by Beth Revis
The string slips from my fingers, and the image fades to nothing. These strands only show possibilities, not certainties, but I want to know more. The further into the future I go, the more potential futures I see for my family. In one, my mom gets a new job as a hotel manager, and eventually she starts an affair with the concierge and leaves Dad. In another, she starts writing a blog that gets super popular, uses it to fund a trip for her and Dad around the world, and they briefly consider adopting a baby from some third world country before they come home and resume their lives just as they were before they left.
Dad doesn’t change much, not in any of the futures, even the ones where Mom leaves him. He just plods along, never adjusting his job or routine. But then, about fifteen or twenty years out, Phoebe has a baby, and she brings it to Dad, and his whole world starts to shine. It’s like a lightbulb, right there in the timestream. And even though his future still doesn’t seem to change much after that, all of the strings sort of glow with happiness.
Phoebe is the one with the wildly different possibilities for her future. In most of them, she goes to college, but in a few she takes time off to travel—an internship in New York, a backpacking trip in South America, a study-abroad experience in Europe. She gets different jobs too. Magazine writer, art teacher, forensic scientist for the FBI. Maybe Phoebe’s futures are so varied because she’s so young, or maybe it’s just because Pheebs is Pheebs, and she’s always been able to land on her feet, like a cat. But she’s really smart, and these strings prove that she can do anything.
Including, I realize, make mistakes. Some of Phoebe’s futures are . . . not good. In one path, she goes to Boston University, but then drops out for a year to travel around America. She’s usually pretty safe, but at one point, near Wyoming, she hitchhikes and . . .
I don’t want to think about what happens to her there. The abuse she suffers at his hands. No. I force myself to properly name it. The rape. It’s terrifying. My fingers want to pull back from this thread, to find a way to cut it and make sure it never happens, but there’s more to this future than that one horrific moment. There’s another man, a kind one who loves her and never raises his voice at her because he can’t bear to see her flinch. There’s a daughter, a thin girl with dark hair like mine and clear green eyes that are all her own. There’s a dog and a house and a career and friends and travel and happiness. And it’s all wrapped up together, woven into Phoebe’s past and future, irrevocably and literally tied to that moment in Wyoming. I let go of this future’s string, wondering if that family and that life are worth the path it takes to get them. I think, from the way Phoebe held her daughter, they are.
In some of Phoebe’s futures she’s rich, and in some she’s not. In some she marries—in those versions, she almost always ends up with the same guy, although she meets him in different ways—and in some she doesn’t. In several of her futures, she dies young—either from some stupid risk or decision, or from just blind, dumb, horrible luck. Most of her futures give her at least sixty or seventy more years, though, and in one she makes it to 103, with three kids and eight grandkids and even a great-granddaughter.
But the thing that strikes me most about Phoebe’s future is that, of all the possibilities, there’s not a single one that’s definitively right. I cannot pull apart the threads and find the one that’s perfect for her. They’re all perfect and imperfect in different ways, even the one that includes Wyoming. They all have moments of intense joy and intense sorrow. Each decision Phoebe makes, each circumstance she can’t change and must find a way to live with . . . every one ends in a life that’s not really that much better or worse than any of the others. She finds just as much joy in having kids as she does in not having them; in getting a high-paying job as working for pennies in an art gallery; in traveling the world or making one place home. But she finds just as much sorrow in each life too.
After I sort through her threads, I sit back on my bed, and . . . I don’t know, I feel sort of peaceful. It’s weird. I was super anxious before, but this is like a perfect moment of calm. I can’t really help my parents; they’re old, they’ve made their decisions, they made them a long time ago, before I was ever born.
But Pheebs . . . man, Phoebe has a real chance. She has the whole world, a myriad of futures, all within her reach. And it feels a little like a burden has been lifted.
