Relativity (9 page)

Dad clears his throat. “Mom did.”

The thought of Mom hits me hard and morphs into that fresh image of her, that in-focus snapshot of her staring directly into the camera, forcing a smile. Then my mind flashes to that eight-by-ten family photo hanging in that brick house in Ó Direáin.

“You know she loved astronomy,” Dad says. He gets this intense, far-off look in his eyes. “You’ve got her genes, kiddo.”

Another reminder of what’s missing. All these little pieces of Mom. That she loved emeralds, pineapples on her pizza, and the smell of gasoline. That she hated pantyhose and watching the nightly news. You’d think the pieces would go together to make a whole, not more emptiness. But it’s like a black hole. The more matter you feed it, the bigger it gets.

Dad goes on, “She worked at the Leuschner Observatory in Lafayette for about a year. You probably don’t remember. You were really little. Anyway, she liked having good tools to see the universe. You can mistake a planet for a star with the naked eye.”

“I remember when I was a kid, I thought airplanes were shooting stars,” I say. “Meteors.”

“Exactly.” Dad points his dishwashing wand at me to punctuate the point. “Your mother liked to remind me that sometimes things
aren’t what they appear.” Then Dad shakes his head and starts putting dishes into the dishwasher. “Maybe we can get another dog, Ruby.”

I snort. “Kandy would want one of those rodent dogs that you carry around in a purse.”

“We’d get a Lab,” Dad says. “Or whatever you want.”

I push my chair back and hand Dad my dirty plate, shoving another moving box out of the way with my foot. It’s half-open and full of books, dozens of the same book.

I reach down and pull the box’s cardboard flaps wide open.

Parsley, Parsnips, and Paisley: More Inventive Cooking from Alan Wright
.

Alan Wright? That’s Dad’s name. That’s Dad’s photo on the front cover! He’s wearing a paisley apron and holding a wooden spatula, for crying out loud.

I yank a book from the box and hold it in both hands. I hold it hard, like there’s no gravity and it might fly away. My heart pounds as I flip to the back flap. Next to a small, square photo of Dad is this:

ALAN WRIGHT is a regular contributor to
Gourmet
and
Cooking Light
magazines. He is the author of three cookbooks, including the
New York Times
bestseller
Please Pass the Paisley: Artful Cooking with Alan Wright
. He is a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu Program at the California Culinary Academy in San Francisco.

Oh God.

I’m in the wrong universe.

In this universe, Dad doesn’t write ad copy. He’s a chef. He writes recipes. In this universe, Dad went to culinary school.

Frantic, I look around, like I’m waiting for the house to implode. Now I notice. I notice all the differences. The stove is a stainless steel Viking with eight burners. The refrigerator is enormous, like it belongs in a restaurant. I spot a Julia Child cookbook. Back in the other Ennis, we have basic white appliances and maybe one grease-stained cookbook.

My heart races as I scan the room. What else is different here? Who am I in this universe? What is this Ruby like?

“Uh? Dad?” I’m not even sure what to call this guy. I mean, I guess he’s still my father.

“Ruby, you know I’d love to talk more,” he says, “but I’ve got to finalize this pancake recipe.”

“Sure,” I say, glad to have an excuse to flee. “It doesn’t need more cinnamon,” I say as I hurry out of the kitchen. My lungs are tight, my blood vessels clamping down. I’m not a candidate for a heart attack. But I might pass out. Do a total face-plant.

Just calm down, Ruby. Take a deep breath. N
₂
and O
₂
in, carbon dioxide out.

I don’t know what else to do, so I run up to my room to grab my backpack. My room? My backpack? I’m not really sure if I can say “my.” Is there another Ruby that I’ve somehow displaced? Has that Ruby switched places with me, and she’s as confused as I am? Did I completely vanish from home yesterday, and no one knows where I am? What kinds of ripples in space and time am I causing?

I sit on the edge of the bed and try to think. Try to get a grip. The
wound on my leg is throbbing, pounding along with my heart. I stare at my M. C. Escher poster that needs to be hung, one of the few things Kandy didn’t rip to shreds. Escher understood symmetry, negative and positive space, and creating dimension. Mathematical art. Nothing like Willow’s often haphazard smears of dark paint. In this Escher drawing, water appears to be flowing both up and down at the same time.

