The Theory of Everything (10 page)

I unlocked the door of my house, ready to endure whatever Mom was going to dish out. Since I was, like, three hours late and hadn't bothered to call, it was going to be major. Good thing I had Finny as a buffer.

“Mom?” I said, looking around. “Hello?”

“Is she here?” Finny said.

“Nope,” I said, pulling him into the kitchen. “Let's take advantage of it.” I grabbed a bag of carrots and cans of ginger ale out of the fridge and headed upstairs, Finny and Balzac following. I flopped on the bed, and Finny stood in front of the collection of black and white postcards, staring.

“Warhol and Nico,” he said, touching one of them. “That's new. How is it I could notice that but totally miss that you hallucinate?”

“Have episodes,” I said.

“That's not a scientific term,” Finny said. “Can we say hallucination, just for the sake of the experiment?”

I traced the circles on my bedspread with my finger. “As along as you understand that's not what they are,” I said.

“You're going to have to help me with that,” Finny said. “But first: when are we going to redo
my
room?”

I called my bedroom New York Meets Everywhere Else because it was full of found things like a sad-eyed dog painting, a floppy red felt hat and a collection of vintage sunglasses hanging on a ribbon on the wall. Anything that inspired me, basically. My favorite was a sculpture Dad made out of tin cans, bicycle gears and broken bits of an old Supremes 45 record. It sat next to his beanbag, which was now occupied by Finny, who flipped through a stack of cassettes on the floor.

“Want to listen to
Black Holes vs. Sunday Afternoons
?”

“Sure,” I said as he put it in my boom box. If we were going to discuss my mental state, we might as well have music to go along with it.

“So what are hallucinations like?” Finny asked, pressing Play and then sinking into the beanbag chair. “Do you see a bright light? Step through an opening?”

“It's not Narnia,” I said, throwing a pillow at him.

“I don't know,” he said, ducking. “That's why I asked.”

I lay on my back and hung my head off the side of the bed, letting all the blood rush to it. Making my face turn red.

“Sometimes I get a headache,” I said. “Or hear things. My body reacts more post-hallucination than pre-hallucination.”

“So there are no warning signs,” he said.

“Nope,” I said. “Welcome to Randomland.”

“Does stress make them worse? Can you leave whenever you want? Can you control them at all?” Finny asked.

I remembered the time Dad tied cans of chili to his ankles with rope. When I asked him what he was doing, he said he was trying to weigh himself down so he could stay with me. At the time, I didn't understand—I just knew that no matter what he did, he'd disappear anyway. I thought about that instead of the words that were coming out of my mouth.

“I can't control them, but I'm not alone,” I said. “Dad couldn't control his hallucinations, either.”

|||||||||||

I was jumping on my mini trampoline when it happened.

Bounce. Bounce. Up in the air, face to the sky, then face-to-face with Daddy holding a red paper parasol, floating in the air. He popped out of nowhere, like in cartoons, and then he landed on the grass.

“Hi, sweet pea,” he said. “Having fun?”

“Hi, Daddy,” I said, still bouncing. “Where did you come from?”

“Somewhere too far for little girls to go,” he said.

“Like Chinatown?”

“Something like that,” he said, twirling his parasol. “I brought this for you.”

I hopped off the trampoline and took the parasol, spinning it above my head.

“It's magical,” he said. “They call it a Dream Director.”

“Why?”

“Because, according to legend, it directs your dreams.”

“How does it work?” I wanted to know how everything worked.

Dreams have a system, Daddy said. They started in the sky and moved toward our heads, but direction determined whether the dreams were good ones or bad ones. Good dreams were creative and happy and traveled like a triangle, sliding down the side of our heads and going into the ears. But bad dreams were angrier; they shot down out of the sky like rain and headed straight for the middle of the forehead.

My hands flew up to my own forehead. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course not, silly,” he said. “You're asleep. But that's why we have the Dream Director. We'll hang it upside down over your bed so it can catch the bad dreams before they go in.”

