Relativity (16 page)

On the other side: Take my time in each universe, looking for the ideal. Mom and Dad could be in love in Universe Five or Seven or Ten. And it’s not like I’m ditching Dad. Not at all. Because Dad will be there. He’ll just be a better version of Dad, one who isn’t glued to a computer screen 24/7. We’ll be together. Everything will be okay. I step away from the door, let my backpack slide to the floor, deciding.

Ruby, the perfect universe might be one spin of the wheel away, and you have to find out.

Okay, I’m going, but … Universe Five can wait until tomorrow at daybreak. That way I get a little more time with this mom, a good night’s sleep, and my medicine. All things I desperately need. It’s a good compromise; it’s a plan.

A half-open closet to my right reveals a tiny stacked washer-dryer, and a bag with the name
RUBY
embroidered across it. Mine, but not mine. Ruby’s bag is full of clothes—a pink T-shirt, a lime-green polo with purple jeweled buttons, and more sparkle-pocket jeans. At the bottom of the bag are flannel pajamas. They’re pink—yippee—but
they’re clean and soft. I take off my smelly clothes, toss them in the washer with some of Mom’s darks, then start the shower. I’m careful not to get my freshly bandaged wound wet, but otherwise scrub myself from top to bottom. Yeah, my leg looks nasty. It’s puffy and tender, but I convince myself it’ll be better in the morning. I breathe in the steam and the grape-scented shampoo, trying to let my nerves unfurl. The moment I’m toweled off and wearing the pink pj’s, the phone rings. The Caller ID says Sally Wright—Mom.

“Hi, Mommy.”

“How’s the pain, sweetheart?”

“It’s throbbing but not terrible. I’m wondering if I chipped a bone.”

“I’ve got your medicine. I’m going as fast as I can, but—oh …”

“What, Mom?”

“There’s this gorgeous buck standing near the entrance to Dublin Estates. I hope he stays away from the road. Okay, I’ll see you in five minutes. Should I stop at the grocery store? I thought I’d make you a big breakfast tomorrow. Can you wait fifteen minutes instead of five? Are you miserable?”

“I can wait fifteen minutes.”

“We should take you back to the hospital for X-rays,” Mom says.

“I’ll be okay tomorrow,” I say, dreading the idea of negotiating parallel universes with my leg in a cast.

“If it’s a fracture, it’s not going to feel better tomorrow.”

Mom hangs up, and anger wells up inside me. I could kill Kandy for chasing me into that table. Though I suppose she could kill me for reading her diary. Whatever. A sequence of events, starting long ago, eventually led to my leg connecting violently with a glass-top coffee
table. I mean, going way back, Willow could’ve bought a soft leather ottoman instead of the table. Or she could’ve arranged the furniture differently.

If it weren’t for a million decisions and variables, I wouldn’t have fled into the cornfields and discovered the door in the tree. I wouldn’t be sitting on Mom’s denim couch, waiting for her to come home to me. It’s like it was meant to be. Maybe I should be thanking Kandy for chasing me? Yeah, right.

I settle back onto the couch, unzip my backpack and open my notebook. I’ve gotta force my eyes to stay open, to focus on the words inscribed above the oak tree’s door:

Gry kbo iye coousxq?

And on the surface of the steering disk:

Wkccsfo cyvkb pvkbo 1864 = Kdwyczrobsm ovomdbsm cebqo. Dboo bodksxon zygob 87 ryebc. Ceppsmsoxd cebqo boymmebboxmo sxmkvmevklvo.

Complex math equations written in abbreviated, encoded form? Several words end in the letter
o
, and there are two identical words: “cebqo.” Before I can make any headway, I hear Mom in the hallway, her key in the lock.

“I’m home,” Mom says, opening the door. “Don’t get up.”

“I won’t.”

She puts down a grocery bag, then pulls a small orange bottle out of her purse. “You’re supposed to take one every four hours, with food.”

“I finished my dinner while you were gone,” I say. “I’m stuffed.”

Mom hands me a sizable pill and a glass of water. “Bottoms up.”

I gulp it down, then motion to my notebook. “I’ve got some homework, then I’m calling it a night, okay?”

Mom ruffles my hair. “You need your rest. The homework can wait.” She peers at my notebook before I can close it. “What was that? Code?”

“Yeah,” I say, fumbling for an explanation. “Just messing around. It’s for, uh, English class.”

