by Kari Luna
He took the tablet from me, pointing to a link, and clicked it. We leaned together, holding the iPad between us, the screen lighting up our corner of the train while Dad’s words illuminated everything.
INTRODUCTION
Socrates said the unexamined life was not worth living. As scientists, we rise every day because of the search, no matter how often the answers elude us. As husbands, we leave those we love to fend for themselves because there are questions only we can answer. But as fathers, we’re brought back to ourselves. Brought back to the reality that we search and rise, day after day, for someone else.
I wrote this book to prove that the thread between physics and emotion exists; that it’s just as important to question as it is to answer; and that if you walk through the world with a different view, maybe it’s not your world that you’re walking in.
Sophie, may this book help you to know me—and therefore, know yourself.
“Where’s the rest of it?” I said, my heart pounding. “Why isn’t there more?”
“It’s just a sample,” Finny said. “But isn’t it great? The whole maybe it’s not your world that you’re walking in thing?”
Part of it was my world, the part where Dad never called. The part where I cried myself to sleep and then vowed never to cry again. But then there was the other part where hearts rolled off sleeves and rock stars serenaded me in grocery stores, things of a different world. Whichever world I was in, it made me realize I needed him. I needed my dad.
“And he mentioned you!” Finny said, pointing to my name. “You, my dear, have just become immortal.”
My hand shook as I took it away, letting the iPad rest with Finny.
“Wait, are you okay?”
“I just need some air,” I said, crawling over him and walking through rows of people like they weren’t there, reaching the back door of our car.
I waved my arms in front of it, hyperventilating, until it finally whooshed and opened up. Standing in the space between one car and the next felt like limbo, like the place I’d been for the past four years. Bits of air rushed in, but even the deafening sound of wheels against tracks, steel against steel, couldn’t drown out the message running through my head: Dad wrote me a book. Dad wrote me a book. Dad wrote me a book.
SIXTEEN
I walked back in, the door whooshing behind me, but something had changed, like chairs and armrests. Lamps and wallpaper. This wasn’t the same train I’d been on, it was better. Bright green seats gave way to pink armrests. Green, pink and plaid curtains hung from the windows, and the walls were covered in hot-pink wallpaper with velvet blackbirds on it. Amtrak, brought to you by Jonathan Adler.
Finny would love this, I thought, feeling like I’d just walked into the most amazing party in progress, except most people were sleeping or reading, just like the train I’d been on before. I chose an empty row in the middle and plopped down beneath a delicate green wire lamp—a birdcage with a miniature bulb hanging from the center. The lamps floated above each seat like tiny, aviary chandeliers. I turned mine off as light seeped through the curtains. Night had turned to day and bright green hills rolled by, pink flowers scattered across them like stars.
“The interior design is crazy good,” I said to no one in particular, admiring the cursive M embroidered on the seat back in front of me. M like moody, like mind over matter, like multiverse. Like M-theory.
M-theory was an extension of string theory, Mr. Maxim had said in class last week. We were studying velocity, but he couldn’t stop skipping ahead, probably because parallel universes were way more intriguing than one toy car versus another. The idea of parallel universes had lost its appeal in popular media, but with the emergence of M-theory, the idea was plausible again.
He’d said that originally the M stood for membrane but it was such a big theory, scientists thought the letter should be open to interpretation. How do you name something that could be the answer to everything?
I didn’t completely understand it, but I liked its fill-in-the-blank aspect. The Marvelous Theory, I thought. Magnificent Theory. Morose, how I sometimes felt. Miniature, mayonnaise, milliner. Miser, munchkin, meringue. I was on a roll when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was a blackbird, slowly peeling itself off the wallpaper and coming to life. First it was one, then two, then all of them, peeling away and hovering above my head like a hoodie, enveloping me in darkness. The birds scattered and flew higher, waving their wings, flitting their bodies and flying full-fledged above my head on an Amtrak train.
Blackbirds used to gather on the electrical wires in front of our house and I was scared of them—their dark, beady eyes and big bodies—until Dad told me they were a good omen, not a bad one.
“Blackbirds are all about intuition,” he said. “What you feel in your gut.”
I’m afraid that I’m my dad.
“According to Native American tradition, they represent increased awareness,” he said.
I’m pretty sure that I’m my dad.
“And the magic of worlds you can’t see? It’s now available to help ground you as you walk your path.”
Parallel universes. Walt. The path.
I stood up and they flew in, out and around me like rain, reminding me it was time to do what Walt said. What Dad said. What they were saying. Wake up, Sophie. It’s time to pay attention. And even though a magpie was different than a blackbird, it was close enough.
“Magpie,” I said, smiling at myself. “It’s the Magpie Theory!”
I ran up and down the aisles, arms held high, fingertips grazing the wings of blackbirds. They twisted and twirled, spun and soared through my arms and up to the ceiling, diving at seats and spreading their wings as I expanded my mind. My flock on the inside as the world went by outside, whichever world I was in. I spun and fell into one of the chairs, my laughter mixed with the cawing of blackbirds.
|||||||||||
“Excuse me, miss?”
