It all fits! The travel tunnel, encased in an everyday object. That would be the oak. The runic alphabet might explain the symbols on the floor of the tree, around the metal ring. And attempting various combinations means so much, on so many levels. Whether attempting various math formulae, or chemical compounds, or codes. It’s all about rearranging letters, numbers, and ideas, until you get it just right.
It’s all about trying various parallel worlds, until you find the right one. The perfect world.
Instead of hand-copying Ó Direáin’s biography into my notebook, I snap a few digital photos of it. The graveyard fence runs just behind the Ó Direáin mausoleum, and there’s another gate, half-open. Now I can see the spire of the stone high school in the distance. Nice to spot a familiar landmark, even if it’s at least half a mile from its usual location. If Ó Direáin High School exists in this universe, then beyond that might be a neighborhood. And—maybe—in that neighborhood there’s a house where Mom lives.
I trip over a low tombstone, and a stabbing pain hits me so deeply I actually groan. I need medical help. I need another night’s rest on Mom’s denim couch. Maybe I’ll happen upon a walk-in clinic and make a pit stop. If they could just drain the wound, that might do the trick.
I head toward the school, my backpack bouncing against my spine, my prescription pills rattling in their orange vial. A water fountain in the shape of a shamrock hugs the side of the stone building; its organic shape blends with the manicured hedges. Take one pill every four hours. Breakfast at Mom’s was about that, give or take. I pop one pain pill, then another for good measure, and gulp down water.
A crack of thunder. Lightning darts horizontally through cloud-bottoms. Instinctually, I crouch down, shielding my head. “Major voltage,” I whisper, eyeing the sky. Pillars of vertical clouds line the horizon like chemistry beakers on a shelf, dark and roiling.
Even though it can’t be noon yet, it feels like dusk. Across the street, a field of corn bends with the wind. It’s a collective reaction, like a flock of birds suddenly shifting, averting. I shiver and dig into my backpack to find Mom’s sweater, the one I swiped from her apartment bedroom. It feels good, and smells right.
My injured leg is getting stiffer by the minute. I have to swing it out alongside me as I hurry in the direction of Corrán Tuathail Avenue, toward the squat brick house, the place where our fractured family lives. But the scene will be different in this universe. I’ll peer in the windows and find Mom and Dad sitting together at the kitchen table, playing cards, sipping hot chocolate. There will be no sign of Kandy or Willow. The dogs will be sleeping, curled up on their beds. Patrick might be there too. And later on I’ll get a call from George, who’s been hanging out at Sweet Treats or Shanghai, waiting for me. I’ll apologize for being late.
The asphalt road gives way to cobblestone, and I know I’m not going to find the brick house. Not here. There’s been a variation, a fork in the road of space-time. In this universe, this section of town was built at a different time, by people with a different vision. The houses are straight out of a fairy tale—green with purple trim, blue with pink trim, topped with gabled roofs and ornate cornices. They practically look edible; if only they had licorice shutters and gumdrop chimneys.
My heart leaps with hope. Different is good. This could be the place.
The sidewalk winds through towering oaks, not quite as big as the portal tree. Roots have sent fracture lines through the sidewalk, producing piles of chipped stones, sections entirely popped out of place.
Ahead, I see a wheelbarrow tipped on its side, overflowing with white impatiens.
Mom! Home!
I stand at the cusp of the slate walkway, fighting back the urge to march through the front door and into Mom’s arms. The house is yellow with white trim, subtle shades compared to the rest of the neighborhood. I follow the walkway through a thick patch of ivy, which has been trimmed to the edge of each stepping stone. A plump robin flits into an overfilled bird bath, then darts into the trees. Potted geraniums line the porch’s three steps. A porch swing rocks, pushed by the wind. There is no doorbell, so I knock. I can’t see into the house through the door’s stained-glass window, but I see a shadow, a shape, moving toward the door.
A lock clicks, the door swings open, and there’s Mom. My hands go to my head, as if pressing my skull will help me from blowing a circuit, from totally losing it. “Hi” is all I can manage. I want to kiss those cheekbones, press my nose against her neck and inhale. That grape smell.