“So I'll only have good dreams?”

“I hope so,” he said, ruffling the top of my head. “Just because I travel a lot doesn't mean you shouldn't have the best dreams possible.”

“Why can't I go with you?” I said, tracing my finger along the edge of the parasol. It was the color of cherries.

“Who would do your job?” he said, kissing my cheek. “You have to stay home so I have someone to bring souvenirs to.”

“So you can remember where you've been?”

“Yes, pumpkin pie,” he said, pulling me close and almost crushing the parasol. “But also so you can remember
me.
”

|||||||||||

Finny stood and looked around my room, his eyes stopping on the parasol in the corner.

“Is that it?”

“Yes,” I said. “One and the same. And no, I'm not going to hang it over my bed.”

Finny touched it and withdrew his hand quickly, like it was on fire.

“You know this changes the game, right?”

“Dad hallucinating or the fact that he brought something back?”

“Both,” Finny said. “But unless your hallucinations are hereditary, the souvenir thing is more important. If this were all happening in your mind, you wouldn't bring something back.”

“I know,” I said. “Something like this.”

I took the whistle from around my neck and handed it to Finny.

“Whoa,” he said, grinning. “This is from an episode? It's like holding
history.
”

Most people would have flipped out on me a long time ago, but Finny just rolled with every new thing I told him, even though each piece was stranger than the last. Maybe Mr. Maxim was right. Physics blew the doors of the mind wide open, giving you plenty of room to wander.

“And every event produces a souvenir?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “They help me know I'm back.” I always checked my pockets immediately.

“You know we have to talk about your dad,” he said.

I fell back on my bed. He still didn't know exactly what happened after The Cure. Or Walt. I wondered how many more pieces he could hold before he broke.

“Of course,” I said, fake perking up. “Gathering data has to include everything, I get that. But don't you have enough to work with for now?”

Finny turned the whistle over and over in his hand.

“Definitely,” he said, handing it back to me.

“Are you sure you're okay with this?”

Finny threw an arm around my shoulder.

“Of course,” he said. “I'm a scientist. I'm a fan of the unexplained.”

Which meant he was fan of me, too.

“SOPHIE SOPHIA!”

We froze as Mom's voice floated up the stairs.

Her feet sounded like packing up, like hitting the road, like panic. She wasn't coming to my room to tell me a funny story or tuck me in for the night. She was coming to take me away again.

“And there I was, calling hospitals, driving all over town, while the whole time you were in your room?”

My bedroom door flew open.

“Hi, Mrs. Sophia,” Finny said, waving.

“I think you might want to leave now,” she said. Her chest rose and fell quickly. “There could be consequences for the accomplice.”

Finny grabbed his bag, whispered, “Good luck,” and ran down the stairs.

Mom stood there silent, like a giant, until the door slammed.

“Downstairs,” she said. “Now.”

She stormed off and I looked around my room, taking it in just in case it was the last time.

“It's okay,” I said, rubbing Balzac's ears. “Maybe she'll give me a pardon or something.”

I blew my room a kiss and took each step as slowly as possible. No point in rushing to the execution. When I finally got there, Mom was sitting on the couch with a glass of red wine.

“Was your phone broken?”

“I don't know,” I said. “You just gave me the thing. I don't know how to work it, so if it was off, it wasn't off on purpose. Besides, this isn't Brooklyn. You don't have to be so worried.”

“You were three hours late. Besides, I'm your mother,” she said, slamming her glass on the coffee table. “It's my job to worry.”

“I was at Café Haven with Drew,” I said. “And then I was with Finny.”

“Did you forget what being grounded means?” she said. “I gave you a free pass for an hour, not for the entire afternoon.”

“I know,” I said. “And I'm really sorry. I lost track of time.”

Mom walked over to the stereo and turned on the radio. New Age music filled the room.

“Gawd, this is awful,” I said.

“I need to relax,” Mom said. “I don't want to say anything I'm going to regret.”

“I could say a lot of things about this music that I'd never regret,” I said.

