The Theory of Everything (15 page)

“Is he the same one who wrote
The Heart of Physics: The Role of Love in the Theory of Everything
?”

She looked surprised. “Yes. How did you hear about it?”

“We're in AP physics,” Finny said. “Dr. Sophia's thesis has been a great complement to our studies.”

You go, Finny.

“Oh,” she said. “That's wonderful. I'm Peyton Greeley, Dr. Sophia's assistant.”

“And you live with him?” It flew out of my mouth before I could stop it.

She smiled. “I'm also his girlfriend.”

It took everything I had not to lunge at her way-too-young-for-Dad body.

“Would you two like to come in for a minute?”

“We'd love to,” Finny said, giving me a look. Begging me not to blow it.

“Excuse the mess,” she said, opening the door wider and leading us through the house. “Every time there's a new theory, housework goes by the wayside.”

When I lived with Dad, housework always went by the wayside. Mom said she couldn't work and clean up after two children, one of them being me, but the other one being Dad. I had no doubt that he lived here.

Stacks of books, models of atoms and dead houseplants covered every possible surface. The fireplace was filled with foil balls in progress, one of them pretty big. And the mantel was covered in shells, photos and astronomy charts, more like stuff a girlfriend would have. Why did he have a girlfriend when he could have had me and Mom?

“Can I get you two anything?” Peyton said, motioning toward the purple couch. She wanted us to sit down, but I wanted to spy on their lives.

“I'd love something to drink,” Finny said. “If it's not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

I wished Peyton and her white floaty shirt would never come back.

“Do you think something's off?” I said, walking over to the mantel.

“Kind of,” Finny said. “Maybe they had a fight or something.”

“Maybe,” I said. I traced my finger along the wood.

There was a photo of the two of them at the ocean. Dad looked older, but at least he didn't have a beard or a clown nose. And then I saw it: me. Blowing out candles on my tenth birthday. The picture was sitting there in a gold frame like I was still a part of the family, like nothing had happened. Like that hadn't been the last birthday of mine he'd seen.

“Fresh ginger ale!” Peyton said, carrying in a tray. “I made it myself.”

And I was ready to make her life miserable.

“Where's my dad?” I said, holding the photo.

She set down the tray and walked toward me.

“Wait,” she said. “I'm confused.”

“I know it's been four years, but I don't look that different,” I said. “So where is he? Teaching a class? Out on an errand?”

I recognized a feeling in my stomach. I felt it right when we walked in the house. I'd felt it a dozen times before.

“Sophie?” She tried to touch my arm, but I pulled it away.

“Where is my dad, and when is he coming back?”

“Sophie,” she said, her eyes welling with tears, “I am so sorry.”

Fire built in my belly and spewed out of my mouth. “Are you sorry that he left me or sorry that he's shacking up with you?”

She looked away, toward the door, like he was about to walk through it. And then she looked back at me. “I'm sorry that he's gone,” she said, her hands shaking. “Sophie, your dad has been missing for two weeks.”

How to Survive Finding Your Dad After Four Years Only to Discover That He's Missing Again
by Sophie Sophia

1. Feel it. You kind of don't have a choice on that one.
   
2. Acknowledge that the feelings suck. A lot.
   
3. Cry if you need to.
   
4. Know you have a panda and a boy genius on your side.
   
5. And then, when it's out of your system, do what you have to do: find your dad.
   

“Let's get you some food,” Peyton said, heading toward the kitchen.

Finny linked arms with me as we walked. He thought I was going to fall down from shock, but I wasn't. As soon as we'd entered the house, I had known Dad wasn't there, that he hadn't been there for a while. I hadn't said anything because sometimes I was wrong, but I also didn't want it to be true.

“Whoa,” I said, falling back. “That's our table.”

There, in the middle of the kitchen, was a big round table just like the one Dad and I had collaged one morning and regretted that evening when Mom yelled at us. That table had seen spilled milk and reheated lasagna, puddles of glue and piles of confetti, homemade birthday cards and roses tied together with a bow.

“Your dad made that,” Peyton said, setting a plateful of banana bread in front of me. “He said he needed something that reminded him of you. If you look, there's a picture of you in there somewhere.”

