Relativity

by Cristin Bishara

  Where is Dad’s stuff? Is Dad here at all?

  My throat tightens, thinking about what this could mean. But I don’t have enough to go on yet. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe I’ll find some clues in Other Ruby’s room.

  Just like in Universe Two, her name, my name, is on the door. I immediately look for the PARIS, JE T’AIME poster. Not there. No romance novels or yearbooks on her bookshelf, either. This version of myself has latched on to the ruby-red slipper motif. She’s got an entire collection of Oz stuff. It makes me cringe, but I get it. When you’ve got a name like Ruby, people tend to get cute with gifts. I have more than one pair of ruby earrings from Dad, and I don’t even have my ears pierced. He says I’ll appreciate them when I’m older. And somewhere in my moving boxes, I’ve got a stash of Ruby Tuesday gift certificates.

  At least she has decent clothes, no bejeweled items in sight. I help myself to a clean pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and I sit down on her bed to take my dirty clothes off. My leg was bandaged so nicely at the hospital, I don’t want to unwrap it to take a look, though I can tell from the swelling it’s not good. There’s also a small bandage on my chest from the lightning. I’m guessing it’s a compact burn wound.

  I continue to search the room, looking under the bed and up at the ceiling, which catches my attention. In an instant I know why. There are flecks of glow-in-the-dark paint all over. It’s a star chart, made with a stencil.

  “Nice,” I murmur, smiling. I can’t help but close the door and turn off the lights. The bed is piled high with pillows, and the painted stars above me are a comfort. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I allow myself to close my eyes. Just for a second … and then I’m going to check that other bedroom again. There must be a photo album, a passport, a diploma. Something that reveals a name or face.

  I’m startled awake. Someone is tapping on the window. Where am I? The clock says 1:16 a.m. The tapping continues, and now a voice. “Rubes?”

  Rubes. There’s only one person in this whole wide world, in all these worlds, who calls me Rubes. I jump out of bed and pull the window shade aside, my leg angry that I moved so suddenly.

  “All clear?” George asks softly from the dark outside. I can only see the outline of his hair and his torso, which seems more muscular here, even more so than the George with the nice biceps in Universe Four. “You okay, babe?”

  Babe? I laugh, despite my throbbing shin. “I’m beyond glad that you’re here,” I say.

  He climbs easily through the window, like he’s done it a hundred times before. The bedroom lights are still off and before I know it, he’s kissing me. On the lips, deeply. He loops an arm tight around my waist, and his other hand goes to my hair. I almost pull away, anticipating a comment about how short it is. But he says nothing. No reaction. I smile in the dark; this Ruby is more like me than I gave her credit for.

  “Are they home yet?” he whispers.

  Who is they? Patrick and who else?

  “I don’t think so,” I say, listening for sounds in the house.

  “Good,” he says, pushing me gently onto the bed. He doesn’t smell like sandalwood soap here. It’s more like spiced oranges. I press my nose into his shirt, surprised by his solid chest underneath. “Did you get your dress today?” he asks in between kisses, his hips pressed against mine.

  “Um …” My entire body is tense, not knowing what he’s about to do. What if this Ruby and George have sex? All the time? “Dress?” I squeak.

  “I trust that you got something extra poofy with a giant bow on your butt.” He lowers his voice and pretends to be an announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ruby Wright. Homecoming queen.”

  Homecoming? He’s my homecoming date? Sheer happiness overtakes me as I imagine the two of us. Dancing! Me, dancing? I wonder if the Ruby in this universe wears sparkly red shoes whenever she dresses up. And then I wonder … if I should stay here. No sign of Willow or Kandy. I’d have the dogs, Patrick. And not just George, but George the way I want him. As my boyfriend.

  “You’re wearing your powder-blue tux,” I say, trying to keep up with the conversation, like I know what’s going on. He’s not serious about me being queen, though, is he? “With a ruffled shirt underneath.”

  “Shiny white shoes,” he says into my neck, kissing me up to my ear and back down to my collarbone. I can’t help but tremble.

