The Theory of Everything (23 page)

“You know the real Balzac suffered from fits of mania and depression, right?” Mom said.

Apparently I'd invited mania into my house without knowing it was already there. It made me wonder what else I'd let in by accident.

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Broadway curved and got busier with people, stores and clubs. Maybe one of them was a jazz club where Dad liked to go. Maybe he was in a jazz universe right then, showing horn players the connection between dissonance and mustard, accelerando and roller skates. How everything was linked, like the lines that ran between us. Some of those lines were really close, especially the one between science and sanity.

Buildings blocked my view as I ran into a crowd filled with babies and briefcases, my feet trying to keep up with my mind. As the smells grew stronger, the avenue grew wider and the sky opened up, a big circle of dusk surrounded by TV screens and headlines. NASDAQ and neon. Pepsi, TDK, Toshiba. Toys “
” Us, Bank of America, Target. Drink our soda, watch our sports channel, see our movie. Commercials played right, left and center, creating a constant circle of babble, while real life Statues of Liberty—people wearing green face paint and dresses—posed for photos with tourists who ignored everything else going on around them in their quest to get the perfect shot. People from all over the world came here, to the center of everything, where the apple dropped.

Nine-to-fivers ran by me to catch the train. Suit wearers and purse swingers rushed over me, headed for the first act. It was all bike messengers and bedlam, traffic and travesty, all that was and would always be Times Square.

Finny hadn't texted me back. My heart felt the same as before, and I sensed the dark place in my stomach darkening. The air left, the sky closed in, and a shopping bag hit me in the head. It was hard to think about love while chaos swirled around me, but maybe that was the point. A bike raced by and knocked me onto a bench, so I sat there, absorbing the neon.

“Are you crazy or traveling?” Panasonic asked.

“You think if you prove the Sophie Effect, things will go back to normal?” Sony wanted to know. Sony had a point. My version of normal was different from everyone else's, even before I started seeing things.

A woman in an American flag sweatshirt wheeled a double stroller past me, yelling at her kids. I would have yelled at Dad if he had been there. What if the last time I saw him was the last time I'd
ever
see him?

People poured past me and into theaters, trying to make the evening shows. As quickly as they filled, the streets were now clear. I hugged my knees to my chest and planted my feet on the bench. I was walking the streets he'd walked, trying to fill my heart. Hoping it would fill his. But Dad never tried to find me. Even though Mom kicked him out, he never came after me. He let me drift.

I could have sworn I felt the holes in my heart get even bigger.

And then I remembered something I hadn't been able to remember until now: the night Dad left.

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“But she didn't drink any,” I heard Dad say. I was sitting in the living room doodling while Balzac sat beside me, quiet for the moment.

“No one got hurt,” he said.

“You put a bottle of rat poison in the kitchen cabinet. What were you thinking?” Mom asked.

“It was an accident, fruit pie,” he said. Dad's pet names were always desserts, which I thought was funny. “I was using it, came up to make a snack and left it in the cabinet, I guess.”

“This is a house, not a laboratory,” Mom said. “Our closet is no place for chemistry sets, and samurai swords don't belong next to the toothpaste.”

“I was going to put those away, too,” he said. “I just forgot because—”

“You always forget,” Mom said. “I understand that your brain doesn't work in a linear fashion, but you're not the only one who lives here. I can take care of myself, but what about Sophie? She could have been distracted and spooned rat poison into her milk instead of Ovaltine.”

Balzac meowed. Exactly, I thought. I hated Ovaltine.

“No more mixing work and play,” Dad said. “Next time I'll leave everything in the basement.”

“That shouldn't be a problem,” she said. “Since there won't be a next time.”

Mom poked her head out of the kitchen.

“Sophie, it's past your bedtime,” she said. “Go on up, and I'll tuck you in later.”

I went to my room and buried myself under the covers but couldn't sleep. There was too much yelling. I put on my headphones, but I could still hear them in between songs, crying, yelling and more crying. It was too late to go anywhere else, so I got my sewing supplies, climbed back into bed and turned up the volume to R.E.M.'s
Reckoning.

“It's a Dream Pocket,” I told Balzac, who sniffed my scraps to see if they were edible, which they weren't unless you were a fan of felt. “I hope it works.”

I heard a crash, and Balzac jumped.

“Sophie?” Dad said, knocking on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I said. Balzac flew off the bed and over to Dad. “Are you guys okay?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, but I knew he was lying. “I was dancing with your mom, and a vase fell.”

You and Mom were fighting, and a vase broke, I thought. I wasn't stupid.

“You're supposed to be asleep,” he said, nodding at my supplies. “What are you making?”

“Dream Pockets,” I said, holding up a cloud-shaped piece of felt that was blue on one side, lemon yellow on the other and sewn together with a small opening at the top like a pocket. “You write down a dream, put it inside and put the whole thing under your pillow. When you wake up, your dream comes true.”

“Impressive, my little genius,” he said. “Does it work?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I still have to sew on the buttons and test my theory. It's probably not an exact science, anyway, not like your stuff. Like things might come true, but not right away. Or maybe not in the way you thought.”

“It's beautiful,” he said. “You know, my science isn't an exact science, either.”

“It's not?”

“Far from it,” he said. “There are many things we don't know about our world, but that's okay. That means the possibilities are endless.”

“Here,” I said, handing him a Dream Pocket. “It's not finished, but I want you to have it.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I'll take it with me on my trip.”

“But you just got back . . .”

I wanted him to stay so we could have toast with jam faces in the morning. I promised to be extra quiet so he could sleep late.

“And I will ‘just get back' again,” he said. “Can someone else write the dream for you?”

