The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (23 page)

Late that night I heard Mum's bedroom door open. I listened as she moved into the kitchen and then there was a scrape as the back door opened. There's no mistaking the sound. The wood has warped and doesn't fit the frame. I hopped out of bed and padded along the hallway. The back door was ajar. I put on my slip-on shoes and went into the garden.

Mum was sitting on a concrete wall bordering a flower bed. Her head was turned to the night sky.

I sat beside her. She glanced at me and smiled, then returned her gaze to the blackness above. I looked as well. The night was punctured with hard, bright stars.

“Where is she, Candice?” asked Mum.

Dad had shown me where to look. I pointed.

“She's there, Mum,” I said. “Sky is there.”

Dad had offered to take me to Douglas's house on Sunday, but circumstances prevented it. For one thing, he'd bought himself a new remote-controlled plane and wanted to test it. For another, he had arranged a meeting with Rich Uncle Brian. They were going sailing to finalize the details of their business plan. Over buckets of vomit, probably. So I took my bicycle with three wheels. It was a beautiful day with scarcely a cloud in the sky. I didn't fall off once.

I fell off twice.

I hadn't used the bike since I'd stopped visiting the ravine following Douglas's promise that he wouldn't kill himself. You need to practice things like that. Bike riding, I mean. Not killing yourself.

The facsimile parents were pleased to see me. I wondered if they were also thrilled about me becoming their daughter-in-law, though I wasn't sure Douglas had told them yet. Maybe that was going to be raised over lunch.

Which was great, incidentally. It was things you could pick at—cookies, cheese, dips, crusty bread, and fresh
fruit. Strawberries. I love the way they explode sweetly in your mouth when you crunch down. After lunch, facsimile father Joe put an arm around Douglas Benson from Another Dimension's shoulder.

“Let's leave the women to clear up, son,” he said. “I need help cutting firewood.” I worried about women cleaning while men played with axes (I am a modern girl), but wasn't in a position to object. Douglas seemed even less impressed. I suspected he would have preferred pondering problems of quantum physics or experimenting with harp melodies to wielding axes. He scowled. He scratched the knobbly bits on his head. But he went.

This left me alone with facsimile mother Penelope. I felt stressed. It's not often you wash dishes in total silence (unless it's with a family member. So actually, it
is
often). True, I'd met her before, but even so. And it's impossible to write notes when your hands are covered in dish suds. I've tried. The ink runs.

“I want to thank you, Candice, for what you've done for Douglas,” said facsimile Penelope when the final plate was dried. I didn't know what to say so I just nodded. We sat at the kitchen table. She placed her chin into a cupped hand and examined its wood grain. The table, not the hand.

“Things have not been easy since his accident,” she continued.

Possibly I raised an eyebrow (it's not out of the question I raised two) because she continued. “He hit his head about
a year ago. Jumping out of a tree, of all things. At first we thought it was a concussion. That's what the doctors said. But a concussion passes. This didn't. He wasn't the same boy at all. Quite a personality change, really.” She scratched a fingernail over a wet patch on the table. “Before, he was . . . well, a typical twelve-year-old. Since the accident, he's been more . . . gentle.” She laughed. “It must have knocked some sense into him as well, because his school grades have improved enormously.”

“Fancy,” I said. I had to say
something
.

“Yes,” said facsimile Penelope. “The doctors told us a blow to the head can sometimes produce personality changes. Sometimes it's permanent. Sometimes the old character resurfaces after a time. Anyway, now he seems to have these
delusions
 . . .”

I didn't know what to say. Humming was antisocial under the circumstances, so I kept quiet.

“Anyway, he had friends before the accident, but since . . . there's been no one. Until you. And that's why I want to thank you, Candice. For being a friend to my son.”

I was relieved. I hadn't looked forward to discussing tiered cakes, trousseaus, and reception venues.

“You're welcome,” I said.

And she was.

Douglas and I had a great afternoon. We walked to the ravine. I even plucked up the courage to dangle my ankles over the edge, though I kept one arm wrapped around a tree so tightly it cut off my circulation.

“This is it, Candice,” said Douglas, gazing over the river far below. “The day I return. I know it. I can feel it.”

“The math works, then?“ I asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I can't tell you how good it will be to get back.”

“You can,” I said.

“No. I mean it's difficult to find the words. My world is great, Candice. It looks much like this, but in many ways it is very different. Mum and Dad will have missed me. I can't wait to explain to Mum what I've discovered about gravity and string theory. She is going to be so excited. And afterward, I can listen to Dad play his aeolian harp as we watch the suns go down.”

I was going to ask about aeolian harps, but his last words gave me pause.

“Suns?” I said.

“Yes. Two of them. They set within half an hour of each other. It's the biggest difference between this world and mine.”

