Relativity (20 page)

I look around the mausoleum, scanning the walls. The flashlight helps, especially in the corners. Finally, I shine the beam on the ceiling.

“What’s that?” The writing is so small it’s practically invisible. You could mistake it for a spiderweb. I aim my digital camera, then zoom in and capture the image. Now I can see it, on my camera’s screen.

I fumble excitedly for my notebook and pen, and write the letters of the alphabet, and then directly below that, the alphabet with a ten-letter shift. I should’ve guessed the key would be ten; after all, I’ve been navigating a ten-universe system with similar elements, rearranged. Decoding the cryptic message that’s carved above the portal door should be a breeze now.

Gry kbo iye coousxq? = Who are you seeking?

I slump with disappointment. It’s just a philosophical statement, nothing about how the tree works. Nothing scientific. A waste of time.

I leave the mausoleum and circle it to investigate the exterior walls, just in case there’s a clue. A plaque hangs on the rear wall, and etched into it is this:

P
ADRAIG
Ó D
IREÁIN WAS BORN IN ENNIS
, I
RELAND, IN
1841. H
IS FAMILY DIED AS A RESULT OF THE POTATO FAMINE, AND
Ó D
IREÁIN IMMIGRATED, ALONE, TO THE
U
NITED
S
TATES AT THE AGE OF TEN
. A
FTER
Ó D
IREÁIN PULLED A TWO-YEAR-OLD FROM THE PATH OF AN ONCOMING TRAIN, THE TODDLER’S GRATEFUL FATHER TOOK
Ó D
IREÁIN UNDER HIS WING AND TRAINED HIM AS A CARPENTER
. Ó D
IREÁIN WAS WIDELY KNOWN
FOR HIS MATHEMATICALLY PRECISE WOODWORKING, AND HE EVENTUALLY EXPANDED HIS WORK INTO THE FIELDS OF ARCHITECTURE AND CITY PLANNING
.

Mathematically precise woodworking. Like the intricately etched design on the tree door, the gridlike pattern.

I dig into my backpack and retrieve Ó Direáin’s thick brown journal. It’s broken into three sections: Biography, Codes for the Uses of Electricity, and Unbreakable Codes. In the biography section, there’s this:

His obsession with electricity ultimately led to his death, a result of his work on what he called a “travel tunnel.” Few records remain in regards to what he described as this “supreme and powerful machine” because Ó Direáin encoded his lab notes, or because he burned the pages at the end of each day. He also noted that his invention was “well-hidden, encased in an everyday object.” Historians suspect that this mysterious and ambitious project was an attempt to build an aircraft powered by jet engines
.

Um, no. He wasn’t attempting to build a jet airplane. He was inventing something more like an elevator. A door opens and people casually stroll out of a wall. Others go in and disappear, transported to an unseen place. The portal isn’t so different. It’s an Einstein-Rosen bridge—a connection between parallel universes, a traversable worm-hole. It’s a quantum elevator.

We may never know, since the world’s most renowned cryptologists have been able to decode little of the section of his journal that Ó Direáin himself labeled “Unbreakable Codes.” Part of what makes his codes inscrutable is that he mixed English letters and numbers, as well as the Celtic ogham, a runic alphabet. Regarding encryption, he wrote: “I am obsessed with rearranging. I sort things out after attempting various combinations. This is how scientific revelations occur.”

It all fits! The travel tunnel, encased in an everyday object. That would be the oak. The runic alphabet might explain the symbols on the floor of the tree, around the metal ring. And attempting various combinations means so much, on so many levels. Whether attempting various math formulae, or chemical compounds, or codes. It’s all about rearranging letters, numbers, and ideas, until you get it just right.

It’s all about trying various parallel worlds, until you find the right one. The perfect world.

Instead of hand-copying Ó Direáin’s biography into my notebook, I snap a few digital photos of it. The graveyard fence runs just behind the Ó Direáin mausoleum, and there’s another gate, half-open. Now I can see the spire of the stone high school in the distance. Nice to spot a familiar landmark, even if it’s at least half a mile from its usual location. If Ó Direáin High School exists in this universe, then beyond that might be a neighborhood. And—maybe—in that neighborhood there’s a house where Mom lives.

I trip over a low tombstone, and a stabbing pain hits me so deeply
I actually groan. I need medical help. I need another night’s rest on Mom’s denim couch. Maybe I’ll happen upon a walk-in clinic and make a pit stop. If they could just drain the wound, that might do the trick.

I head toward the school, my backpack bouncing against my spine, my prescription pills rattling in their orange vial. A water fountain in the shape of a shamrock hugs the side of the stone building; its organic shape blends with the manicured hedges. Take one pill every four hours. Breakfast at Mom’s was about that, give or take. I pop one pain pill, then another for good measure, and gulp down water.

A crack of thunder. Lightning darts horizontally through cloud-bottoms. Instinctually, I crouch down, shielding my head. “Major voltage,” I whisper, eyeing the sky. Pillars of vertical clouds line the horizon like chemistry beakers on a shelf, dark and roiling.

Even though it can’t be noon yet, it feels like dusk. Across the street, a field of corn bends with the wind. It’s a collective reaction, like a flock of birds suddenly shifting, averting. I shiver and dig into my backpack to find Mom’s sweater, the one I swiped from her apartment bedroom. It feels good, and smells right.

