An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes

by Randy Ribay

  “Sorry, Samwise. Jenny wanted me to meet up with her ASAP.”

  “Bye, then.”

  “Bye.”

  Sam watches her go. He listens to her waning footfalls on the floor that is his ceiling.

  A plastic star falls and lands on his face.

  A Nice Pilipina

  Saturday

  Sam watches the steam rise off his rice. Dishes clink softly around him like white noise.

  “Earth to Sam?” someone calls from somewhere. Grace elbows him in the ribs, and he emerges from his thoughts.

  “Your pather asked you a question,” Sam’s mother says in her thick Filipino accent. She means father, not pather. Even after living in the United States for decades, she’s retained her homeland’s habit of substituting Ps for Fs.

  “Opo. Yes, ma’am.”

  “Lia Santos,” his father repeats. “The Santos’s oldest daughter. Earned a full scholarship to Johns Hopkins. Are you friends with her?”

  Sam shrugs.

  His father looks around the table, a bemused smile set on the corner of his lips. “Don’t you know your Filipino classmates?”

  “I didn’t know I had any Filipino classmates.”

  “Bah. That’s a shame. I knew everyone in my school back in Batangas. I was class president every year.” He beams at the memory while dipping a lumpia roll in a shallow dish containing vinegar and pepper.

  Sam and Grace exchange a knowing look, having heard their father recite this fact a million times. Of course, he always forgets to mention that there were about twenty kids in his village school.

  Forgoing the large bowl of sinigang in the middle of the table, Sam grabs a couple pieces of leftover fried chicken from a plate next to the soup. It was from three nights ago, but that’s how things work at Sam’s house. Food reappears at every meal until all of it has been eaten.

  “How is that essay coming along, Grace?” his father asks his sister, referring to her summer assignment for her advanced English class.

  “Fine,” Grace mumbles without looking up from her food.

  Their father grunts with approval. “Good. You need to keep getting good grades. Then you can get a full scholarship to Princeton. Or Harvard. Maybe in a few years the Santoses will be sitting around dinner talking about you!”

  He laughs, as if this were some joke instead of a thinly veiled jab at Sam’s academic mediocrity.

  Everyone falls back into silence as they continue to eat. Sam tries to finish his meal as quickly as possible so he can return to the basement and text Sarah about hanging out later that night.

  He thinks of last week, when he told Sarah a stupid joke that made her snort with laughter. He then thinks of all the times he made her laugh, and then all the times he fell asleep with his ear pressed to the phone with her at the other end, and then all of the times he held her close as she whispered into his ear.

  That is what matters. Not a summer English assignment. Not grades. Not getting accepted to Harvard. Why doesn’t anyone seem to get that?

  “May I be excused?” Sam asks, pushing his plate away.

  His mother leans forward and examines its contents. She shakes her head. “There’s still meat on that chicken. And pinish your rice.”

  Sam does not want to finish his rice. Always rice. Every meal. He can’t wait to move out and eat like a normal American. But until then, it’s either eat the rice or hear his parents nag him about eating the rice. He douses his remaining portion in soy sauce and shoves a spoonful into his mouth.

  “So,” his mother says, “what are your plans por tonight, Sam?”

  “Hanging out with Sarah,” he answers after he finishes chewing. “Probably.” He hadn’t actually heard from her all day.

  His father takes a sip from his bottle of San Miguel. “I like Sarah. But I think you’re spending too much time with her. It’s distracting you from your studies. Your grades have been dropping.” Sam does not point out that they were never very high to begin with. “And since you have no scholarship, your mother and I think you should start working at the restaurant again so you can save up.”

  Sam shoves another spoonful of rice into his mouth. He really does not want to go back to work at his parents’ restaurant.

  His mother adds, “You can still spend some time with that girl. But maybe less. Besides, it’s not serious. She is not one of us. Your cousins will pind you a nice Pilipina.”

  “I’m done.” Sam pushes away from the table and retreats to the basement. He puts on the original Star Trek and spends the rest of the night exploring the final frontier while waiting to hear from Sarah.

  About the Room

  Sunday

  The next night, Sam has still not heard from Sarah. Every text and e-mail he sent her has gone unanswered. So he finally decides to walk to Sarah’s house, two doors down from his. There’s an unfamiliar white car in the driveway. He makes a mental note to ask her about it.

  He knocks several times before the door opens just a crack. Sarah slides out, quickly closing the door behind her. Her hair is up, loose strands giving her a harried look. Her cheeks are flushed. Her sleeves are rolled up.

  “Hey, Samwise,” she says and hugs him.

  He wants to be mad at her. But she gives him a genuine Sarah-hug. Sarah-hugs are his favorite.

  But after the hug ends, he lets himself be mad at her.

  “Where have you been?” he asks.

  Sam pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it, and hands it to Sarah. She blows the smoke out of the side of her mouth in the shape of a ring. The circle of smoke expands and disappears. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  She says, “Dude, my dad’s on a real cleaning kick. Been mopping and scrubbing and dusting like crazy. My God, the dusting. You ever notice how much dust there is on the top of a door? It’s wild.”

  “It only takes like a second to send a text,” Sam says.

