She holds up my wet jeans and T-shirt before tossing them in the dryer. “Where did you get these, by the way?”
“Target.”
She shakes her head. “They look like boys’ clothes.”
I take my glasses off and rub my eyes. Mom is now a fuzzy shape; she’s color and movement in the other room, barely discernible. I think of distant galaxies, hidden worlds, black holes, dark matter. There’s so much of the universe we simply can’t see.
“You okay?” Mom asks. She’s in her pajamas.
“I’m hanging in.”
“I’m going to have a talk with your father,” she says, sitting on the couch next to me. She pats my knee and looks me in the eye. “We should have talked this through better. What do you want, Ruby? Do you want to live with me?”
“What do I want?” I want a universe with you and Dad, and without Willow and Kandy. I want us to be together again. “You, me, Dad. Together.”
Mom gives me a wry smile, her chipped tooth showing. “What about Patrick?”
“He’s fine too. I like Patrick.”
She laughs. “You and your brother are inseparable. You couldn’t live without him.”
But I have lived without him. Just as I’ve lived without you.
Mom starts humming and playing the air drums, apparently once again reminded of an eighties song. “No, you couldn’t survive,” she sings, poking her finger into the air, punctuating the notes she’s trying to hit. “It’s my time, I’ll be fine. There’s a crossroads ahead—”
I hold up my hands, palms forward. “Could we give your inner rock star a breather? What are you trying to say?”
“Look at me, Ruby.” She gestures to her face. Her Cherokee cheekbones. “I’m at a crossroads. My marriage is over. Patrick is leaving for college in less than a year, and then you’re on his heels. No one needs me.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she’s trying to rid herself of a bad dream.
“I do!” I blurt.
“Since when?” She laughs, but it’s riddled with hurt. “Not since you were about eleven.”
The room suddenly feels colder. “I will always need you,” I say, wanting to sound earnest, but it comes out a little angry. How could she think that? Does Other Ruby ignore her? Or take her for granted?
“Sweetheart, I’m not dropping off the face of the earth,” she says. “But I’ve decided to rent an RV next summer and drive out west for a month. I want to see some of the national parks and monuments in Arizona and New Mexico. I want to look for a new place to live.”
“You’re leaving?”
The word “crossroads” rings on—a choice, a splitting of paths. She’s about to make a break for it, from the old road. She’s looking for a better version of reality. Just like I am.
“Not for a year or two, but yes. I’m craving a fresh beginning,” she says. “I don’t think anyone can blame me for that. Besides, what am I going to do after you kids are gone? End up a regular at karaoke night? Because I can honestly see that happening.”
I imagine Mom with a microphone in her hand, standing on a beer-sticky stage, with tanked, balding guys leering at her. Ugh. No way. That’s not what I want for her.
“But if you and Dad were still in love, you wouldn’t be leaving, right?”
“Of course not,” Mom says. “Everything would be different.”
Exactly.
“That pain pill’s kicking in,” I say. “I’m fading.”
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Mom says. “We’ll get this worked out. We’ll get the old Ruby back.” She cups my chin in her hand. “My happy-go-lucky, pretty, smiling Ruby. You’ll be okay.”
Happy-go-lucky. I’ve never thought of myself that way. Is that how people see me? Or is the Ruby who’s normally here that much different than I am? Is she pretty and smiling because Mom didn’t die when she was four? Or because she has Patrick dutifully looking out for her?
Mom hands me a down-filled pillow and a fluffy comforter.
“Thanks. Good night,” I say through a tremendous yawn.
Mom kisses my forehead, and I relish the feel of her skin against mine. “Good night, my little girl.” She stands and turns to leave the room.
“Mom? Can you see any stars tonight?”
She walks across the room and parts the curtains. She shakes her head. “Total cloud cover. They’re forecasting another storm.”
Not a second later, a crisp crack of thunder shakes the dishes in the kitchen cabinets. I suddenly remember something else from Ó Direáin’s plaque. He was killed while experimenting with electricity and lightning.