  “Are you cold?” George asks. He flips on his side and guides me into the same position, so we’re spooning. He pulls the blanket over us, his knees bent into mine. I think of the shape we’re making in the bed. An S. Just like the S on his Superman costume, the one he wore when he was six years old. When I sent him that text from orientation at Ennis High, I’d asked him to come rescue me. And here he is.

  “My hero,” I say.

  He laughs and slides his hand under my sweatshirt, onto my bare stomach. “If Patrick catches me here, he’ll murder me.”

  “I do believe that’s a true statement,” I say.

  “I should go.” He sighs, his hand moving up my shirt, closer to my bra.

  “Okay,” I say, wriggling free. I’m partly disappointed that he’s leaving so soon, partly relieved that I won’t have to decide about losing my virginity tonight.

  “Did he say if their flight is canceled?” he asks, getting out of bed. “I bet Granny is ready to clobber some airline official with her cane.”

  Granny? Granny Frankie? Is it Dad’s mother who’s living here? She smokes, and that bedroom smells like cigarettes. I sit up, suddenly feeling ill. I can think of no good reason that we’re living with our grandmother. There’s usually only one scenario, one situation that forces kids to live with grandparents. Because their own parents are dead.

  “I was just thinking about my … um … dad and mom,” I try.

  George clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. Even in the dark, I know what his awkward body language means. “Yeah,” he says sadly.

  Now I want George to leave. Immediately. Because if there’s a granny here, I need to get going. I’ve spent too much time here already. I glance at the clock.

  George squeezes my hand and climbs back out through the window. “Call me when you wake up,” he says. I nod, thinking that all of this certainly does feel like a dream, that I desperately need to wake up. Any minute I’ll find myself back in our apartment in Walnut Creek.

  “George?” I call out into the night, the fireflies still flickering.

  “I love you,” he calls back, and the dogs start barking again, this time in the hallway. Their nails scrape against the bedroom door, pawing to get in.

  I wish I had George’s iPhone thesaurus app. I love, adore, idolize, treasure, worship you. There aren’t enough ways to say it. I count to sixty until I’m sure he’s gone, and then I tumble out of the window, heave my backpack on, and head toward the tree. About halfway back, the rain starts again, heavy, punishing. I don’t want to know what happened here. I don’t want to know how long ago, or where.

  All I want to know is why. Why is this fair? Why?

  Finally, I break free from the cornfield and find the oak glowing purple in the dreary rainfall.

  “Let’s try again,” I say, knowing I only have three more universes to check, calculating the odds, trying to stay hopeful. I think of Mom and the Mandelbrot set. Repeating patterns, quasi-similar formations. Do I want to put myself through excruciating disappointment and grief, over and over again, in Universes Eight, Nine, and Ten? What are the chances now of finding my utopia? If I see another Mom with the windshield wiper …

  “Stop!” I tell myself, stifling a sob. It only takes one good universe, Ruby. And yes, all the pain would be worth it in the end.

  I reach for the doorknob but before my fingertips make contact with the copper, the door swings open.

  Someone is coming out of the tree.

  Chapter Twenty

  I stumble backward, landing hard. I scramble to right myself, thrust my crutches under my armpits, then turn
to run.

  “Ruby!”

  My heart jolts. It’s Mom.

  She rushes toward me, hysterical. “What is this?” Her mascara is smudged down her cheeks. She’s been crying. “Where are we?”

  “But you were … I saw you …” I fumble for words. The image of her in the ER, blood streaming down her neck, is still fresh in my mind.

  Then I realize what’s happened. This is Mom from Universe Four.

  “Did you follow me?” I ask.

  “Of course I did!” she responds. She pulls me into her arms and crushes me against her body. She dots my face with quick kisses. “You weren’t in the nurse’s office.” Her voice breaks off into sobs. “I checked your French class, and then I thought you’d taken my car. That’s when I saw you way off behind the school. But I still couldn’t find you. I looked all around, calling your name, trying to figure out how you were there one minute and gone the next, and that’s when I realized that the tree had a door.”

