Relativity (7 page)

There’s nothing metastasizing inside your skull, Ruby. What’s the speed of light? 186,000 miles per second. Layers of the earth? Lithosphere, asthenosphere, mesosphere, outer core, inner core. Layers of a peanut buster parfait? Hot fudge, peanuts, vanilla soft serve.

See? You’re fine.

Fine, but confused and disoriented. Because even though I’ve made this return trek once before, my confidence dwindles once I’m five minutes into the field. It’s like being in a carnival funhouse, in a maze of mirrors. Everything looks the same.

I push the giant leaves aside, burrowing through the cornstalks. With every step my shoes make a sucking noise. I pluck the front of my wet shirt away from my stomach and scrub my head, getting the water out of my hair. All the while I’m eyeing the sky, looking for rooftops.

Finally, a fence. Through the rusting iron, I see a greenish swimming pool littered with inflatable toys. A dog barks. A sprinkler ticks behind me, and I barely escape the arc of water. The next backyard isn’t fenced in, so I limp-jog across the patchy lawn and onto the road, passing bent mailboxes and curbside litter.

There’s Dad—pacing the driveway.

“Ruby!” he calls when he spots me. He taps his finger to his wristwatch. “Where’ve you been?”

I jog to him, grinning. “Dad!” I wrap my arms around him and press my face into his chest. “I kinda got lost,” I say.

He pushes me back, holding on to my shoulders, looking me in the eye. “I’ve been worried sick!” The quiver in his voice startles me. “You don’t know this town, or anyone in it yet.”

“I honestly didn’t think you’d notice,” I say. “You were so busy with work.”

“How could I not notice? Willow and I got back from our walk, and you were gone,” he says. “We didn’t know what time you left or where you were headed. You should have left a note. Willow thought you might have walked to that shopping plaza bookstore to get some magazine you mentioned, so I drove there to look. I asked everyone I saw if they’d seen you.”

I thrust my thumb over my shoulder toward the fields. “There’s something I want to show you. I found something.”

Dad looks me over. “Why are you wet? Did you fall into a creek or something?”

My hand goes to my shirt. “There was a thunderstorm.” The jeans that Patrick gave me are wet, but they hide the bandaged gash in my leg. “I need to tell you what’s happened.”

“Thunderstorm?” Dad presses his eyebrows together and looks up at the cloud-covered sky. “It hasn’t rained since last night.”

“That’s what I’m trying to explain! I wasn’t here. That oak tree that’s off in the cornfields—” I stop short. How am I going to recap my afternoon without sounding nuts? “Look, I have to show it to you, otherwise you won’t believe it. I was falling asleep under a tree yesterday when I noticed that—” I fumble again for the right words. “It’s just about a half mile—”

“You were gone all this time because you fell asleep under a tree?” He sounds exhausted, and I notice the dark circles around his eyes. “Don’t scare me like that. Ever again.”

He’s not listening. Maybe I’ll try telling him later, when he’s not so
worked up. “You never minded when I took BART into San Francisco,” I remind him.

“That was different,” he says. “You knew your way around, and you were always with me or a friend.”

I was always with George.

“Did he call today?” I ask. “George?” It would be so nice to hear his voice.

“How would I know?” Dad says, exasperated. “I was out looking for you!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Come on, I’ll warm up some food for you.” He takes my hand like I’m a little girl and leads me up the driveway and into the house. I let him; I’m happy to. Once we’re inside, he nudges me toward the stairs. “Go dry off before you catch pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia comes from bacteria, not wet clothes.” I hesitate, one foot on the bottom step.

“Kandy upstairs?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at Dad. He nods. “Did she, uh, say anything to you today?”

“About how well you’re getting along?”

I’m stunned. How well we’re getting along?

“She mentioned that you chatted this afternoon, and then you disappeared.” Dad shakes his head. “You took off and didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”

Yeah, right. Kandy is the reason I disappeared for hours. She’s the reason my leg is throbbing. Though I guess, in a manner of speaking, Kandy hasn’t seen me all day, or all week. Because she has that endearing way of looking right through me. Like I don’t exist.

“She said we chatted?”

“Yes,” Dad says, heading for the kitchen. “She said you had a very nice talk, and that you’re getting along great. Now go upstairs and change.”

A very nice talk. So that’s how she’s going to play this. What in the world is she up to?