I couldn't believe he'd made a copy of our table. The original one—we gave it to our upstairs neighbor when we moved—had pictures of me everywhere, along with newspaper articles and construction paper hearts held down with glue. This one was more physics and less Sophie, probably because Mom had all the photos. All Dad had were memories, but it looked like he'd been busy making new ones. He could have been making one right now.

“I feel like I know you,” Peyton said. “I've heard so much about you.”

“And I've heard nothing about you,” I said.

Peyton got up and stood over the sink. Finny shot me a look.

“Try the banana bread,” she said, her voice all raspy.

I ran my finger over a photo of Dad and me that was collaged onto the table. It was taken on Halloween, the time he was Captain Hook and I was Peter Pan. All I needed was for Tinker Bell to sprinkle some fairy dust and make Dad appear. Peyton would have wanted that, too.

“This bread is really good,” I said, remembering my puffy eyes, the ones that wouldn't go away because I cried too much. The same eyes Peyton had. “Does my dad like it?”

Peyton turned and smiled, sniffling. Finny grabbed my hand under the table and squeezed. I could hate her all I wanted, but I should at least wait until Dad was back.

“I like it,” Finny said, grabbing another piece and stuffing it in his mouth. “But we have bigger things to do. Who's ready to get to work?”

“To work?” Peyton said. “On what?”

Finny and I looked at each other. We knew what we had to do, but we weren't sure we wanted to bring her in on it.

“Filling in the gaps,” Finny said. “We didn't ride on a train for twenty-something hours to give up. Sophie hasn't seen her dad in four years and then we get here and he's gone? We'd like to know why. Or at least learn more about him.”

“Of course,” Peyton said. “Right. Let me make some tea, and I'll tell you everything you want to know.”

I grinned and high-fived Finny across the table. We were a search party, a spy mission, a family tree who wanted its branches back. And together, we were going to find my dad.

Dad and I used to play a game called Secret-Schmecret. The premise was simple: he thought of a secret, and I guessed what it was. The best part was the clues, which involved at least one of the five senses. Sometimes the clue was a mixture of nutmeg and cinnamon, and the secret would be that my oatmeal was ready. Another time he made stuffed animal pants and wore them around the house to indicate that we were going to the zoo. And once he had me close my eyes, open my mouth and chew whatever he put in there, which happened to be a carrot. This meant we were either going to build a snowman or make carrot soup. Both would have worked since it was snowing outside, but I never knew which one was happening until it happened. With Secret-Schmecret, it was always a surprise. And that was kind of the point.

|||||||||||

“It's no secret your father and I were having problems,” Peyton said.

“I didn't even know about you, so it was a secret to me,” I said. “But go on.”

Peyton brought the kettle over from the stove and filled three teacups with hot water. They didn't have tea bags in them, but I didn't want to say anything.

“Maybe I should start at the beginning,” she said.

“Fine,” I said, looking around the kitchen for clues as she spoke.

Peyton and Dad had been together for two years.
Photos of them on the refrigerator.

They met at NYU, in the physics department.
Chipped green sugar bowl on the counter with plastic babies in it.

Dad started disappearing more often.
Pink elephant planter filled with tongue depressors.

He got demoted to part time.
Broken radios everywhere.

And then no time.
Blue dog painting in the corner.

He had tenure, so he did guest lectures, but not classes.
Round gold mirror with dust on the surface.

Peyton stayed on in the department in hopes of continuing his work, but it was hard with Dad disappearing all the time.
Paper lanterns spilling out of a trunk on the floor.

“What happened before he disappeared this time?”

“We were fighting,” Peyton said, sipping hot water. “Silly domestic stuff.”

I knew Dad, which meant he could have brought home ten rabbits and gotten angry when she didn't want to care for them or encouraged her to make a five-course meal only to insist on eating ice cream sandwiches instead. There was nothing domestic about Dad.

“But he didn't take anything with him,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your dad didn't go anywhere without his books and journals,” she said. “But they're here. Still. That bag.”

You can tell how worried someone is by how they jumble their words or leave things out. Little words like
and
and
the
stay in, but more important ones like
unstable
or
danger to himself and others
fall away. The story comes to you in pieces because they, themselves, are in pieces.

“Did he ever tell you where he went?” I said.