“It's calming!” Mom said in a voice that was the opposite of calm.

I tried not to smile, but I couldn't help it.

“Okay, okay,” she said, smiling, too. “See? I guess it works. Music is subjective, anyway. Who are we to decide what's right and what's wrong? Maybe it just
is.
”

“And this music
is
terrible,” I said, getting up and changing the station.

Mom took a deep breath and patted the cushion next to her. I sat beside her, and Balzac jumped into my lap, purring.

“I've been avoiding this conversation, but I think it's time to have it,” she said. “You're getting to be that age.”

“What age?”

“Teenage years,” she said. “When things start to show up.”

Great. We were going to have the sex talk.

“Sophie, you have to be more careful than other people,” Mom said. “You have this imagination that runs wild and gets you into trouble. And now, with the hormones coming in, it could be a difficult time.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. Was she talking about the terrible teens or something else?

“I lived through the whole episodes thing with your father,” she said. “And I see you, and I don't know.”

Wait a minute. “Don't know what?”

Mom sighed. “I don't know if I have the strength to live through it with you.”

And there it was. I got up and went to the kitchen. I couldn't be in the same room with her, not right then.

“Come back,” she said. “Let's talk about this.”

I didn't want to talk, I wanted to feel safe. I wanted to feel like, no matter what, Mom would chalk it up to my imagination and act like everything was going to be okay. Like she always did. Denial had worked well for us so far. And just because I told Finny the truth didn't mean I was ready to tell anyone else. Especially not when it could leave me homeless.

“Sophie, please,” Mom said. “I think you misunderstood me.”

That's when I saw it, a brochure for teenage mental illness and a psychiatrist's card to go along with it. Sitting by the phone.

“I don't think I'm going to misunderstand this,” I said, marching into the living room, thrusting the card in her face. “Care to explain?”

“It's exactly what it looks like,” she said.

“Mom?”

“What am I supposed to do?” she said. “All the articles say that mental illness shows up in the teenage years, and you're there. And then you almost got suspended? I thought we were through with that. So if you're hallucinating—”

She'd never used that word. Not once. Not even when talking about Dad.

“I don't hallucinate,” I said.

“Have episodes,” Mom said. “Whatever you and your father call it. If it's happening, and you're not telling me, I can't keep you safe.”

“I'm fine,” I said. “I told you what I saw.”

“So tell someone else,” she said. “I want you to talk to this doctor.”

“No way,” I said. “Are you forgetting about California?”

“I'm remembering California,” she said. “That's why I talked to a friend at work about you—not specifics—but she's having trouble with her daughter, and she gave me this brochure and referred me to this doctor. It helped them. Maybe it could help us. Because I don't want a repeat of San Francisco.”

“And I don't want to be locked away,” I said. “One appointment, and you know that's what will happen.”

“We don't know that,” she said. “It's just one appointment. Don't be so dramatic.”

And just like that, it came tumbling out of me. All of it.

“Dramatic is seeing a marching band made up of giant pandas,” I said. “Or stage diving to a Ramones cover. Or playing with The Cure in a café only to hurt my hand while doing a guitar windmill. Dramatic is
Walt.
”

“Who's Walt?” Mom scooted toward the edge of the couch, tapping her nails on her knee.

“My shaman panda,” I said, wishing I could control the words coming out of my mouth.

“Your shaman panda.”

I could see her unraveling.

“He's more of a guide,” I said. “It's his job to help me.”

“Oh, really? Is he the one who helped you stage dive during lunch? “He sounds like a great influence. Maybe next time he'll help you walk on broken glass or jump off a bridge.”

“It's not like that,” I said. “Those things were accidents.”

“Wait, I've got it!” she said, ignoring me. “Maybe your panda could help you pull off a stunt at my office and get me fired. Or at school so you'll get expelled. Yes! And then we can move again, and you can start a new school again, and we'll act like nothing happened. Except
everything
will have happened and your panda won't be there to explain it to me or clean up the mess because
I can't see him.
”

“Mom,” I said. I tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. Her face was red. “It's not like that.”