“Can I help you?” Mom’s face is friendly but blank. “Are you selling something?” She looks me up and down, shifts uncomfortably.
She doesn’t recognize me. “No, I’m here to—” I can’t finish the sentence.
Suddenly her face softens. “You must be here to see Ruby.” She turns and calls over her shoulder. “Ruby! Someone from your class.”
I start to protest, but Mom takes my arm and leads me in. “I noticed the backpack. Do you have an English study group?” she asks.
The living room is decorated like Mom’s apartment. Denim couches, Americana artwork. A redheaded girl pops up from the couch. “Hello,” she says, cocking her head at me. Freckles dot her cheeks like constellations. “Do I know you?”
They’re both staring at me, waiting for me to say something. My face burns, my entire body feels hot. I think of my leg and infection and fever. “I’m, well, I’m just new here, and I, uh …”
Ruby claps her hands. “You moved into the salmon house at the end of the street. I saw the vans yesterday.”
Mom holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
I shake her hand, holding on too long. I don’t want to let go of those fingers, that soft skin. My eyes drift to the living room and the fireplace mantel. Above it hangs an enormous family photo. Mom’s arm is wrapped around the waist of a man I’ve never seen before. He’s got red hair, and a red beard. Sitting on the floor in front of them is this redheaded girl named Ruby. They’re wearing khakis and white shirts. I’m not in the picture.
“I’m Sally.” Mom presses her hand to her heart. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Ruby too.”
“Really? What a coincidence. Our Ruby was named after her great-grandmother. What about you?”
“Look,” I say, stepping backward. “I’m not … I should get going.”
“But what about your study group?”
“There’s no study group today,” Ruby says.
“Well, it’s about to rain,” Mom says. “There’s lightning. You should stay and have some hot chocolate. We’re ordering pizza for lunch.”
“Yuck, Mom,” Ruby says. “Hot chocolate with pizza?”
I stare at redheaded Ruby, then Mom. “You’ve got the same eyes,” I say vacantly. “Blue with flecks of amber.”
An awkward silence hangs over us.
“Do you mind if I take your photo?” I ask, digging for my digital camera. Why didn’t I take some photos of Mom in Universe Four? I can picture her at the kitchen table, eating her Hawaiian pizza. I can see her in her pajamas, covering me for the night.
When I look up, I see that Ruby’s face is twisted into a wince.
“You’d better hurry home before the storm hits.” Her voice is loud and authoritative; she’s taking charge of a situation gone awry. “You’ll be fine if you leave now.” She returns to the couch and picks up a book, glancing at me sideways.
Alternate Ruby. In a sense, she’s my half sister. Mom’s DNA, but not Dad’s.
“At least you can take this.” Mom hands me an umbrella. “You don’t want to get that nice sweater wet. You know, I have one just like it. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“Who would believe it?” My voice quivers.
Mom holds the door open for me, and I can’t take my eyes off her. What if she’s not in any of the other worlds? What if this is the layout of the remaining universes—Mom with the redheaded husband—and the parallel worlds that inclu
de Dad and me are few and far between?
“You look so familiar to me,” she says. “I can’t put my finger on it, but you remind me of someone.”
Oh, Mom. My eyes are blue with flecks of amber too.
“I’ve got that kind of face.” I turn and hobble down the porch steps, eager to get away before the tears spill down my cheeks.
The sky is a sickly shade of green. A bruised color. I look over my shoulder and see Mom standing in the window, her fingertips pressed against the glass. She raises a hand and waves.
Bye, Mom. Again.
I press my nose into the crook of my elbow and inhale, trying to find the smell of hope. Mom’s sweater is her apartment, her perfume, her laundry detergent, her sweat, her grape shampoo. But it’s not her.
When I look back at the window again to blow her a kiss, she’s gone. The curtain’s still swaying.
Above, clouds promise to unleash gallons of rain. It’s time to motor. I watch my feet, dodging the tree roots and upended chunks of sidewalk. That’s all I need. Another injury.