  Her emotion is contagious. I press my face into her hair. “There was another one of you, d-d-dying at the hospital.”

  “Who was dying?” Mom asks.

  I can barely get the word out. “You.”

  “Me?”

  A feeling of nausea sweeps through me, and I break into a cold sweat; saliva floods my mouth. I pull away from Mom’s embrace and convulse with dry heaves.

  “Ruby! Are you okay?”

  I nod, spitting the foul taste from my mouth and wiping my face on the back of my shirt sleeve.

  She gives me a few seconds to recover, pacing, wringing her hands. “Please explain this to me!” She motions to the tree, frantic. “What on earth is going on? I feel like I’m losing my mind!”

  “We’re in a parallel universe,” I say, bracing myself for her reaction of disbelief.

  “What?”

  “Just try to calm down, okay? Do you remember at your apartment, when we were talking about string theory?” I put my hands on the trunk of the tree and take a deep breath. “This oak contains a portal to the multiverse.”

  “No.” Mom’s eyes are wide. “That’s impossible!”

  “You’re familiar with the way the sun—any huge object—causes the fabric of space to bend around it?”

  “Yes, of course,” she says.

  “The bent fabric then causes orbiting planets to act differently—they have to navigate a distorted spatial road.” I can see that she’s getting impatient, but I continue explaining. “The more massive the sun, the more gravity it brings to bear, which means the warping of both space and time. It can work on smaller scales as well. Subatomic particles can also cause warps—”

  Mom holds up a hand to stop me. “Ruby, please!”

  “String theory allows the possibility of parallel universes.”

  “That’s what you think this is?”

  “The tree is a wormhole of some kind.”

  “That’s impossible,” she says again, but not as emphatically. She bites her lower lip. “I thought I’d found you back in that one place. I walked through the woods for what seemed like hours and found this little town. Everyone was dressed so strangely, like Native Americans in animal skins. I saw you, but your hair was so long! Tied back in a braided ponytail. It just didn’t make sense. It was you, but it wasn’t. And when I tried to talk to you, you were scared. You ran.”

  “You met my parallel self!” I say, feeling a flood of relief. This is good! If Other Ruby in Universe Five was displaced while I wandered around the woods this morning, that means she was back by the time Mom arrived there. She’s okay.

  “What does that mean?” Mom asks. “Parallel self?”

  “She’s me,” I say. “In a parallel universe.”

  The thought seems to settle in. Mom gently turns me around and runs her fingers across the nape of my neck, across my tattoo. “You’re not my Ruby,” she says, “are you?”

  “No,” I whisper. “And you’re not my mom. My mom died in a car accident eleven years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says sincerely, and then a look of panicked confusion crosses her face. “But she was me?”

  “No, not you, not exactly,” I say haltingly. “That was in another universe, a long time ago.”

  “But you just said I was dying at the hospital.” Her voice fails her; she takes a slow, deep breath before she can speak again. “Tonight?”

  A few raindrops make their way through the tree’s umbrella-like leaves. Mom shivers and pulls her arms around herself.

  “You’re fine,” I say.

  “I’m fine,” she repeats with a curt laugh, looking at the tree and then me. “So where’s my Ruby? What did you do with her?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, not sure if I’m speaking the truth.

  “You made her disappear!”

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I didn’t mean to mess anything up. I’m trying to make things better. To make things perfect!”

  She glares at me, and the look in her eyes makes me wither.

  “Please just listen,” I beg. “Haven’t you ever thought about how different things would have been if you’d made different choices along the way? What you majored in, where you moved, who you married? Parallel realities are the result of quantum junctions. There could be an infinite number of junctions.”

  Mom is quiet.

  “And in these parallel universes, our lives are playing out differently,” I say. “There are forks in the road that our parallels have taken.”

  I don’t know how to tell her that she’s dead in so many universes. Mom, you have a tendency to get in car accidents. If you go back to Universe Four, you might be destined to die.

  “Is it like that Robert Frost poem?” she asks, sounding vacant, far away. “Two roads diverged.” She’s talking mostly to herself, lost in thought. And I’m suddenly seized with a thought of my own, a blazing idea.

