The Infinity of You & Me

by J. Q. Coyle

  “Wait,” I say. “She’s very sick.” I run after him, feeling the puttylike give of the stairs under my feet. How long does this world have? Will there be enough time to bring those on the brink back? My mother—if I can get the vial, can she be saved?

  By the time I get to my mother’s room, Alex is kneeling beside her bed. The other Alex isn’t here. His golf club leans against the armchair, the pile of newspapers stacked beside it on the floor.

  The glow through the sheers is intense, but I can see the thin steam of my mother’s shallow breaths in the cold air. She’s propped with pillows, eyes closed. Her hair has been brushed back from her face. The monitor on the IV tree hooked to the battery pack beeps every few seconds.

  Alex puts his hand on top of hers. “We can get her out of here,” he says. “You can piggyback her into the prime, and we can start the new meds. She’ll have a better chance, and when she pulls through—”

  “You can’t turn your back on all of these people just to save her,” I say. Not to mention the tricky point that my mother exists in the prime. I guess Alex wants the one he can save and claim as his own.

  “Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this? And it was here, god damn it. It was here all along.”

  And then my mother’s weak eyes flutter open.

  “Hey,” Alex says. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here. I’m right here.”

  She smiles a little, then frowns, confused. She must sense the difference.

  “You should rest,” Alex says. “You should sleep. We’re going to take you to a facility that can—”

  “You can’t piggyback her. It could kill her,” I say.

  “Alicia,” my mother whispers.

  I walk to the foot of her bed. “I’m right here.”

  And then there’s a voice downstairs. “Is everything okay? Alicia!”

  Alex straightens. He knows the voice better than anyone—it’s his own. Alex looks at me coldly. “Stay here with her. I’ll take care of him.”

  “Wait,” I say. “The atlas, the vaccine. We’re here for an exchange. We’re here to set this right.”

  Alex cuffs the back of my head and roughly pulls my face in close. “I could slip into this life.”

  “What life? There’s no life here. It’s falling apart!”

  He lets me go and looks past me. His eyes are steely and fixed. He walks out of the room, and his hand slips under his jacket where the gun rests in its holster.

  I scan the room before hastily grabbing the golf club. “I’ll be right back,” I tell my mother. “It’ll be okay.”

  “No,” my mother says. “Let him go!”

  Does she know that she’s talking about two Alexes? Has she been waiting for something like this to happen? “I have to,” I say.

  Her narrow chest rises and falls as she struggles to breathe. “Alicia,” she says, but it’s like she recognizes me—the real me, not her privileged daughter who grew up in a fancy house, but me, the one from Southie, the one who grew up with a single mom in a row house.

  “I can do this,” I tell her, and I mean me—this Alicia can do this. I run out the door and downstairs, hoping for a second that the Alex of this world kills Alex from the prime. It’s a sickening thought and hopeless too. Alex of this world is tired and beaten down, weak and unarmed. And he’s not the same man. He’s not a killer.

  When I get halfway down the stairs, prime Alex is pointing a gun—the gun he’d given my mother—at Alex of this world.

  Alex of this world doesn’t lift his hands over his head. He stands there, blank, emptied, too shocked to move. But there’s something about him that seems to accept this, as if it were inevitable that some other version of himself might show up and pull a gun on him.

  He notices me and gives me a sad look, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s always known—or had a strong suspicion—that I wasn’t really his daughter, not in this world, not in any world. I squeeze the golf club, hoping he knows I grabbed it to defend him. But prime Alex turns the gun on me.

  “Don’t move or I’ll blow both of you away. You hear me?”

  “Stay where you are, Alicia,” Alex of this world says to me gently. “This is just between me and him.” And I know that he’s always been a kind father to me—a good, loving one.

  “So did you love your life here?” prime Alex asks.

  “Yes. But the last couple years have been brutal,” Alex of this world says.

  “I want to know what it’s been like. With her. Here. All these years.”

  “She made me a better man,” Alex of this world says. “She never loved me the way she loved Ellington. But she was good to me.” He looks at me. “To us.”