I backpedal to grab my cell phone off the coffee table and then scan my messages as I tiptoe upstairs. There are five missed calls from Dad and three texts from George. Just seeing his name on my phone’s little screen makes my chest feel warm. I can’t open his messages fast enough.

The first is a photo of a golden-colored brownie centered on a white plate. Our favorite dessert at the East Bay Café, loaded with caramel chips and walnuts. I can practically taste its creamy crunchiness. The next text is another photo of the brownie, only this time it’s crookedly cut in two. The subject line reads Bigger half 4 ruby.

The third message shows the brownie again, half-gone. George’s piece has been eaten, crumbs on his side of the plate. This time the subject line says Where IS she???

I’m here, George. I’m right here. I sigh and thumb a message back. Crazy day! Will call u.

There’s no way to explain the tree in a text message, so I don’t even try.

Inside the bathroom, I flip the little dead bolt on the door before peeling off my wet clothes. Gruesome. The Band-Aids are blood-soaked, and the gash stings. I roll the bejeweled, poodle-collar jeans into a ball and shove them to the bottom of the trash can. Good riddance. Under
the sink I find a tube of antibacterial cream, which I glob onto my shin before rebandaging it, and then I wrap myself in a towel.

Luckily, Kandy’s door is shut, and I silently pad into my room unnoticed, tossing my wet T-shirt and underwear onto the floor. Something peeks out from underneath my clothes; it’s the snapshot of me sitting on Mom’s lap. Me with my red-gingham blouse and denim overalls. I must’ve tucked the photo in one of my pockets without thinking, back at that brick house on Corrán Tuathail Avenue. I’m glad I didn’t lose it along the way, though now it’s bent and damp. I study Mom’s forced smile and the sparkle of joy in my toddler eyes.

Are you there, Mom? In that other place?

On my dresser is the faded, out-of-focus photo of Mom and me, the one that I’ve had for eleven years. She’s gazing distractedly off to the side, pensive, wistful. I prop my newly acquired version in front of the old. The new photo is in sharp focus, and Mom is looking straight at the camera. It’s jarring.

“Ruby?” Dad calls from downstairs.

I quickly dress in jeans and a gray sweatshirt and silently make my way down the hall, eyeing Kandy’s closed door as I ease past. I’m holding my breath, taking one stealthy step at a time, when a sudden
boom-boom!
stuns me. The blood drains from my head and I feel woozy. It’s music, pounding.

Now my heart is pounding too. Hammering.

“Your food’s ready!” Dad calls, and I bolt downstairs.

As I enter the kitchen, he’s pulling a dish out of the microwave, and the smell of Indian spices instantly warms me. Somebody—I’m assuming Willow—made a homemade dish with peas and potatoes. A
nice change from the takeout garbage we’ve had all week. I eat in silence while Dad does the dishes. “Amazing curry sauce,” I finally say, mouth full.

Dad nods. “Do you want seconds?”

Before I can answer, he’s scooped another ball of basmati rice onto my plate, and more vegetables. He hands me a cup of hot tea. “So you went for a walk?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.

“Um, you could say that. I cut through the cornfields, and then …” My voice trails off. I’m still struggling with how to tell him. “I’d really love to show you.”

“Ruby, those fields go on for miles. You could get disoriented.” Dad looks at me wide-eyed. “Completely lost!”

“Yeah, I’m aware.”

“They’d have to send out dogs!” He drops a plate into the sink with a crash.

“Would you relax, please? You’re hyperventilating.” Secretly, I’m starting to smile. It’s nice having Dad worry about me. It’s like he forgot about writing gnocchi packaging. He’s thinking about me instead.

“There have been a record number of lightning strikes the past few days,” Dad continues. “The weather people can’t get over it. It’s dangerous out there.”

“Dangerous,” I repeat. Yes, I know. I’ve been to a place with a not-dead mother and a nonexistent brother. To get there, I’ve been through a tree with a door and a steering wheel. The strange inscription over the door could very well be a dire warning.

Dad slides a piece of mail next to my napkin. It’s a postcard. “I don’t know if he called,” Dad says. “But you got this in today’s mail.”

My heart leaps. On the front there’s a photo of a woman walking down a city street. Her head is a computer monitor. I flip it over and read:

Rubes—Saw this and thought of you. Because you have a computer brain. Recognize the street? Miss you
.

