Relativity (21 page)

Above, clouds promise to unleash gallons of rain. It’s time to motor. I watch my feet, dodging the tree roots and upended chunks of sidewalk. That’s all I need. Another injury.

“Watch it!” A girl pushing a stroller nearly flattens me.

“Sorry.” I barely glance up, but from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the manicured nails, the shiny purse shoved into the stroller basket, the lip liner, the impractical heels. It’s Kandy. Kandinsky.

“I go by Jennifer now. Do I know you?”

Great. I didn’t realize I said her name out loud.

The little girl in the stroller pops a strawberry into her mouth, pink juice sliding down her chin. She points a finger at me. “Who that?”

“I don’t know, bug,” Kandy says.

“Excuse me,” I say, trying to maneuver around them.

“But you know my name,” Kandy says.

“Just from school,” I say. “You’re a senior, I’m a sophomore.” It’s the only true statement that comes to mind.
You’re my psycho stepsister in alternate realities
doesn’t seem to be the appropriate response here.

Kandy shakes her head. She ruffles the toddler’s hair. “I dropped out of school three years ago. You’ve probably seen me waiting tables at Shanghai.”

“She’s … yours?”

As soon as I ask, I realize the absurdity of the question. The little girl’s got the same almond-shaped eyes, the same fine hair.

“Mommy! Go!” The girl leans forward and rocks.

“Stop it, Maddy,” Kandy says. “You’re splashing my soda everywhere, bug.”

Maddy. Maddy. Maddy from the journal? Wait. So what happened back in Universe One, in Ennis? Why is there a Maddy here but not
there? Was Maddy a miscarriage, an abortion, a stillbirth? Is that why Kandy’s so bitter?

“Hurry up, you two!” A man’s voice comes from a nearby porch. “I don’t want to lose my wife and kid to a lightning strike. Get inside!”

Kandy presses her eyebrows together with concern. “You’d better get going too. Are you close to home?”

“Not exactly.”

The man on the purple porch is a good ten years older than Kandy, maybe more. He’s holding a sippy cup.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Kandy asks. “You’re limping, and you’ve got that huge backpack.”

“Nah.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” she says.

“Ruby Wright.”

Not a single flicker of recognition crosses her face. She pushes the stroller toward the house but seems reluctant to leave me out in the weather. She eyes the sky, the black clouds that flicker, backlit by pulses of lightning.

I hold up my umbrella and smile. “I’m fine.”

Orientation at Ennis High with Mr. Burton—the tour of the antiseptic-smelling cafeteria, the pockmarked football field that reminded me of Hyperion—was Thursday afternoon. Now it’s Sunday, which means it’s been three days since I first walked through the cornfield to the tree, and found it humming, motor on.

That’s all? It seems like a year has passed! Einstein was right. Time is relative. And I’m supposed to be starting school tomorrow, at 7:15 a.m. at Ennis High. Yeah, don’t think so.

My stomach makes a gurgling, eruptive noise. It’s in knots—with worry, with emptiness. Where will I sleep tonight? Is my leg hopelessly infected? When will I eat again? The bacon and toast I downed at Mom’s apartment this morning, back in Universe Four, are long digested. But I can’t seem to digest the dynamics of Universe Six. Mom and Dad never met? Does Dad exist here at all? Is he a chef in
California? Or maybe he was the one who died? I stop walking and watch the trees move in the wind. Their branches bouncing up and down, leafy hands waving. Good-bye, good-bye.

I don’t exist here.

I need to get back to the tree.

Redheaded Ruby’s take-charge voice echoes through me:
You’d better hurry home
. Home? I don’t even know what that word means anymore.

I limp along the sidewalk. The gingerbread houses look less colorful by the minute. The roiling sky casts a muddy, greenish film across everything, making the houses seem menacing, haunted. Inside, lights flicker, then go off. A buzzing noise permeates the air, and the air sizzles with electrical energy.

A blinding lightning flash. Instinctively I duck, throwing my arms over my head.
Bam!
Thunder, packing powerful acoustic waves. Yeah, it’s too close, which means I need to get somewhere safe. This universe has me disoriented, with the cemetery and these Victorian houses that seem to go on and on. Did I walk in a circle? Why didn’t I draw myself a map?

The rain comes. In buckets.

The sidewalk curves around the roots of an enormous oak, and I find myself looking for a door in it, even though I know it’s not my tree. Where is the high school?

