Relativity (22 page)

What seems to have taken the brunt of the water damage is my notebook. The ink has bled, and it’s all but unreadable. My chart of the universes, the codes, the runic line symbols, a few notes about Padraig Ó Direáin. Everything smudged into a blur. With a sigh, I throw the notebook into the trash. The umbrella is gone. I probably dropped it when I got struck. The copied pages from the library—the Ó Direáin street map and Mom’s address from the phone book—are missing too. So is my wallet, my prescription pain pills, the Internet article Patrick gave me, and Mom’s GPS. Maybe the hospital kept them, trying to figure out who I am and where I belong.

Good luck with that.

Ready, set, go! I yank the three EKG leads off my skin. Ow! The whine of the alarm startles me, but it’s the rip of skin that makes me shriek. I pull on my shirt, grab my backpack, and hop.

At first I think it’s because of me. All the commotion. Someone yells, “The trauma is here!” A nurse smacks a button on the wall and giant glass doors part. An ambulance beeps as it backs up to the opening bay. The smell of exhaust fills the hallway. Dr. Leonard and another nurse rush past me like I’m invisible.

The rear doors of the ambulance open with a metallic moan, and a paramedic wheels a stretcher out. As soon as he makes eye contact with Dr. Leonard, he starts talking. “Car accident. The patient is approximately forty years old. Female, unconscious when we arrived.” He rattles off her blood pressure, other vitals.

The ambulance driver joins the other paramedic. “She hit a deer,” he adds.

Right now, all I’m interested in is the wide-open ambulance bay. The perfect escape route. While everyone hovers over the accident victim, I inch toward the door. But as I ease past, the shocked expression on Dr. Leonard’s face makes me pause.

“Windshield wiper,” a nurse says, trying not to sound alarmed, but she is. She snaps latex gloves onto her hands.

Windshield wiper?

My ears fill with a pounding that comes from within. Blood rushes. My heart pumps too much, too fast.

Before I even know what to think or do, I’m pressing my way through the paramedics.

“Mom!” An oxygen mask is strapped across her face, bolsters surround her head, EKG leads connect to a monitor, an IV feeds her saline while blood drizzles out of her neck. “You can’t let her die!”

“What are you doing out here?” Dr. Leonard locks eyes with me. “Get back in your room.” He sounds like an impatient parent scolding a three-year-old.

Mom’s shirt is splattered with red, her pale forehead streaked with it. I want to yank the windshield wiper from her neck, but it would surely cause a flood of bleeding. Like taking the cork off a foaming, angry chemistry vial.

I lunge at Dr. Leonard, grabbing his scrubs, knowing I’ve got fistfuls of his chest hair underneath. “Save her!”

“Security!” He pushes me away and barks at a nurse. “Get her out of here!”

I watch Mom’s chest, hoping to see it rise and fall. But it’s still. She’s dying. They wheel her down the hallway into a room labeled
TRAUMA
. “You have to think of something!” My words are full of spit and tears. No one pays attention.

Parallel universes are quasi-similar. There’s a repeating pattern, with almost identical subpatterns. What happens in one universe, might, could, or will happen in another.

“She has kids!” I call after them.

Patrick.

What if Mom in Universe Two or Four is dying right now as well? Patrick would be leveled. Now I wish I’d explained everything to him. Maybe he would’ve believed me, would have made it his mission to keep Mom safe. Mr. Overprotective would’ve been the perfect bodyguard.

Dazed, I grab a set of abandoned crutches and walk straight out into the parking lot. I’m propelled by sheer adrenaline. I tuck the crutches under my armpits and thrust myself forward.

I hear someone yelling behind me, “Hey kid! Get back here! You can’t leave!” Then I hear her yell at someone else, “The patient from room one has fled!”

In the distance, a bolt of lightning connects with the top of a building—the central spire on the high school. For a moment, the glow illuminates the entire sky, which gives me a chance to orient myself. With each flash, the dark clouds turn luminous, and I adjust my direction, keeping my bearings straight. I feel dizzy and nauseated. Hospital drugs, one-eyed glasses, lightning holes in my body.

Mom. Dying. Again.

Should I turn back, hold her hand until her heart goes silent?

