Fare Forward (24 page)

I am completely overwhelmed. I need to separate each concept from the other, slow down the avalanche of emotion and information. I have not taken my eyes away from Benjamin's face in the picture. "He hasn't aged at all. He looks the same."

"Yes."

"It's been over
sixty years
since that night, how can this be?"

"It's the way it works; I remember how your grandmother explained it to me. You are subject to the physical laws of the world you come from. Everything can be the same yet time can move more slowly or quickly, so you don't age the way you do in our world."

"It's him."

"Gabriella." She pauses, knowing that what she will say next will change my life. "What your grandfather has been searching for all these years, the missing link in his theory—it's Benjamin. It is not a mathematical formula, it's him.
He
is the proof."

It was all meant to be, coming together in a crashing inevitability.

I could feel it somewhere deep in my heart.

His work with my grandfather, the first day of school, the cathedral, the architecture review, and the incredible evening we shared after. And of course, the unforgettable moment when he saved me from the pull of the water on the beach.

It was destined to be.

I am sure.

"Your grandmother always told me that Einstein would say—"

"Einstein?"

"That things are not always what they seem. She wanted you to know, for me to remind you at this very moment to trust yourself. To trust the things you are seeing and feeling. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"She wanted you to know . . . that you are not alone."

And with those words, she acknowledged what had haunted me my whole life. What I had been afraid to recognize and speak of. That my visions of the future were connected to the mystical tradition I inherited from so many who had come before me. I thought of the many things in my life I had gone through, and now I saw clearly the good, the bad, the terrifying, and the
wonderful
things in my future. I believed everything waited. With Benjamin.

"Maggie, I need to find my grandfather, I need to speak with him. NOW!"

"Gabriella, it's late, he's at MIT. He's giving a talk tonight. You need to stay in bed."

"I have to go." I stand up, pushing myself off the sofa with my uninjured arm.

I see her looking at me as she decides what to do. She looks like she's made up her mind and says, "You're not going alone. I'm coming with you."

I
AM STUNNED.

Not only from everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours but the historic and shattering reality of what Maggie has confirmed: that the dream, my grandfather's lifelong quest, which had been relegated merely to theory, might in fact come to be presented, proven, and accepted as fact. I would be able to see it happen, and Benjamin, Benjamin's vital and central contribution, was what made it possible. Maggie and I drive in silence toward Boston. It's as if the information needs time to settle. This is the quiet—the calm—before the storm.

Gloucester, the farthest point on Cape Ann, is a world unto itself, connected to the North Shore and Boston by bridges that many local residents never cross. For people like my grandfather, Gloucester had always provided a welcome refuge from the city and a busy travel schedule. It was a place centered around the physical pleasures and sensations offered by beautiful beaches, sunsets, salted sea air, and endless views. Balancing out the pursuits of the mind.

The weather is the perfect envelope, a welcome shift of clear sky and light dry air. I recognize that in less than thirty miles one can move so completely from one world to another. I take the opportunity during the drive to organize my thoughts and questions. As the road near Boston's Logan airport crests upward and the city comes into view, I see the beautiful Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge, a symbol of the benevolence of the city. The engineering and design of this masterpiece is the perfect combination of art and technology, honoring a humanitarian who had died too young of cancer. The metaphor for the building of bridges is one that aptly represents the accomplishments of the man after whom it was named. Every time I drive across the cable-stayed bridge, suspended in the air, I am reminded of the many values it represents: the minds who had created it and the hands who had built it.

We follow the stream of traffic onto Storrow Drive. We pass the Hatch Shell where the Boston Pops perform every Fourth of July. The canons explode as they play Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture," an iconic symbol of what our nation's independence means. Turning onto Massachusetts Avenue to cross the bridge over to Cambridge, the great domed building at the center of MIT's campus, the Maclaurin Building, or Building 10 as it is called, comes into view. Visible from the banks of the Charles River, its dome is featured on every publicity shot of the university. It is also the location of many important physics meetings my grandfather has attended over the years, and a place I have come to know well.

"We're almost there," Maggie recognizes that I am deep in thought but tries to encourage me.

I think about MIT's campus as an architectural collage, an irreverent jumble of styles, shapes, and materials that seemed to belie any sort of central planning, so different than the restrained Beaux Arts symmetry of Columbia University. And yet, it seems appropriate as a reflection of the varied talents and theories being investigated there. Discussion, debate, and dissent are always welcomed and encouraged, in a home to many Nobel Laureates.

Maggie parks the car and before we enter the building, we stop to turn and admire the view of the Back Bay of Boston.

"Maggie." I notice that she seems to know exactly where she is going. "You've been here before?"

"Many times." She turns and winks at me. "Come on, let's hurry."

I feel electrified. The mixture of adrenaline, the narcotics of the painkillers, and the thrill and terror of the night before is still in my veins. The range of emotions all centering around Benjamin—still having an effect on me.

We enter the lecture hall, and I see the panel of scientists on the stage. The sound reverberates through speakers that surround the room. I hear familiar terms:
wormholes, multiverses,
the
bending of light
and other theoretical topics. As we stand in the back of the room, my eyes scan the space. My grandfather is seated in the center. I recognize his thinning gray hair, the slight curve of his proud shoulders, and a far away look on his face. Just at the moment my eyes lock onto him, he looks up. It's as if he can hear the thoughts screaming in my head.

"Sit down." Maggie grabs the back of my jacket to stop the momentum she can sense that is about to propel me down the stairs and straight for him. "Here, sweetheart." She does not let go of me and points to two seats at the back of the hall.

