An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes

by Randy Ribay

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Mari says to the girl in a soft voice. “I’m not your mommy. But I’m sure she’s her somewhere around here.”

  The girl lets go of Mari’s hand when she realizes her mistake. A moment later, a woman appears through the main artery. The girl runs to her and they exit the left ventricle, hand-in-hand. Silence settles back into the chamber.

  Thump-THUMP . . . Thump-THUMP . . . Thump-THUMP . . .

  Mari is about to follow behind them when she notices that her mom has turned away. She is covering her face with her hands.

  “You okay?” Mari says, coming up next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

  Her mom turns and wraps her arms around Mari. When she pulls away from the embrace, Mari sees that her eyes are brimmed with tears. This scares Mari more than the possibility of killing a giant.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” she asks.

  “Nothing. I just . . . I need to step outside for a moment. Take as long as you want.”

  Her mom rushes out of the heart. Mari pauses to wonder what might be wrong and then follows after her.

  Emerging from the left ventricle, Mari scans the exhibit room. There’s a skeleton slowly riding an elliptical machine to her right, a spiraling display of various animal hearts to her left, but no sign of her mom.

  She walks back into the main atrium, past the gigantic, godlike statue of a seated Benjamin Franklin. The hall brightens and then dims as a cloud passes over the skylights.

  Mari steps out of the museum and onto the top of the marble stairs that lead down to the busy street. The sound of traffic is unusually loud. She squints at the brightness of the day, shields her eyes from the sun, and spots her mom to the left of the staircase. Her mom is sitting on a low wall in front of a sculpture of an early plane’s wire frame. Birds flit in and out of the iron skeleton.

  “Hey.” Mari sits down next to her.

  “Hi,” her mom says. She wipes her eyes with a crumpled tissue and then drops her hands to her lap.

  They sit and watch the traffic pass, the noises weaving together in the air.

  “Want to tell me what’s up?” Mari asks.

  “Sorry,” her mom says, smiling through new tears. “I tried to not cry. But then I saw you with that little girl. And it made me think . . .” She trails off.

  “About what?”

  Her mom sighs. “How someday you’ll have kids.”

  “Maybe,” Mari says. “I haven’t decided yet. I might just be a crazy cat lady.”

  Her mom laughs.

  “But why’d that make you cry?” Mari asks. “Is this about me not wanting to contact my biological mother?”

  Mari’s mom stands. “Let’s walk.” She tilts her head in the direction of a large fountain on the other side of a grassy area in front of the museum.

  Mari stands. Her mom loops her arm through Mari’s. They cross the street and then make their way along the sidewalk, stepping beneath the dappled shadows of trees whose leaves are just beginning to turn.

  They sit at one of the benches along the edge of the circular clearing and stare at the fountain that consists of three large statues, nude figures reclining and facing away from the center. Each one has an animal behind its head that spouts arcing water into the shallow pool. Even though the air carries an autumn coolness, a few kids splash around in the water.

  “I think it’s important for you to contact your birth mother,” her mom says, picking up their conversation.

  Mari’s face hardens. “Why?”

  Her mom hesitates. Looks up at the sky. “I have cancer.”

  She looks at her mom. She feels like she’s fallen into the bottom of a deep well. “What?”

  “I have cancer.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Mari turns away. She gazes into the fountain’s spraying water. Everything seems louder. The fountain. The traffic. The wind in the leaves. But nothing seems real.

  “I started crying back there, in the heart,” her mom says, “because I thought about how I might never get to see you have children.”

  “Or cats,” Mari adds quietly.

  Her mom laughs. “I always thought you were more of a dog person.”

  “Are you going to die?” Mari asks after a moment.

  She shrugs. “I hope not.”

  “What kind is it?”

  She presses her hand across her left breast. “Stage three. The doctor said that I have about a seventy percent chance of survival with treatment—so that’s good news. It could be a lot worse.”

  Mari nods, but her mind flashes to all the times she’s rolled a one or a two with a six-sided die. “What kind of treatment?”

  “Chemotherapy . . . and a mastectomy, most likely.”

  Mari tries to imagine the missing breast beneath her mom’s shirt. “When did you find out?” she asks.

  “The biopsy was last Friday.”

  Mari realizes that was when she drove her mom to the doctor’s office. She remembers the muted talk show. The flatulent old man. The artificial plant that had seemed so real. She had thought nothing of it at the time, figuring it was just a routine visit.

  “They called with the results the other day,” her mom adds.

  “Does dad know? Do Eric and Andrew?”

  “Dad does. We wanted to tell you first since you’re the oldest. Your father and I are going to talk to them tonight.”

  The world darkens as a large cloud blocks the sun. Mari looks up and notes that it will probably be a while before the sun reemerges. It might even rain.

  Mari wants to cry but all she feels is anger. “I hate that this has to happen to you. You’re like the nicest person in the world. Why couldn’t this happen to some child molester or rapist or politician instead? Why does it have to be you?”

  Her mom takes a slow, deep breath. “I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately.”

  “And?”