“Sure,” I said, getting a piece of notebook paper and a red pen off my desk.

“Would you write it?”

“Yes!” I said. And there, in small, cramped letters, I wrote my dream for him. “Travel safely and come back soon.”

I folded it up and put it in the front pocket of his jacket, along with a few other strips of paper.

“Those are so you can write your own dreams on other nights,” I said.

“But I like this one,” he said, looking like he was about to cry.

“Daddy?”

“I'm just tired,” he said. “I better get going, lemon drop.”

Balzac rubbed up against his leg and meowed.

“Even the cat wants you to stay,” I said. “When will you be back?”

I never really cared where he went, only when he would come home.

“Soon,” he said. “I'll see you soon.”

“I'd rather see you sooner,” I said, patting Balzac's head. “We miss you when you're gone.”

“I miss you, too, Sophie,” he said. “No matter what you hear or what anyone tells you, know this: I will always love you. Come here.”

Dad wrapped his arms around me and gave me the biggest hug ever, the kind that smashes your heart into the rest of your organs.

“I love you, too,” I said. “But I can't breathe.”

He laughed, releasing me.

“Be good while I'm gone,” he said. “Listen to your mom, listen to yourself and don't be scared of things you don't understand. Remember—they're just possibilities.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering why he was acting so weird.

I picked up Balzac, and we walked Dad downstairs and to the front door. Mom stood off to the side, arms crossed, lips in a little ball. She'd been crying, you could tell, but she cried a lot lately. She needed a Dream Pocket, too, one that came with a Kleenex inside. Dad put on his captain's hat and opened the door.

“Bon voyage, ladies,” he said. And then he did his good-bye dance and walked down the steps. Just like he always did.

“Bon voyage, Captain!” I said, leaning out the door and blowing him a kiss. Balzac meowed, and Mom went to the kitchen, but I stood in the doorway and watched Dad until he was out of sight, which didn't take long since it was dark outside. It was always sad to see him leave, but it wasn't that big of a deal. He'd be back before I knew it. He always was.

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Tears ran down my cheeks and mixed with the smell of hot dogs and pretzels, the conversations of cabbies and people on cell phones.

Dad didn't come back, but other people came in. And they stayed.

I had Finny, master of best-friend-dom. Even though I hadn't been a stellar friend myself, he was there. Sidewalk chalk and all.

I had Mom, queen of trying to make things better, even when it seemed like she made them worse. Dad was just being himself. And she was just trying to protect me from it.

I had Drew. And even though he was just the tiniest possibility of something, it was something.

And Betty, the other member of the fan club.

Morrissey, who wrote songs about what I was feeling. He made pain sound good.

Einstein, because he belonged to all of us. Without him, the Sophie Effect wouldn't exist. And science might have stayed small instead of what it was now: infinite.

I had Balzac, the cat with the biggest mouth and the even bigger heart.

Peyton, my closest link to Dad. Maybe we'd find our way.

And Walt. Everyone deserved a shaman panda. Guardian angel, sans the wings.

And Dad.

Let them in.

Let them in.

Let them in.

Armor off, heart exposed, holes and all. I wasn't sure I was ready for that.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Finny. It had been vibrating continuously, but I'd ignored it. Just like I ignored what was right in front of me. Love wasn't about just one part—that happy ending you saw in movies and read in books—it was about all of it. Messy, disappointing, imperfect. But you needed it if you were ever going to be whole.

How to Close the Gaps in Your Heart, Part 2
by Sophie Sophia

1. Realize you have awesome people around you who want to love you.
   
2. Let them.
   
3. Show them you love them back. (Actions trump words.)
   
4. Do the forgiveness thing.
   
5. If necessary—and it almost always is—do the forgiveness thing on yourself.
   

Out of nowhere, I wanted to be at that dinner, splashing Finny with red sauce and dangling noodles at Peyton. I wanted to be Sophie minus the Sophie Effect, except that part where I show up. I pressed 1 on my speed dial. Finny.

“Sophie? Where are you! I've been calling and texting and—”

“I know,” I said. “I got stuck in the panda-verse.”

“Oh,” Finny said, his voice expressing how I'd felt when I was in it.

“It's okay,” I said, feeling inside my pocket. A ballet shoe. “Really, it's better than okay. I think I figured it out.”

“Let me come get you,” he said. “I don't have to finish this lasagna.”

“You do,” I said. “And I have to finish it with you.”

“Huh?”

“Are you still on Twenty-third and Broadway?”

“We are, but—”

“But nothing,” I said, hoisting my bag on my shoulder and standing up. “I'm about twenty blocks away. Order me spaghetti pomodoro? I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Take a cab,” I heard Peyton say. “I'll pay for it when you get here.”

I hailed one and collapsed into the backseat. I said I was tired before, but this topped it. This was like exhaustion. La grippe.

“East Twenty-third and Broadway,” I said, taking out my phone again. Mom would hate shorthand, but I was going to text her, anyway.

SOPHIE: See you soon.

MOM: Are you on the train?

SOPHIE: Not yet.

Now that I'd been inside Dad's world, I understood why she didn't want me there. She loved Dad but was afraid of him. Like she'd started to be with me. But I wasn't Dad. And pretty soon she'd know that. My hands shook as I typed.

SOPHIE: I love you, Mom.

And then my phone lit up like Christmas.

MOM: I love you, too.

We never said it to each other, which is probably why it felt so good, like a warm bubble bath after trudging home in the cold. Like finally, I wasn't so alone. And when the cab pulled up in front of the restaurant, I saw Peyton and Finny through the window, waving. Confirming it.