“I was not freaking out. I merely—”
“The tremor changed things.” Caitlin starts chewing on her lip again, this time so hard I’m afraid it might bleed. “What does the tremor have to do with—” Suddenly, she stops. “What time is it?”
I glance at my phone. “Quarter till one. Why?”
“There’s a train every hour. If we hurry, we can make it.”
“A train? To where?”
Caitlin is already heading toward the stairs. “New London,” she calls. “I’ll explain on the way.”
“After the tremor, a group of physicists in Japan came out in support of his theory. They thought it was at least possible that he was onto something. The Ivies still wouldn’t touch him, but Connecticut College gave him a grant to continue his research at Olin Observatory. He’s been teaching at Conn since January. A bummer for those of us who wanted to take his cosmology class spring semester, but a career-redeeming moment for him.”
We’re sitting side by side on a commuter train, sharing a stale chocolate muffin from the newsstand at the station.
“Westbrook!” comes the conductor’s voice. “Westbrook is next!”
“So Dr. Mann’s theory was about earthquakes?” I ask, confused.
“No, his theory was about the interaction of alternate realities—something he calls ‘cosmic entanglement.’ Basically, the idea that it’s possible for parallel worlds to collide.” At her mention of parallel worlds, the hair on my arm prickles.
“That’s what he thinks the earthquake was? A collision of parallel worlds?”
“The tremor,” Caitlin corrects. “Not an earthquake. And yes. At least according to the article he published in New Science last month.”
My heart begins to pound. “And if he’s right?”
“I only skimmed the article,” Caitlin says, and then pops the last bite of muffin into her mouth. “So we’re going to the source.”
We find Dr. Mann in the F. W. Olin Science Center, a contemporary gray brick building near the center of campus, five minutes into an hour-long cosmology lecture. I drop my bag on a bench in the rotunda, prepared to wait, but Caitlin has already disappeared into the lecture hall. I slip in quietly behind her.
Dr. Mann sees me come in and smiles with recognition. He knows who I am. I, on the other hand, have only a vague image of him in my mind, one that doesn’t do the man justice. I pictured his wild gray hair and ink-stained fingers, but not the intensity of his cerulean eyes. For someone who has to be in his seventies, Dr. Mann has the gusto of a much younger man.
His lecture is surprisingly straightforward. He passes out copies of the syllabus, then launches into what feels like a bedtime story, taking us through the evolution of modern cosmological thought. It’s a compelling tale, made even more so by our storyteller’s German-accented delivery. In fact, I’m so completely absorbed in the narrative that when he stops midsentence and says he’ll see us on Friday, I’m startled. Have we really been sitting here for fifty-five minutes?
“Come on,” Caitlin says. “Let’s catch him before he leaves.”
Dr. Mann is erasing his whiteboard as we approach. “Professor?” Caitlin says politely.
The old man turns and smiles. Up close, he looks more like a sweet grandfather than a nutty professor, and he smells like butterscotch candy. I like him immediately.
“I’m Caitlin Moss,” Caitlin says, extending her hand. “I was a student at Brookside—”
“The student, if the impression you made on the faculty is any indication,” Dr. Mann replies warmly, grasping her hand in both of his. “In four years at Brookside, you received top marks in more than a dozen science courses and won three national physics prizes, yes?”
Caitlin grins. “That’s me.”
The professor turns to me now, and his smile broadens. “Ms. Barnes! What a pleasant surprise.” He takes my hand in both of his. “What brings you to New London?” He winks conspiratorially. “Bored at Yale already?”
“We, uh . . .” I look at Caitlin for help.
“We were hoping you might walk us through the basics of cosmic entanglement,” she says. The old man’s eyebrows shoot up. This clearly isn’t a request he gets often. “Specifically,” Caitlin adds, “the concept of shared reality.” Dr. Mann looks delighted by her request.
“It’s for a creative writing project,” I blurt out. In my peripheral vision, I see Caitlin roll her eyes.