A piercing voice took me from Birdland back to Trainland.
“You’re in my seat.”
A woman in a hot-pink shirt towered above me, her flowered fanny pack in my face, the smell of coffee wafting over me.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to get my bearings. “My mistake.”
I stood up, felt the door whoosh and walked into the café car.
“One hot chocolate, one coffee, please,” I said. “With room.”
Room for books written by missing dads. Room for parallel universes. Room for blackbirds, which stood for intuition, something I was starting to discover within myself.
I walked through three automatic doors until I saw Finny’s hair sticking up over the seat.
“Thanks,” he said as I gave him his coffee and he gave me back the window seat. And then he pointed at my hair. I could feel it rising off my head like a bad bouffant.
“You weren’t back there hanging out, were you?” he said.
“Not exactly,” I said.
Finny smiled and pulled a chocolate bar out of the inside of his coat pocket. I guess birds of a feather did flock together. I smoothed my hair down, set my hot chocolate to the side and went for the chocolate bar.
“Can I ask what you saw?”
“Blackbirds,” I said, pulling a feather out of my pocket. “One minute I was getting some air and the next I was on a train car like this one but prettier. Hot-pink seats, birdcage lights and wallpaper filled with velvet blackbirds.”
“Chic,” he said, his foot tapping.
“Yes, except the birds peeled off the wallpaper and flew around the car.”
“Whoa,” he said. “They attacked you?”
“Not exactly,” I said, but when I looked down at my arms, they were full of little nicks, like from the beaks of birds. Had I been so into the magic that I hadn’t noticed that part, or was that just the hazard of raising my arms in the middle
of hundreds of birds?
“Sophie!” he said, grabbing my arm. “You look like a cutter.”
It was scary now, but it didn’t seem scary then. It felt good to be surrounded by them, soft, warm and aware. Being part of a flock was always better than going it alone.
“They didn’t bite me—they embraced me,” I said.
“If by embrace you mean rip into your skin, then yes,” Finny said, pulling a packet of wipes out of his coat pocket. “They embraced you fully. This is going to sting, but after what you’ve been through, I doubt you’ll feel it.”
As he dabbed my arm with antiseptic, I let the stinging wake me up to my purpose. I was serious about finding my dad, but maybe it was time to be a little more serious about all of it. The fact that I had run away from home, leaving only a note. That Dad was alive and well and apparently still in Brooklyn. And that we were on a train, headed there without calling, without texting, nothing. Maybe my memories were wrong. Maybe we weren’t as alike as I thought. Maybe his book was total trash, a theory that couldn’t hold up, which was why we’d never heard of it. Why it was out of print. And why I was probably out of my mind for being on this train with my best friend, headed into I Didn’t Know What.
“Just wave your arms,” Finny said, putting the antiseptic pad in between our two seats. “The air makes it sting less.”
I didn’t want it to sting less—I wanted it to sting more. The way it would sting if Dad slammed the door in my face. I wanted to be prepared. I wanted Finny to be prepared, but instead we sat in silence for a while as the train propelled us forward. Maybe this was as far as Finny could go, should go, but it was farther than anyone had ever gone with me before.
“You need to sleep,” he said, packing away his iPad and putting up the tray table. “You want to be awake for New York, right?”
I wanted to be awake to what was really happening to me, but for now, I’d settle for sleep. I drank the rest of my hot chocolate, put up my tray table and leaned against the window.
“It’s more comfy over here,” Finny said, patting his shoulder. “Come on.”
I was too tired for pride, so I leaned over and nestled into the corner of his jacket like a bird seeking shelter from a storm. It was time to batten down the hatches. Fortify the heart. Make sure the mind was intact and don’t forget to bring a friend. There could be rough skies ahead.
SEVENTEEN
As soon as the train stopped, I grabbed my bag and resisted doing my usual dart and dash. This was New York, and I was used to getting places, not playing tour guide, but I had to slow down for Finny. Penn Station could be overwhelming even if you’d been there hundreds of times before. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to a newbie.
“Are we underground?” Finny said as we walked off the train. “Like mole people?”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” I said. And not because I didn’t believe in mole people but because I didn’t want Finny to believe in them. “We’re not in underground tunnels, we’re in the extremely well-planned urban subway system. Welcome to Penn Station.”
Finny’s mouth dropped open as I pulled him up the escalator and led him through commuter traffic to the 3 train.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, holding his hand tightly in mine. “You have to keep moving. And maybe close your mouth. The only gawker-approved places are things like the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty.”
Finny closed his mouth, but his eyes remained big, eyes that had never been out of Havencrest. This kid so needed a proper introduction to New York.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Starving,” he said as I pulled him inside Bert’s Bagels and took a deep breath. It was a smell that had been lost but not forgotten. Pumpernickel, rye, sesame, come to me.
“I’ll have a whole wheat with blueberry cream cheese,” Finny said.