Suddenly I remember Mom’s GPS device, and I fish it out of my backpack. Did I mark my coordinates for this universe? I can’t remember. I was so paranoid about getting attacked by a Native American
when I first arrived, I wasn’t thinking straight. Then I took two pain pills. Or did I take three?

Low battery
. I shake the GPS. “Come on,” I tell it, but the screen goes dark. I take the batteries out, then put them back in. Nothing.

Rain streams off the tip of my nose. Mom’s sweater clings to me, soaked. My core body temp seems to have suddenly plummeted, and I’m shivering, teeth chattering. Dark sky and driving rain make it impossible to see. Zero visibility.

I should find a garage and huddle under the awning until this blows over. A porch would be better. Kandy wouldn’t mind. I turn back. Her house was purple, right? I wipe rain from my glasses, but it’s like someone’s holding a garden hose over my head. I take my glasses off and squint. A brick driveway. It must lead to a house, though I can’t make it out through the haze of my myopic vision.

Crack!

My knees tear across the ground, shredding my jeans, the skin underneath. I’m thrown face-first onto the driveway. My glasses crunch against bricks. A tree is on fire. A smoldering odor.

My body is heavy, uncooperative. I pull myself to my feet, stumble, limp, fall. Up again. Stumble. Kandy must’ve hit me. Evil Kandy from home, not the nicer one I just met. She followed me through the tree, she’s been stalking me from universe to universe, and now she clobbered me with an aluminum baseball bat. I look around, shield my head against another blow, but there’s no one. Just me, and the rain.

What’s that smell? That burning smell?

I walk for minutes, maybe hours.

A sign for Arainn Street, then an amazing castle with gargoyles, towers, stained-glass windows. Thick wooden doors, quarried stone floor. Not a castle. This must be the library.

Cold, cold air. I wring my shirt out in a sink. I drink from a faucet. Water, more water. I grip a cold iron handrail, climbing upstairs. I’ll live here. I remember thinking this was heaven, the science section. Yes, I’m in heaven. This can be home.

Science books. Books for pillows. Pillows for sleep.

I’m dreaming of Dad, kneeling on the ground, his jeans streaked with dirt. “That’s some tomato,” he says, pride in his voice. He places his hand gently underneath it, ready to twist it off the vine.

“Don’t!” I say, pulling his arm back. “We need to take photos first. It’s part of the assignment.” I’m in seventh grade, making a report for science class.

Then loud voices interrupt. Doctors and nurses are talking over me, like I’m not here. They speak in disconnected words:
She mumbles nonsense … picking tomatoes … her California ID … called the social worker … Ruby is a runaway … name is Ruby … fifteen years old … tattoo … some cult thing … did she say Mom?

I push their voices away and keep dreaming. “Hurry up with the photos,” Dad teases, pretending to take a huge, noisy bite of the tomato. “I’m ready to eat your science project.”

The light is perfect. California sunshine, cloudless skies. I take closeups and wide-angle photos of the entire garden. There are five little green tomatoes, sprouting, plus the huge red one. “Take some photos of me,” I say, handing Dad the camera.

“Squat down next to it,” Dad says, snapping several shots. “So you’re on the same level.”

The doctors interrupt again.
It’s a good sign she’s mumbling … if she wakes up … neurological damage, post-traumatic amnesia, aphasia …

Dad hands the camera back to me. I scroll through the photos, deleting several and keeping ten good ones. “That should do it.” I grin.

Dad doesn’t hesitate. He plucks the ripe tomato off the vine. “Remember when you made volcanoes with vinegar and baking soda in fifth grade?” he asks.

“Third grade.”

“Well, this is a hundred times better. Remind me to thank your teacher.”

Entry point chest, exit point right foot … burned hair … minimal second-degree burns …

We wash our hands in the kitchen sink, and then Dad slices the tomato into thick pieces. “I like mine with salt,” he says. “Just salt, nothing else.”

“Okay,” I agree.

We bite into the salty-sweet tomato, rosy-red and perfect.

Blood work, electrolytes, and glucose … CAT scan … infected leg
injury … IV course of antibiotics … heart and brain … fresh coffee … want some?

“We got it made, kiddo,” Dad says, ruffling my hair. “Don’t we?”

“No doubt.”

A steady beeping reaches through my sleep, pulls me awake. Why did I set my alarm clock? Where’s the snooze button? No, no. It’s not an alarm—it’s Dad’s cell phone ringing. I was finally able to get a call through to him. Good. I need to hear his voice.

No. It’s that digital monitor—that’s what’s beeping. An IV is taped to the back of my left forearm; on my right index finger is a big white clip. I’m in a hospital room. Kandy must’ve slit my throat or pushed me in front of a moving car.