  Prime Alex squeezes the trigger; the gun pumps a shock through his arm, and he lets out a small grunt. I feel the vibration of the gunshot in my own ribs. Alex of this world falls, grabbing his shoulder. Blood seeps across his shirt.

  My mother screams from upstairs, ragged and hoarse. I’m frozen. I don’t know what to do except try to keep her up there. “It’s okay. Just please stay where you are!”

  Prime Alex moves in closer, stands over Alex of this world, who’s shaking on the floor, breath jagged. It’s as if he wants to watch himself slowly die. Was it the goodness that set him off? Or the fact that my mother couldn’t ever love him here either?

  A wash of blood from Alex of this world is spreading across the floor, which sends a shock of aches shooting through my body—my father’s worlds calling me out of this one, all of those escapes—but I’m not going anywhere.

  Prime Alex is so enthralled with the suffering that he’s let down his guard. This is my chance. I grip the golf club, sidle a couple of steps closer, then wind up and crack the golf club across his backbone. Prime Alex arches, the gun clatters to the wood floor—a puff of dust swelling around it—and he falls to his knees.

  The gun is out of his reach.

  We both glance at it.

  I raise the golf club over my head, ready to swing again, but he scrambles up, and before I can strike him again, he tackles me, pins me to the floor, and wrestles the golf club so both of us are holding it tight. He presses the cold metal of the club against my windpipe. I push against it, fighting for each breath.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alex of this world roll to his side and then his belly. He drags himself toward the gun. In this world he is still my father. He would do anything for me, I know this.

  “The atlas…” I grunt to my uncle. “All those worlds. Remember?”

  Alex could easily kill me but he just steadily keeps up the pressure so I can’t really breathe. My mind dulls from lack of oxygen. “Can you imagine what it’s been like to watch your shitty little childhood play out?” he says. “I’ve seen signs, all along. I knew you’d have all your father’s gifts. I called it when you were just a toddler. You had everything I didn’t.”

  I could tell him I was always just a piece of shit—another screwed-up Southie kid, but that isn’t true. That’s what Alex has gotten wrong all these years. It’s not being a spandrel that made something of me. Through a strangled breath, I manage to say, “No, that’s not–”

  “I’m going to take you out,” Alex says. “World after world.”

  Then, just as my vision starts to narrow to a bead of light and I’m about to pass out, I hear, “Not in this world.”

  But it’s too late. Prime Alex rolls off of me, whips around, snatches up the gun before Alex of this world can get a clearer shot at him. Prime Alex points the gun directly at me. He pulls the box from his pocket. “Get me the atlas.” He pops the box open, and, pressing it against his chest, he pulls out the vial. He holds it in the air, gripping it so tightly that his fist shakes. He drops the box. It hits the floor, sending out cracks across the marble. “Get it now!”

  I look to Alex of this world. His eyes are fluttering shut, his breathing shallow. I hope that Jax is out there with a plan.

  �
�Okay,” I say. “Someone’s brought it here for you.”

  Alex nods, almost imperceptibly, twitches the gun to the door to indicate where he wants me to go. The room feels like it could blow apart, billions of tiny pieces spinning loose.

  I walk to the front door and open it.

  The light is blinding at first—a sheer, bright pang when it hits my eyes.

  But as they adjust, I see Jax standing in the street. Behind him, the crowd huddles around the fire in the metal can, black smoke billowing. Their bodies are hunched over the flame. All I can hear is the hiss of the fire and the wind.

  Jax sees Alex right behind me. I put my hands up so he knows I have a gun shoved into my back. Pynch stands beside Jax, and for a moment I imagine them on the basketball team, waiting for the bus to take them to an away game, doing the things that maybe they should have, if things hadn’t turned out this way.

  Jax steps forward, chin up, gives Alex a defiant glare. “We have the atlas,” he says. “Now, give us the vaccine.”

  “Let me see it first,” Alex says. I can feel the gun in my back.