Finny leaned so far forward in his chair he was practically lying on the table.

“Sometimes,” she said. “I want to believe he went where he said he did, but once the police called me to come pick him up from a hostel in Manhattan, so I'm not sure. But you know this. He disappeared on you all the time.”

Including the time he disappeared forever.

“Maybe the answer's in his book,” Finny said, looking at Peyton. “Do you have a copy?”

“Of course,” she said. She walked over to a desk right outside the kitchen. It was piled high with boxes, and there, on top of a real dictionary, was a book.

“Here you go,” she said, handing it to me.

|||||||||||

The cover was plain—white with black letters like something academic, no new age graphics from the publisher's website anywhere. I ran my fingers across the title, which was pressed into the cover:
The Heart of Physics: The Role of Love in the Theory of Everything,
by Angelino Sophia.

“We read the intro online,” Finny said. “Did he write this book for Sophie?”

I ran my hand up and down the spine, leafing through the pages, breathing it in, hoping the book would smell familiar. I held it tightly to my chest, as if I could absorb Dad through close contact.

“In a way, yes,” Peyton said. “Angelino wanted to marry his unique view of the world with the basic tenets of physics to create something extraordinary, a legacy of sorts, that he could leave for his daughter.”

“I know I'm just in high school physics, but I'm having a hard time seeing how love has a place in any of this,” Finny said.

I hugged the book even tighter.

“It's theoretical physics,” she said. “When you're theorizing, there's room for everything.”

“Even philosophy? Emotion? Psychology?”

Peyton sighed and leaned back in her chair. I liked how much she was challenged by Finny. How much she sounded like Dad. “Do you want to be a scientist?”

“More than anything,” Finny said.

“Then you'll learn, very quickly, that the universe is massive, full of things we can't see, including other universes. It hasn't been proven, but we know they're out there. And then there's quantum and string theory and all of these branches of physics that are so much more than science. To work on these equations—some of them for a lifetime, never getting an answer—you have to take a leap of faith.”

I wanted to hate her a little because she was a part of Dad's life and I wasn't, but I couldn't. She was too much like him.

“Is that what he does in his book?” Finny said. “Take a leap of faith?” He was good at this.

“Angelino leapt by adding emotion to the equation,” Peyton said. “He believed that a certain kind of love had the power to transport people to parallel universes.”

I bolted up out of my chair. Finny pulled on my arm.

“Sophie?” Peyton said, like she knew before she asked it. “Do you see things like your dad?”

“Of course not,” I said. It flew out of my mouth like a protective mechanism, a lie that had slowly become my truth.

“I thought for sure that was why you were here,” Peyton said. She was staring at me, and I could tell she wasn't convinced. I'd have to work on my lying skills. “Your father was always afraid you'd see things like he does.”

Then maybe he should have called, I thought. Given me a warning. And if he was going to write a book about it, maybe he should have mailed me one. Made sure his instructions actually made it into my life.

“What did my father tell you about me?”

“Pretty much everything,” she said. “Besides physics, you're all he talks about.”

I found it hard to believe that someone so enamored with me wouldn't pick up the phone once in four years, which reminded me of something.

“Is there somewhere I can get some privacy?” I said. “I need to call my mom.”

“Sure,” Peyton said, taking our teacups and placing them in the sink. “I'm sure she'll want to know that you made it here okay.”

The cups clanged. Ceramic on ceramic.

“Let me talk to your mom when you're finished, okay?” Peyton said.

“Okay,” I said, lying. If Mom didn't want to talk about Dad, I doubted she wanted to talk to his new girlfriend. “Where can I get some privacy again?”

“Our bedroom,” she said. “Go upstairs, the first door on your left.”

I walked up the stairs, walking the same steps Dad had probably walked a thousand times. Wondering where his steps led him now. Was he still here, or was he somewhere else? Had he gotten stuck in an episode? That was one of my biggest fears—that something would happen and I'd be stuck forever in a world that was magical but wasn't completely mine. Just like vacation, some places were nice to visit, but that didn't mean you wanted to live there.

I turned the knob, and I was in their bedroom. It smelled like jasmine, not tin can and tomatoes like Dad. Empty Kleenex boxes and candy wrappers covered the green bedspread, but I pushed them aside, ignoring the journal on the nightstand. I flopped on my back and stared at the collaged painting hanging above the bed. It was full of old gas pumps and globes, video cameras and sixties bathing beauties. In the middle was an oddly placed elephant.