It’s impossible.

But apparently, sometimes things aren’t what they appear.

Thousands of shadows are cast by the oak’s leaves, making a collective blanket of shade. I stand under the mighty tree, feeling small, kicking nervously at a root that protrudes from the ground. My stomach is heavy with pancakes, lingonberry preserves, and strong coffee. My head is heavy with confusion.

The humming under my feet reminds me that there’s a power source. Some sort of mechanism is running. So where’s the instruction manual? How does this tree work?

I run my fingers over the weather-worn door—the carved and twisted lines, a grid with warps and ripples. The fabric of space. Of course.

What do I know about space-time? What do I know about string theory? Uh, honestly? Not much. I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a chance
to fill my brains at Harvard. No PhD in theoretical physics. Not yet, anyway.

Here’s the not much that I do know: We once thought of an atom as the smallest unit, the most basic unit of matter. But look closer and you find that atoms are made of electrons, neutrons, and protons. Keep looking closer. Protons and neutrons are made of quarks. Quarks are made of vibrating loops of string. As strings vibrate, they warp the surrounding fabric of space, producing black holes, tunnels, and other oddities, like U-shaped universes with shortcuts from one stem to the other.

Turns out Sir Isaac Newton was wrong about space and time. He thought they were constant and predictable. That they behaved themselves and stuck to the rules. He wrote something in the
Principia
about space being immovable. I remember that word. Immovable.

But no. Space can be pinched, torn, warped, or rippled. Which means that wormholes—doorways—could exist.

There’s nothing immovable about that.

I dump out the contents of my backpack and grab my pen and notebook, suddenly realizing that I’ve taken clothes, a wallet, digital camera, and flashlight that aren’t really mine. I pat my back pocket for my cell phone—which isn’t mine either—and realize I left it plugged into the bedroom wall to recharge. That’s fine.

My attention goes to the carved sign at the top of the door, and I copy the inscription into my notebook: Gry kbo iye coousxq? Is it an Eastern European language? Code? Alien?

“Who knows,” I say to no one but myself. It must be important, if
it’s above the door. It could be user instructions. An equation, an explanation. It might be a warning.

I ponder the jumbled letters a few minutes, until my thoughts stray to another topic. I draw a U shape with a few lines that link the left and right stems. I label the lines wormholes. Finally, I draw a chart:

I tap my pen against the page. A thought creeps into my brain. A crazy possibility. What if I go back to Universe Two? To take scientific notes and, well … see if Mom is there.

Please, Ruby.

It’s absurd. It’s frighteningly irrational.

Let it go.

“She’s dead!” I say. I hate the sound of that word, and I wish I hadn’t said it out loud. She’s gone. Unreachable.

Okay, so what if I stay here in Universe Three? It’s almost right. I mean, it’s just that Dad’s a successful chef and not a stressed-out copywriting fool. I think about his gray hair, and how he has less of it here in Universe Three. He looks younger in other ways too. Fewer wrinkles, smoother skin. Maybe Chef Dad is happier than Copywriting Dad. Maybe he’s had an easier life. He’s been eating better food, no doubt.

Big questions: Did we ever go to Jewel Cave in South Dakota? Did we camp at Mount Tamalpais last year for my birthday? Did we see that cougar attack a deer? Did we plant tomatoes for my seventh-grade science project? Did we slice them and shower them with salt and call it dinner?

My memories, my experiences are at stake. In this universe, what never happened?

Because, while Dad was in culinary school, he would have met people, frequented different places, and followed paths that wouldn’t have presented themselves otherwise. It’s not just the kitchen appliances at Willow’s that are different here, that much is certain. The more I think about it, the less I like the idea of staying. It seems like a footnote, no big deal—it’s just Dad’s job—but there’s the inevitable ripple effect, the butterfly effect: the seemingly insignificant flapping of a butterfly’s wings can effect an atmospheric change, which can alter the path of a tornado. Little alterations, big repercussions.