George

This is even better than a text message. George’s own handwriting, in smudged blue ink. I study the photo on the postcard and make out the red awning of the East Bay Café.

Dad winks at me.

“What?”

“He likes you,” Dad says.

“I know.” I hold the postcard to my nose, hoping to catch a hint of George’s sandalwood soap, but it just smells like printing ink. “We’re twenty-five hundred miles apart.”

“So what? If you’re meant to be, it’ll work out. You’ll end up at the same college or working in the same city, someday, somewhere.”

“Fate?” I say, rolling my eyes. “You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“Call it what you like,” Dad says. “Fate, destiny, effort, coincidence. True friendship defies distance.”

“That sounds like a headline for an ad,” I say, “for an airline. You should write that down in case you ever need it.”

“For what?” Dad asks over the clanking of dishes. He pulls a soapy mug from the sink and rinses it.

“A headline.” I hand him my dirty plate and grab a clean one from the stack of drying dishes on the counter. I hold my phone over it and take a photo of the empty plate. Then I write George a quick text. Brownie was 2 die 4. Licked the plate clean. Thanks!

“Should I ask?” Dad says.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” He kisses my forehead and drains the sink. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’m on deadline.”

“Gee. What else is new?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know how my computer ended up on the floor, would you?” Dad asks.

“Sorry.” I can picture it crashing to the floor, the second after my shin collided with the coffee table.

“That’s my lifeblood, Ruby.” Dad’s voice turns preachy. “There are hundreds of important files on that hard drive.”

“I said I was sorry.” I turn and leave the kitchen, my face flushed with anger. Some things will never change. “Maybe you should back up more often,” I mumble to myself, though I know he can hear me.

“Ruby!” His voice is a warning; he’s on the edge. “It’s been a long day, so spare me the attitude!”

I wince under his lashing tone. Outside, underneath the cloud cover, the sun is making its way toward the horizon. I glance at the
wall clock and figure we still have a couple hours of daylight. Enough time to take him to the tree. I can just imagine the slack-jawed expression on his face. I’d have to hold him back from stepping inside the doorway, though, because I’m not interested in taking another gamble tonight, slapping down money on what feels like a dubious carnival game—Step right up, sweetheart! Just slip on this blindfold and spin the wheel.

Still, I feel like I need to tell him something—anything—about where I’ve been. “Hey, Dad? I …”

His back is to me; he’s drying dishes. “Let’s just call it a day, all right?”

“Um, but …” But there’s this tree. And I need to show you. “Where’s Willow?” I ask. I could take her to the tree. She noticed that there was a strange vibe about it; she would understand if I told her I needed to show her something important.

“She’s in Cleveland.” Dad clicks the lights off in the kitchen. “She had to meet with a gallery owner and go buy some new brushes and canvases.”

He sidesteps me and sits on the couch, firing up his computer. “I need to put in a few hours and then get some sleep.”

“Sure. I get it.” I take the hint and climb the stairs as quietly as possible, even though Kandy’s music is still blaring. I hold George’s postcard in my hand and reread it.
Miss you
.

I think about calling him right this second to hear his voice, to find out what’s been going on since I left. I’d like to know who he went to the movie with yesterday. I’d thank him for the brownie and tell him about the tree. Er, I guess I’d tell him, but where would I begin?
What would he think? Ruby, you’re off your rocker, cuckoo, mentally disordered, buggy, certifiable.

Really, I can’t tell anyone. Seeing is believing. Otherwise I’m setting myself up for trouble. Dad will rush me to the nearest therapist to talk about my pent-up issues. I can hear it now: She’s been under a lot of stress. She’s just trying to get attention. Is this sort of lying normal?

My bones ache for my soft mattress; I can’t wait to sink my face into my down-filled pillows. The door to my room won’t open, though. A shirt is jammed underneath, strangely. How did that get there? I shove and pull and reach around the door to kick the shirt out of the way.

Paper everywhere. Clothes draped over lamps, cracked DVDs, torn posters. The Hubble book from George is in shreds. My face turns hot. Even the tips of my ears burn with fury. That psychopath trashed my room.

Before I think it through, I storm across the hall to her room. She’s on her bed with a pair of scissors, surrounded by
People
magazines.