An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes (15 page)

“I can't believe that the next time I hear the doorbell, I'll know it's not you.”

“I know.”

“I can't believe our D&D group is losing its rogue.”

“I know.”

“I can't believe I'll be alone. . . actually, I take that back. It's totally believable.”

“Stop saying stuff like that.”

“By the way,” Sam says, “whose white car is that in the driveway?”

“My dad's,” she says. “He bought a new one for the trip.”

“Oh.”

They settle back into silence.

Sam gets up, walks out of the closet, still stunned by this emptiness, by this loss. Tiny square indentations are pressed into the carpet, left behind by the furniture. Using these as cues, he tries to reconstruct the room in his mind.

That is where her bed goes.

That is where her desk goes. Her computer. Her record player.

That is where her bookshelf goes. Her lamp. Her nightstand.

Her.

But his memory falters, and the imagined shadows fade back to emptiness.

Sarah comes up to Sam and stands next to him, trying to see what he sees.

“Your room feels so much bigger now that it's empty.” Sam's eyes stay on the floor.

“I know, right? But it's been great for practicing my cartwheels,” says Sarah. Then she does a cartwheel, ending with her hair over her face and hands raised in triumph.

“Yeah, I don't know. It still looks pretty sloppy to me.”

Sarah feigns offense and punches Sam in the arm.

He laughs as he takes the hit.

“Then you do one,” she challenges.

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“I'm training for the national cartwheel championships and my coach doesn't want me to publicly cartwheel. You know, in case of spies.”

“God, you're such a dork,” Sarah says and smiles.

“Sorry. It's just a really competitive sport.”

Sarah smiles again. Sam returns to the closet and sits on the floor. He hugs his legs to his chest and buries his face in his knees.

Sarah sits down next to Sam. She puts her arm around him and leans her head onto his shoulder. Sam tries to memorize the feel of their bodies pressed against one another.

He takes a deep breath. “So what does this mean for us?”

She covers her face with her hands. “I'm sorry, Sam, but I don't think I can do the distance thing.”

Sam's stomach clenches. His eyes well up. “We don't have to break up, Sarah. What difference does physical distance make anymore? We can still talk on the phone. We can text, e-mail, video chat. I mean, this isn't like the pioneer days where we have to wait months for the Pony Express to deliver letters. There are even airplanes now. No more caulking wagons and floating. We'll be apart, but we can still be together.”

Sarah uncovers her face and looks at her shoes. “It's not as easy as that. We won't be able to hug or kiss or make out or fool around. Do you really think we'd able to stay close? I know those physical things aren't everything, but I think I need them. Like the string on a balloon.”

“It's only one year. Then we can go to the same college” Sam says.

“Sam, I'll be meeting new people. Starting a completely different life. I don't know who I'll be this time next year. I don't know where I'll want to go to college.”

Sam stares at his hands. He imagines himself as a red balloon released, rising into the atmosphere. “Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

“I'm sorry, Sam,” she says. “I didn't want to ruin our final summer.”

Sarah's father suddenly appears in the doorway of the closet.

“Time to go,” he tells Sarah. “We've got a long drive ahead of us.”

“Okay. Be right down,” Sarah says.

“And, Sam, if you're ever in Seattle, you're more than welcome to stay with us.”

“Thanks, Mr. Hall,” Sam says.

Mr. Hall leaves.

Sam and Sarah stand.

They wrap their arms around each other. They stay like that for a while, but not long enough for Sam.

“I'll always love you, Sam,” she says.

“This proves otherwise,” he says.

Sam closes the door and then pauses for a moment, holding his breath. He listens until he is certain that he did not wake his family, and then he turns his back to his house. He wishes that he would have said goodbye to Grace. He has no way of knowing when he'll see her again.

Street lights illuminate patches of the sidewalk as he passes his neighbors' houses, their windows all dark. He wonders about each of them. He wonders if they are sleeping, and if they are sleeping, what they are dreaming. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. And then another dog barks somewhere else.

He rounds the corner and spots the car. Its headlights flash twice. He nods.

As Sam approaches, he sees Mari behind the wheel, Dante in the front, and Archie in the back. Sam waves as he passes in front of the headlights, and the trunk pops open. He drops his bags inside and then climbs into the back seat next to Archie.

“The band is back together,” Archie says, patting Sam on the back.

Nobody laughs.

“Thanks again, guys,” Sam says, as Mari pulls away from the curb. “It means a lot that you'd come with me.”

“It beats moving in with my father,” Archie says.

“Or working at McCluck's,” Dante says.

“Or my mom bugging me about . . .” Mari starts, but doesn't finish. “Anyways, everyone knows this is colossally stupid, right?” Nobody responds. “And you all know we're going to get in major trouble?”

“By the time they find out, we'll be long gone,” says Sam.

Archie double-checks his seatbelt. “We've never gotten in any real trouble before, so how mad can our parents get?”

Dante takes a deep breath.

“Just think of it like a quest,” Archie continues. “But in real life. We need the experience points.”

Mari shifts the car into gear. “Seattle, here we come.”

Archie examines his cheek in the dirty mirror. The rest stop bathroom's pallid lighting doesn't reveal much. “I think my beard's finally coming in.”

Dante chuckles as he flushes and then joins Archie at the sinks. He waves his hand under the automatic sensor, but nothing happens. He tries the next one, but again nothing.

“You can use this one,” Archie says, moving over. “I'm done.”

“Thanks.”

“So I'm surprised you came along, big guy,” Archie says. “They let you take off work like that?”

Dante shrugs. “Hey, Arch, can I ask you something about your dad?”

Archie punches the large metallic button and the roar of the hand dryer drowns out Dante. He walks out before the machine stops. He agreed to come to get
away
from his dad.