It’s clear—I need to get home. Back to Universe One.

The digital camera is armed with a fresh battery and memory card, so I click away, taking photos of the door, doorknob, and the inscription: Gry kbo iye coousxq?

I can’t think of anything else to do, as much as I’d like to put off the inevitable. But it’s time. Time to go through the portal. My hands turn clammy. My stomach churns. I hate this. I hate not knowing how to control the tree. I hate not knowing where I’ll end up.

From the front pocket of my backpack I pull out gardening gloves, the kind with little rubber bumps all over them. I grabbed them on my way past Chef Dad’s fledgling backyard herb garden, and I tug them onto my hands now so I won’t have to endure the zap of the doorknob.

I place a single finger on the knob, but nothing happens. Wincing, not sure what to expect, I grip it with my entire palm. No spark, no shock, and the door still doesn’t open. When I attempt to turn the knob, it won’t budge.

“Must you be so difficult?” I groan.

It seems to require a charge exchange, so I have to use my bare skin. I reluctantly pull the gloves off and touch the metal. A lightning-spark leaps.

“Not nice,” I say to the tree, flexing my fingers. The door creaks open; a whoosh of air ruffles my shirt. Oh, man. That smell! Decaying bark, stagnant water, mildew. I search through my backpack, find a sock, and cover my nose and mouth. Flashlight on, I wait for the door to seal shut. Slivers of daylight make their way around the doorframe for a final second, and then the darkness is total, and deep-bone creepy.
Even with the beam of the flashlight, I feel consumed by it. Panic begins to kick in, and I have to remind myself to breathe. N
₂
and O
₂
in, carbon dioxide out, Ruby. The sock smells like it sat in the washer too long before going to the dryer. More mildew.

I aim the flashlight at the steering wheel, which I can now see is positioned in the center of the room.

A thick metal pole extends through it, attaching it to the floor below. The pole also extends above the disk about three feet, and is topped by a metal sculpture the shape of the sun, wild with flares.

“Cool,” I say with a surge of excitement.

Etched onto the surface of the disk, around the perimeter, is this: Wkccsfo cyvkb pvkbo 1864 = Kdwyczrobsm ovomdbsm cebqo. Dboo bodksxon zygob 87 ryebc. Ceppsmsoxd cebqo boymmebboxmo sxmkvmevklvo.

And welded onto the top is an ornate arrow, its tip extending out beyond the edge. That’s the sharp triangle I felt yesterday when I was feeling my way around in the dark.

The sock I’m holding over my mouth and nose goes into my backpack. It wasn’t helping much anyway. After a little digging, I find my notebook and pen, then tuck the flashlight under my armpit so I can have both hands free.

I meticulously copy each word—word?—into my notebook, triple-checking my spelling. I take a digital photo of the etching, the camera flash momentarily blinding me.

The arrow must correspond to something, but where is it pointing? I stand directly behind it, lining myself up with the trajectory of the arrow, then I aim the flashlight along that line. There’s nothing on
the interior tree wall, other than markings that remind me of DNA maps. Long vertical lines with smaller dotted lines on top. But I decide they’re just water stains or fungus or something.

The tree’s thrumming noise engines on, and I point the flashlight straight up. The beam isn’t strong enough to show much. Looks like the perfect place for bats. The floor, for the most part, resembles a rotted-out tree stump. A couple puddles here and there. Yeah, try not to step in one of those again.

But something shimmers on the floor beneath the disk, like light reflecting off shallow water. Like light reflecting off … metal. Excited, I squat down and wipe away the dirt. Yes, it’s a ring of metal. I work my way around it, clearing it off, and find that it has ten symbols etched at equal intervals.

They’re simple line drawings, nothing I recognize. After I take photos and copy the symbols into my notebook, I stand and press my left hip against the disk, the tip of the arrow slightly pressing into my side. My body draws a straight line down to the ground. I lift my right foot, and sure enough, there’s a symbol underneath. This must be some sort of navigational device. This is where I am now—at the position marked with what strikes me as an F topped by an other upside-down F.