I’ve never really known what I was supposed to do with this power of mine. Stop horrible things from happening? Ensure the right course of events? But I don’t have to worry about Phoebe. There is no right path for her, no wrong path. They’re all just . . . possibilities, and she can pick whichever one she wants. It’s not up to me to change her future, to make sure the right future happens. I’m not responsible for her. I can let her spin-spin-spin away into her own future.
CHAPTER 20
Phoebe
Rosemarie’s house is almost hidden by the trees in her yard. It’s . . . not much. Dad’s in real estate, and he was the one who sold Rosemarie’s family their home three years ago. So he knew exactly what kind of loan they had (and hadn’t) qualified for. On the few occasions when I couldn’t drive, Dad would drop me off at her house, grumbling the whole ride there and then frowning at the trash in her yard and the car that never left the driveway because it didn’t work.
Whatever. I love it here.
There are already tons of cars in Rosemarie’s driveway and yard. I park near the mailbox and walk up to the house. Late wild daffodils bloom in scattered patches, filling in the spotty grass. The front door is mostly open—Rosemarie’s home is always hot—and I don’t bother knocking as I walk inside.
“Bee!” Rosemarie’s little brother shouts, crashing into my legs.
“Hey, Peter.” I rub the bristly ends of his buzz cut. “Nice hair.”
“Rosie did it,” he says.
Peter’s nine years old and what his parents call “precocious” on good days and “annoying as hell” on bad ones. Rosemarie always calls him the latter, but she usually doesn’t mean it.
“Phoebe!” Rosemarie yells from the couch. An episode of some reality show blares over the noise spilling in from the kitchen. I can see Rosemarie’s mother in there, stirring a giant pot of homemade pasta sauce, flanked by at least two aunts, a cousin, and someone I don’t know, all in various stages of baking garlic bread, straining noodles, clattering pots, smashing the oven door closed, and rooting around in the fridge.
“Hey,” I say, plopping down on the big brown sofa beside Rosemarie. Peter crawls over my lap and Rosemarie’s legs to get to the good corner seat of the sectional.
“Can I braid your hair?” Peter asks his sister.
“You know how to braid? I’m impressed,” I say.
Peter nods. “I can French braid,” he says seriously.
“No kidding? Show me.”
Rosemarie scoots around on the couch, turning the back of her head to Peter, who stands up on the cushion and starts finger combing her hair. His face scrunches up as he carefully sections off pieces to braid.
Across the room, I notice Rosemarie’s grandfather scowling at Peter. Rosemarie doesn’t move her head—she doesn’t want to mess up Peter’s braiding—but she glares until he turns his attention back to his beer. She shoots me a look; she’s often complained about how her grandfather pressures Peter to be more manly. I’m glad he doesn’t start a fight. If his biggest worry about his grandson is something as stupid as that, he doesn’t know how good he has it.
When Peter gets to the end of the braid, he realizes he doesn’t have a hair tie, so I pull the elastic out of my ponytail and pass it over.
“Gorgeous,” I say, as Rosemarie turns her head left and right, framing her face Vogue-style. She checks her hair by patting the top of her head, and then she punches her brother in the arm. He falls over laughing for no apparent reason.
Dinner’s a casual affair. Everyone gets bowls until the b
owls run out, then they get Tupperware or plates loaded down with spaghetti and garlic bread dripping with butter, and we all sit wherever we can. Rosemarie and I reclaim the couch along with some of her aunts, Peter sits on the floor, the older relatives take the tables, and Rosemarie’s mom eats standing up by the kitchen counter. It’s both awkward and fun trying to balance a full glass of soda between my knees as I sit on the couch, everyone still moving around me. One of Rosemarie’s aunts, who married “a fifth-generation Italian” from New Jersey, complains bitterly and loudly about the inauthentic garlic bread while licking butter off her fingers and grabbing a third piece. Peter spills his milk on the floor, then Rosemarie’s homophobic grandpa spills his spaghetti down his shirt, and despite all that—or maybe because of it—everyone’s still in good spirits and filling the entire tiny house with talking and laughter. It sounds like family.
