Infinite

by Brian Freeman

  “You think?” Alicia asked. “What does that mean?”

  I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. Then I told her everything. The whole story. What I remembered and didn’t remember. What I’d experienced in the other worlds. What Eve had told me when I’d awakened in her office. Alicia took it all in and didn’t say anything for a while.

  “You saw Roscoe?” she asked finally.

  “Yes. In one world, he was a priest, but in another, he was a doctor, practicing here with you.”

  Alicia glanced at the pictures of her son. “Well, I can see the appeal of what Dr. Brier is offering her patients. I can also understand your being reluctant to leave those worlds behind, if you were able to be with Roscoe and Karly again.”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not sure I have left them behind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those worlds felt every bit as real to me as this one does. How do I know this isn’t just another part of the illusion? I don’t trust what I see, Alicia. I look around, and everything in my life looks and feels right. But then again, it doesn’t.”

  “Well, I remember your whole life, Dylan. If you’re asking me, this is the real world, but I don’t know if that helps you. I probably would have told you the same thing in those worlds, right?”

  “No, it does help. I appreciate it. Eve says the procedure can be disorienting, and that’s probably what’s happening to me. Somehow I have to turn off that experience and turn this world on again.”

  Alicia got up from her chair. She came around and sat on the front of the desk. “If these worlds were as vivid as you say, that will take time.”

  “I know. I just don’t understand how I could lose three weeks of my life. If Eve’s right, I’ve been getting up, going to work, living my life this whole time, right up until I went to her office this morning. Now it’s like those past few weeks have been erased and replaced by the worlds she sent me to. How can that happen?”

  “I can’t tell you that without knowing more about her therapy. But I think there’s more going on here than just Eve Brier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Trauma can affect memory, too, Dylan. You’ve been through a singularly traumatic event.”

  “Karly.”

  “That’s right.” Alicia put a hand on my shoulder. “Let me ask you something. Forget about today. Forget about the past few weeks. What’s the last thing you do remember?”

  I closed my eyes and rewound the clock in my head until the seconds started ticking forward again.

  “I remember being in the river,” I told her. “I was under the water. That was when everything stopped.”

  Finally, I went home.

  In the foyer of our apartment building, I could hear the buzz of Edgar’s game show on the television upstairs. I thought about going to see him, but he was probably asleep. Tomorrow was Thursday, and I’d see him at the Art Institute.

  Inside my apartment, I saw the things I’d expect to find for a man who’d just lost his wife. Flower arrangements were beginning to wilt. Dozens of sympathy cards lay on the table, some opened, some still sealed. Laundry was piled in baskets, and dishes that needed to be done were stacked in the sink. This was the apartment of someone who’d been in a kind of Alaska for weeks, frozen in place, unable to move on. Seeing it all triggered fresh memories, too. The last three weeks didn’t come back, but everything that had happened before Karly and I left on our weekend trip was still here in the apartment, waiting for me.

  We’d argued in the living room that night. She’d lost an earring as she tore at her hair in guilt over the affair. There, on the floor near the fireplace, I saw the glittering diamond stud where it had fallen.

  I’d packed carelessly for our trip, letting a pile of winter sweaters tumble from the upper shelf in our closet. I’d kicked them angrily across the floor. All the sweaters were still there, exactly where I’d left them. Obviously, in the time since then, I hadn’t bothered to pick them up.

  Karly had been playing Ellie Goulding songs before I got home late that night. She’d stopped the music in midsong when she saw me. I remembered what she’d been listening to, a song called “Figure 8.” I started the music again, and the same song took up right where she’d paused the disc.

  There was no way around the truth.

  This was my apartment. This was my world. No other Dylan Moran lived here, just me.

  I went to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. When the lowball glass was full, I stared at the ice rattling around in the vodka like diamonds and then drained it all out into the sink. I did the same with the rest of the bottle. We had an unopened bottle of Absolut in one of the cabinets, and I got rid of that one the same way. I kept going until all the alcohol we had in the apartment was gone.

  Dylan Moran no longer drank.

  While I was in the kitchen, I heard the front doorbell. I had no idea who would be coming to see me, but I went through the apartment and pulled open the door. Detective Harvey Bushing stood on my front step. He was as emaciated as he’d been in the other worlds, and his eyes had the same wily intelligence. In my own life, I didn’t remember him at all.

  Even so, he knew me.

  “Mr. Moran? Detective Harvey Bushing. We met a couple of weeks ago. You called 911 after finding the body of a young woman near the riverbank.”

  “What can I do for you, Detective?” I replied, although two weeks ago was inside the fog that I couldn’t remember. I had no memory of finding a body or calling 911.

  “Well, I wanted to give you the news personally that we’ve arrested the man who murdered Betsy Kern. It was an ex-boyfriend of hers who’d been stalking her for some time. He confessed.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I just wanted to apologize to you. I was a little harsh when I first interviewed you in the park. The fact is, it’s not uncommon for the person who reports a crime like this to be the actual perpetrator.”

  “You were just doing your job, Detective.”

  “I appreciate your understanding. Anyway, the case is closed. I figured you’d want to know that.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “Good night, Mr. Moran.”