My mouth is sticky and dry. “Ice cube?”

I don’t think anyone’s in the room to hear me.

“Could I get some Gatorade?” I try louder. “I mean, TriAthlete?”

I stare at the ceiling, hoping to gather my thoughts. Then it comes to me—quite literally—in a flash. I remember the storm, and the lightning bolt. I can see it leaping off the speed limit sign, bouncing off
a tree, then slamming me in the chest. Not a bullet to the chest fired by Kandy, but an electrical power punch courtesy of Mother Nature.

I want to sit up. Where are the controls for the bed? I pat around in the crisp, thin sheets. Where are my glasses? The wall clock is a fuzzy circle, dotted with red shapes that must be numbers.

Give yourself a minute, Ruby. Don’t make yourself lightheaded.

Even though I can’t see it, I mentally watch the second hand sweep around, making a 360-degree turn. Carefully, I pivot and sit on the edge of the bed. I pull my shoulders back, straighten my spine.

Slow down. Count to thirty.

I squint at the clock, but the second hand remains invisible to me. I know it’s there, making another lap. I don’t need to see it in order to know it exists. Ultraviolet light is invisible; gamma rays are invisible; electrons, neutrons, and protons are too small to see. Quarks are even smaller.

Now I put my feet on the floor, my gray hospital socks with rubber treads. I cannot put weight on my right leg. Or on my right foot. The whole thing feels dead. Why doesn’t it hurt more? I know I’m on pain medication; I remember the orange vial. I remember Mom and her apartment. I remember my last trip to the ER, and now I remember Dr. Leonard with his ash-white beard and young face. Did they give me more pain medication here, just now? Maybe I’ve had too much, or maybe it’s nerve damage, and that’s why I can’t feel my leg anymore.

I’m going to have to hop.

On a vinyl chair next to the bed, there are clear plastic bags. One contains my damp, burned-smelling clothes. The other holds my
backpack. Carefully, I wheel the IV stand, and though the tubes are straining, I can reach my backpack. I root through until I find the spare clothes I packed two days ago. Three days? Four? I’m not sure. How long have I been in this hospital room? The shirt is damp, and the jeans smell like a campfire.

And then I find my glasses. What’s left of them. One lens is crushed beyond repair, so I pop it out. The frames sit crookedly on my nose, but through the remaining lens I can see the beeping digital screen where blue, purple, and green lines chart my vitals. My blood pressure is 150 over 60, and I can’t remember if that’s good or bad. I look at the clock again. It’s eight and getting dark outside, so that means p.m. Below the clock is a dry erase board. In blue ink it says
TODAY IS SUNDAY, AUGUST
23.

Can I climb out the window? What floor am I on?

I have a hunch about these EKG leads that are taped to my chest. If I pull them off, an alarm will sound, and a nurse will come. But I’m pretty sure I can pull out the IV without anyone knowing, and then I can get my jeans on, and my shoes. Carefully, I pull the tape away, then slide the thin plastic tubing out. It stings.

It’s not easy with the big clip on my finger—I think it’s for measuring my blood-oxygen—but I manage to get my jeans on without passing out or throwing up, steadying myself on the bed. Bending over to put on my socks gives me a massive head rush.

N
₂
and O
₂
in, carbon dioxide out. Breathe, Ruby.

A nurse walks past my open door but doesn’t enter. The IV left a little, achy hole in my arm that’s leaking fluid and blood. I press the bedsheet hard against it, waiting for it to stop.

Now I’m able to wiggle my feet into my wet shoes, which truly need to be thrown away. I can put a finger clean through my right shoe. Where did that melted-looking hole come from, anyway? Did someone sink a giant cigarette through my shoe? Did the lightning do that? Yeah, of course. It must’ve been the lightning.

I dump out the remaining contents of my backpack. The two science books are soaked, so I throw them in the trash. They were heavy anyway, adding most of the weight to my load. I guess Ruby in Universe Four is going to have more late fees at the library.

The eight-by-ten photo is wrinkled, but otherwise unscathed, and so is my little snapshot of Mom and me when I was a toddler; they were protected by my change of clothes. I keep Mom’s sweater, the grape shampoo, Ó Direáin’s journal, and the gardening gloves. The flashlight still works, but my digital camera won’t turn on. I toss it into my backpack anyway; it might just be the battery. My postcard from George is warped, but I can probably revitalize it with a clothes iron. The LEGO shuttle is in pieces, but I have George’s diagram to rebuild it later.