As I wait in this room full of hundreds of journalists, scholars, and scientists I try to control the thoughts in my mind. I feel dazed, I need to make a plan, decide what I can do or say. The anger grows inside of me, turning into rage. Maggie keeps looking at me; she strokes my arm in a futile effort to calm my frayed emotions. When the lecture concludes, thunderous applause ensue, and the moderator opens the discussion for questions. Hands are immediately thrust into the air as journalists jump out of their seats, shouting questions over each other and snapping photographs with the nonstop motor drive of their lenses.

I can no longer deny the need to confront my grandfather and, although I know this isn't the time or place, I launch myself out of the seat and down the steps of the auditorium. Right to the front of the room.

"Gabriella, come back!" Maggie calls as her hand swipes my back. But I am out of her reach.

I start to run toward him as I take two steps at a time, ignoring Maggie's protective presence a few steps behind me.

Everyone's eyes are on me.

"Though no direct evidence for wormholes has been observed, this could be because they are disguised as black holes . . ." The speaker's voice slows down as he reacts to my presence. I stand in front of the stage and stare at my grandfather. There are murmurs in the room as it becomes quiet with the anticipation of waiting to see what is going to happen.

I face him and finally find words."Why . . .
why
didn't you tell me?" My voice is filled with anguish.

He looks straight ahead. He has not acknowledged that I am standing in the aisle in front of hundreds of people directing my question to him. This is so completely out of character that even I can't believe what I am doing.

"Answer me, tell me why?" My voice is loud, breaking with the pain I feel, the years of confusion and loneliness. The many nights I had spent lying in bed, wondering why I was different, why I had lost my parents, and the terrible guilt that I should have saved them. How much I still needed and missed my grandmother, the one person who seemed to have the answers.

Two large security officers push down the stairs toward me very quickly just as I feel Maggie's strong arms grip my waist. They shove her aside easily.

"Come on, let's go, kid." Their hands are on me.

I struggle to release myself from their hold that crushes through the bandage of my injured arm.

"Get your hands off of her!" Maggie tries to push them away.

I bend over to absorb the shock of pain and catch my breath. I need to determine my options and act quickly. When I straighten up, I see my grandfather's face.

"Leave her." The authority in his voice makes them release their grip on me instantly. "She's my granddaughter, it's quite all right. Come on, Gabriella, let's go." His face is sad as he looks at me.

"I'm sorry to do this but I
need
to talk to you."

The room is silent. With everyone's eyes on us, we turn and walk up the steps and out of the auditorium.

We emerge from the building, and I inhale the cold air as I try to fill my lungs. I need to feel the life in me, to help gather the courage for whatever is going to happen next. I look at my grandfather. He seems broken—lost, much smaller than I remember. I feel shattered that I am responsible for his pain, that I am putting my own needs in front of his, but I can't stop now. I need to understand. No matter how.

I walk over to him and hand him the photograph from 1943 of Einstein, him, my grandmother, her parents, and Benjamin. He looks down at it.

"Where, where did you get this?" he says, and I know he is furious. "Maggie?" He turns and looks angrily into her face. "What is this about?"

"It happened, Dr. Vogel, just as Sophie warned me, so many years ago. It was as she told me. He saved her. Gabriella would have
drowned."

We stand in the great open plaza with the Charles River and the lights of the city behind us.

"What do you mean?" His voice gets louder.

"Gabriella came from New York, and I didn't know. Nobody knew." She twists her hands, covers her heart, tries to explain, to make him understand and see. The inevitable.

"What are you saying? Maggie!"

"And then, Gabriella, she, she went for a swim,
just
as Sophie had warned me. She knew."

He holds the picture I have given him and his hands shake. He stares at it with rage. "Look at this, do you see this, Gabriella? Look at how I've aged—and your grandmother." He points at her beautiful smiling face. "She's
dead!
Gone. She left me."

I stand and look right at him. I look into his face. I know he needs to say these things and I feel each word pierce my heart as I try to absorb the years of frustration and pain.

"Papa, please."

"And look at
him."
He points to Benjamin. "It's been over sixty years—
sixty years!
He hasn't changed at all."

"I don't understand," I whisper as I back away and shake my head. I am afraid of what he will say next as I know he is about to explain this to me.

"He remains subject to the laws of his world as long as he only stays for short periods of time. No one from that world has ever stayed here and
no one
from our world can go there. Your grandmother died trying to go through."

"She knew she was going to die anyway. She knew."

He lets out an anguished cry, and I think that my heart will break from the sound and everything it means. But I can't stop. I'm riding into the momentum that I need to carry me to Benjamin.

"No, Gabriella!"

"I'm going to make it work," I say flatly.

"This will not happen, Sophie did not understand. The consequences." He turns around and faces me, his face distorted with fear and pain. "Gabriella, he will
not
take you too. It cannot happen!"

And then, I remember everything my grandmother had told me. What she made me promise her. That I would choose for myself. That I should trust my heart, what I believed, and that I would
know
when I had found what I was looking for. That's what she said. That I would know.

I turn to my grandfather and say the words I never thought I would feel with the conviction that I did. "Papa, I can choose for myself. I will choose and—I choose him. He is what I want, it's meant to be. I know it."

"No one from that world has ever stayed here, Gabriella. It goes against all the laws of our universe. It cannot happen. I will not have you give up your life." He looks out into the night. "Like she did."

I wait, then slowly take a step toward him and reach out for his hand and say, "She tried to go with him, so she could
live."

"It's my fault, all of this. And your parents, that bomb was meant to kill me." He is sobbing softly. "And my beautiful, beloved Sophie—it should have been me. She thought it would work. I should have known, I should have seen her pain. I should have been there to help her."

"She knew what was going to happen. She knew her future, she could see it. Like I can," I say very softly.

"No one knows the future, Gabriella!" His voice thunders across the open plaza. "No
one!"