After eating, the adults flood the living room, so Rosemarie, Peter, and I escape to Rosemarie’s bedroom. Peter lets us paint his toenails black, but when he smears the polish on Rosemarie’s polyester comforter, we kick him out of the room. We then spend an hour or so Facebook-stalking Joey Albertus, doing an online quiz to see which character on Rosemarie’s show we are most like, and making plans to go to a concert in Boston that neither of us will ever really be able to go to.
An hour after dinner, my phone buzzes. “I’ve gotta go,” I say, reading the text from Mom.
Rosie grabs the phone out of my hand. “She’s just asking if you’re okay and when you’re coming home. Tell her that you’re fine and will be home later . . . like a normal person.”
I grab my phone back. “Nah,” I say. “I gotta go.” I know what Mom really means.
When I get back to the house, Mom’s in the kitchen doing the dishes. She always rinses them with hot water and soap before putting them in the dishwasher, a move everyone in the family tries to convince her is unnecessary. Dad’s already back in his office, and Bo has hung a sheet where his door used to be. I pause by his room, wondering if I should see if he’s up, ask how he’s been, just talk or something. I think about the easy way Peter and Rosemarie live together. Rosemarie would have no problem going into Peter’s room. She’d just walk right in. He’d smile at her and say, “What’s up?” and she’d suggest they do something together, maybe get some ice cream and watch a movie. She’d say . . . No. That doesn’t matter. There’s no point pretending Bo and I could be like Peter and Rosemarie. But if it were me, if it were Bo, I’d say, “Hey, how’s that school? Do you like Dr. Franklin? He seemed nice.” And then I’d say, “I heard a girl in your class died. Are you okay?” And maybe he’d tell me and maybe he wouldn’t, but it’d be something.
My toe stubs against the new gouge in the hardwood floor where Dad dropped or threw down the drill.
I walk past Bo’s bedroom and into my own, putting my earbuds in, cranking up the music, and staring at the ceiling until I fall asleep.
CHAPTER 21
When I wake up in the morning, it takes me a second to remember where I am. That I’m in the bedroom where I spent most of my life.
That’s the weird thing about being at home. Because this is still, technically, my home. If someone asks where I live, I give this address, not Berkshire’s—even though I spend more time at the Berk. The toothbrush I like best is at the academy. I have another one here, but it’s stiff and tastes gross. I have the same shampoo brand in this bathroom as the one in Berkshire, but it’s fuller here, and older, and there’s a crusty rim around the opening where the shampoo comes out.
And I actually have a door at the Berk.
How can this be my home when I’m treated like some sort of criminal here?
I pick the pants I wore yesterday up off the floor and pull them on. Something hard and sharp in the pocket pokes my leg, and I withdraw the smashed USB drive. I start to toss it into the trash can, but I hesitate.
Only the plastic casing was destroyed; the actual drive looks intact, which means I could watch the videos if I wanted to.
It’s just footage of our sessions with the Doctor. No big deal.
Except . . .
It’s footage of Sofía too.
Seeing her on-screen won’t be the same as seeing her in person, but it’s better than nothing. I open my laptop and jam the rectangular end of the drive into the port. Just as I’d hoped, it still works. Folders, each labeled by month, pop up on my screen. All our sessions with the Doc. All those days sitting beside Sofía.
I select one of the early ones at random, and the video starts playing immediately. At first, there’s nothing but an empty room on the screen. No—not empty. The Doctor’s at his desk, so still that for a moment I don’t notice him at all. His brow is furrowed and his eyes downcast. His hands are clasped in front of his face, his knuckles ashy. He looks as if he’s contemplating something . . . dark. He seems almost . . . afraid.
The door opens, and the students stream in—Ryan and Gwen first, then Harold, his eyes darting. I watch myself stroll into the room, cocky.
Then she walks in.
Her footsteps are graceful, like a dancer’s, toe first and fluidity up her legs. But there’s a bashful nature to her movements as well, a hesitating grace, as if she doesn’t believe anyone would ever look at her even when she’s visible. The me on the video screen looks back and smiles at her, and she almost fades away, barely holding on to her opaqueness.