And to spend time with Mari. He just hoped she'd forgive him for last night. Whatever it was he had done wrong.

Archie surveys the parking lot on his way back to the car. There are only a few vehicles, most of which seem as if they're settled in for the night. A middle-aged woman examines her choices in the outdoor vending machines. A lamp flickers overhead.

“I don't know if anyone's told you,” Archie says, arriving at the car where Sam leans against the hood smoking, “but those things'll kill you.”

Sam responds by trying to exhale a ring of smoke but fails. He coughs. “Want one? You won't look as nerdy anymore.”

“No, thanks,” Archie says, joining Sam on the hood. He looks toward the restrooms while waiting for Mari to appear. “So you actually think this will work? You think you'll get Sarah back?”

“Maybe,” Sam says. “She said it was because she couldn't do distance.”

“So, what? You planning on living there?”

Sam takes a drag from his cigarette. “Maybe. I'm eighteen.”

“What if that's not the real reason she dumped you?” Archie asks.

“What do you mean?” Sam says.

“I mean, what if she didn't break up with you because she's moving, but because she just didn't want to date you anymore?”

“Fuck you,” Sam says.

“No offense,” Archie says, holding up his hands defensively. “But for real, I'm just trying to think through this logically. I think sometimes people are too afraid to do what they know they need to do. They wait for something to let them off the hook. Maybe for her, moving provided a convenient excuse.”

“Like I said: Fuck you.”

Archie shrugs. “Whether you get her back or not, you owe us.”

“Why? You chose to come. Everyone did.”

Archie can't really argue with that. He lifts his eyes to the night sky. It must be overcast because there are neither stars nor a moon.

A few moments later, Dante returns, followed by Mari. The four stand in a circle, each waiting for someone else to say something.

Sam puts out his cigarette against the rusty hood of Mari's car and then flicks away the butt. She glares at him, but he ignores it.

“We're making pretty good time,” he says. “Already halfway across Pennsylvania. Should make it late Sunday or early Monday if we drive straight through the night.”

“Well, I need to rest,” Mari says. “So you want to drive next?” She holds out the keys.

“No, thanks,” Sam says.

“It's your freaking girlfriend we're going to see,” Mari says.

“
Ex
,” Archie says. “His
ex
-girlfriend.”

Sam ignores Archie. “I'm paying for all the gas.”

“Yeah, with your dad's credit card,” says Archie.

Sam turns to him. “What are you contributing, Arch?”

“My delightful presence.” He smiles.

“You should help drive.”

“Never got my license, remember?”

Sam lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, yeah. Mommy and Daddy drive you everywhere.”

“Here.” Dante holds out his hand for the keys. “Let's just go.”

Mari drops them into his palm. “Yes, please.”

Archie flashes a victorious smile at Sam.

Mari wakes at the sudden jarring sound of the tires hitting the rumble strip. She feels the car slowing, and when she opens her eyes, Dante is pulling over onto the shoulder. Other cars continue rushing past.

“Why are we stopping?” she asks. “We get pulled over?”

Sam and Archie, also awake now, look through the back window. There is no cop car, only the unrelenting flow of traffic. The sun has just barely risen, hanging just above the highway behind them.

“Look,” Dante says. He kills the engine and tilts his chin toward a white, rectangular sign about thirty or forty feet in front of them.

Welcome To Ohio
, it says.
So Much To Discover!

“I thought it'd be bigger,” Mari says.

“That's what she said,” Archie says.

He looks to see if she smiles. She does not.

“Why are we wasting time?” Sam asks, his mouth sour from sleep.

“If we turn around now,” Dante says, “we can be back home in time to say that we went out together for a late breakfast or lunch or something. None of us would get in trouble.”

“Is that what you want?” Mari asks.

“We're wasting time,” says Sam. “Keep driving.”

“I'm already in trouble, so it doesn't make much difference to me,” Dante says.

“For what?” Archie asks. A semi-truck whizzes by in the right lane, causing their car to sway. Dante just shakes his head.

“Out with it, big guy,” Archie says.

“It doesn't matter,” he says. “I just want to make sure everyone's okay with doing this.”

“Yes. Now let's go,” Sam says.

Archie removes his glasses, fogs the lenses with his breath, and then wipes them with his shirt. “Well, everyone knows I'm more than happy to peace out for a few days.”

Dante notices Mari hasn't said anything. “Mari?”

She looks out the window at the trees. She thinks. About their leaves. About the unread letter pressed into her notebook. About a tumor lurking within her mother. About Archie. “I'm cool with it. Need some inspiration. I've come down with a little case of writer's block.”

Sam says, “Let's go.”

“Wait,” Dante says. “Everyone should call home first. Tell them where we've gone.”

“That's fucking stupid,” Sam says. “You're getting into trouble wrong.”

“No, Dante's right,” Archie says. “What do you think your parents will do when they can't find you?”

“They won't even notice I'm gone,” Sam says.

“Fine,” Archie says. “But what do you think my parents will do? Or Mari's? Or Dante's grandparents?”

Sam relents. “They'll call.”

“And if we don't answer? If we don't notify them of our impromptu cross-country journey?” Archie asks.

“Then they'll call the police and report you missing,” Sam mumbles.

Archie pats Sam on the head. “If I had a gold star, it'd be all yours, buddy.”

Sam pulls out his phone. “I'll just text.”

The others grab their phones, take a collective deep breath, and call.

“. . . yes, Mom, I'm fine.”

“. . . going to Seattle . . .”

“. . . because Sam needs to . . .”

“. . . we're his friends . . .”

“. . . should be back in a few days . . .”

“. . . I know . . .”

“. . . I'm sorry . . .”

“. . . no . . .”

“. . . not going to turn around . . .”

“. . . I know . . .”

“. . . sorry . . .”

“. . . it won't hurt my GPA . . .”