  “And there’s no answer. It’s out of my control. It just did. It happened.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “The universe isn’t here to reassure us,” her mom says.

  “Then why is it here?”

  “That’s another question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately.”

  “And?” Mari asks.

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

  Mari closes her eyes and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves and spraying the fountain’s spouting water in a mist that carries to Mari and her mom. They do not notice.

  “So this is why you told me about the contact information before my birthday?”

  Her mom nods. “I want to be there for you. To help you work through things.”

  “Do you really think you’ll die before then?”

  “Probably not. But you never know. I don’t want to take any chances anymore.”

  Mari is silent for a while, and then says, “I doubt she’ll want to meet me.”

  “She does.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We’ve been writing each other for years.”

  “And you never told me?”

  “I’m sorry, Mar. It was part of the adoption agreement. I’ve had to provide her with annual updates, and she’s been free to communicate with me. But unless you request it on your own, she can’t contact you directly until you’re eighteen.”

  “Why?” Mari asks.

  “I guess they—the adoption agency—thought you’d be mature enough to handle it by then.”

  “Do you think I’m ready now?”

  “I do.”

  Mari sighs. “So tell me something about her.”

  Mari’s mom opens her purse and pulls out a white envelope. She holds it out to Mari.

  “The contact information’s in here. Along with a letter.”

  Mari takes it. She’s surprised by its lightness. Probably just a single page, Mari guesses. Nothing like the epic letter she had written an
d promptly burned.

  Her mom puts her arm around Mari, squeezes her, and kisses her on the head. “You’ll never know how grateful I am to have been the one to raise you.”

  Mari does not know if she believes in God, but she prays. She prays for light, a light so quiet and so clear, it will sweep over the world and heal everything and everyone.

  Still, though, she cannot cry.

  This Will Not Turn Out Well for the Cat

  Wednesday

  “What happens when we die?” Mari’s little brother asks. He sits cross-legged on the floor, two feet from the television, holding a bowl of soggy cereal. Macadamia is lying at his side, her head resting on her paws and her eyes also on the television.

  On the screen, a cartoon mouse has just used a cleaver to chop a cartoon cat into several pieces.

  Mari is on the couch wearing her mom’s old college T-shirt, its crest faded and cracking from a thousand washings. “I don’t know,” Mari says, because she doesn’t. Despite giving the question a lot of thought in the last day. “People think different things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, religious people think that you have a soul, kind of like a spirit inside of you that lives forever.”

  “Like a ghost?” her brother asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Anyways, they think that after your body dies, your soul goes to an afterlife. If you’re good, it goes to heaven. If you’re bad, it goes to hell.” Mari’s mind flashes back to the one time she went to church with Dante years ago. She had thought it strange how the congregants held their palms to the sky and swayed while praying, as if in a trance. As if anyone could be that certain of anything.

  “What if you’re both?”

  Mari shrugs.

  “How do you know how to be good?”

  Mari shrugs. “Their religion tells them, I guess.”

  “Then it’s easy.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Why not?”

  Mari wonders the same. She wants to play the part of the wise elder, but she feels short on wisdom. She settles on an answer. “Sometimes things get confusing.”

  Andrew spoons cereal into his mouth, some milk from the spoon dripping back into the bowl as he continues staring at the TV. Mouth full, he asks, “Are we religious?”

  Mari shrugs. “Not really. But you can decide what to believe for yourself when you’re older.”

  He turns to Mari. He looks at her with the same sad blue eyes of their mom, so different from the green of Mari’s. “What do you think?”

  Mari considers his question for a moment. “It just kind of ends.”

  “Like closing your eyes?”

  “Maybe.” Mari closes her eyes, trying to imagine it. “Except you probably won’t be able to think or dream anymore.”

  Andrew’s face scrunches as he tries to comprehend nothingness. “So when I die, it’ll be like turning off the TV?”

  She opens her eyes. “Maybe. Nobody knows for sure.”

  “That makes me sad.”

  Mari’s afraid he’s going to cry, but then he turns back to the television and continues eating his cereal. The cartoon cat has come back to life and has captured the mouse. Although the cat is strapping sticks of dynamite to the bound mouse, Mari is certain this will not turn out well for the cat.

  In that moment, Mari decides to cancel Magic tonight. She sends a text out to the group, drawing her attention away from the episode’s foregone conclusion.

  Her phone chirps with a reply from Dante: no problem. everything alright?

  In her reply she lies that everything is all right.

  The next text is from Archie: it’s cool. i’ve got a lot to do tonight.

  Then her phone falls silent. Nothing from Sam. Nothing from Sarah.

  A moment later, it chirps with another message from Archie: hey, want to hang out tomorrow . . . just the two of us . . . ?

  She wonders if it is a joke.

  Does he like her?

  Mari doesn’t know how to respond to the strange request so she just doesn’t. She sets her phone down and turns her attention back to the TV. But the screen is now blank. Her brother and Macadamia have left.