Dr. Franklin has, as usual, set up the chairs in a semicircle around his desk. Harold sits between Ryan and me, and Gwen and Sofía sit next to each other, Gwen pulling her seat closer to Sofía and away from the Doctor. The arrangement has Sofía and me together, as I had hoped we would be.
The session I’m watching wasn’t long before our first date. We were still trying to figure out what we meant to one another. I knew exactly how I felt about Sofía, but I also knew that she was . . . scared.
Not that I understood it then. I was so busy looking at her that I never really saw her. At the time, I had just thought Sofía was shy. But now, through my laptop screen, I can see something else, something beyond the surface, something wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the Sofía on-screen.
I watch the past version of myself shift in my seat, angling my body closer to Sofía’s. I let my hand drop, making a point to brush my fingers against the back of her hand. Sofía jumps and snatches her hand away.
I close my eyes, remembering that moment, the way she faded into invisibility, a transparent blush creeping across her skin.
When I open my eyes, though, Sofía’s still on the screen, her long hair hiding her still very visible face.
That’s not right.
This was the day the Doctor started talking about the history of powered people. I pause the video, forcing myself to recall the exact discussion. Dr. Franklin told us all about famous people in history who had powers. Van Gogh could see auras around people and knew when they were lying or telling the truth. Tesla could control electricity with his hands. Abraham Lincoln was something the Doctor called an “audiopath”—if you could hear his voice, he could alter your mindset and make you agree with whatever he was saying, sort of like hypnotism.
This had been one of the first times the Doctor talked about powers directly, explaining that we could be among the greats. It was the first time I started to truly accept myself and what I could do. It was the first time I started to believe that my powers mattered.
It was also the class that gave me the confidence to experiment more, to show off my powers for Sofía, to take her with me . . . and then leave her in the past.
After the Doctor’s lecture, Ryan had asked if it was possible to learn powers if you weren’t born with them. He was fascinated by Lincoln and wanted to be an audiopath too—I guess telekinesis and telepathy weren’t enough for him. Ryan had tried to convince Harold he was a girl, not a guy, and when it didn’t work, he
instead made his chair float around the room, just out of reach of the Doctor, causing all of us to laugh ourselves silly. Dr. Franklin had to end the group session early.
I unpause the video. Everything I see on-screen—where we’re sitting, what we’re wearing, our facial expressions—it’s all just as I remember it. But as the video plays, it’s all slightly . . . different. The Doc is talking about Van Gogh and the others, but he’s not talking about their powers. I hear the word depressed, I hear bipolar.
And Ryan doesn’t use his powers to make the chair dance. Instead, he calls Harold a little girl and mocks him when he starts crying. When Dr. Franklin reprimands Ryan, he turns violent, picking up a chair and throwing it at the Doctor. One of the chair legs hits the Doctor’s temple, and blood spurts from his head as he collapses on the floor. The girls get up, screaming, and Harold cries harder. The me on the video just sits there, staring, a smile playing on my face.
“This didn’t happen,” I mutter, staring at the screen. None of this happened.
Dr. Franklin doesn’t move. Blood leaks down his face like tears, and it takes him several moments before his eyes open again. He touches the wound and winces.
None of this happened. None of it. Ryan made the chair float, he didn’t throw it. It was something fun and funny, not violent and mean. I don’t recognize the Ryan on the screen, his face scrunched in rage, his eyes flashing, his chest heaving. The Ryan I know is always in control—of himself and usually of others. This person is volatile and evil and totally, entirely chaotic.
I clutch my head, my fingers yanking at my hair. This didn’t happen. I was there. I know what happened, and it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t any of this.
Static crackles across the screen.
I lean closer, looking intently at each figure. At Ryan’s unrecognizably furious face. At Harold, rocking back and forth in his seat. At me and my hollow gaze.