Another crooked finger of lightning touches the school’s spire. Sparks leap off the slate roof like a meteor shower. Ahead, a fence that appears to be black wrought iron blocks my way. Though everything looks dark in this drizzly dusk. Another lightning strike, and I can see tombstones slick with rain. I’m at the rear gate of the cemetery, not far from Ó Direáin’s mausoleum. Navigating with dwindling sunlight and on crutches means I keep tripping over roots and gravestones. I squint, looking for the giant tree, hoping its purple glow will provide a beacon.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I chant, waiting for another vein of lightning to give me a chance at reorienting myself.

Finally, a flash. And there’s a shape. A towering, massive presence that can only be the portal tree. I hurry toward it and the refuge it
offers, even though I know it could easily be a target for the lightning too. Somehow it seems invincible in its size and power. The moment I’m under its canopy, I feel relief. Its massive limbs and thousands of leaves shield me from the rain. Instantly I feel warmer.

“I’m back,” I tell the oak, pressing my face against the weather-worn door, the etched and twisted lines—grid patterns depicting the fabric of space.

My fingertips connect with the metal doorknob, but I hardly care about the static shock. The door swings open and a deafening noise spills from the tree. The flapping of wings, dark bodies swooping and darting. Bats! Hundreds of them pour out of the doorway, sending me to the ground. I can feel them all around me, landing on me, hissing, making an insectlike chirping sound.

“Go away,” I moan, waiting until the tree is empty of them.

Finally, when all I can hear is my own hard breathing, and after my hands stop shaking, I convince myself that it’s safe to continue on.

The portal door opens, and the smell of the air—earthy and sweet—tells me that I’m behind Willow’s house, and that I’ll need to walk through cornfields. My heart sinks, since this also means that Willow is probably in the picture in this universe. And if there’s Willow, there’s Kandy too. But anything is possible. A single variable might have caused events to unfold differently. Perfectly. Though right now, I can’t get the image of Mom on that stretcher out of my mind. Blood-streaked forehead, ghostly white skin. I should’ve stayed with her, stroked the back of her hand until she left me. Until she was gone, again.

I pull a long breath in, trying to keep it together. She’s fine here, Ruby. You’ll see.

My flashlight guides me through the towering cornstalks, hundreds of them standing shoulder to shoulder, their stalks like arms
pointing me in all the wrong directions. The rain has subsided, though the lightning and thunder take their turns, a flash followed by a wave of rumbling. My crutches sink into the wet ground, but I’m afraid to abandon them. With my leg in such bad shape, I wouldn’t make it more than a few feet without them. After struggling for what seems like an hour, my arms are sore, my backpack weighs a ton, and I’m worried. Maybe this universe is different all right, and I’m in the middle of an agricultural empire. Maybe the cornfields go on and on and on. There might be no way out, and like Dad said, I’d be completely lost. I look behind me, but of course the tree is no longer in sight. Why am I doing this? Will I keep finding alternate variations of tragedy, no matter where I go? I feel panic closing in on me, but I shut my eyes and push it away.

That’s when I hear dogs barking. They’re nearby.

I follow the sound, hoping that their owner leaves them outside a while longer. If the night falls silent again, I’ll be left without any sort of guide. A clear night would’ve given me constellations to follow, to use as a compass. But the sky above is a dark canvas. Moonless and blank. The dogs keep barking, and I come to realize that maybe they’re barking at me as I rustle through the field.

Finally, when I reach a grassy backyard, I start to see flickers of light all around me. Am I passing out? How many universes have I been in today, how many miles have I walked? Limped? I must be hallucinating because of the lightning strike. As I reach out in front of me for the dots of light, I realize they’re fireflies. A hypnotic light show, a mini-planetarium. They’re everywhere, glowing on-off-on with yellow bioluminescence.

I’m mesmerized until, in the distance, I hear the whine of a siren, maybe a police car, possibly an ambulance. I hope it’s not for Mom.

I shake the idea and turn my attention away from the lightning bugs. And when I look across the lawn, I can’t help but gasp. This is not Willow’s three-story dilapidated house. It’s the squat brick house from Corrán Tuathail Avenue. I shouldn’t be surprised by this divergence, but it makes my expectations flip. And my stomach.

The dogs continue barking, urging me on, so I follow the fenceline until they’re right next to me, snorting and snuffling through the metal. There’s something about the way they sound. Familiar.

“Galileo!” I shout, realizing who they are. “Isaac!”

I weave my fingers through the fence and they lick me, seeming to know me. Maybe they sense that I’m injured, because they’re whining and straining to get to me.