“Watch it!” A girl pushing a stroller nearly flattens me.
“Sorry.” I barely glance up, but from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the manicured nails, the shiny purse shoved into the stroller basket, the lip liner, the impractical heels. It’s Kandy. Kandinsky.
“I go by Jennifer now. Do I know you?”
Great. I didn’t realize I said her name out loud.
The little girl in the stroller pops a strawberry into her mouth, pink juice sliding down her chin. She points a finger at me. “Who that?”
“I don’t know, bug,” Kandy says.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to maneuver around them.
“But you know my name,” Kandy says.
“Just from school,” I say. “You’re a senior, I’m a sophomore.” It’s the only true statement that comes to mind. You’re my psycho stepsister in alternate realities doesn’t seem to be the appropriate response here.
Kandy shakes her head. She ruffles the toddler’s hair. “I dropped out of school three years ago. You’ve probably seen me waiting tables at Shanghai.”
“She’s … yours?”
As soon as I ask, I realize the absurdity of the question. The little girl’s got the same almond-shaped eyes, the same fine hair.
“Mommy! Go!” The girl leans forward and rocks.
“Stop it, Maddy,” Kandy says. “You’re splashing my soda everywhere, bug.”
Maddy. Maddy. Maddy from the journal? Wait. So what happened back in Universe One, in Ennis? Why is there a Maddy here but not there? Was Maddy a miscarriage, an abortion, a stillbirth? Is that why Kandy’s so bitter?
“Hurry up, you two!” A man’s voice comes from a nearby porch. “I don’t want to lose my wife and kid to a lightning strike. Get inside!”
Kandy presses her eyebrows together with concern. “You’d better get going too. Are you close to home?”
“Not exactly.”
The man on the purple porch is a good ten years older than Kandy, maybe more. He’s holding a sippy cup.
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Kandy asks. “You’re limping, and you’ve got that huge backpack.”
“Nah.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” she says.
“Ruby Wright.”
Not a single flicker of recognition crosses her face. She pushes the stroller toward the house but seems reluctant to leave me out in the weather. She eyes the sky, the black clouds that flicker, backlit by pulses of lightning.
I hold up my umbrella and smile. “I’m fine.”
Chapter Sixteen
Orientation at Ennis High with Mr. Burton—the tour of the antiseptic-smelling cafeteria, the pockmarked football field that reminded me of Hyperion—was Thursday afternoon. Now it’s Sunday, which means it’s been three days since I first walked through the cornfield to the tree, and found it humming, motor on.
That’s all? It seems like a year has passed! Einstein was right. Time is relative. And I’m supposed to be starting school tomorrow, at 7:15 a.m. at Ennis High. Yeah, don’t think so.
My stomach makes a gurgling, eruptive noise. It’s in knots—with worry, with emptiness. Where will I sleep tonight? Is my leg hopelessly infected? When will I eat again? The bacon and toast I downed at Mom’s apartment this morning, back in Universe Four, are long digested. But I can’t seem to digest the dynamics of Universe Six. Mom and Dad never met? Does Dad exist here at all? Is he a chef in California? Or maybe he was the one who died? I stop walking and watch the trees move in the wind. Their branches bouncing up and down, leafy hands waving. Good-bye, good-bye.
I don’t exist here.
I need to get back to the tree.
Redheaded Ruby’s take-charge voice echoes through me: You’d better hurry home. Home? I don’t even know what that word means anymore.
I limp along the sidewalk. The gingerbread houses look less colorful by the minute. The roiling sky casts a muddy, greenish film across everything, making the houses seem menacing, haunted. Inside, lights flicker, then go off. A buzzing noise permeates the air, and the air sizzles with electrical energy.
A blinding lightning flash. Instinctively I duck, throwing my arms over my head. Bam! Thunder, packing powerful acoustic waves. Yeah, it’s too close, which means I need to get somewhere safe. This universe has me disoriented, with the cemetery and these Victorian houses that seem to go on and on. Did I walk in a circle? Why didn’t I draw myself a map?
The rain comes. In buckets.