  Jax pulls the atlas out from under his coat and backs slowly toward the metal can. He holds it up, stretching toward the fire. Its gold-stitched cover glows over the flame. “Give us the vaccine, or I burn this now,” Jax says. His voice doesn’t even tremble.

  “Who the hell are you?” Alex says. He shoves me forward, levels the gun at Jax now.

  “Don’t!” I say, terrified. “Don’t shoot!”

  The little group of people run off.

  “Freeze!” Alex screams. He points the gun at me but addresses the crowd. “You’re all my hostages. Sprowitz!”

  Sprowitz is standing on what used to be the front yard—now just dirt packed and cracking. He levels his weapon on the crowd. “No one move!” he shouts, shifting his weight and then taking a wide stance. He’s trying to look tough, but there’s something about him that makes him seem like he’s already broken. His eyes catch mine for just a second, and I can tell he’s scared.

  Everyone stops. Everything is still, except the wind and the shifting and ticking of this disintegrating world.

  Alex lifts the vial. It glints in the sharp sun.

  “Vaccine first,” Jax says to Alex.

  He waves the atlas over the flame.

  Alex smiles.

  Before anyone can register what he’s doing, he tosses the vial high in the air. It glitters in the harsh light as it flips end over end.

  I jump down the front steps, keeping my eyes on it, running, trying to get under it. My feet pound, my hands reaching, and the vial turning. I’m sprinting across the lawn, and I throw myself forward. The ground races to meet me; the impact knocks my breath away.

  Rolling in the brittle grass, I have the vial, warm in my hand. I can’t believe it. I turn to Pynch to show him, and I see Alex rushing Jax, the gun trained at his chest.

  Jax lowers the atlas toward the fire; the smoke billows around it.

  “Give it to him!” I yell, but it’s too late—he lets it go and the fire leaps up.

  Then there’s the tearing explosion of a gunshot, and Jax staggers backward and falls.

  I push the vial to Pynch’s chest and run to Jax.

  Sprowitz is shouting for people to shut up, but it’s chaos now. Everyone’s running.

  Before I can get to Jax, Alex grabs my arm and yanks me back so hard that my shoulder bangs into his chest.

  He takes a few heavy steps, gripping my arm like he wants to tear it off. I struggle but I can’t get free of him.

  “Why did you do it?” I shout.

  His head bobs side to side. He coughs and turns, spitting blood. “I didn’t shoot. Someone shot me,” he says.

  I pull back just enough to see an imprint of blood from his shirt on my own.

  “You,” he whispers. “You did this to me.”

  “No,” I said. “This is all you. You did this.”

  Alex whispers through his blood-smeared teeth. “Sprowitz!” he screams, his eyes squeezing shut. “See what she’s done to me?”

  Sprowitz lumbers to him just as Alex falls to one knee. Tears are streaming down Sprowitz’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says to Alex.

  The gun falls from Alex’s hand to the hard dirt. He kneels as if he’s praying but then slouches backward.

  “You?” Alex says to Sprowitz, and then he reaches up and touches Sprowitz’s face.

  Sprowitz’s face is red, contorted. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I take a step back, unable to look away as Alex draws in a gasp, his cheeks shuddering. He tightens his jaw and seems to look up at the sky, and then at nothing at all.

  Sprowitz sobs so loudly that the cords stand out on his neck. And then he blinks, sits back on his heels. He pushes himself to his feet, wiping his eyes.

  I back away from him, tripping.

  The ground seems to tilt. My ears are ringing.

  The fire, stoked by the atlas, pours black smoke across the yard. I run to Jax, drop to my knees beside him. His eyes are closed but fluttering. There’s no blood. Alex didn’t shoot him. Alex was the one who got shot.

  I grab Jax’s sleeve. “Are you okay?”

  He squints and nods.

  “I was so scared that you were gone,” I tell him. “Tell me you’re okay. Tell me again.”

  He cups my face in his palms. “The atlas,” he says.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “No,” he says. “I faded out because I created a branch. The atlas is safe. The decision to burn it—I felt the tearing inside me. Everything split in two.”