  She takes his hand. “I know. I’m sorry, Samwise.” She leans into him and kisses his neck. It sends shivers down his spine. “Just lost track of time. That cleaning product must have messed with my brain.”

  “It’s okay, I guess,” he says. “I was just getting worried.”

  She passes him the cigarette, and he takes a drag. He tries to blow a smoke ring like Sarah did, but he fails miserably. “So you want to hang out, or what?” he asks.

  “I’d love to, Samwise. But my dad told me I can’t leave the house until we’ve cleaned every inch of it.”

  “How long will that take?”

  She thinks about it. “Let’s chill tomorrow night, okay? We’ll go to the playground.”

  Sam likes the playground. The playground is where they fool around.

  “Okay,” he says.

  She says goodbye and kisses him on the cheek. Then she disappears back inside her house, just as careful not to let him see inside as before.

  Sam puts the cigarette between his lips and walks down her driveway. He passes the white car that he forgot to ask about.

  An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes

  Monday

  “Push me,” Sarah says.

  Sam hops off his swing and gets behind her. He grabs the chains on either side of her seat, pulls her back as far as he can, and then runs forward. He pushes with all his might, passing beneath her feet and moving clear of her arc. She cuts through the darkness like a pendulum.

  Returning to his swing, Sam gets a running start and then gets himself moving. He pumps his legs and shifts his weight until he’s maximized the swing’s potential. He tries to synchronize his movement with Sarah’s, but they’re always off. Sometimes by a little. Mostly by a lot.

  “Jump!” Sarah calls and does just that at the peak of her next forward swing. Her body hangs in the air for a second before plummeting downward, hair flying out behind her. A moment later she lands expertly in the woodchips.

  “Hey, you didn’t jump,” Sarah says, turning around.

  Sam swings back and forth a
few more times and then releases his grip on the chains and lets the momentum carry him off the seat. He sails into the air, and his stomach sinks as his body drops. He lands hard next to Sarah and stumbles forward, falling. He throws out his hands, smacks the ground, and immediately a sharp stab of pain shoots up from his right palm.

  “Shit,” he says, bringing himself back to his feet.

  “You all right?” she asks. She takes his hand in hers and then turns it over.

  There’s a large splinter sticking into his skin just below the thumb. Blood trickles out in a surprisingly constant rivulet.

  “Hold still,” Sarah says. “It’s deep.”

  “That’s what she said,” Sam says.

  Sarah ignores him and extracts a sliver of wood the size of a toothpick. Fresh pain blossoms within his hand. He presses his palm to his mouth and sucks at the wound.

  “Does it hurt?” Sarah asks.

  “A little,” Sam says, his saliva tasting of nicotine and blood. He wipes his palm on the leg of his jeans, and then shakes his hand as if doing so will dispel the lingering pain.

  “Put hydrogen peroxide on that when you get home.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Sam says.

  Sarah holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to help.”

  “You know how you can help . . .” Sam says, sitting back on the swing and pulling Sarah into his lap. He presses his lips to hers. Her mouth is soft and warm. “Want to move to the tree house?” he asks, referring to the play structure that is the centerpiece of the playground. Low walls line the uppermost level of the tree house, shielding the interior from view.

  “Hmm. What time is it?” Sarah asks.

  “I don’t know. Left my phone at home.”

  “Mine’s in the car,” she says, sliding off his lap. “Be right back.”

  Sam spins himself in the swing, frustrated.

  Sarah returns a moment later, eyes on her phone’s screen. “Shit, Samwise. It’s Monday. Archie’s left me like a bajillion texts about D&D. Maybe we should head back.”

  “It’s probably too late now.”

  “They’re going to be pissed,” Sarah says.

  “It won’t kill them if we miss one session. They’ll figure out something. They’re a plucky bunch.”

  “I guess you’re right. Anyways, I should probably get going. It’s pretty late.”

  Sam, remaining in the swing, tries to take her hand, but she resists, still looking at her phone. He assumes she’s reading through missed texts from other people. “What’s going on, Sarah?” he asks.

  Picking up on the worry in his voice, Sarah finally looks up. “What do you mean?”

  “With us. We seem off. You seem off. Is everything all right?”

  Sarah slides the phone into her back pocket. “Yeah . . . I’ve just got something going on right now. Family stuff.”

  Anticipating her need, Sam lights a new cigarette and hands it to her. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really,” she says, taking it from him.

  “Oh.”

  “But I promise I will soon . . .”

  Sam plants his feet and stops the swing from swaying. He looks down and then up into the dark sky. A bird or a bat or something flits by overhead. “Okay.”

  “I can’t believe how long we’ve known each other,” Sarah says, finally settling into the swing next to Sam. “I mean, damn, dude. Who would have thought when we were kids playing around here that we’d be where we are today.”

  “Still at the same playground?” Sam asks.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know,” Sam says. “I’ve been rewatching old Star Trek. I’m at ‘Mirror, Mirror.’ You remember that one?”

  Sarah shakes her head, unable to recall the episode.

  “You know, the one where Kirk and his crew are replaced by evil doppelgangers from a parallel universe? Mirror-Spock has a goatee?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sarah says, though Sam doubts she actually remembers it.

