Relativity

by Cristin Bishara

  “Ditto,” I say.

  She tries to subdue a yawn. “I don’t know where it went wrong. My life, my marriage. I try to figure out the turning point. Maybe our ten-year anniversary. Terrible meal, and we fought over where to park the car.”

  “Turning point?”

  “You know—the point of no return. An event that thrust us over the edge, toward divorce.”

  “So if you could change that one event, you’d be living in a different world right now?”

  “Of course.” Mom leans over, pulls her socks off, then starts plucking at an imaginary guitar. “Can’t you rewind our days?” she sings, closing her eyes and tilting her head toward the ceiling. “Don’t say there’s not a way.” She motions for me to join in.

  I shrug. No clue what the lyrics are.

  “Top of the charts for sixteen consecutive weeks in the year 1987?” she prompts. “Have I taught you nothing?”

  “I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “No excuse!” She throws her hands up in mock disgust. “I need my slippers. Are you cold?”

  She gets up and adjusts the thermostat, then disappears into the bedroom.

  “The butterfly effect,” I mumble to myself. Guess it’s time to revisit my logic; a ripple effect might actually be a good thing. If the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can alter the path of a tornado, then a happy event could alter the path of a marriage. Little alterations, big repercussions.

  I’m stung with a burrowing, twisting thought. If there was a turning point in this universe, maybe there wasn’t in another. Maybe in, say Universe Five or Seven, Mom and Dad are still happily married. They spent their tenth anniversary on a beach in Mexico, renewing their vows. Willow and Kandy never entered the picture.

  Suddenly another path reveals itself. What if I don’t hurry back to Universe One as planned? What if I explore each universe? What if there’s a perfect world out there, where Mom and Dad are blissfully together and Patrick is my brother? And, of course, George would be there too. My heart swells at the possibility.

  The doorbell rings and Mom emerges from the bedroom. She puts an eye to the peephole. “Pizza,” she announces.

  She pays the delivery guy and carries a plastic bag and a large pizza box into the kitchen. I get up and follow, helping her clear the table. “What’s this?” I ask, glancing at the papers as I set them on the counter.

  Mom grabs two plates from a cabinet. “Lesson plans for this week,” she says.

  “Fractal geometry?”

  “Just the basic concepts, like the Mandelbrot set, making a computer-generated image, talking about some practical applications. Do you think you can handle it?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. My star student.” Mom hands me two forks, spoons, and napkins. “I know you prefer to bury your head in French, but like it or not, deep down you’re a math nerd, like me. I thought we’d start with some basic definitions—hyperbolic components, the main cardioid and period bulbs, self-similarity.”

  Mom is my math teacher? I grin at her, thrilled.

  “I wonder if fractal geometry and string theory are connected,” I say, excitedly tripping over my words. “You know, space appears to be smooth, but maybe with enormous magnification it’s rough—it’s fractal. Maybe that accounts for rifts in space-time.”

  Mom closes the refrigerator door and sets the hot pepper flakes on the table. Then she gives me this look. This amazed, shocked, perplexed look.

  “What?” I ask, feeling my face turn hot.

  “I’ve never heard you talk like that, Ruby. How do you already know about fractals? How do you know about string theory?”

  Idiot! The Ruby who normally resides here wouldn’t be talking about rifts in space-time! “I’ve been reading a little,” I say weakly. I’ve got to remember to fly under the radar. I already look like an impostor, and now I’m acting like one too.

  Mom doesn’t seem convinced. “Reading a little?” She pours two sodas. “Sit down and eat.”

  “Gladly.” I dig into the Caesar salad and serve myself a bowl of the wedding soup. The steam bathes my face, and I breathe in the tangy smell. “You have no idea how good this tastes,” I say with my mouth half-full.

  I’ve got to remember to tell George about the shapes that a Mandelbrot set produces. Paisley swirls, antenna spires, lightning fingers. He’ll run straight for his sketch pad.

  Mom says, “Funny you should mention string theory. I just read an article about it in Scientific American. It’s fascinating, but the math is so complex. They said that it may be beyond human comprehension.”