  “You created another branch?”

  Jax smiles. “And in that branch, you caught the vaccine, too.”

  Pynch walks up, lifts his hand, and there it is—golden and bright in the sun. He gives it to Jax.

  “My uncle,” I say to Pynch, “the one from this world. He’s in the house. I don’t know if he’s still alive. And my mother, they need help. Can you…”

  “I’ve got it,” Pynch says, and then he strides toward house.

  Jax closes his eyes, the lids tremble. Then he opens them and looks up at me. “I can still sort of see it, the branch I made.”

  I think of that new world, spinning out on its own. I want to stay here with Jax but I know I can’t stay. People are moving through the thick smoke and bright sun. “I need to—”

  “Go back.” He sits up.

  “My father…”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to leave you here,” I say. “This world is—”

  “About to be saved,” Jax finishes for me. “We’ll see each other again. I’ll always know which version is you.”

  I help him stand and he pulls me in close, runs the back of his hand down my cheek and kisses me; it’s warm and sweet, and I don’t want it to end.

  Finally, he pulls away from me, smiling, then turns and starts walking toward the truck. People are bustling through the wind-kicked veils of smoke.

  Prime Alex stares vacantly at the sky, his skin waxy, his lips tinged blue.

  And then through the smoke, I see Sprowitz. His eyes are full of tears—like he’s terrified and angry all at once. The pistol dangles from his hand.

  I take a few steps toward him. “Sprowitz?” I say. “Brian?”

  He looks at me, then at the pistol in his hand. I freeze, feeling as if he could turn on me. But he holsters the gun and looks back up at me again. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, and he staggers a bit to one side. I wonder if he, like Jax, branched when he shot Alex.

  “Did you?”

  Sprowitz looks me. “Did I what? You saw me.”

  “No. I mean, was it a hard decision?”

  He looks up at the ribboned sky and closes his eyes against the sun. “No,” he says. “It wasn’t. I didn’t branch. That means there’s something wrong with me, right?”

  “No,” I say. I reach out and touch his arm. “You saved our lives. Than
k you.”

  “I looked at that book by that poet you like. Just so I’d know, you know, what you were thinking, what was in your head. One was written to a kid without a dad.”

  I’m trying to imagine Sprowitz reading a book for any reason, not to mention checking out Plath. “I know that poem,” I say.

  Sprowitz glances at me.

  “It’s about something growing beside you but an absence.”

  “A death tree,” Sprowitz says.

  “One without any color.”

  “She uses the words that spandrels use,” Sprowitz says. “It was like she was talking right to me. To us, maybe. My father was a death tree for me all my life. Alex saved me.”

  “He used you.”

  “All this time I thought you were an idiot for not taking what he was ready to give you. Everything,” Sprowitz says. “He’d have treated you like his own. Me? I had to earn it. But he’d have given it all to you, Alicia.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you? Not anymore. You can’t.”

  “No,” he says. “Not anymore. You and I go way back.” Alex’s orders were to give you a hard time. I never wanted to. Our fathers were friends but then mine died. And then Alex came along. Don’t you remember now? A little?”

  And I do. He’s at my birthday parties; we’re swimming at a lake; we’re fighting at a dinner table; we’re dividing Halloween candy. “It’s the strangest feeling,” I tell him, “but I miss that little boy named Brian Sprowitz.”

  He smiles, but only for a second. And then he’s back to himself, gruff and loud. “We have to get out of here. There’s a plan to get your father out.”

  I look for Jax and see him talking to Pynch, who’s in his truck with a band of people in the back. I see Jax’s face. His mouth is moving but I can’t hear him.

  I know I’ll be back.

  “Go on,” Sprowitz says, handing me my father’s gift, the tool. “They need you.”

  I take it, feel the nice fit of the handle in my palm. “Thanks.”

  Sprowitz doesn’t say you’re welcome. He walks off.

  The air feels full of a fine dust, which flits around like powder. My hand starts to buzz, deep within it. I clasp my hands together, the tool locked into place, and I bear down.