“English? I thought it was Mr. McBride who made his classes decode Ó Direáin’s journal. Did you already start the local history unit? I thought he saved that for second semester.”

Ó Direáin’s journal? My mind flashes to his bronze statue in the park, near the fountain. The plaque said he was one of the town’s forefathers. He was the inventor of the lightbulb.

“We, uh, yes,” I stutter. “We started the journal. Already.”

“I have to admit,” she says, smiling, “I love flipping through it at night, right before I fall asleep. I have this fantasy that my subconscious will figure out how to crack those uncrackable codes.”

There are codes in Ó Direáin’s journal? It can’t be a coincidence; Ó Direáin must have had some connection with the portal. He was a scientist! He might have discovered the wormhole and then invented a way to navigate it. Or maybe he created the wormhole himself. I need to get back to the library before I leave this universe, to see if I can get my hands on a copy of that journal.

Mom retreats to the kitchen to put the groceries away. Cabinets open and close. I’m lulled by the sound of water filling the sink, and I start thinking about tomorrow, on the move again. I remember my jeans.

“I washed my clothes, Mom. Can you put them in the dryer?”

“No problem,” she says, heading to the laundry closet.

It’s such a simple, normal thing—Mom doing my laundry—and I feel an unexpected craving, wanting more of it, the sweetness of routine life.

She holds up my wet jeans and T-shirt before tossing them in the dryer. “Where did you get these, by the way?”

“Target.”

She shakes her head. “They look like boys’ clothes.”

I take my glasses off and rub my eyes. Mom is now a fuzzy shape; she’s color and movement in the other room, barely discernible. I think of distant galaxies, hidden worlds, black holes, dark matter. There’s so much of the universe we simply can’t see.

“You okay?” Mom asks. She’s in her pajamas.

“I’m hanging in.”

“I’m going to have a talk with your father,” she says, sitting on the couch next to me. She pats my knee and looks me in the eye. “We should have talked this through better. What do you want, Ruby? Do you want to live with me?”

“What do I want?” I want a universe with you and Dad, and without Willow and Kandy. I want us to be together again. “You, me, Dad. Together.”

Mom gives me a wry smile, her chipped tooth showing. “What about Patrick?”

“He’s fine too. I like Patrick.”

She laughs. “You and your brother are inseparable. You couldn’t live without him.”

But I have lived without him. Just as I’ve lived without you.

Mom starts humming and playing the air drums, apparently once again reminded of an eighties song. “No, you couldn’t survive,” she sings, poking her finger into the air, punctuating the notes she’s trying to hit. “It’s my time, I’ll be fine. There’s a crossroads ahead—”

I hold up my hands, palms forward. “Could we give your inner rock star a breather? What are you trying to say?”

“Look at me, Ruby.” She gestures to her face. Her Cherokee cheekbones. “I’m at a crossroads. My marriage is over. Patrick is leaving for college in less than a year, and then you’re on his heels. No one needs me.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she’s trying to rid herself of a bad dream.

“I do!” I blurt.

“Since when?” She laughs, but it’s riddled with hurt. “Not since you were about eleven.”

The room suddenly feels colder. “I will always need you,” I say, wanting to sound earnest, but it comes out a little angry. How could she think that? Does Other Ruby ignore her? Or take her for granted?

“Sweetheart, I’m not dropping off the face of the earth,” she says. “But I’ve decided to rent an RV next summer and drive out west for a month. I want to see some of the national parks and monuments in Arizona and New Mexico. I want to look for a new place to live.”

“You’re leaving?”

The word “crossroads” rings on—a choice, a splitting of paths. She’s about to make a break for it, from the old road. She’s looking for a better version of reality. Just like I am.

“Not for a year or two, but yes. I’m craving a fresh beginning,” she
says. “I don’t think anyone can blame me for that. Besides, what am I going to do after you kids are gone? End up a regular at karaoke night? Because I can honestly see that happening.”

I imagine Mom with a microphone in her hand, standing on a beer-sticky stage, with tanked, balding guys leering at her. Ugh. No way. That’s not what I want for her.

“But if you and Dad were still in love, you wouldn’t be leaving, right?”

“Of course not,” Mom says. “Everything would be different.”

Exactly.

“That pain pill’s kicking in,” I say. “I’m fading.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Mom says. “We’ll get this worked out. We’ll get the old Ruby back.” She cups my chin in her hand. “My happy-go-lucky, pretty, smiling Ruby. You’ll be okay.”