The sidewalk curves around the roots of an enormous oak, and I find myself looking for a door in it, even though I know it’s not my tree. Where is the high school?
Suddenly I remember Mom’s GPS device, and I fish it out of my backpack. Did I mark my coordinates for this universe? I can’t remember. I was so paranoid about getting attacked by a Native American when I first arrived, I wasn’t thinking straight. Then I took two pain pills. Or did I take three?
Low battery. I shake the GPS. “Come on,” I tell it, but the screen goes dark. I take the batteries out, then put them back in. Nothing.
Rain streams off the tip of my nose. Mom’s sweater clings to me, soaked. My core body temp seems to have suddenly plummeted, and I’m shivering, teeth chattering. Dark sky and driving rain make it impossible to see. Zero visibility.
I should find a garage and huddle under the awning until this blows over. A porch would be better. Kandy wouldn’t mind. I turn back. Her house was purple, right? I wipe rain from my glasses, but it’s like someone’s holding a garden hose over my head. I take my glasses off and squint. A brick driveway. It must lead to a house, though I can’t make it out through the haze of my myopic vision.
Crack!
My knees tear across the ground, shredding my jeans, the skin underneath. I’m thrown face-first onto the driveway. My glasses crunch against bricks. A tree is on fire. A smoldering odor.
My body is heavy, uncooperative. I pull myself to my feet, stumble, limp, fall. Up again. Stumble. Kandy must’ve hit me. Evil Kandy from home, not the nicer one I just met. She followed me through the tree, she’s been stalking me from universe to universe, and now she clobbered me with an aluminum baseball bat. I look around, shield my head against another blow, but there’s no one. Just me, and the rain.
What’s that smell? That burning smell?
I walk for minutes, maybe hours.
A sign for Arainn Street, then an amazing castle with gargoyles, towers, stained-glass windows. Thick wooden doors, quarried stone floor. Not a castle. This must be the library.
Cold, cold air. I wring my shirt out in a sink. I drink from a faucet. Water, more water. I grip a cold iron handrail, climbing upstairs. I’ll live here. I remember thinking this was heaven, the science section. Yes, I’m in heaven. This can be home.
Science books. Books for pillows. Pillows for sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
I’m dreaming of Dad, kneeling on the ground, his je
ans streaked with dirt. “That’s some tomato,” he says, pride in his voice. He places his hand gently underneath it, ready to twist it off the vine.
“Don’t!” I say, pulling his arm back. “We need to take photos first. It’s part of the assignment.” I’m in seventh grade, making a report for science class.
Then loud voices interrupt. Doctors and nurses are talking over me, like I’m not here. They speak in disconnected words: She mumbles nonsense … picking tomatoes … her California ID … called the social worker … Ruby is a runaway … name is Ruby … fifteen years old … tattoo … some cult thing … did she say Mom?
I push their voices away and keep dreaming. “Hurry up with the photos,” Dad teases, pretending to take a huge, noisy bite of the tomato. “I’m ready to eat your science project.”
The light is perfect. California sunshine, cloudless skies. I take closeups and wide-angle photos of the entire garden. There are five little green tomatoes, sprouting, plus the huge red one. “Take some photos of me,” I say, handing Dad the camera.
“Squat down next to it,” Dad says, snapping several shots. “So you’re on the same level.”
The doctors interrupt again. It’s a good sign she’s mumbling … if she wakes up … neurological damage, post-traumatic amnesia, aphasia …
Dad hands the camera back to me. I scroll through the photos, deleting several and keeping ten good ones. “That should do it.” I grin.
Dad doesn’t hesitate. He plucks the ripe tomato off the vine. “Remember when you made volcanoes with vinegar and baking soda in fifth grade?” he asks.
“Third grade.”
“Well, this is a hundred times better. Remind me to thank your teacher.”
Entry point chest, exit point right foot … burned hair … minimal second-degree burns …
We wash our hands in the kitchen sink, and then Dad slices the tomato into thick pieces. “I like mine with salt,” he says. “Just salt, nothing else.”
Relativity Page 16