“I hope that doesn’t keep you up,” Mom says. She pulls the curtains closed and clicks off the lamp. A night-light dimly illuminates the room, making Mom look otherworldly.
“Do you think you could crack that code in my notebook, Mom?”
Mom shrugs. “Probably. Is it a simple cipher? Some of Ó Direáin’s codes were much more complex. But don’t get any smart ideas, because I’m not doing your homework for you.”
What’s a simple cipher? “I don’t know where to start.”
“Mr. McBride probably gave you one of the less impossible passages. So if it’s an alphabetic shift, you can crack it by process of elimination. That could take a long time, though. It’s a lot easier if you have the key. D is for ‘decryption.’”
“The key,” I say, suddenly feeling unable to focus or hold a thought. Sleep is settling in like a fast and thick fog.
“Dors bien, ma douce,” she says.
“No more French,” I mumble. “I can’t understand it.”
“Sleep well, my sweet.” Mom’s lips brush my forehead again.
I close my eyes and imagine a clear, starry night. There’s Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, and Rigel: the three brightest stars in the Orion constellation. They ground me, make me feel like there’s something reliable and constant in the universe. They’re impossible to miss, no telescope required. You just need to stop what you’re doing and look up.
Chapter Eleven
“Ruby, sweetheart. Wake up.”
I groan.
“It’s after seven,” Mom says. “Are you moaning because you’re sleepy, or because you’re in pain?”
I blink the dryness out of my eyes and look at Mom. Mom! I touch her arm: proof that she’s alive, that all of this—the denim couch, the sunlight streaming through the window, the multiverse—is real.
“How’s your leg?” She lifts the comforter to look underneath, but Other Ruby’s baggy pajama bottoms hide the truth. I pull away before she can get a better look.
“Super.” I smile to convince her.
“Here’s the plan,” she says. “You’re coming with me to school, where you’ll stay in the nurse’s office. I need to give a calculus test first period and attend a staff meeting second period. Then I’ll take you to the hospital for an X-ray.”
Problem: I already have a plan, and it doesn’t involve going to school or the hospital. “Why don’t I stay here?”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” She pats my hand.
“Isn’t it Sunday?” I ask. “Why is there school?”
Mom’s face turns serious. “What do you mean?”
I’ve said something stupid. There’s something I should know about school and Sundays. “Never mind.”
She searches my face, and my stomach sinks. At any moment she’s going to realize I’m not the right Ruby. I concoct a chipper grin and change the subject. “Are you making breakfast?” The smell of bacon fills the apartment.
Mom nods. “One or two pieces of rye toast?”
“Three. With lots of butter.”
I follow her to the kitchen, limping a little. She flips the bacon over in a skillet on the stove and slides the bread into the toaster.
While Mom’s busy cooking, I use the bathroom, clean my glasses, splash cold water on my puffy face, and gargle mouthwash. Other Ruby’s pink pajamas go into the dirty laundry basket, triple-antibiotic
cream and a fresh bandage go onto my wound. There’s something filmy that looks like pus around the raw, red edges. No sign of a scab forming, but maybe it’s too soon for that. Does it matter? I mean, taking a week off to stay here and recover is out of the question. I put on my clean clothes and rejoin Mom in the kitchen.
She hands me a glass of orange juice and my prescription medicine. “Down the hatch.”
We eat quickly and in silence. I can feel Mom’s concern lingering in the air between us. Even though she’s not voicing them, I can hear all her questions. She pushes her empty plate away and bites her lower lip, which gives me serious déjá vu. Has she always done that when she’s worried? Do I remember that gesture from when I was four years old? Yes. I’m sure of it. Dad rubs his temples, Mom bites her lower lip.
The wall clock—a red rooster with a round belly—squawks, “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” letting us know that it’s seven thirty.
“We need to get going.” Mom clears the table, gathers her briefcase and purse. I push my chair back and set my empty juice glass in the sink. It’s perfect, actually. Mom’s giving me a ride to school—and essentially the tree—because I only have a short hike once we’re on school grounds.