  • • •

  Mari runs her hands along the surface of the tomato’s skin as the water washes over it. Setting it aside, she cleans two more and then pulls out a cutting board.

  Mari’s mom is next to her, quartering raw chicken. Macadamia sniffs around their feet, scavenging for dropped food. The annoying voices of sports announcers spill over from the living room TV. Video game explosions rumble through the ceiling from her brothers’ room upstairs.

  Her mom brings the butcher’s knife down with a heavy thunk.

  Mari sets to dicing the tomatoes.

  Her mom looks over. “Still upset about your friends cancelling another game night?”

  “Of course.” Mari fails to mention that she cancelled it because she doesn’t know how much time she has left with her mom. Why waste it playing some pointless game with friends whose fictional characters she knows better than the people behind them?

  Her mom smiles. “Well, some things are just out of your control. But it’s nice to have you help me in the kitchen. Those boys of ours are useless.”

  Mari shrugs. “It does seem to be a trait of the gender.”

  Her mom finishes with the chicken, pushes it aside, and washes her hands in the sink. She begins opening cabinets and pulls out a few bottles of spices. After setting them out on the counter, she examines Mari’s work.

  “You didn’t cut out the stems first?”

  Mari continues dicing.

  “I’ve told you to cut out the stems first before.”

  “You’ve told me a lot in my life,” Mari says.

  “Sometimes I’m afraid I haven’t told you enough.” Mari’s mom sets to seasoning the chicken.

  As her words hang in the air, Mari wonders if this is how it will be from now on. Every conversation ready to take a turn for the grim. Every sentence ready to foreshadow. Her mom must sense it too because she changes the subject. “So. School starts in a week. Excited?”

  “About as excited as that chicken you’re butchering.”

  “Oh, please. I bet you are. I mean, it’s your senior year.”

  “It’s just school, Mom.”

  “But senior year is absolutely the best. God, I had so much fun! Cheerleading. Student council. Senior trip. Prom. You’re going to love it; I know you will.” She wipes her forehead with the back of her forearm, and then pauses. “There’s so much to do. So much I want to see you do,” she adds.

  “Yup, I really do think they’re going to make me head cheerleader this year,” Mari says.

  Her mom ignores her. “Do you know who you want to ask you to prom yet?”

  “I’d sooner walk into a lake.”

  “What about Dante?”

  “Sheesh, cool your jets, Mom. I tell you what—you can go in my place.”

  “I guarantee you’ll get excited once we start dress shopping . . . and you know, you really should start letting me give you a few style tips. You’re such a beautiful girl. A few small adjustments and you’ll have to fight the boys off with a stick.”

  “I think I had that nightmare once,” Mari says. “Need me to cut anything else?”

  “You really should start dating. It’d be good for you.”

  “Let it go, Mom.”

  Her mom’s eyes brighten. “What about Archie?”

  “I have a knife.”

  “Fine.” She puts her hands up in surrender. “I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

  “Cutting things makes me happy.”

  “Then here,” her mom says, handing her a head of romaine lettuce.

  They work in comfortable silence for the next few minutes. There is no conversation, just the sounds of the kitchen. From the living room, a crowd erupts on the television. Mari’s dad lets out a happy shout. Yay, sports.

  “You read that lette
r yet?” her mom asks.

  Mari sets down the knife and looks up at the ceiling. She wants to make her mom happy, but she’s sick of this topic. She wants to scream at the top of her lungs. She wants to scream so loudly that it will shatter glass, send birds to flight, and set off car alarms.

  Instead she drops her eyes to the chopped lettuce. “I don’t care about contacting that woman, Mom. She’s a stranger. You’ve always been here for me. I want to be here for you. What’s wrong with that?”

  Her mom sighs. “Nothing, honey. Just don’t forget that there are other people out there that need you, too.”

  If I Could, I Would Hug You Back

  Thursday

  Mari clicks through the search results. All the first several websites are laid out in the same way. Neutral or light color schemes meant to exude reassurance. A large, happy logo on the main page. Links on the left-hand side that lead to sections that explain the basic information, the process of diagnosis, the treatment options, support group information.

  The survival rates.

  Mari reads page after page about fatty tissues, mammary glands, the lactiferous sinus, and lymphatic nodes. She encounters clunky medical terms, words like metastasize, lobular carcinoma, chemoembolization. They all sound like demons in some fantasy game. She whispers the words quietly over and over again, until they flow from her lips, hoping that mastering their names removes their power.

  She studies illustrated diagrams of naked female torsos. The beige skin is always lifted from one breast to expose the spidery web of ligaments and ducts radiating from the beneath the nipple. She watches 3D-animation videos that show malevolent, black and purple lumps growing and spreading and then invading other parts of the body. She examines post-mastectomy photographs wherein single breasts hang asymmetrically opposite scars that look like crooked smiles. Mari is certain she will never be able to see another female—or herself—in the same way ever again.

  Mari starts to recognize the same information and the same pictures on website after website. On the search results pages she skips past the links to medical sites and eventually stumbles across a blog kept by a woman diagnosed with stage four breast cancer.