“Okay,” I agree.
We bite into the salty-sweet tomato, rosy-red and perfect.
Blood work, electrolytes, and glucose … CAT scan … infected leg injury … IV course of antibiotics … heart and brain … fresh coffee … want some?
“We got it made, kiddo,” Dad says, ruffling my hair. “Don’t we?”
“No doubt.”
Chapter Eighteen
A steady beeping reaches through my sleep, pulls me awake. Why did I set my alarm clock? Where’s the snooze button? No, no. It’s not an alarm—it’s Dad’s cell phone ringing. I was finally able to get a call through to him. Good. I need to hear his voice.
No. It’s that digital monitor—that’s what’s beeping. An IV is taped to the back of my left forearm; on my right index finger is a big white clip. I’m in a hospital room. Kandy must’ve slit my throat or pushed me in front of a moving car.
My mouth is sticky and dry. “Ice cube?”
I don’t think anyone’s in the room to hear me.
“Could I get some Gatorade?” I try louder. “I mean, TriAthlete?”
I stare at the ceiling, hoping to gather my thoughts. Then it comes to me—quite literally—in a flash. I remember the storm, and the lightning bolt. I can see it leaping off the speed limit sign, bouncing off a tree, then slamming me in the chest. Not a bullet to the chest fired by Kandy, but an electrical power punch courtesy of Mother Nature.
I want to sit up. Where are the controls for the bed? I pat around in the crisp, thin sheets. Where are my glasses? The wall clock is a fuzzy circle, dotted with red shapes that must be numbers.
Give yourself a minute, Ruby. Don’t make yourself lightheaded.
Even though I can’t see it, I mentally watch the second hand sweep around, making a 360-degree turn. Carefully, I pivot and sit on the edge of the bed. I pull my shoulders back, straighten my spine.
Slow down. Count to thirty.
I squint at the clock, but the second hand remains invisible to me. I know it’s there, making another lap. I don’t need to see it in order to know it exists. Ultraviolet light is invisible; gamma rays are invisible; electrons, neutrons, and protons are too small to see. Quarks are even smaller.
Now I put my feet on the floor, my gray hospital socks with rubber treads. I cannot put weight on my right leg. Or on my right foot. The whole thing feels dead. Why doesn’t it hurt more? I know I’m on pain medication; I remember the orange vial. I remember Mom and her apartment. I remember my last trip to the ER, and now I remember Dr. Leonard with his ash-white beard and young face. Did they give me more pain medication here, just now? Maybe I’ve had too much, or maybe it’s nerve damage, and that’s why I can’t feel my leg anymore.
I’m going to have to hop.
On a vinyl chair next to the bed, there are clear plastic bags. One contains my damp, burned-smelling clothes. The other holds my backpack. Carefully, I wheel the IV stand, and though the tubes are straining, I can reach my backpack. I root through until I find the spare clothes I packed two days ago. Three days? Four? I’m not sure. How long have I been in this hospital room? The shirt is damp, and the jeans smell like a campfire.
And then I find my glasses. What’s left of them. One lens is crushed beyond repair, so I pop it out. The frames sit crookedly on my nose, but through the remaining lens I can see the beeping digital screen where blue, purple, and green lines chart my vitals. My blood pressure is 150 over 60, and I can’t remember if that’s good or bad. I look at the clock again. It’s eight and getting dark outside, so that means p.m. Below the clock is a dry erase board. In blue ink it says TODAY IS SUNDAY, AUGUST 23.
Can I climb out the window? What floor am I on?
I have a hunch about these EKG leads that are taped to my chest. If I pull them off, an alarm will sound, and a nurse will come. But I’m pretty sure I can pull out the IV without anyone knowing, and then I can get my jeans on, and my shoes. Carefully, I pull the tape away, then slide the thin plastic tubing out. It stings.
It’s not easy with the big clip on my finger—I think it’s for measuring my blood-oxygen—but I manage to get my jeans on without passing out or throwing up, steadying myself on the bed. Bending over to put on my socks gives me a massive head rush.
N2 and O2 in, carbon dioxide out. Breathe, Ruby.
A nurse walks past my open door but doesn’t enter. The IV left a little, achy hole in my arm that’s leaking fluid and blood. I press the bedsheet hard against it, waiting for it to stop.