I slip the vial of medicine into my pocket while Mom pauses at a small mirror next to the door. She twists a tube of lipstick and glides the color over her lips. I’m having trouble watching. Her breath fogs the glass. She breathes, she lives. Leaving this version of Mom behind would feel like a colossal mistake if I weren’t confident about saying hello again soon in another universe. Where everything will be flawless and complete, like a balanced chemistry equation.
“Ruby?” She’s waiting for me to snap out of my thoughts. “You ready?”
“Sorry. Let me get my backpack,” I say. I’m dreading the idea of lugging it around with me. All those books, my notebook, the code …
Suddenly I make a mental connection I should have made last night. But I’d been too exhausted, my mind too cluttered.
Ó Direáin’s journal!
A vibrating noise startles us, and Mom grabs her cell phone. “It’s a text message from Patrick,” she says, stepping out into the hallway. “He wants to know how you’re doing.”
She starts typing a response.
“Just give me a second,” I say, ducking back inside and into the bathroom. I close the door and pull the shower curtain and find what I want—the bottle of grape shampoo. I dry it off and tuck it into my backpack. If I can’t take Mom with me, it’s better than nothing.
Then I slip into her bedroom and visually search her nightstand. The big brown book I assumed was the Bible is there, and now I know it has to be Ó Direáin’s journal. Mom said she loves to read it at night before falling asleep.
I flip it open and read:
Ó Direáin, an eccentric genius, spent hours at the end of each day encrypting his scientific journal to protect his ideas. At least forty pages of code continue to elude even the best cryptologists’ efforts.
My heartbeat accelerates. This is major.
I shove the book into my backpack, making it a few pounds heavier. I have to strain to zipper it shut. For a moment, I consider ditching one of the string theory books, but I’m not ready to let my science go. Mom is tucking her phone into her back pocket when I rejoin her in the hallway. She locks the apartment door behind us and slips her hand into mine. “Okay?”
“Yep,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I’m jealous. I think of Ennis High and its narrow hallways, its buzzing and yellowed fluorescent lights, and the pitted football field. To go to Ó Direáin High every day instead? A dream. I run my hand along the massive stones as I enter the front doors. It’s a castle.
Mom guides me into the main office and explains the situation to the secretary, who keeps sneaking glances at me, trying not to stare. Then Mom takes me by the arm and leads me into a room with a leather couch, an exam table, a sink, cabinets, and a TV.
“You probably should keep your leg elevated,” she says, steering me toward the couch. She hands me the remote. “I’ll see you in less than two hours, okay?”
It hits me that the time has come to say good-bye, because a few minutes after she leaves the room, I’m taking off.
“Mom?”
“The nurse will be in later to check on you,” she says.
“But Mom,” I say, grabbing her arm, feeling that same disorienting vertigo I felt yesterday when I first laid eyes on her. As if the Earth is reversing its rotation, the ground shifting beneath us.
I pull her onto the couch next to me.
“What is it?” She takes my face in her hands, searching.
“I—” I choke on a sudden heaving in my chest and concentrate on not crying. “I—”
“Is it your leg?”
“No, not at all.”
We sit in silence, and I start to fidget. Will these be the last words we say to each other? What was the last thing she said to me that day eleven years ago before she left for work, for her accident on the interstate? Be careful on the monkey bars. Don’t suck your thumb. Have a great day.
“What did you pack for me? For lunch when I was four years old?”
Mom bites her lower lip. “In Pre-K? Why?”
“Just wishing I could remember.” I try to visualize opening a brown paper bag and finding a peanut butter sandwich, chips, an apple, and a note in my mother’s handwriting.
“I don’t remember what I put in your lunch, but I do remember what you took for show-and-tell.” A mischievous grin spreads across her face. “You had to bring something every Monday, for the letter of the week.”
“Like C is for ‘cat’? I took my favorite stuffed animal?”