“It’d be my pleasure,” Dr. Mann replies. “Where should I begin?”
“The global tremor,” Caitlin says.
“Certainly,” Dr. Mann replies. “I believe the tremor was caused by what I’ll call an ‘interdimensional collision.’ Simply put, two parallel worlds crashing into each other.”
“But why?” I ask. “Isn’t it more likely that it was just a big earthquake?”
Dr. Mann’s blue eyes sparkle. “Ah, but we know for certain that it wasn’t,” he says. “Earthquakes cause a certain seismic wave pattern. What happened last September simply did not.” I swallow hard, my throat suddenly very dry. “If the tremor was indeed a collision,” Dr. Mann continues, “then I believe the force of the impact may have created a link between our world and the parallel world with which we collided, resulting in an effect similar to the quantum entanglement of particles.”
I gawk at him. “Huh?”
Dr. Mann chuckles. “A perfectly appropriate reaction. It’s one of the greatest oddities in quantum mechanics,” he explains. “When subatomic particles bounce off one another with enough force, they become linked in a way that is not bound by space or time. Whatever happens to one particle begins to have an effect on the other.” The old man smiles. “Einstein called it spukhafte Fernwirkung.” His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. “The ‘spooky action at a distance.’”
Though the room is warm, I shiver.
“And you believe the same thing would happen if two parallel worlds were to collide?” prompts Caitlin.
“Exactly,” Dr. Mann replies with a definitive nod. “I believe that the force of the collision would cause the physical reality of one world to overtake the physical reality of the other, leaving the worlds—and their inhabitants—in a permanently entangled state.”
Permanently entangled. It sounds ominous, but what does it mean? My eyes dart to Caitlin for help. “A concrete example would be useful,” she tells Dr. Mann.
“Of course,” Dr. Mann says kindly. “I’ll use the illustration I give my students.” Caitlin pulls out a notebook to take notes.
“Unlike many of my colleagues,” Dr. Mann begins, returning to his whiteboard, “I believe that every world that presently exists was divinely created at a unique moment in history. If this is true, then the ‘now’ of our world must occur at a different moment in time than the ‘now’ of any other world.” He uncaps a marker and draws two parallel lines. “In our world, ‘now’ is September 9, 2009. But in a parallel world, ‘now’ could be December 31, 2020, or April 9, 1981. Or—”
“September 9, 2008,” Caitlin interjects.
“Ah.” Dr. Mann looks impressed. “The date of the tremor. Of course.” He writes the date beneath the top line and circles it. “That,” he says, pointing, “is the parallel world. And this”— he taps the bottom line—“is our world.” As he scribbles today’s date in shorthand beneath it, my eyes lock on the repeating numbers. 09/09/09. Does the repetition mean something?
“So what would happen—specifically—if these two worlds were to collide?” asks Caitlin. Eager, as always, to get to the point.
“At the precise moment of impact, the reality of the parallel world would replace the reality of our world,” declares Dr. Mann, popping the cap on his marker with a snap.
Beads of sweat prickle on my upper lip. “Replace?”
Dr. Mann mistakes my panic for fascination and prattles on. “I had the same reaction, when I realized the implication. To think that in a single instant, the reality of a parallel world could completely overtake
the reality of our world, wiping out and replacing everything we know and believe to be true.” He smiles broadly. “It’s an exhilarating notion, yes?”
Roller coasters are exhilarating. This, dear man, is terrifying.
“Why can’t it go the other way?” I demand. “Why does the parallel world get to win?”
“Because time only moves in one direction,” Caitlin says before the professor can answer. “The present can’t change the past. The past creates the present.”
“The past of some other world?” I stare at them incredulously. “Come on. We’re talking about the physical world here. Everything can’t just change overnight.” My voice has taken on an I gotcha tone, as if I’ve somehow bested the man with a Nobel.
The professor’s lips curl into an amused half smile. “Are you familiar with Seurat’s Un dimanche après-midi à l’Île de la Grande Jatte?” he asks.