  “Good night.”

  I watched the detective retreat down the sidewalk in the darkness. He got into his gray sedan and drove away. On the other side of the street, I could see the trees of River Park, where so much had happened to me in those other worlds. In the horizon sky, over the river, I saw a distant flash of lightning, followed by an extended roll of thunder that made the ground shake. A storm was coming in from the west.

  I closed the door.

  Inside, I sat down in a chair by the fireplace, feeling utterly empty. I bent down and picked up Karly’s diamond earring and rolled it between my fingertips.

  Oddly, it was Detective Bushing’s visit that finally convinced me of where I was. I felt as if one last little mystery had been solved. I’d stumbled upon Betsy Kern’s body during my missing weeks, and that experience had worked its way into my explorations.

  It was over now. The Many Worlds were behind me.

  This was reality, just as Eve Brier had said.

  As that thought struck me, I realized what it meant. I’d never see Karly again. She was really gone. No matter what I’d learned about myself, I was too late to change the past. Once you lose someone, you’ve lost them forever.

  I sat in the chair, cupped my hands over my face, and spent the rest of the night crying for my wife.

  CHAPTER 35

  In the morning, the rain came.

  There was nothing for me to do but start living again, so I drove through the storm to the LaSalle Plaza downtown. Black clouds hung over the city and refused to move. A deluge poured across my windshield, making it almost impossible to see where I was going. The streets became lakes under my tires, and streams ran along the curbs and sidewalks, carrying Chicago debris.

  I got to the office before anyone else, as I
usually did. There was no dawn outside, just darkness. My desk was neat, the way I always left it, and I saw new contracts with my signature on them, reminder notes taped to my monitor, catering orders I’d placed in the past week, and phone messages with customer names for callbacks. I’d been working here for days, even if I remembered none of it. Yesterday, in Eve’s office, appeared to be the only day of work I’d missed.

  There were a million things to do, which made it a typical morning. This was my job; this was my life. I tried to get on with it, but as the early hours slipped by, I found I couldn’t concentrate on any of the details. I picked up the phone and put it down. I turned on the computer and switched it off. The responsibilities that had kept me up nights and forced me to stay late so many times now felt insignificant.

  Something had changed for me. Everything had changed. I had to face the fact that I was not the same Dylan Moran who had worked here for years. The Many Worlds had killed him. He was gone, and he was never coming back. I needed to become someone new, but I still had no idea how to do that.

  Outside, the rain continued to fall, as heavily as it had since it began. I stood up from the desk and leaned against the window frame, watching the drops run down the glass. The city and the lake were hidden from view behind a gray curtain. Despite the raging storm, I felt restless inside. A compulsion or obsession in my mind drew me to leave this place, to drive away into the rain, to find something I’d lost. I was supposed to be somewhere else.

  But where?

  “There’s a flood.”

  I heard a voice behind me and turned around. Tai stood in the doorway of my office, her clothes soaking wet. Her words made me shiver. “What?”

  “Half the downtown streets are flooded. That’s why I’m so late.”

  “That’s okay. No problem.”

  “Good morning, by the way.”

  “Yes, good morning.”

  “How did yesterday go? You were going to try Eve Brier’s new therapy. What happened?”

  Tai showed no reluctance about asking me to share intimate confidences. Once upon a time, I would have done that, but not anymore.

  “It went fine.”

  “That’s all? Just fine?”

  “That’s all, Tai.”

  “Oh. All right.”

  I watched her hesitate, trying to understand why I was acting so distant. She took a step into the office, as if she were debating whether to come closer. Talk to me. Touch my shoulder. Tell me that if I needed anything, she was here for me. If I felt lonely, I could come by for a drink tonight and for anything else that might happen.

  But she saw the dismissal in my face. I couldn’t hide it. When I looked at Tai now, I saw all my mistakes with her come to life. I knew what it was like to sleep with her and share a bed together. I’d seen a world where we were husband and wife, and it was one more bad choice. None of it was real to her, but it was real to me, and I couldn’t get past it.

  “We should talk about the Seaton wedding,” she said, her voice turning cool.

  “Let’s do it later, okay? I have to go out for a while.”

  “Okay. Whatever you want.”

  I turned away toward the window, shutting down our conversation. There was a long pause behind me, and then I heard her footsteps as she left.

  As she did, a voice called from the doorway.

  “Come find me. I’m still here.”

  I spun around. “What did you say?”

  Tai was halfway out the door, and she stopped. “I said, when you get back, come find me. I’ll be here.”

  “Sure. I will.”

  She gave me a confused look and walked away.

  When she was gone, I wasted no time getting ready to leave. I couldn’t get away fast enough. I turned off the lights and closed the office door. My coat and umbrella were in my car in the garage, but I didn’t bother going to get them. I went to the lobby, ignoring the people who tried to talk to me. I had to get outside. I needed space, oxygen, light. I felt as if I were running out of breath, trapped underwater. A beast sat on my chest, weighing me down.

