer. This is what it must feel like to take a test you haven’t studied for. Not sure of my address here in Ó Direáin, no idea where either parent works, couldn’t even tell you the area code or zip code.
I hand the clipboard to Patrick. “You’re right. I don’t feel so hot. Could you fill this out for me and I’ll just sign it?” I put the back of my hand to my forehead.
Patrick gives me a look. Worried? Annoyed? “Sure,” he says.
I sneak sideways glances as he pens in the information. Patrick writes 548 Corrán Tuathail Avenue as the home address, and journalist as Dad’s profession. He works for the Ó Direáin Chronicle. Mom is a high school math teacher. I’m painfully reminded of all the times I’ve written deceased next to mother’s name.
“Ruby Wright,” a woman in scrubs calls into the waiting room. She’s propping open the door to the emergency patient rooms.
“Me,” I say, standing up. Patrick jumps to his feet like he’s spring-loaded.
“Right this way.” We follow Maria into room four. She motions to a stretcher. “Have a seat.” She takes my blood pressure, pulse, listens to my heart, and sticks a thermometer in my ear. Patrick keeps sitting down, then standing up. “Any allergies or preexisting medical conditions?” Maria asks.
I shake my head.
“Are you currently on any medications?”
“No.”
Maria keys my information into a computer. “And what are your concerns today?”
“She might have a head injury,” Patrick says.
I roll my eyes. “I have a nasty gash on my right leg. That’s all.”
“Blood loss,” Patrick says with this eureka! look on his face. “Maybe that’s why she’s acting strange.”
“Are you up to date on all your immunizations, including tetanus?” Maria asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I think so.”
Maria nods and gives me a warm smile. “Doctor Leonard will be with you shortly.” She gently closes the door behind her.
A wall clock ticks audibly as I sit in silence. I watch the second hand sweep. After five long minutes of Patrick pacing and peppering me with questions I can’t answer, there’s a knock, then the door opens.
“I’m Doctor Leonard.” He extends a hand. His ash-white beard hides a young face underneath.
“Ruby Wright,” I say.
“I’m her brother, Patrick.” He grabs the doctor’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “She’s not doing well,” Patrick says, pointing at me. “Head injury, amnesia, something.”
Dr. Leonard pries himself from Patrick’s grip and reads the information on the computer screen. “Let’s take a look at the laceration on your leg, okay, Ruby?”
“She’s just not herself. She’s acting really weird.” Patrick’s talking a mile a minute. “First off, she disappeared. Poof.” He snaps his fingers. “Gone. I was about to call the police, but then I found her walking around downtown. I hardly recognized her in those glasses.” He waves his hand toward my face. “She doesn’t need glasses! She’s had LASIK surgery. She’s not dressing like she normally does, and she whacked off her hair.”
When Patrick finally comes up for air he must sense that he’s operating in hysterical rapid-fire mode. He visibly regroups, straightening his posture and making eye contact with Dr. Leonard. He even drops his voice to a deep, authoritative tone. “Look, Doctor Leonard. The thing is, our parents don’t exactly have their heads in the game these days. I’m the one in charge.”
The doctor gives Patrick a curt nod, then looks at me with concern. “What did you do to your leg?”
I roll up my jeans to my knee and peel the bandages off. “Ran into a coffee table.”
“How long ago?” Dr. Leonard asks.
“Yesterday,” I say.
The door opens a crack, and Amanda peeks in. “Sorry to interrupt. I spoke with Sally Wright, Ruby’s mother, and she gave verbal consent over the phone.” She looks at Patrick and me. “Your mom was shopping in Cleveland. She’s on her way.” Amanda retreats and the door clicks shut.
“You should have come in sooner,” Dr. Leonard says to me. He snaps on rubber gloves and pinches the wound together. “Sorry. I know that hurts. It’s too late to stitch it. It will heal by secondary intention, which means you’ll have a nice scar. You can take Motrin for pain.”
“Could I get something a little stronger?” I ask. “It really jabs at me. I’d like to be able to sleep.”
“Is that why she’s been acting weird?” Patrick asks. “Pain? Not enough sleep?”
“The pain is likely coming from an underlying bone bruise. It’s not uncommon. Unfortunately there’s nothing we can do for it, other than give it time to heal. I’ll write you a prescription for pain medicine.”
“Doesn’t she need an antibiotic?” Patrick asks, sounding somewhat panicked. “That’s got to be infected. Look at it!”
Dr. Leonard checks the computer. “You’re not running a fever,” he says, but then he raises his eyebrows at me. “Howeve
r, Ruby, if you see redness around the cut, pus coming from the wound, or a red streak up your leg, you must return for reevaluation. Understand?”
“Yes,” Patrick answers for me.
“Anything else going on, Ruby?” the doctor asks.
“Nothing,” I say, looking directly at Patrick. “I didn’t fall off a bike and hit my head.”
“Anything at home?”
“Things are a little complicated,” I admit.
“A little?” Patrick laughs. “Divorce, remarriage within weeks, a stepsister who’s been in jail, and our stepmom painting all day long … these dark globby things called Beneath and The Obsolete Desire.”
“Bad titles,” I agree.
“A lot of stress,” Dr. Leonard says. He peels his gloves off and runs his fingers through his beard. “Have you had any headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, or slurred speech?”
“No.”
Patrick slaps his hands together. “I know! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? It’s the tattoo she just got. Maybe the needles were dirty.”
I turn my head so Dr. Leonard can look at the Einstein tensor. “What does it mean?” he asks.
“It’s one of Einstein’s general relativity equations. It has to do with space-time, which has been on my mind a lot lately. More than when I got the tattoo, actually.”
Dr. Leonard looks interested, so I continue. “Did you know that two uncharged parallel plates, metal ones, put really close together, create negative energy? Negative energy is what you need to make a wormhole.”
“What?” Patrick slumps back into his chair, covering his eyes, as if I’ve just dropped my drawers and totally embarrassed him.
“It’s called the Casimir effect,” I say. “I’m not making this stuff up!”
Dr. Leonard runs a finger over the nape of my neck. “It’s not a new tattoo.”
“Not new?” Patrick leaps up and cranes to see. “Ruby! You’ve been hiding that under your hair? For how long?”
Dr. Leonard holds his hands out, like he’s trying to push some space between himself and Patrick. “Ruby,” he says. “Is it possible you need someone to talk to? A family counselor, perhaps.”
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