Now I’m able to wiggle my feet into my wet shoes, which truly need to be thrown away. I can put a finger clean through my right shoe. Where did that melted-looking hole come from, anyway? Did someone sink a giant cigarette through my shoe? Did the lightning do that? Yeah, of course. It must’ve been the lightning.
I dump out the remaining contents of my backpack. The two science books are soaked, so I throw them in the trash. They were heavy anyway, adding most of the weight to my load. I guess Ruby in Universe Four is going to have more late fees at the library.
The eight-by-ten photo is wrinkled, but otherwise unscathed, and so is my little snapshot of Mom and me when I was a toddler; they were protected by my change of clothes. I keep Mom’s sweater, the grape shampoo, Ó Direáin’s journal, and the gardening gloves. The flashlight still works, but my digital camera won’t turn on. I toss it into my backpack anyway; it might just be the battery. My postcard from George is warped, but I can probably revitalize it with a clothes iron. The LEGO shuttle is in pieces, but I have George’s diagram to rebuild it later.
What seems to have taken the brunt of the water damage is my notebook. The ink has bled, and it’s all but unreadable. My chart of the universes, the codes, the runic line symbols, a few notes about Padraig Ó Direáin. Everything smudged into a blur. With a sigh, I throw the notebook into the trash. The umbrella is gone. I probably dropped it when I got struck. The copied pages from the library—the Ó Direáin street map and Mom’s address from the phone book—are missing too. So is my wallet, my prescription pain pills, the Internet article Patrick gave me, and Mom’s GPS. Maybe the hospital kept them, trying to figure out who I am and where I belong.
Good luck with that.
Ready, set, go! I yank the three EKG leads off my skin. Ow! The whine of the alarm startles me, but it’s the rip of skin that makes me shriek. I pull on my shirt, grab my backpack, and hop.
At first I think it’s because of me. All the commotion. Someone yells, “The trauma is here!” A nurse smacks a button on the wall and giant glass doors part. An ambulance beeps as it backs up to the opening bay. The smell of exhaust fills the hallway. Dr. Leonard and another nurse rush past me like I’m invisible.
The rear doors of the ambulance open with a metallic moan, and a paramedic wheels a stretcher out. As soon as he makes eye contact with Dr. Leonard, he starts talking. “Car accident. The patient is approximately forty years old. Female, unconscious when we arrived.” He rattles off her blood pressure, other vitals.
The ambulance driver joins the other paramedic. “She hit a deer,” he adds.
Right now, all I’m interested in is the wide-open ambulance bay. The perfect escape route. While everyone hovers over the accident victim, I inch toward the door. But as I ease past, the shocked expression on Dr. Leonard’s face makes me pause.
“Windshield wiper,” a nurse says, trying not to sound alarmed, but she is. She snaps latex gloves onto her hands.
Windshield wiper?
My ears fill with a pounding that comes from within. Blood rushes. My heart pumps too much, too fast.
Before I even know what to think or do, I’m pressing my way through the paramedics.
“Mom!” An oxygen mask is strapped across her face, bolsters surround her head, EKG leads connect to a monitor, an IV feeds her saline while blood drizzles out of her neck. “You can’t let her die!”
“What are you doing out here?” Dr. Leonard locks eyes with me. “Get back in your room.” He sounds like an i
mpatient parent scolding a three-year-old.
Mom’s shirt is splattered with red, her pale forehead streaked with it. I want to yank the windshield wiper from her neck, but it would surely cause a flood of bleeding. Like taking the cork off a foaming, angry chemistry vial.
I lunge at Dr. Leonard, grabbing his scrubs, knowing I’ve got fistfuls of his chest hair underneath. “Save her!”
“Security!” He pushes me away and barks at a nurse. “Get her out of here!”
I watch Mom’s chest, hoping to see it rise and fall. But it’s still. She’s dying. They wheel her down the hallway into a room labeled TRAUMA. “You have to think of something!” My words are full of spit and tears. No one pays attention.
Parallel universes are quasi-similar. There’s a repeating pattern, with almost identical subpatterns. What happens in one universe, might, could, or will happen in another.