  Tai was right about the streets. They were flooded. The rain on Michigan Avenue flowed six inches deep. Buses and cars plowed through the water, throwing up waves. My drenched clothes clung to my skin, and my hair was pasted down. I had to squint, because the wind drove the torrent hard into my face. Even the summer rain felt ice cold. I headed into the park, which I had virtually to myself, because everyone else was sheltered inside.

  What was I doing here?

  Where was I going? I didn’t know.

  I made my way to the bench near the fountain where I’d met Eve Brier. Except I hadn’t met Eve here. Not really. Not in this world. I sat down and thought: Say the word. That was what she’d told me to do when we were together. Say the word. I said it out loud to the storm, as if I were somehow still locked away inside my head, a doll inside a doll inside a doll inside a doll.

  “Infinite.”

  I held my breath, hoping that my world would transform, but the rainy Chicago day went on exactly as before. Whatever had happened to me was over and done. Why couldn’t I accept the fact that this was the end of the road?

  Why did I keep looking for something more?

  I sat there in the park, a solitary man with the city all to himself. My city. Then I checked my watch, and I remembered with a curse: Edgar. He was waiting for me. Storms, blizzards, and tornadoes wouldn’t keep him from the Art Institute on Thursday. I got off the bench and walked past Buckingham Fountain, which jetted water into the air despite the water pelting it from the sky. I splashed along cobblestones, the city skyscrapers going in and out of low clouds ahead of me. Around me were flowers, trellises, and topiaries, all drowning in the storm.

  When I got to the museum, I hurried up the steps past the stone lions. Inside, tourists escaping the rain crowded the lobby. The smell of wet people got in my nose like the wormy stench of the river. I climbed the grand staircase to the upper level and squeezed through the busy galleries. When I passed La Grande Jatte, I found myself looking for Dylan Moran in a leather jacket. I expected to see his face—my face—eyeing me with a steely blue gaze. I expected all the faces around me to become my face, as if I were back inside the portal.

  Instead, it was an ordinary day at the museum.

  I found Edgar in the wing where he always was. He wore a raincoat and a fedora that had to be decades old. From the back, he looked a little like the mystery man in Nighthawks, whose face you never saw. I navigated the crowd, and he shot me an impatient stare as I came up beside him.

  “You’re late,” he said, his breath engulfing me with its tobacco smell.

  “I know.”

  “I hauled my ass halfway across the city to get here. You’re, what, four blocks away? The bus took forever, and the streets are flooded. My feet are soaked.”

  “Sorry, Edgar. I’m having a bad day.”

  “Well, try being ninety-four, and then tell me what a bad day is.”

  I didn’t want to argue with him. For all our battles over the years, I owed him a lot—for opening up his life to me, for putting food on the table, for taking shit from me as a bitter teenager and not kicking me to the street. He’d played the cards he was dealt, and yes, he complained about getting a bad hand until I didn’t want to hear it anymore. I still loved him. I hadn’t said that to him nearly enough.

  “Why don’t you tell me the story?” I said, putting a hand on his bony shoulder. “That’ll make you feel better.”

  “What story?”

  “You and Nighthawks.”

  Edgar gave me an impatient look. “What are you going on about, Dylan?”

  “The man you saved on State Street when you were a boy.”

  My grandfather clucked his tongue in annoyance. “Saved? I watched a guy get flattened on the street when I was a kid.”

  “What?”

  “Killed right in front of me. I still get nightmares about it.”

  I turned aw
ay from Edgar, and for the first time, I stared at the gallery wall.

  That was when I realized that Nighthawks wasn’t hanging in front of us.

  I took a couple of steps in surprise, assuming we were in the wrong location, but then I looked around at the rest of the wing and realized that we were in our usual place. All the other paintings were exactly where they were supposed to be. But Nighthawks was gone.

  “Where is it?” I asked, more to myself than Edgar.

  “Where’s what?”

  “Nighthawks.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s missing. Nighthawks is missing.” I pointed at the wall, which now featured a painting of the Harlem jazz scene by Archibald Motley.

  “Same painting’s been in that same spot long as I can remember,” Edgar told me with a shrug.

  I shook my head. “No, this isn’t right.”

  I looked around the gallery and found a museum docent on the far wall. I went up to her and asked, “Where’s Nighthawks?”

  She gave me a polite smile. “Nighthawks? You mean the Edward Hopper painting?”

  “Yes, where is it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I assume probably the Whitney or MoMA in New York.”

  “Is it on tour?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  “It’s supposed to be here,” I insisted. “Right on that wall.”

  “Here at the Art Institute?” she said with surprise. “No, I’m sorry, you’re mistaken. You must be thinking of a different painting. We’ve never had Nighthawks on display here.”

  “What are you talking about? Daniel Rich acquired it from Hopper himself in 1942. It’s been here ever since.”

  “Daniel Catton Rich? The former museum director? Mr. Rich died in 1941, sir. He was killed in a traffic accident here in Chicago.”

  I turned away from the docent and bumped into the people around me. I rubbed the dampness on my face; this was sweat, not rain. A tingling went up and down my skin like the fingers of a ghost. I came up next to Edgar again and found myself staring at Motley’s painting, but all I could see in my head was Nighthawks. The lonely people at the diner. The empty city street. I could remember every brushstroke.