I dialed Mom's number and she answered immediately.

“Sophie? Is that you?”

I was prepared to be tough. I wouldn't be in New York if she'd given me the answers I needed. Or hadn't threatened stupid psychiatry.

“Sophie Sophia, you do not do this,” she said. “You do not go to school and then, instead of coming home, hop a twenty-hour train to New York with your best friend.”

“But I left you a note,” I said.

“A note does not make up for the fact that you're fourteen, alone and way too many states away from me.”

“I have Finny,” I said. “And Peyton.”

“Is Peyton another panda?”

“No, she's Dad's girlfriend.”

Awkward. Pause.

“How's your dad?”

One awkward paused deserved another.

“He's not here,” I said. Voice shaking.

“Oh, Sophie.”

“He'll probably be back soon. You know how he is.”

“I know all too well,” she said. “How long has he been gone this time?”

“Two weeks,” I said. “Peyton said it was unusual.”

“He wasn't usually gone that long with us,” she said. “What else did she say?”

“Peyton works with Dad,” I said. “She filled me in on a bunch of stuff.”

“Like?” Mom's voice softened.

“Dad wrote a book,” I said. “Did you know?”

“He was always working on a book,” she said. “I didn't know he finished one.”

“Do you know what it's about?”

“Not really,” she said. “Physics, I'm guessing.”

“It was about love,” I said. “And he wrote it for me.”

Mom sighed. Her voice sounded heavy, like a thousand blankets stacked on top of one another. “I'm coming to get you.”

“You can't!” I said. “I have to find him.”

“No one can find your father,” Mom said. “He leaves when he wants and comes back when he wants.”

But I knew Dad like I knew myself. And if there was one thing I was sure of, it was that hallucinations didn't let you choose. You were at their mercy. I just had to hold out hope that his book held a clue or the people who worked with him could give me some missing information. There was nothing for me in Havencrest, not if I didn't come back with answers.

“Finny's never even been to New York,” I said. “Can we at least stay an extra day? Peyton promised we could sleep here, and she'd feed us and take us around and everything.”

“I need to talk to her,” Mom said. “We don't even know her.”

And I didn't believe that Dad slept in this room. I looked around, but there were no hammers or ripped-up plaid shirts. No brooms with the end missing or lightbulbs strung together like pearls. Only normal stuff, like piles of books and perfume, candles and a vase full of flowers. If Dad were there, that vase would have been full of pinwheels instead.

“Sophie?”

“So talk to her,” I said.

“What about school?” Mom said. “You don't have an infinite number of sick days.”

“And I haven't taken any,” I said. And with any luck, I wasn't going to be sick anymore when I returned. Not sick in the head, anyway. “Please? It's for a good cause.”

You know, the Sophie-Stay-Out-of-Psych-Ward cause.

“Finny had his first New York bagel,” I said. “And tomorrow we were going to go to the Empire State Building, MoMA and Katz's.”

Mom paused longer than usual, which meant she was actually thinking about it.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “I want to talk to Peyton, and I want you to buy train tickets for tomorrow night. Do you need more money?”

“Always,” I said. “But Finny has an emergency credit card.”

“We'll work it out,” she said. “We'll pay him back.” And then she said something I didn't expect.

“Is she nice?”

“Who?”

“Peyton,” Mom said.

“Mom . . . ,” I said.

“What? I'm just curious who my daughter is spending time with.”

“She's fine,” I said. “A little hippie for my taste, not stylish and sophisticated like you.”

Mom laughed. “You're still in trouble, but thank you.”

“Anytime,” I said. “Can I ask you something now?”

“No, you cannot stay two more days,” she said.

“It's more important than that,” I said, looking at the scratches on my arm. “No therapy.”

“What?”

“Promise me you're not going to send me to therapy.”

“Is that why you ran away?”

“Just promise,” I said.

“Honey, I'm sorry I didn't tell you more about your father, but I didn't know a lot. I'm sorry that he's not there, that you're hurting, and I can't reach through the phone and hug you. But I can't promise that you won't ever go to therapy.”