  “You can come with me to Universe One!” I blurt. “We’re just a few clicks away. You’ll be safe there!”

  “Where’s Universe One?” she asks. “I’ll be safe from what?”

  The word won’t come to me at first, but then I whisper, “Death.”

  Mom puts her hand to her chest. “What do you mean?”

  “You would be safe because that path has already played out there, eleven years ago. That fork in the road is behind us now.”

  “Ruby,” Mom says, her eyes growing wide. “I was in a car accident eleven years ago. That’s how I got this chipped tooth.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “I hit my mouth on the steering wheel. And a windshield wiper grazed my throat.” She pulls the collar of her shirt away from her neck. “I have a faint scar.”

  “You survived?” I’m relieved. And then I’m outraged. “Why didn’t you survive for me? In my universe? It’s not fair!”

  “It was a minor accident, but the doctor said it was a matter of inches. If I’d had my seat a little less reclined, well, then …”

  “Come with me,” I beg. “Come with me to Universe One!”

  “I can’t, Ruby. Think about it. Think about Patrick,” she says. “I can’t abandon him. And what about my Ruby? My Ruby. If you keep me with you, now she’ll have lost her mother.”

  I shake my head, sobbing. “But I can’t give you up again. I just can’t!” I reach out and grab her arm, but she pulls it away.

  “And don’t you have your father to go back to?” she presses.

  I nod, trying to imagine Dad’s reaction if I showed up with Mom. He’d freak at the sight of her, wouldn’t be able to comprehend where she came from. She’d be some long-lost ghost, returned from the dead. He’d probably end up in a mental institution.

  “You’re not thinking of anyone but yourself!” She waves her hands wildly toward the tree. “Make this thing take us back to where we belong.”

  I wipe my face and take a step toward Mom. Her body is rigid with suspicion. She matches my move and steps away from me. “Please d
on’t do this,” I say. “I need you.”

  “Don’t you see that you’re robbing me?” Her voice cracks. “If you don’t take me home, I’ll be dead inside, because I can’t live in some almost-place with a mangled mess of what could have been.”

  I turn away, not wanting to hear any more. “Stop it.”

  “To my Ruby, I’ll be dead. To Patrick, I’ll be dead. To all my students and friends. Vanished. Kidnapped. Is that what you want? Don’t you see that you’re killing me?”

  “Stop it!”

  Kidnapper. Identity thief. Interloper. Impostor.

  Murderer?

  A menacing crack of lightning sends a jolt of adrenaline through my already overtaxed nervous system. Too close for comfort.

  “Let’s get going,” she orders. “Did you decode the inscriptions?”

  I take a deep breath, trying to get myself together, needing to think straight. No matter what we do, we can’t stay here. We have to move on to the next world. “I figured out the one above the door, but it was useless. ‘Who are you seeking?’”

  “Well, the code inside the tree is slightly more helpful,” Mom says, unfolding a piece of paper.

  “How did you crack it? Did you find the key?”

  “No. I used the process of elimination. It seemed pretty obvious it was an alphabetic shift,” she says. “I thought it might give me a clue as to where you were, so I worked on it awhile.”

  Thunder in the distance. A nearly incessant rumble. Mom flicks on a key-ring flashlight and shines it onto the paper. “Can you see? Your glasses are a mess!”

  “I know.” I pull them off and inspect them, the frame bent, one lens missing. “Your Ruby had LASIK, but I didn’t.” I slide them back on and read.

  Massive solar flare 1864 = Atmospheric electric surge. Tree retained power 87 hours. Sufficient surge reoccurrence incalculable.

  “So a solar flare triggered an atmospheric electric surge,” I say.

  “I guess that’s what’s powering the tree.”

  That explains the dangerous weather patterns. Explosions on the sun’s surface can shake the Earth’s magnetic field. These plasma assaults cause all sorts of problems: blackouts, flight delays, bad cell phone reception. I can hear Chef Dad’s voice in my head: There’s been a record number of lightning strikes the past few days. The weather people can’t get over it.