  “Do you think there really are other universes out there?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  Sam looks up at the sky. “Like in Star Trek. Somewhere in the fabric of space-time, worlds just like this one, but different variations. With other Sarahs. Other Sams. Who have goatees and stuff.”

  Sarah shrugs. She slides off the swing and walks over to the teeter-totter. She pushes it down and then sits on the low end, cigarette dangling from her lips.

  Sam follows her. “Maybe there’s one where you never moved to my block. Where we never grew up together. Never walked to school together every single day.”

  “That’d be a terrible universe to live in,” Sarah says.

  After taking the other end of the teeter-totter and lifting Sarah a foot or so, Sam says, “But I can’t help but feel that’s what all of the other ones must be like. That if there really are an infinite number of parallel universes out there, this is probably the only one in which we’re together.”

  Sarah smirks. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s just . . .” Sam hesitates. “I’m not delusional. I know I was lucky that you moved in two doors down from me. If you lived on the other side of town, there’s no way we would have ever dated.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Just look at who you hang out with.”

  “Archie? Dante? Mari? They’re your friends, too.”

  Sam shakes his head. “It’s not like you hang out with them outside of our gaming nights.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m talking about the kids you sit with at lunch. The ones you always go to shows in the city with. Jenny. Ryan. Chad. The others whose names I don’t even know. Honestly, I think I just hold you back.”

  “I’ve been happy with you, Samwise.”

  Sarah’s use of the present perfect tense strikes Sam as ironic.

  “I’ve always expected my luck won’t last,” he says. “I’ve always kind of felt like a plane flying with one engine out, waiting for the other to fail. Just waiting to fall out of the sky. Crash into the ocean. Sink to the bottom of the sea.”

  Sarah steps off the teeter-totter and Sam’s end lowers to the ground. She drops the butt of the cigarette and steps on it.

  “Let’s go home,” she says. “This is depressing as hell.”

  • • •

  That night, Sam dreams that he is in an elevator. The interior is wire-brushed stainless steel, so he sees only a vague blur in place of his reflection. He is not naked and he is glad about this, because he senses that people are often naked in such dreams.

  But there are no buttons at the sides of the doors and no display at the top to indicate the passing floors. There is not even that pleasant Muzak for which elevators are so infamous. There is only the sense that the elevator is descending. Sam waits, eager to see where it will stop, what the doors will slide open to reveal. Several minutes pass and Sam still feels his stomach dropping as the elevator continues to plummet to some unknown level.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he feels the elevator slow and then come to rest.

  The doors slide open.

  In front of him is an expanse of nothingness. Vast and blank. Cold and lonely. Space without the stars.

  Not to Be Deterred

  Tuesday

  Sam knows he is losing Sarah. He senses it as clearly as he does the shifting of the seasons.

  Only, he does not know why.

  Hasn’t he been a good boyfriend? He has always been there for her. When her dad lost his job and things got tough around her house. When her mom moved out. Sam was always there for Sarah. To listen. To console. To cheer up.

  Time and time again, he places her happiness above all else, even his own.

  So why is she pulling away?

  He repositions himself within his cocoon of covers. The Last Man on Earth is playing on TV, but he’s not paying any attention to it. Upstairs, he hears his mom singing along with
a karaoke machine, her voice straining to hit a high note.

  In an astronomically rare moment, Sam decides that he needs some fresh air. He grabs a pair of jeans and a hoodie from the floor. He sniffs them, decides they are acceptable, and pulls them on. He heads upstairs, slips past his mom unnoticed, and steps outside.

  The world is light and noise. The sun shines bright in the clear sky. Kids are outside riding bikes and bouncing balls, reveling in the last days of summer. Sam puts up his hood and pulls the brim down over his eyes to block the sun. He starts walking away from the lively scene.

  After ten or fifteen minutes, Sam passes the last house on the last street in his subdivision. He continues along the sidewalk as it dips into a small patch of trees, the developer’s sad attempt at a nature trail. Still, it is more peaceful, even if it is just a few feet beyond the reach of humanity. Leaves rustle like overhead waves. Birds chirp.

  Sam walks slowly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie.

  Maybe it’s because he’s not trying hard enough.

  Maybe he should try to listen to more of the music she likes. Watch the primetime television shows she prefers. Talk to the friends she sits with at lunch.

  Sam sighs. It all sounds so exhausting.

  Yet he knows he must do something before it’s too late. Or he will lose her. And if he loses her, then who will love him?

  Walking under trees, noting that their leaves will fall within the month, Sam tries to recall every romantic comedy Sarah ever made him watch. He compiles a mental list of every sweeping romantic gesture John Cusack or Hugh Grant or Ryan Reynolds or whatever hapless white guy did to win back the loves of their lives.

  In the end, he decides upon three manageable courses of action, confident that at least one will work. He turns around and starts walking back up the path. After a few minutes, it rejoins the street and the subdivision. A group of middle school boys bike past him, popping wheelies.

  “Loser!” one of them shouts.

  Sam ignores the provocation. He keeps walking until he arrives home and then slips into the basement like a fish returning to the deep.