“She has kids!” I call after them.
Patrick.
What if Mom in Universe Two or Four is dying right now as well? Patrick would be leveled. Now I wish I’d explained everything to him. Maybe he would’ve believed me, would have made it his mission to keep Mom safe. Mr. Overprotective would’ve been the perfect bodyguard.
Dazed, I grab a set of abandoned crutches and walk straight out into the parking lot. I’m propelled by sheer adrenaline. I tuck the crutches under my armpits and thrust myself forward.
I hear someone yelling behind me, “Hey kid! Get back here! You can’t leave!” Then I hear her yell at someone else, “The patient from room one has fled!”
In the distance, a bolt of lightning connects with the top of a building—the central spire on the high school. For a moment, the glow illuminates the entire sky, which gives me a chance to orient myself. With each flash, the dark clouds turn luminous, and I adjust my direction, keeping my bearings straight. I feel dizzy and nauseated. Hospital drugs, one-eyed glasses, lightning holes in my body.
Mom. Dying. Again.
Should I turn back, hold her hand until her heart goes silent?
Another crooked finger of lightning touches the school’s spire. Sparks leap off the slate roof like a meteor shower. Ahead, a fence that appears to be black wrought iron blocks my way. Though everything looks dark in this drizzly dusk. Another lightning strike, and I can see tombstones slick with rain. I’m at the rear gate of the cemetery, not far from Ó Direáin’s mausoleum. Navigating with dwindling sunlight and on crutches means I keep tripping over roots and gravestones. I squint, looking for the giant tree, hoping its purple glow will provide a beacon.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I chant, waiting for another vein of lightning to give me a chance at reorienting myself.
Finally, a flash. And there’s a shape. A towering, massive presence that can only be the portal tree. I hurry toward it and the refuge it offers, even though I know it could easily be a target for the lightning too. Somehow it seems invincible in its size and power. The moment I’m under its canopy, I feel relief. Its massive limbs and thousands of leaves shield me from the rain. Instantly I feel warmer.
“I’m back,” I tell the oak, pressing my face against the weather-worn door, the etched and twisted lines—grid patterns depicting the fabric of space.
My fingertips connect with the metal doorknob, but I hardly care about the static shock. The door swings open and a deafening noise spills from the tree. The flapping of wings, dark bodies swooping and darting. Bats! Hundreds of them pour out of the doorway, sending me to the ground. I can feel them all around me, landing on me, hissing, making an insectlike chirping sound.
“Go away,” I moan, waiting until the tree is empty of them.
Finally, when all I can hear is my own hard breathing, and after my hands stop shaking, I convince myself that it’s safe to continue on.
Chapter Nineteen
The portal door opens, and the smell of the air—earthy and sweet—tells me that I’m behind Willow’s house, and that I’ll need to walk through cornfields. My heart sinks, since this also means that Willow is probably in the picture in this universe. And if there’s Willow, there’s Kandy too. But anything is possible. A single variable might have caused events to unfold differently. Perfectly. Though right now, I can’t get the image of Mom on that stretcher out of my mind. Blood-streaked forehead, ghostly white skin. I should’ve stayed with her, stroked the back of her hand until she left me. Until she was gone, again.
I pull a long breath in, trying to keep it together. She’s fine here, Ruby. You’ll see.
My flashlight guides me through the towering cornstalks, hundreds of them standing shoulder to shoulder, their stalks like arms pointing me in all the wrong directions. The rain has subsided, though the lightning and thunder take their turns, a flash followed by a wave of rumbling. My crutches sink into the wet ground, but I’m afraid to abandon them. With my leg in such bad shape, I wouldn’t make it more than a few feet without them. After struggling for what seems like an hour, my arms are sore, my backpack weighs a ton, and I’m worried. Maybe this universe is different all right, and I’m in the middle of an agricultural empire. Maybe the cornfields go on and on and on. There might be no way out, and like Dad said, I’d be completely lost. I look behind me, but of course the tree is no longer in sight. Why am I doing this? Will I keep finding alternate variations of tragedy, no matter where I go? I feel panic closing in on me, but I shut my eyes and push it away.
That’s when I hear dogs barking. They’re nearby.