Mom shakes her head. “For C we took a live cockroach in a jar.”
“Really?” I grin. “I bet that went over big. Whose idea was that?”
“Both of ours. We used to make lists of ideas. For P you took the potty from your dollhouse, which sent the entire class into giggles that your teacher couldn’t contain for fifteen minutes. By the time we got to W, we were in big trouble. Whoopee cushion.”
“I love that,” I whisper. I feel like I’ve been given a few pieces of an incomplete puzzle, one that I’d given up on a long time ago because I’d lost the box top and didn’t even know what picture it was supposed to make.
She pulls my face to hers so we’re touching foreheads. “I love you.” She glances at her watch, pops to her feet, and forces a smile. “I’ll check on you between classes.”
Just like that she’s out the door. The room buzzes, the lights seem to flicker. She’s gone. I force myself to count to sixty, to take ten deep breaths—H is for “heartache”—and then I’m gone too.
The secretary’s back is turned; she’s busy dealing with two guys arguing about who hit whose car in the parking lot. So I sneak out of the office unnoticed.
The hallway is crowded with students, and I’m going the wrong way, a fish swimming upstream. Finally, I make it to the front door and squeeze my way through, muttering apologies as I go.
Just outside the door a girl thrusts her chin at me. “Check out Ruby Wright,” she says.
Another girl claps me on the back. “Your hair rocks. I wish I had the balls to do that.”
“Um. Thanks.”
I scan the crowd, looking for George, when I catch Patrick’s stare from across the throng. He elbows his way toward me, wearing a purple-and-gold football jersey, and I get the feeling that I’ve become the end zone he’s determined to reach. Cut left, roll right. There’s no way to dodge him. “Ruby,” he says, reaching across three people to grab my arm. Touchdown!
“Hey, big brother,” I say. More like Big Brother, because he seems to be everywhere, watching my every move.
“Here. I found this on the Internet last night.”
He hands me a piece of paper. It’s an article entitled “Long-Forgotten Head Injuries Linked to Mental Oddities and Illnesses.”
I roll my eyes.
&
nbsp; “Seriously!” Patrick says. “Remember that time you fell out of that tree and cracked your head and broke your collarbone?”
“Yeah?” No. I climbed a lot of trees, but I never fell. I guess the Ruby in this universe didn’t have the same luck.
“Old head injuries can cause weird things to happen in the brain. Your personality and memory can be affected. Depression, stuff like that. There’s one lady who started talking with a Swedish accent twenty years after she fractured her skull.”
Patrick’s overbearing worry is annoying to the tenth power, but it’s oddly endearing at the same time. No one’s ever treated me like this before. “Why do you care so much?” I ask.
“Are you kidding?” He pulls me into a headlock and gives me a gentle noogie. “Remind me to buy you some Rogaine.”
I wrap my arms around his waist and press my head to his chest. For a moment, I feel a rush of love. But then my heart suddenly turns cold when I think of the injustices I’ve endured. Robbed of both a brother and a mother in Universe One. Why did the roads have to fork in those directions? It’s too much tragedy for one person. It’s not fair. No way I’m going back to that place.
Just then a burly guy wearing a football jersey punches Patrick’s arm. “Dude,” he says, casting me an up-and-down look. “Got a minute?” A girl in a cheerleading uniform trails behind him. She stares longingly at Patrick. I wonder if she practices that look in the mirror.
I try to hand the Internet article back to Patrick, but he pushes it toward me. “Read it,” he says. “Please.” Then he walks off with Mr. Muscles and Ms. Vixen.
Good-bye, Patrick. I watch him until he’s absorbed by the crowd.
When I turn back toward the parking lot, I’m worried that I’ve missed George, but there he is. He must have been waiting patiently for me to finish my conversation with Patrick.
“You okay?” he asks. “You’re heading the wrong direction, you know. The school’s that way.”
“I—uh,” I fumble. “I forgot something in my mom’s car.”
“That guy you were hugging …” He frowns, and I can see where he’s going with his train of thought.
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