  “Our best mathematicians are stumped.” I clear my throat. “I mean, can’t anyone figure it out? How hard can it be?” There. That sounded sufficiently ignorant.

  Mom slides a huge piece of pizza onto my plate. “It’s a wild-goose chase,” she says. “People have been researching string theory for decades. Maybe they should admit they’re wrong, or that they’ve reached a dead end. Sometimes you just need to quit and move on.” The way she says it, with such a resigned sigh, makes me wonder if she’s talking about string theory or something personal. Like maybe her marriage.

  She stares at me intently, and I get the feeling she’s testing me, baiting me. I can’t tell if she’s unnerved by my out-of-character behavior, or if she’s pleased that I’m talking about math. “Which books have you read?”

  “Oh, well. Really, I just saw a show on the Discovery Channel, so that’s why it sounds like I know more than I actually do.” I shift in my seat and pay extra attention to my food.

  “And your tattoo just happened to be the one to drop out of the vending machine?”

  “Yeah. I have no idea what it means. Does it have something to do with string theory?” I force a “what are the chances?” laugh to come out of my mouth. “Like you said, I prefer to bury my head in French.”

  Mom waves a hand dramatically in the air. “Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.”

  “Huh?” I need a distraction, and as if on cue, I accidentally bump my shin against the metal leg of the kitchen table. A searing pain radiates from the wound and reaches into my stomach and chest, taking my breath away.

  Mom jumps to her feet. “Are you okay? Go lie down on the couch. Are you supposed to keep that leg elevated?”

  “Painkiller would be good,” I say, my face wrenched into a knot. “Can you go pick up my prescription?”

  “Sure. Don’t worry about the food. I’ll put it away when I get back. Did you get enough to eat? Go lie down. You need to rest. Do you want the TV on? Of course not. You need peace and quiet.” Mom’s eyes are brimming with worry.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” I say. “Calm down.”

  Mom waits until I’m situated on the couch again. She drapes the blanket over me and puts her hand to my forehead. “You’re warm.”

  “They checked my temperature at the hospital. It was normal.” The surge of pain has subsided, enough for me to unclench my fists.

  “Back in a jiffy.” Mom swings her purse over her shoulder. She puts the cordless phone on the coffee table within my reach. “In case you need to call my cell.”

  As Mom steps through the door, I call after her. “Wait!”

  She turns, and I take in her mahogany hair, high cheekbones, and the chip in her front tooth. I want to memorize her.

  “Be careful driving,” I say.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Mom says. And then she closes the door.

  Chapter Ten

  Mom’s apartment is hollow without her. Every sound I make echoes.

  Someone—Aristotle? Galileo?—said that nature abhors a vacuum. Horror vacui: the fear of empty spaces. Yeah, I abhor Mom’s absence. I hate the emptiness. After being with her for just a couple hours, I can see how vacant and silent my life has been for the past eleven years.

  In this universe, Ruby has never felt that void, and she’s a different person than I am because of
it. But now I realize that this Ruby is also experiencing a loss, and she will be changed too. Her parents are divorced. She’s suffering in her own way.

  What else can I do? Somewhere, in some parallel universe, all could be right—no car accident, no windshield wiper through Mom’s throat. Happy birthdays, happy anniversaries. A safe and smooth ride through space-time.

  If that universe is out there, I’ve got to keep moving. I’ve got to find it. I mean, I’d be an idiot to just jump in and out of the tree until I reach Universe One, when my own personal utopia could be waiting for me.

  I lace my sneakers and hobble to the kitchen, my shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor. My Caesar salad sits mostly untouched at the table. I finish it, slurp down the rest of my soup, then nuke my pizza in the microwave. If I take off right now, I’m not sure when my next meal might be. I need to eat while I can, so I’m stuffing myself.

  My dish clinks as I rinse it and put it in the dishwasher. I gather my things into my backpack and go into Mom’s room to snoop. I take one of her sweaters, pressing it to my nose before stuffing it into my backpack. Her messy dresser is littered with receipts, snapshots of Patrick in a football uniform, an iPod, and some coins and a few dollars. I help myself to the cash. Really, she would want me to have it. Before I stuff the bills into my pocket, I give Abraham Lincoln a nod. It’s somehow comforting to see that he’s still the face on the fives.