I follow the sound, hoping that their owner leaves them outside a while longer. If the night falls silent again, I’ll be left without any sort of guide. A clear night would’ve given me constellations to follow, to use as a compass. But the sky above is a dark canvas. Moonless and blank. The dogs keep barking, and I come to realize that maybe they’re barking at me as I rustle through the field.
Finally, when I reach a grassy backyard, I start to see flickers of light all around me. Am I passing out? How many universes have I been in today, how many miles have I walked? Limped? I must be hallucinating because of the lightning strike. As I reach out in front of me for the dots of light, I realize they’re fireflies. A hypnotic light show, a mini-planetarium. They’re everywhere, glowing on-off-on with yellow bioluminescence.
I’m mesmerized until, in the distance, I hear the whine of a siren, maybe a police car, possibly an ambulance. I hope it’s not for Mom.
I shake the idea and turn my attention away from the lightning bugs. And when I look across the lawn, I can’t help but gasp. This is not Willow’s three-story dilapidated house. It’s the squat brick house from Corrán Tuathail Avenue. I shouldn’t be surprised by this divergence, but it makes my expectations flip. And my stomach.
The dogs continue barking, urging me on, so I follow the fenceline until they’re right next to me, snorting and snuffling through the metal. There’s something about the way they sound. Familiar.
“Galileo!” I shout, realizing who they are. “Isaac!”
I weave my fingers through the fence and they lick me, seeming to know me. Maybe they sense that I’m injured, because they’re whining and straining to get to me.
“Hang tight, guys,” I say.
Not sure what else to do, I go around to the front of the house, looking for the telltale white impatiens, but not seeing them. When I ring the doorbell, I wonder who might answer. Patrick? Dad and Mom together? The house has a stillness about it, no murmurs of conversation, no sign of a TV on. I glance next door, thinking that if the neighbors see me, they might wonder why Ruby is knocking on her own front door. Like a dinner guest, an out-of-town visitor, a complete stranger.
I try the doorknob, but it’s locked. I use my crutches to flip the welcome mat over, but there’s no key hiding there. Finally, remembering how easy it was for me to pop the screen out of the bathroom window in Universe Two, I figure it’s just as simple in reverse.
I’m right. The screen practically falls out with one nudge, and the hard part is getting my dama
ged leg over the metal window frame. I toss my backpack in first, then crutches, then I crash into the room, shoulder first, bumping against the toilet on my way down.
“Ouch,” I groan, but I’m thankful I didn’t hit my head or the gash on my shin. I pull myself to my feet and open the door, only to find that the hallway is disconcertingly different. There is no family photo, no painted pigs or cows or other Americana decor. I call out toward the family room and kitchen. “Hello?” There can’t be anyone home, after all the racket I just made, breaking and entering.
I find a sliding-glass door that leads outside, so I open it and the dogs come spilling in, tails pounding, panting like crazy, soaking my cheeks with kisses.
“You smell awful,” I say into Galileo’s ear. “Your Ruby needs to give you a bath.” Though I guess I still can’t be sure that there’s a Ruby at all here.
They follow me through the kitchen, almost tripping me as I try to avoid catching a paw under the crutches. When I find the doorway out to the garage, I hesitate, take a breath, wince. Then I open the door. No cars. Also, no moving boxes and no makeshift bed in the corner. Kandy doesn’t appear to be sleeping out here.
“Two dogs, zero Kandys?” I ask the dogs as they follow me back into the house and toward the bedrooms. “So far the math seems good.”
There’s Patrick’s bedroom, with all his football trophies and an unmade bed. The next bedroom is perplexing. A floral quilt is neatly smoothed across a twin bed, and the air smells like cigarettes. I open a drawer and find a tube of lipstick, cinnamon-scented hand lotion, a pair of socks, and a bunch of bras. Is this Mom’s stuff? I check the nightstand for her book of Ó Direáin’s codes, but there’s a stack of John Grisham novels instead. It doesn’t seem like Willow’s stuff either—no paintbrushes, no canvases. Generic, framed floral prints line the walls. Maybe Dad has a different girlfriend in this universe. As I open and close every drawer and look through the closet, all I find are polyester dresses and vinyl purses.
Relativity Page 17