“Uh, no,” I said, butting in. “He’ll have what I’m having—sesame with plain cream cheese, tomato, capers and black pepper.”
Finny crossed his arms over his chest.
“Trust me,” I said. “You’re never going to look at bagels the same way again.”
Minutes later, we were on the platform holding warm bags of bagels. Finny unwrapped the paper, took a bite and looked like he was going to pass out.
“Oh. My. God,” he said, chewing.
“I bet you never thought a bagel could render you unconscious,” I said, smiling. “Ooh! Here’s our train.”
I put Finny in front of me like a kid and pushed him through the doors before they closed. The train was packed, but I saw one seat and Finny saw another one. Too bad it was farther down and on the opposite side. There was no way I was going to be able to hold his hand.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, grabbing the seat while I took the one in front of me.
“Hey!” he said, yelling over the crowd. “I can still see you!”
“Great,” I yelled back. “Just make sure to get off at Grand Army Plaza.”
As we reached our stop, I’d stand by him, making sure he got off the train. But until then, he was on his own—and I think that was the way he wanted it. The train was full of something I hadn’t realized I’d missed: people. All kinds, all languages, smashed together in one place. Two women arguing in Chinese, another man singing a soul song along with his iPod, and two girls my age with screen-printed T-shirts, one with a lion, one with a tiger. I loved how people didn’t even blink at my elephant skirt in New York. I also loved how plastic orange seats, bizarre smells and a homeless guy playing the flute could feel like home. I bit into my bagel and a caper rolled off and into my lap as the person beside me got up and Walt appeared in her place.
“You gonna share that?”
“Wow,” I said, putting my bag in Walt’s lap so no one else would sit there. I kept my hand on it, making sure no one stole it, but I was sure they wouldn’t. People didn’t take bags from crazy girls who talked to said bags. Even though I was about to have a conversation with Walt, no one else would see it that way.
“You’re the last guy I expected to see,” I said, keeping my head down and talking into my lap.
“Why are you talking like that?”
“I don’t want Finny to see me talking to myself,” I said. “Why are you here again?”
“Where else am I going to get a good bagel?” he asked.
I handed him half of mine, and he shoved it into his mouth.
“That’s worth traveling for,” he said. “Is it the boiling process? Because I always wondered what made New York bagels better than, say, Seattle bagels.”
“You’re not just here for bagels,” I said, popping the rest of mine in my mouth. “What gives?”
“Just a friend,” he said, licking cream cheese off his paw, “being here for another friend.”
“More like making sure a friend stays on her path,” I said.
“Something like that,” he said. “I support you finding your dad, but you know meeting him won’t solve everything, right?”
“Of course it will,” I said, shifting around in my seat. “Dad wrote this book that sounds like it’s about us, our experiences. From the sample I read online, it seems like he wrote it just for me.”
“So why not just order the book?”
“It’s out of print,” I said. And then I borrowed from Finny. “Besides, why rely on the book when I can have the real thing instead?”
“Let me rephrase myself,” Walt said. “Nothing is a magic pill, not even your super-intelligent, amazingly perceptive dad. He may teach you something, but you can’t just rely on him. You still have to use your intuition.”
I knew about pandas from my animal totem book, the one Dad brought back from one of his trips. From what I remembered, the panda is the seer of the unseen. He brings you the focus and awareness you need to overcome a problem, which sound
s good, but when it came to Walt, I had to wonder: why couldn’t he just solve my problems for me? If he had all this power and knowledge, like he said he did, what would it hurt for him to make an exception? To give me some of the answers instead of making me work for them myself?
“I know I have to pay attention,” I said, getting up and moving toward Finny. “If I don’t, we’ll miss our stop.”
Before I entered the Dad Hating Years, I begged Mom to tell me where he was. I searched boxes under her bed, photo albums hidden in her underwear drawer, everywhere I could think of, but I always came up empty-handed. That’s why I thought if I ever found him, I’d make the journey alone. But now, with a boy genius on one side and a shaman panda on the other, it seemed obvious. Not all journeys were meant to be made solo.
“This is Grand Army Plaza,” I said, bumping Finny’s knee with my knee. “This is our stop.”
Finny stood up, and I looked back at Walt’s seat, which was now filled with a kid bouncing a red ball.
The train stopped, and I guided Finny off the subway, through the people and up onto the street. I sighed, happy to stop traveling for a moment. He rubbed his eyes.
“Where are we?”
“Prospect Park,” I said. “It’s just a short walk from here to Park Slope.”
“Should we get a cab?” Finny said. “It’s getting dark.”
“No way,” I said, keeping him out of the crowds and with me. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, so I pulled off to the side, outside a bodega. When I took it out, it practically blew up, message alerts and texts all over the place.
“Finn, you left your mom a note, right?”
“Of course,” he said. “That’s why I have twenty-seven messages on my phone. But at least she knows where I am.”
“Me too,” I said. “But that didn’t stop my mom from leaving eighteen messages. I’m glad she’s not good at texting.”
“So no texts?” Finny said, leaning against the brick wall.