  Her nightstand holds a thick brown Bible, a few business cards, and some clothes catalogs. A small electronic device sits inside the drawer, and I realize it’s a GPS. An ancient one with hardly any features, but it could come in handy, for sure.

  After using the bathroom, I grab a bottled water from the fridge and put my hand on the doorknob—ready to go. Although …

  It would be nice to have my pain meds first. I look down at my leg and notice that my jeans are tight around my right shin. Swollen.

  What’s the rush? It’s getting dark, my body is craving sleep, and I’m about to lock myself out of Mom’s comfortable, warm apartment.

  I take my hand off the doorknob and pull the copied map of Ó Direáin from my backpack. The length of my pinkie finger is about three miles on the scale, which means the high school is about five miles from here. That’s a long way. Probably a two-hour walk. I look down at my wounded shin as if it can give me some input. Hey, leg, you wanna walk that far? Nah?

  But I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m displacing my parallel self somehow, at this very moment. Is she desperately lost in some sort of cosmic limbo land?

  Mental confusion plus physical pain plus a very full stomach equals inertia. I look for the phone, as if I can call Dad for advice, to tell him to come get me. Dad. What have I done to him? He must be wondering where I am, where I’m hiding. I rub my fingers across the phone’s number pad, knowing what will happen if I dial his cell phone. This number is not in service. This number does not exist here.

  Does he think I’ve been kidnapped? Does he think I ran away? The last time I hid from Dad, I was six years old and raging mad because I wanted to draw on my bedroom walls. Millipedes and lizards. Or, better yet, lizards eating millipedes. Dad confiscated the Crayolas, and I made myself disappear. I can still see him, standing below me as I clung to a tree limb, leaning against the rough trunk. “Climb down, you little squirrel,” he’d said, shaking a bag of M&M’S, trying to lure me to the ground.

  I look around Mom’s quiet little apartment. Dad can’t find me here. Can he? Is he wishing he could lure me home with chocolate? Has he missed his copywriting deadlines because he’s been frantic, searching for me?

  I almost laugh out loud. No way. I mean, sure, Chef Dad was waiting for me in the driveway in Universe Three. He was worried, practically ready to call the police. But he’s not my real dad. Real Dad never misses deadlines. Real Dad doesn’t notice when I’m gone for hours on end.

  But I miss him.

  I don’t know how to weigh the choices. I don’t know how to balance the equation. On one side: Click through the universes—simply turn the wheel, full circle—until I get back home. Back to Willow and Kandy and their decrepit house. Back to smelly Ennis High, Home of the Bears. Back to Dad.

  On the other side: Take my time in each universe, looking for the ideal. Mom and Dad could be in love in Universe Five or Seven or Ten. And it’s not like I’m ditching Dad. Not at all. Because Dad will be there. He’ll just be a better version of Dad, one who isn’t glued to a computer screen 24/7. We’ll be together. Everything will be okay. I step away from the door, let my backpack slide to the floor, deciding.

  Ruby, the perfect universe might be one spin of the wheel away, and you have to find out.

  Okay, I’m going, but … Universe Five can wait until tomorrow at daybreak. That way I get a little more time with this mom, a good night’s sleep, and my medicine. All things I desperately need. It’s a good compromise; it’s a plan.

  A half-open closet to my right reveals a tiny stacked washer-dryer, and a bag with the name RUBY embroidered across it. Mine, but not mine. Ruby’s bag is full of clothes—a pink T-shirt, a lime-green polo with purple jeweled buttons, and more sparkle-pocket jeans. At the bottom of the bag are flannel pajamas. They’re pink—yippee—but they’re clean and soft. I take off my smelly clothes, toss them in the washer with some of Mom’s darks, then start the shower. I’m careful not to get my freshly bandaged wound wet, but otherwise scrub myself from top to bottom. Yeah, my leg looks nasty. It’s puffy and tender, but I convince myself it’ll be better in the morning. I breathe in the steam and the grape-scented shampoo, trying to let my nerves unfurl. The moment I’m toweled off and wearing the pink pj’s, the phone rings. The Caller ID says Sally Wright—Mom.