“Tell that to your new doctor,” she said. “Because I don't want to hear it.” She ran her hands through her hair. They were shaking.

“I'm not going to that doctor,” I said.

“You are,” she said. “I can't control what you see. And I have no say in whether or not you take your shaman panda to school with you. But I'm your mother. I can make you get help.”

“I don't need help,” I said, even though I did. I just didn't need it from a psychiatrist. “This is ridiculous. I'm being persecuted because I see the world differently than everyone else.”

“Not differently,” Mom said, sighing. “
Insanely
. Everyone else walks through the world with their sanity intact.”

I felt blood rushing up against my bones.

“Including Dad?”

“Your father had problems,” she said, her voice softening. “Sophie, he was very, very far from normal. You had to have known that.”

I sank to the floor like a stone thrown into the ocean.

“I didn't know that,” I said, sitting cross-legged, leaning against the couch. Tears flowed down, covering my face. “To me he was just Dad.”

That was why we never talked about him, why Mom had been avoiding the subject for years. If I'd known how she felt about him—really and truly—then I would have known how she felt about me, too.

“That came out wrong,” Mom said. “I didn't mean it.”

But she did, and she knew it. And now I knew it, too, which meant nothing would ever be the same. I grabbed my backpack off the floor and headed toward the door.

“Put down your bag,” Mom said. “It's dark out there.”

“I know,” I said. “But I can't be in the same space with someone who thinks I'm crazy.”

I slammed the door and popped the
Delirious Dusk
mixtape into my Walkman and hit Play. Dad loved walking around New York City at night. He said there was something about the sky and the way the light hit the buildings that made the city come alive. That was why he made a soundtrack to go with it, full of brooding music that was dark, like the fading night, but inspiring—Tones on Tail, Bauhaus, Jesus and Mary Chain. It featured driving guitars to match the driving thoughts in my brain.

How to Survive Having a Mother Who Thinks You're Crazy
by Sophie Sophia

1. Put it somewhere deep in the back of your mind and ignore it.
   
2. When it comes back up, and it will, cry it out. Sometimes that's the only thing that works.
   
3. Confide in your real friends, not your shaman panda one.
   
4. Remember Lewis Carroll and van Gogh. It wasn't sanity that made them great.
   
5. And, most importantly, prove her wrong.
   

“Ooof!”

I tripped on a horse apple on the way to Finny's house and almost fell flat on my face. Just like I'd been doing all day in one form or another. I picked it up and hurled it against the concrete wall of an office building. It left a satisfying print on the wall, so I kept throwing them.

Smash,
a slider for Dad.
Crash,
an overhand for that psychiatrist.
Smack,
a fastball for hallucinations in general. I threw several more to get into the rhythm of it. Getting rid of whatever was inside of me. And then I wound up my arm, like I did with The Cure, and threw one as hard as I could. It blew apart when it hit the wall and scattered mealy bits all over the parking lot, white chunks glistening under the streetlights.

“That was for you, Mom.”

I gathered more apples in a pile at my feet threw them, horse apple after horse apple, covering the ground with muck. I saw chunks of green and white everywhere. And then I saw part of a Converse, right in the thick of things.

“You look cute when you're angry,” Finny said, standing beside me.

I glared at him.

“Your mom called. She thought you'd be with me, so I told her you were.”

I glared again.

“Can I at least join the party?”

“No,” I said. I picked up another horse apple.

“That's cool. Just pretend I'm not here,” he said. “Unless, of course, you want to talk, because I'm here. You know that, right? Come hurricane or earthquake or anything?”

I nodded.

“Can I spend the night?”

“It's already approved.”

I wanted to say thanks, but the words stayed stuck in my brain. Like the horse apple cradled in my hand.

“I'll leave you to it, then,” he said. “Be there in fifteen and there's a chocolate soda in it for you.”

He left and there was silence, like before I began. And then there was the sound of horse apples, crashing against the concrete.