“Hang tight, guys,” I say.

Not sure what else to do, I go around to the front of the house, looking for the telltale white impatiens, but not seeing them. When I ring the doorbell, I wonder who might answer. Patrick? Dad and Mom together? The house has a stillness about it, no murmurs of conversation, no sign of a TV on. I glance next door, thinking that if the neighbors see me, they might wonder why Ruby is knocking on her own front door. Like a dinner guest, an out-of-town visitor, a complete stranger.

I try the doorknob, but it’s locked. I use my crutches to flip the welcome mat over, but there’s no key hiding there. Finally, remembering how easy it was for me to pop the screen out of the bathroom window in Universe Two, I figure it’s just as simple in reverse.

I’m right. The screen practically falls out with one nudge, and the hard part is getting my damaged leg over the metal window frame. I toss my backpack in first, then crutches, then I crash into the room, shoulder first, bumping against the toilet on my way down.

“Ouch,” I groan, but I’m thankful I didn’t hit my head or the gash on my shin. I pull myself to my feet and open the door, only to find that the hallway is disconcertingly different. There is no family photo, no painted pigs or cows or other Americana decor. I call out toward the family room and kitchen. “Hello?” There can’t be anyone home, after all the racket I just made, breaking and entering.

I find a sliding-glass door that leads outside, so I open it and the dogs come spilling in, tails pounding, panting like crazy, soaking my cheeks with kisses.

“You smell awful,” I say into Galileo’s ear. “Your Ruby needs to give you a bath.” Though I guess I still can’t be sure that there’s a Ruby at all here.

They follow me through the kitchen, almost tripping me as I try to avoid catching a paw under the crutches. When I find the doorway out to the garage, I hesitate, take a breath, wince. Then I open the door. No cars. Also, no moving boxes and no makeshift bed in the corner. Kandy doesn’t appear to be sleeping out here.

“Two dogs, zero Kandys?” I ask the dogs as they follow me back into the house and toward the bedrooms. “So far the math seems good.”

There’s Patrick’s bedroom, with all his football trophies and an unmade bed. The next bedroom is perplexing. A floral quilt is neatly smoothed across a twin bed, and the air smells like cigarettes. I open
a drawer and find a tube of lipstick, cinnamon-scented hand lotion, a pair of socks, and a bunch of bras. Is this Mom’s stuff? I check the nightstand for her book of Ó Direáin’s codes, but there’s a stack of John Grisham novels instead. It doesn’t seem like Willow’s stuff either—no paintbrushes, no canvases. Generic, framed floral prints line the walls. Maybe Dad has a different girlfriend in this universe. As I open and close every drawer and look through the closet, all I find are polyester dresses and vinyl purses.

Where is Dad’s stuff? Is Dad here at all?

My throat tightens, thinking about what this could mean. But I don’t have enough to go on yet. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe I’ll find some clues in Other Ruby’s room.

Just like in Universe Two, her name, my name, is on the door. I immediately look for the
PARIS, JE T’AIME
poster. Not there. No romance novels or yearbooks on her bookshelf, either. This version of myself has latched on to the ruby-red slipper motif. She’s got an entire collection of Oz stuff. It makes me cringe, but I get it. When you’ve got a name like Ruby, people tend to get cute with gifts. I have more than one pair of ruby earrings from Dad, and I don’t even have my ears pierced. He says I’ll appreciate them when I’m older. And somewhere in my moving boxes, I’ve got a stash of Ruby Tuesday gift certificates.

At least she has decent clothes, no bejeweled items in sight. I help myself to a clean pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and I sit down on her bed to take my dirty clothes off. My leg was bandaged so nicely at the hospital, I don’t want to unwrap it to take a look, though I can tell from the swelling it’s not good. There’s also a small bandage on my chest from the lightning. I’m guessing it’s a compact burn wound.

I continue to search the room, looking under the bed and up at the ceiling, which catches my attention. In an instant I know why. There are flecks of glow-in-the-dark paint all over. It’s a star chart, made with a stencil.

“Nice,” I murmur, smiling. I can’t help but close the door and turn off the lights. The bed is piled high with pillows, and the painted stars above me are a comfort. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I allow myself to close my eyes. Just for a second … and then I’m going to check that other bedroom again. There must be a photo album, a passport, a diploma. Something that reveals a name or face.