I blink. La Grande Jatte was the centerpiece of my mom’s pointillism exhibit. It was reproduced in miniature on the banner I saw this morning. “Uh, yeah,” I reply, rattled by the synchronicity. “I know the painting pretty well, actually.”
“Is that the big one with all the little dots?” Caitlin asks. I swallow a smile. As soon as Dr. Mann starts speaking my language, he stops speaking hers.
“Hundreds of thousands of them,” Dr. Mann replies. “Arranged in a very particular way to create a very particular image. But if one were to rearrange those dots, that image would become unrecognizable and a new one would take shape. Same dots, same canvas, different picture.” The old man looks at me. “Reality is the same way, I think.”
Somehow, this metaphor strikes me as more concrete than all the science-speak. Maybe because I’m accustomed to this vocabulary—it’s the one my parents spoke at the dinner table every night when I was growing up. Reality as a pointillist painting. That I can wrap my brain around.
“But how could it happen without anyone noticing it?” I ask. “You said this entanglement thing affects everyone. So why does no one but me—” I stop short as the professor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why does no one realize it?” As much as I like this man, I’m not about to become the lab specimen for his wacky theories, even if they happen to be true.
“Shared reality,” Caitlin says before Dr. Mann can respond. “We’re getting our parallel selves’ memories, and our brains are processing them as our own.” She looks to Dr. Mann for confirmation. “Right?”
“Exactly right,” he replies. “If our world has indeed collided with a parallel world, then as your parallel self moves forward in time, your memories are continuously being erased and replaced with your parallel’s memories, causing you to remember her life experiences as though they were your own. Not only the things she has already experienced, but also the things she will experience over the course of the next year,” Dr. Mann explains. “These experiences have yet to happen, but we remember them as though they already have. It’s the way our brains make sense of the gap.”
“And my real memories?” I ask. “The things that actually happened to me . . . ?”
Dr. Mann snaps his fingers. It’s a loud, jarring sound. “Ausradiert! Gone.”
Relief washes over me. This can’t be the explanation, then. If our worlds were really entangled, then I wouldn’t remember the movie, or Bret, or my summer in Los Angeles. And I wouldn’t have just one day’s worth of new memories, I’d have the whole year.
“But there could be anomalies, right?” Caitlin interrupts my thought as if reading my mind. “People who’ve kept their old memories, for example. Or who haven’t gotten a complete set of new ones.”
“I’m counting on it,” Dr. Mann says enigmatically, fixing his eyes on me.
My eyes bolt to Caitlin, but she’s scribbling furiously in her notebook.
Another student approaches Dr. Mann with a question about the lecture. “Excuse me for a moment,” the professor says to us, turning away.
“If my past has been overwritten, why do I remember the way things were before?” My whisper sounds like a hiss.
“You heard what he said,” Caitlin replies, not bothering to keep her voice down. “There are always anomalies.”
I shake my head, unable to accept it. I wanted an explanation, but this is too much. Lunacy would’ve been easier to digest.
“Where were we?” Dr. Mann asks in a booming voice, startling both of us. The student he was speaking to is halfway up the aisle. How much did he overhear?
“Anomalies,” Caitlin replies, holding my gaze.
“To recap,” I say, staring the good doctor down. “You’re telling me that if my parallel self and I are entangled”—I spit the word out like it tastes bad—“then right now I should remember not only the stuff she’s already experienced, but also everything she will experience in the time between her present and mine?”
“You should, yes.” He’s looking at me strangely again. This time, I don’t look away.
“So her future, it’s already determined, then.”
“Ah—good! The very heart of the matter.” The professor grins at me like a schoolboy. “Of course, it’s hard to be certain of these things,” he says, “but in my view, the answer is both yes and no. I believe that at every moment, whether in our world or another, each person’s future is, to some degree, already mapped out. Because each of us is naturally inclined to make certain choices and to go a certain way, there is, in a sense, a default trajectory to our lives.”
“A ‘most likely’ path,” Caitlin offers.