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  “How’s the pain, sweetheart?”

  “It’s throbbing but not terrible. I’m wondering if I chipped a bone.”

  “I’ve got your medicine. I’m going as fast as I can, but—oh …”

  “What, Mom?”

  “There’s this gorgeous buck standing near the entrance to Dublin Estates. I hope he stays away from the road. Okay, I’ll see you in five minutes. Should I stop at the grocery store? I thought I’d make you a big breakfast tomorrow. Can you wait fifteen minutes instead of five? Are you miserable?”

  “I can wait fifteen minutes.”

  “We should take you back to the hospital for X-rays,” Mom says.

  “I’ll be okay tomorrow,” I say, dreading the idea of negotiating parallel universes with my leg in a cast.

  “If it’s a fracture, it’s not going to feel better tomorrow.”

  Mom hangs up, and anger wells up inside me. I could kill Kandy for chasing me into that table. Though I suppose she could kill me for reading her diary. Whatever. A sequence of events, starting long ago, eventually led to my leg connecting violently with a glass-top coffee table. I mean, going way back, Willow could’ve bought a soft leather ottoman instead of the table. Or she could’ve arranged the furniture differently.

  If it weren’t for a million decisions and variables, I wouldn’t have fled into the cornfields and discovered the door in the tree. I wouldn’t be sitting on Mom’s denim couch, waiting for her to come home to me. It’s like it was meant to be. Maybe I should be thanking Kandy for chasing me? Yeah, right.

  I settle back onto the couch, unzip my backpack and open my notebook. I’ve gotta force my eyes to stay open, to focus on the words inscribed above the oak tree’s door:

  Gry kbo iye coousxq?

  And on the surface of the steering disk:

  Wkccsfo cyvkb pvkbo 1864 = Kdwyczrobsm ovomdbsm cebqo. Dboo bodksxon zygob 87 ryebc. Ceppsmsoxd cebqo boymmebboxmo sxmkvmevklvo.

  Complex math equations written in abbreviated, encoded form? Several words end in the letter o, and there are two identical words: “cebqo.” Before I can make any headway, I hear Mom in the hallway, her key in the lock.

  “I’m home,” Mom says, opening the door. “Don’t get up.”

 
“I won’t.”

  She puts down a grocery bag, then pulls a small orange bottle out of her purse. “You’re supposed to take one every four hours, with food.”

  “I finished my dinner while you were gone,” I say. “I’m stuffed.”

  Mom hands me a sizable pill and a glass of water. “Bottoms up.”

  I gulp it down, then motion to my notebook. “I’ve got some homework, then I’m calling it a night, okay?”

  Mom ruffles my hair. “You need your rest. The homework can wait.” She peers at my notebook before I can close it. “What was that? Code?”

  “Yeah,” I say, fumbling for an explanation. “Just messing around. It’s for, uh, English class.”

  “English? I thought it was Mr. McBride who made his classes decode Ó Direáin’s journal. Did you already start the local history unit? I thought he saved that for second semester.”

  Ó Direáin’s journal? My mind flashes to his bronze statue in the park, near the fountain. The plaque said he was one of the town’s forefathers. He was the inventor of the lightbulb.

  “We, uh, yes,” I stutter. “We started the journal. Already.”

  “I have to admit,” she says, smiling, “I love flipping through it at night, right before I fall asleep. I have this fantasy that my subconscious will figure out how to crack those uncrackable codes.”

  There are codes in Ó Direáin’s journal? It can’t be a coincidence; Ó Direáin must have had some connection with the portal. He was a scientist! He might have discovered the wormhole and then invented a way to navigate it. Or maybe he created the wormhole himself. I need to get back to the library before I leave this universe, to see if I can get my hands on a copy of that journal.

  Mom retreats to the kitchen to put the groceries away. Cabinets open and close. I’m lulled by the sound of water filling the sink, and I start thinking about tomorrow, on the move again. I remember my jeans.

  “I washed my clothes, Mom. Can you put them in the dryer?”

  “No problem,” she says, heading to the laundry closet.

  It’s such a simple, normal thing—Mom doing my laundry—and I feel an unexpected craving, wanting more of it, the sweetness of routine life.