Relativity (26 page)

“Good,” Mom says.

“It has momentum now,” I say as it slides from six to five. When it lands on four, I let go of the disk. “Yes!” I yell, but my excitement is quelled as the engine makes a grinding noise, like rusty gears wrenching. “That’s not good,” I say.

Mom doesn’t reply. She seems to be holding her breath with anticipation. When the door opens I notice that she straightens her posture. “This is it?” Excitement and relief lift her voice. “We’re behind the school?”

I nod. “Welcome home.” We step outside. The portal door seals
shut behind us, and we’re greeted by the rumble of thunder. A low, growling warning. An earth-shaking. “This is Universe Four.”

“Ruby …,” she says, her voice trailing off. “I …” She doesn’t know what to say.

“Do you have your phone on you?” I ask.

Mom looks confused. She pats her back pocket. “I do,” she says.

“Think it still works?”

She slides it open and the screen lights up. “Seems to,” she says. “I’ve got bars.”

“Call Patrick to come pick you up.”

Mom nods and holds the phone to her ear. When I hear Patrick pick up on the other end, I take the phone from her. “Hi, Patrick,” I say into the phone. “It’s Ruby.”

“Ruby!” I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Where the hell are you? And where’s Mom?”

I laugh. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I say. “Mom’s right here. She needs you to pick her up in front of the high school.” I give Mom a look. “She’ll explain everything.”

“I will?” she mouths.

“You were just here!” Poor Patrick. The last time I popped into this universe, he was riding bikes with Ruby, and she—poof!—vanished. One minute she was pedaling behind him, the next there was an abandoned bike lying on the ground. “Why do you keep disappearing?”

I lock eyes with Mom. I could tell Patrick about the science, that it’s quantum physics, but instead I tell him the truth. “I don’t know,” I say. “I honestly have no idea.”

He sighs, sounding frustrated. “Look. It’s about time we hashed
everything out,” he says. “No bullshit, once and for all. I set up an appointment with that therapist that the ER doctor recommended. For the four of us. You, me, Mom, and Dad. All of us in the same room at the same time.”

“Listen, Patrick. I want to tell you something.”

“What?”

“You’re going to make an awesome dad someday. You’re just …” I search for the right word. “Good. Thanks for looking after me. For caring so much. It means a lot to me.”

“I wouldn’t know how to act any differently when it comes to you, even though you’re a royal pain in my ass these days,” he says. “I need to find the Jeep keys and then I’m on my way. Hang tight.”

I end the call and hand the phone back to Mom. “You’d better go. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

She looks stunned. “This is good-bye.”

“Yes.” I can see she’s searching for words. “Just don’t bust into an eighties song right now, okay?”

She laughs. “Oh, but there are so many that come to mind.”

“I bet.” I try to force the smile on my lips to stay, but it quickly erodes.

“Ruby, please know that I wish I could go back in time, in your universe, and save myself from that car accident for you.” She takes a step toward me and cups my chin in her hand. “For both of us.”

“Okay.” I can feel my face tighten.

“We’ve been on quite an adventure, haven’t we?”

“Yes.” Tears streak down my cheeks, and I wipe them away. “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.”

“Sweetheart, you didn’t build this contraption, but you need to get home before it stops working.”

“I know.” Mom hugs me, and I whisper in her ear. “Even though I can’t have you, it makes me feel a little better, knowing you’re still out there somewhere.”

She pulls back and puts her hands on my shoulders. “I was thinking of that Robert Frost poem earlier,” she says. “‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both, And be one traveler, long I stood, And looked down one as far as I could, To where it bent in the undergrowth.’”

“‘Then took the other, as just as fair,’” I offer.

Mom nods, and with that, she reaches toward the knob and gingerly touches it with a finger. The spark is alarming, but she remains standing.

“You didn’t need to do that for me.”

She straightens her blouse with her good hand and kisses me on the forehead. “That’s what mothers do. And now you need to go.”

A streak of lightning punctuates her words.

“I love you, daughter,” she says.

“I love you, Mommy.”

I limp backward into the tree, so I can glimpse her during that one final moment before the door closes. Before the door seals shut, and I’m without her once again.

The wheel resists and my hands slip off, landing me in Universe Two rather than One.

I mutter a long string of swear words to myself. Why didn’t I take a minute to find the socks first? They must be in my backpack, or maybe they disappeared along with the crutches. I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to finish turning it, one more notch. But it’s already clanked, so I wait for the door to open. But it doesn’t.

Please work, for just a few minutes longer.

The tree shudders violently, knocking me off-balance. I sink down and sit on the damp floor of the trunk, in darkness.

“Open!” I shout at the door.

I wrap my arms around myself, shivering, waiting. Minutes tick past, and I click on my flashlight, pointing the beam of light on my
right leg. It’s so swollen the denim is stretched across my calf, the pant leg filled with what I can only assume is infected flesh.

I close my eyes and try to remember what the East Bay Café’s golden brownies taste like. I try to conjure the flavor, the sensation of sugar and butter and caramel unfurling across my taste buds. But all I can taste is the stale interior of my mouth.

The emptiness of my heart. The racing of my mind. Take all of it, and add my failed attempt at perfection. The sum of it is nothing but the bare truth: I am motherless, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find anything big enough to fill this vast space.

Right now, though, the inside of the tree feels like just the opposite. Small. Like it’s closing in on me. “Open, door!”