My injured leg is getting stiffer by the minute. I have to swing it out alongside me as I hurry in the direction of Corrán Tuathail Avenue, toward the squat brick house, the place where our fractured family lives. But the scene will be different in this universe. I’ll peer in the windows and find Mom and Dad sitting together at the kitchen table, playing cards, sipping hot chocolate. There will be no sign of Kandy or Willow. The dogs will be sleeping, curled up on their beds. Patrick might be there too. And later on I’ll get a call from George, who’s been
hanging out at Sweet Treats or Shanghai, waiting for me. I’ll apologize for being late.

The asphalt road gives way to cobblestone, and I know I’m not going to find the brick house. Not here. There’s been a variation, a fork in the road of space-time. In this universe, this section of town was built at a different time, by people with a different vision. The houses are straight out of a fairy tale—green with purple trim, blue with pink trim, topped with gabled roofs and ornate cornices. They practically look edible; if only they had licorice shutters and gumdrop chimneys.

My heart leaps with hope. Different is good. This could be the place.

The sidewalk winds through towering oaks, not quite as big as the portal tree. Roots have sent fracture lines through the sidewalk, producing piles of chipped stones, sections entirely popped out of place.

Ahead, I see a wheelbarrow tipped on its side, overflowing with white impatiens.

Mom! Home!

I stand at the cusp of the slate walkway, fighting back the urge to march through the front door and into Mom’s arms. The house is yellow with white trim, subtle shades compared to the rest of the neighborhood. I follow the walkway through a thick patch of ivy, which has been trimmed to the edge of each stepping stone. A plump robin flits into an overfilled bird bath, then darts into the trees. Potted geraniums line the porch’s three steps. A porch swing rocks, pushed by the wind. There is no doorbell, so I knock. I can’t see into the house through the door’s stained-glass window, but I see a shadow, a shape, moving toward the door.

A lock clicks, the door swings open, and there’s Mom. My hands go to my head, as if pressing my skull will help me from blowing a circuit, from totally losing it. “Hi” is all I can manage. I want to kiss those cheekbones, press my nose against her neck and inhale. That grape smell.

“Can I help you?” Mom’s face is friendly but blank. “Are you selling something?” She looks me up and down, shifts uncomfortably.

She doesn’t recognize me. “No, I’m here to—” I can’t finish the sentence.

Suddenly her face softens. “You must be here to see Ruby.” She turns and calls over her shoulder. “Ruby! Someone from your class.”

I start to protest, but Mom takes my arm and leads me in. “I noticed the backpack. Do you have an English study group?” she asks.

The living room is decorated like Mom’s apartment. Denim couches, Americana artwork. A redheaded girl pops up from the couch. “Hello,” she says, cocking her head at me. Freckles dot her cheeks like constellations. “Do I know you?”

They’re both staring at me, waiting for me to say something. My face burns, my entire body feels hot. I think of my leg and infection and fever. “I’m, well, I’m just new here, and I, uh …”

Ruby claps her hands. “You moved into the salmon house at the end of the street. I saw the vans yesterday.”

Mom holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

I shake her hand, holding on too long. I don’t want to let go of those fingers, that soft skin. My eyes drift to the living room and the fireplace mantel. Above it hangs an enormous family photo. Mom’s
arm is wrapped around the waist of a man I’ve never seen before. He’s got red hair, and a red beard. Sitting on the floor in front of them is this redheaded girl named Ruby. They’re wearing khakis and white shirts. I’m not in the picture.

“I’m Sally.” Mom presses her hand to her heart. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Ruby too.”

“Really? What a coincidence. Our Ruby was named after her great-grandmother. What about you?”

“Look,” I say, stepping backward. “I’m not … I should get going.”

“But what about your study group?”

“There’s no study group today,” Ruby says.

“Well, it’s about to rain,” Mom says. “There’s lightning. You should stay and have some hot chocolate. We’re ordering pizza for lunch.”

“Yuck, Mom,” Ruby says. “Hot chocolate with pizza?”

I stare at redheaded Ruby, then Mom. “You’ve got the same eyes,” I say vacantly. “Blue with flecks of amber.”

An awkward silence hangs over us.

“Do you mind if I take your photo?” I ask, digging for my digital camera. Why didn’t I take some photos of Mom in Universe Four? I can picture her at the kitchen table, eating her Hawaiian pizza. I can see her in her pajamas, covering me for the night.

When I look up, I see that Ruby’s face is twisted into a wince.

“You’d better hurry home before the storm hits.” Her voice is loud and authoritative; she’s taking charge of a situation gone awry. “You’ll be fine if you leave now.” She returns to the couch and picks up a book, glancing at me sideways.

Alternate Ruby. In a sense, she’s my half sister. Mom’s DNA, but not Dad’s.

“At least you can take this.” Mom hands me an umbrella. “You don’t want to get that nice sweater wet. You know, I have one just like it. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

“Who would believe it?” My voice quivers.

Mom holds the door open for me, and I can’t take my eyes off her. What if she’s not in any of the other worlds? What if this is the layout of the remaining universes—Mom with the redheaded husband—and the parallel worlds that include Dad and me are few and far between?

“You look so familiar to me,” she says. “I can’t put my finger on it, but you remind me of someone.”

Oh, Mom. My eyes are blue with flecks of amber too.

“I’ve got that kind of face.” I turn and hobble down the porch steps, eager to get away before the tears spill down my cheeks.

The sky is a sickly shade of green. A bruised color. I look over my shoulder and see Mom standing in the window, her fingertips pressed against the glass. She raises a hand and waves.

Bye, Mom. Again.

I press my nose into the crook of my elbow and inhale, trying to find the smell of hope. Mom’s sweater is her apartment, her perfume, her laundry detergent, her sweat, her grape shampoo. But it’s not her.

When I look back at the window again to blow her a kiss, she’s gone. The curtain’s still swaying.