I couldn't think what to say, but something was expected.

“Who'd have thought?” I said.

“Well, me, for one,” replied Douglas. “The thing is, Candice, I am going to miss you so much. I can't tell you.”

“You can,” I said.

“No. I mean it's difficult to find the words. I love you, Candice. It breaks my heart to think I will be leaving you. But I can't think of a way to take you along. When I get back I'll talk it over with Mum. She might have some ideas. And if it's at all possible, I will be back. Promise you will wait for me.”

I couldn't think of anything to say, but something was expected.

“Righty ho,” I said.

After that, we said little. Douglas Benson from Another Dimension stared into the distance and I hummed, but it was just time-filling. Eventually, we wandered back to the house. It was six-fifteen.

I gathered around the tree-portal/passport. It is possible for one person to gather because I did it.

Douglas shinnied up the tree-passport's trunk and settled on a branch about five meters from the ground. He shifted his feet to maintain balance and glanced at his watch. I glanced at mine. He glanced at his. I glanced at mine. We were good at this. One minute to go. I thought maybe I should make a speech, but couldn't think of anything to say.
Bon voyage
seemed rather weak.

“Forty-five seconds, Douglas,” I said in place of a speech.

“Forty-two,” he replied.

We counted down together. When we got to five, he put his hands above his head, like an Olympic diver. At zero, he jumped.

He hit his head on the way down. I heard the thunk of head on branch. He landed off-balance, tottered, and fell to the ground.

I rushed over. He lay on his side and his eyelids fluttered. A broad gash ran from his right eyebrow to his right ear. It oozed blood.

I cradled his head in my arm before I realized that I shouldn't have. I'd done a first-aid course last year. I should have left him and gone for help. But I wasn't thinking clearly.

“Douglas?” I said. “Are you okay?”

He moved his tongue over his lips and his eyelids fluttered some more.

“Douglas?”

He opened his eyes. They didn't quite focus. It was like he was looking through me.

“What the . . . ?” he muttered.

“You're okay,” I said, though I had no idea if that was true. In fact, I opened my mouth to correct myself, but didn't get the chance. His eyes roamed my face.

“Who are you?” he croaked.

What happened next was a blur. Douglas's eyes rolled back in his head. Facsimile Penelope came rushing out. There was crying and yelling. There was bustle. There was a phone call. An ambulance arrived ten minutes later in a blaze of flashing lights. Douglas was stretchered into it. His facsimile parents scrambled into the back. The ambulance
left in the same blaze of flashing lights. I watched it disappear down the track. After a minute I couldn't even hear the siren. The silence was . . . oppressive.

I rode home very slowly and didn't fall off once. Or twice. There had been too much falling today. The trip gave me the opportunity to go over in my head what I had witnessed. I ran the scene over and over and I still wasn't sure.

You see, for a moment there, as Douglas was plummeting to earth, I thought I saw him flicker. Or shimmer. It was the tiniest fraction of a second. Maybe I blinked.

Or maybe I'd seen Douglas Benson from Another Dimension going home.

Mum rang Douglas's facsimile mother later that day (I'm no good on the phone to people I don't know well). The news was good. Douglas had recovered consciousness and seemed fine. He'd had X-rays and other tests and they'd come out normal. The hospital was keeping him in for a few days for observation, but the general opinion was that he'd just have a bad headache for a day or two. Mum sent our best wishes.

The next few days were strange. School felt lonely and home was very different. Dad spent lots of time with Rich Uncle Brian and he'd come home from these meetings in
a very good mood. Once or twice we went to the park and flew his plane. He made jokes
all
the time.

Mum wasn't in her bedroom nearly as much. Once I caught her looking at a book about New Orleans. She had a dreamy smile on her face.

Dreamy smiles were becoming common in the Phee household.

Thursday lunchtime. I sat in my specially reserved library chair, ate a sandwich, and flicked through a new dictionary that had just arrived. I was impressed with it. It had new words and that is a good thing.

Douglas tapped me on the knee. He had a bandage round his head and I was impressed with that, too. It framed his knobbly bits beautifully.

“Hi, Candice,” he said.

I struggled with my response. Should I say “Hello, Douglas Benson from Another Dimension” or “Hello, Douglas Benson”? Who was I talking to?

I examined his interesting face. His eyes still crowded toward the middle. His nose was still larger than you'd wish if designing it from scratch. His eyebrows remained hairy caterpillars. His knobbly bits appeared unchanged. And then a small light bulb appeared over my head. Actually, it didn't. I speak metaphorically.

If Douglas Benson from Another Dimension had gone home, then
this
Douglas Benson wouldn't know who I was. My logic was sound. I put it down to reading the dictionary and the complete works of Charles Dickens. This undoubtedly hones brain power.