“A most likely path,” Dr. Mann agrees. “Which isn’t to say our fates are sealed. In fact, I believe the very opposite is true. At every moment, each person has the freedom to choose a different path, thereby changing the trajectory of his life. Nothing is set in stone.”
My mind jumps to my own life path. The series of choices that led me to L.A., starting with my decision to take that drama class last fall. That single moment—the seemingly innocuous choice between two electives—radically altered the direction of my life. But I didn’t know that then. I had no idea what hung in the balance that day.
Did she?
“Are our parallel selves real people?” I hear myself ask. “Like, living, breathing human beings?”
“Absolutely,” replies Dr. Mann. “They inhabit a different world, but it and they are no less ‘real’ than we are.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I find that this concept is often the most difficult for students to grasp,” he says then. “If our world has indeed been entangled with a parallel world, you have not become your parallel self. Nor she, you. You haven’t switched bodies or traveled through space. You remain separate and distinct beings, living in two distinct physical worlds. Those worlds have simply become linked.”
“But what does that mean for me?” I ask. “What happens if my parallel self makes some crazy life-altering decision tomorrow? Where will I end up?” I am fighting to keep the panic out of my voice. I am failing.
“That’s the beauty of it,” Dr. Mann muses. “There is no way to know how her choices will manifest in your life until she has already made them. A decision that appears ‘life-altering’ might ultimately not be. Often it is the choices that seem inconsequential that uproot us.” His voice is light and laced with delight, as if he were describing the rules of his favorite card game. “A great deal depends on what sort of person your parallel is,” he says then. “Some people carve a new path daily. Others stay the course for a lifetime. If your parallel is the former sort, it is quite possible you could end up someplace new every day.” He looks at me strangely. “It’s an exhilarating notion, but I’d imagine it’d be quite disconcerting to experience it firsthand.”
My limbs go to pins and needles. He knows.
My pulse starts to race as I envision myself pinned under a gigantic microscope, locked in the back of a lab somewhere. I need to get out of here. Right. Now.
Beside me, Caitlin puts on a breezy smile. “Well, we should probably be going, if we want to make our
train. Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Mann.”
I’m halfway up the aisle. Caitlin practically has to run to catch up with me. “Abby!” she hisses, grabbing my elbow. “Will you slow down?”
“Alcohol. Where can we get some?”
“It’s four thirty in the afternoon.”
I shoot her a look and push through the double doors. “I just found out that my life is being controlled by a parallel version of me LIVING. IN. A. PARALLEL. WORLD. I’d say that warrants an afternoon cocktail.” A guy in the rotunda gives me a funny look. “You know, it’d be a whole lot easier if we just decided I was crazy,” I mutter. “We could just lock me up and be done with it.”
Caitlin puts her arm around me. “Hey, crazy girl, there’s a new pizza place on Crown Street, and word is they don’t card. How about I buy you a pitcher for your birthday?”
“Yes, please.”
Caitlin lays her head on my shoulder. “Whatever happened—or is happening—we’ll figure it out,” she tells me. “Promise.” And for a moment, I believe her.
A pitcher and a slice of pizza later, I feel much better. And relatively normal. It’s my second week of college and I’m tucked in a corner booth with my best friend, eating white clam pizza and drinking slightly flat beer while scoping out the cute lacrosse players two tables over. (Well, I’m scoping. Caitlin is pretending to scope while texting Tyler under the table.) This doesn’t feel like some parallel person’s “potential future.” This feels like my life. Or a version of it, anyway. But how long will this version last?
“Hey. This is supposed to be fun. No thinking about astrophysics at the table,” Caitlin commands, her voice slightly slurred.
“Wow. Did you ever think you’d be the one saying those words to me?”
“Ha! Definitely not.” Caitlin takes a sip of her beer. “Maybe this is God getting back at you for being such a science-hater.” She’s joking, but part of me wonders if maybe there’s something to that . . . if maybe I’m like Ebenezer Scrooge or George Bailey, being punished for not fully appreciating my life.
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