Happy-go-lucky. I’ve never thought of myself that way. Is that how people see me? Or is the Ruby who’s normally here that much different than I am? Is she pretty and smiling because Mom didn’t die when she was four? Or because she has Patrick dutifully looking out for her?

Mom hands me a down-filled pillow and a fluffy comforter.

“Thanks. Good night,” I say through a tremendous yawn.

Mom kisses my forehead, and I relish the feel of her skin against mine. “Good night, my little girl.” She stands and turns to leave the room.

“Mom? Can you see any stars tonight?”

She walks across the room and parts the curtains. She shakes her head. “Total cloud cover. They’re forecasting another storm.”

Not a second later, a crisp crack of thunder shakes the dishes in
the kitchen cabinets. I suddenly remember something else from Ó Direáin’s plaque. He was killed while experimenting with electricity and lightning.

“I hope that doesn’t keep you up,” Mom says. She pulls the curtains closed and clicks off the lamp. A night-light dimly illuminates the room, making Mom look otherworldly.

“Do you think you could crack that code in my notebook, Mom?”

Mom shrugs. “Probably. Is it a simple cipher? Some of Ó Direáin’s codes were much more complex. But don’t get any smart ideas, because I’m not doing your homework for you.”

What’s a simple cipher? “I don’t know where to start.”

“Mr. McBride probably gave you one of the less impossible passages. So if it’s an alphabetic shift, you can crack it by process of elimination. That could take a long time, though. It’s a lot easier if you have the key.
D
is for ‘decryption.’”

“The key,” I say, suddenly feeling unable to focus or hold a thought. Sleep is settling in like a fast and thick fog.

“
Dors bien, ma douce
,” she says.

“No more French,” I mumble. “I can’t understand it.”

“Sleep well, my sweet.” Mom’s lips brush my forehead again.

I close my eyes and imagine a clear, starry night. There’s Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, and Rigel: the three brightest stars in the Orion constellation. They ground me, make me feel like there’s something reliable and constant in the universe. They’re impossible to miss, no telescope required. You just need to stop what you’re doing and look up.

“Ruby, sweetheart. Wake up.”

I groan.

“It’s after seven,” Mom says. “Are you moaning because you’re sleepy, or because you’re in pain?”

I blink the dryness out of my eyes and look at Mom. Mom! I touch her arm: proof that she’s alive, that all of this—the denim couch, the sunlight streaming through the window, the multiverse—is real.

“How’s your leg?” She lifts the comforter to look underneath, but Other Ruby’s baggy pajama bottoms hide the truth. I pull away before she can get a better look.

“Super.” I smile to convince her.

“Here’s the plan,” she says. “You’re coming with me to school, where you’ll stay in the nurse’s office. I need to give a calculus test first
period and attend a staff meeting second period. Then I’ll take you to the hospital for an X-ray.”

Problem: I already have a plan, and it doesn’t involve going to school or the hospital. “Why don’t I stay here?”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” She pats my hand.

“Isn’t it Sunday?” I ask. “Why is there school?”

Mom’s face turns serious. “What do you mean?”

I’ve said something stupid. There’s something I should know about school and Sundays. “Never mind.”

She searches my face, and my stomach sinks. At any moment she’s going to realize I’m not the right Ruby. I concoct a chipper grin and change the subject. “Are you making breakfast?” The smell of bacon fills the apartment.

Mom nods. “One or two pieces of rye toast?”

“Three. With lots of butter.”

I follow her to the kitchen, limping a little. She flips the bacon over in a skillet on the stove and slides the bread into the toaster.

While Mom’s busy cooking, I use the bathroom, clean my glasses, splash cold water on my puffy face, and gargle mouthwash. Other Ruby’s pink pajamas go into the dirty laundry basket, triple-antibiotic cream and a fresh bandage go onto my wound. There’s something filmy that looks like pus around the raw, red edges. No sign of a scab forming, but maybe it’s too soon for that. Does it matter? I mean, taking a week off to stay here and recover is out of the question. I put on my clean clothes and rejoin Mom in the kitchen.

She hands me a glass of orange juice and my prescription medicine. “Down the hatch.”

We eat quickly and in silence. I can feel Mom’s concern lingering in the air between us. Even though she’s not voicing them, I can hear all her questions. She pushes her empty plate away and bites her lower lip, which gives me serious déjá vu. Has she always done that when she’s worried? Do I remember that gesture from when I was four years old? Yes. I’m sure of it. Dad rubs his temples, Mom bites her lower lip.