It finally obeys, with a jerking motion. Stuck, then unstuck. As soon as there’s enough room to get around it, I crawl outside, into Universe Two, knowing that Ó Direáin High School is just a short walk away, and so is Patrick’s house on Corrán Tuathail Avenue.

Patrick. He’s big enough to fill the emptiness. But I know I can’t stay here and intrude again. He’s already got a Ruby to take care of, and she needs his help navigating a divorce, and maybe a mother moving to New Mexico before she succumbs to karaoke. Besides, Patrick’s got his own happiness to pursue, without the distraction of a not-quite sister. I wouldn’t want to detract from the glory of his senior year, his last season of football, college acceptance letters. And maybe—if Universe Two is like Four—he’ll buy a clue and realize that a vixen cheerleader is dying for him to notice her.

No. I can’t go running to Patrick. It’s up to me. To figure out how
to make my life complete. To add some new element to the equation, so it all adds up to more than zero. Start a science club at Ennis High or volunteer at the library. Maybe I’ll ask Dad if he wants to take a cooking class together. Maybe I’ll start a math tutoring business and save up for a high-powered telescope, and take advantage of the fact that Ennis has no city lights. Or, better yet, I’ll use the money for a ticket to California to visit George.

Flickers of forked lightning illuminate the sky, and I can see the spire of Ó Direáin High.

This is the last time you have to touch the knob, Ruby. The very last time.

I reach up from the ground and let the tip of my finger—the slightest pad of flesh—connect with the metal. This time the wrath of the electrical shock is exponentially worse. My spine feels pulled in five directions, my head feels split in half. The current rages on, ripping through me. I’m attached to the metal by a lightning arc, then I’m released with a vengeance, crashing to the ground, twisting my bad leg under me.

I’m going to die.

I lie on the ground, aware that the tree is open, waiting for me to reenter. I look up at the canopy of branches, a roof of leaves. Above that, the sky is pulsating with lightning. I think of Dad, and I can hear his voice, calling me downstairs for dinner. I can see him standing at the end of the driveway, pacing, looking for me. I’m almost home.

Hurry, Ruby. Roll over and crawl.

The ground is rough and bumpy, littered with bark. Knuckles of tree roots are like fists in my stomach; they bruise my ribs, assault my
kneecaps. I writhe in agony, belly crawling back toward the tree, dirt in my mouth and under my fingernails as I claw my way. The tree makes a whinnying noise and the ground beneath me trembles.

Back inside the tree, I make my way to the center of the hollowed-out trunk, to turn the wheel one last time. With a reassuring clank, it settles into the position of Universe One. To the position marked

Home.

But the door isn’t opening again.

Hum-hum-mmm
. Loudly, insistently. Waves of vibrations shimmy through the tree, and the droning becomes stronger, more alarming. It reaches a crescendo, and I press my ears closed against the deafening din. The tree quivers, then shakes violently. The humming gives way to a
zzz-zzz
—the sound of electrical shortage. Snaps and sparks leap from the inner walls, lighting the chamber like fireworks on a summer night.

If one of those little flares happens to land on me, my clothes could catch fire. Dozens streak through the interior darkness of the tree. A flickering shower of nascent flames.

I’m lying on a bed of grass. It’s wet, cool against my cheek. The smell of earth—Earth—is a realization that I’m still alive. N
₂
and O
₂
in, carbon dioxide out. Breathe, Ruby. Breathe.

Oh, but the horrific odor. Burned hair, singed flesh. Smoke, soot.

I roll over onto my back and look up at the oak, the ancient portal tree—devastated, torn apart by lightning. Its magnificent canopy is a crooked tangle of black limbs. My breath catches in my throat. It cannot possibly mend itself.

My tree is dead.

I’m not.

Though I don’t remember, the door must have opened one last time, and I managed to crawl out before the tree was completely ablaze.

I close my eyes.

Someone is kneeling over me, shaking me. “Ruby!”

“Patrick?”

“It’s me! It’s your dad.”

My tongue feels too big for my mouth. “Dad?” My voice is gravelly, hoarse.

“Oh, thank God you’re alive. You’re alive!” He grips my shoulders. “Where have you been? What happened?”

“Dad?” My cracked lips tear when I speak, and I taste the blood.

“Ruby, can you open your eyes?” He caresses my forehead, my cheeks. “Oh, my baby! I’m so glad you’re alive. Open your eyes.”

“No,” I whisper. “The sun. It hurts.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. I can feel him slide his arms under my body, like he’s trying to scoop me up.

“No!” I scream. “My leg!”

“Okay, okay,” he says again. “Help is right behind me, on the way.”

“Promise me something, Dad.”

“Anything.”

“Promise.”

“Yes, Ruby, I promise.” His silent tears drip onto my dry lips, and I taste the saltiness. Like seawater. Like Universe Nine. Like the Pacific.

“Take me back to California.”

Silence. The wind rustles something nearby. The cornstalks. “Oh, Ruby,” he says.

He misunderstood. “Not to live there,” I say. “To visit Mom’s grave. I want to plant fresh flowers. White impatiens.”

He cries even harder, his tears streaming down my cheeks, finding their way into my ears. “Okay, okay,” he says. “We can do that.”

“Know something? About Mom?”

“What?” Dad says.

“She’s beautiful. So, so pretty.”

A noise gathers in the distance, moves toward us. Voices, panting, barking. I open my eyes and squint through the early morning sunlight. The cornfields sway. People wearing fluorescent-orange shirts break through the tall stalks. Dozens of people. Dogs pull at their leashes.