Relativity (6 page)

Dressing? How can she act so nonchalant, like this afternoon’s near-homicide never happened? Like this is all normal? I glare at her. “Did you follow me through that tree?”

“Tree?” she asks, twisting her face.

Patrick sighs and rubs his temples, just like Dad does when he’s worried. “If you don’t start making sense, I’m taking you to the ER. I think you’ve got a concussion.”

“Brain tumor,” Kandy adds with a laugh. Outside, thunder cracks.

“Could I use the bathroom?”

“Why are you asking permission?” Patrick sounds angry. “You’re in your own house!”

“Right,” I say. I down the glass of water, set it on the counter, then wander through the one-story house until I find a bathroom. Whoever decorated this place sure likes ducks. And plaid.

I peel my jeans down, slowly. Talk about a bloody, sticky mess.
After some wincing and swearing, I get my jeans off and take a good look. Yeah, I need stitches. Without them, I’m going to scar, big time. Oh, well. I mean, it’s not like I aspire to be a lingerie model.

Under the sink I find a washcloth, antibiotic ointment, and three big Band-Aids. A butterfly bandage would be better, but no such luck.

There’s a knock.

“What?”

Patrick’s voice. “I’m just setting these inside for you.” The door opens a crack. “Your favorite jeans and a polo.”

In tumbles a fresh pair of jeans and a pink top. “No thanks,” I say.

“What’s wrong?” Patrick asks through the door.

“Pink.”

Patrick is silent for a beat, then, “You love that shirt.”

“Really, I don’t,” I say. “But thanks for the jeans.”

I hear him sigh heavily, then retreat down the hall. After I clean and bandage my leg, I wiggle into the jeans, even though they’re tight. Much worse, they’ve got these fake diamonds along the tops of the pockets. I run my finger across the jewels, wondering if I can pop them off. Maybe they say something in Braille:
I’m mentally vacant. That’s why I’m dressed like a poodle
.

I wad up my bloodstained jeans and shove them to the bottom of the trash can, splash cold water on my face, use the toilet, then just sit on the pot. What am I going to do next? Crawl out the bathroom window and make a run for it? I can’t. It’s storming like mad. I mean, thunder and lightning and a torrential downpour that would make it impossible to see four feet ahead.

I rock back and forth, my stomach twisting with worry. A high-pitched sound fills the room, like a kitten mewing, and with a start I realize that it’s me. Whimpering. I put my hand over my mouth and start to pace, from the bathroom door to the toilet.

“The important thing is not to stop questioning.” That’s what Einstein once said. No problem, Albert. I’ve got a million questions. Maybe I can answer one or two by snooping around.

I sneak down the hallway toward the bedrooms. The walls are folk-artsy with wooden American flags, corn, cows, and chickens. I’ve never understood how farm animals and home decor equate. I guess it’s better than Willow’s black paintings—the ones that look like truck exhaust and tar puddles. The bleak period.

I continue to scan the wall as I tiptoe down the hallway. After a large, polka-dotted pig, there’s a framed photo of Patrick in a football uniform (I knew it), then an eight-by-ten family photo.

It’s Patrick, Dad, a woman with short black hair, and … me? At least it looks like me. All of us wearing matching khakis and white button-down shirts. The photo is maybe five years old. Patrick is wearing glasses, and my hair is in pigtails. My hair? No, that can’t be me. Of course it can’t.

The woman looks so familiar. Like a cousin or an aunt I’ve met once, at a wedding or a graduation party. Something about her faraway eyes. And what’s Dad doing in this photo?

It’s unnerving. Creepy. I have to turn away.

That’s when I notice a bedroom door. In dark red letters, it says
RUBY
. Yeah, it says Ruby. Ruby! I can feel the bile rising in my throat.
I’m overwhelmed by the urge to run, then the urge to open the door. It’s a fierce tug-of-war, like positive charge versus negative, proton versus antiproton. The sum equals zero. So I just stand there, statuelike.

Deep breath.

With the tips of my fingers, I push open the door.

Inside, there’s a twin bed with a pink patchwork quilt. Above the bed hangs a poster that says
PARIS, JE T’AIME
. It’s a collage of photos of the Champs-Élysées, Eiffel Tower, and the Louvre. On the bookshelf are a few romance paperbacks. Then some yearbooks. I pull down the most recent and go straight for the index. My finger lands on “Wright, Ruby, 11, 27, 32, 54, 96.” Page eleven is topped with Ó Direáin High School’s Best (or Worst)! Photos of smiling kids are captioned by Most Likely to Succeed, Biggest Flirts, Most Detentions, Biggest Gossips, and Best Dressed.

Ruby Wright lands the coveted title of Most Likely to Lead. Class President, President of the Pep Club, and President of the French Club, it’s no wonder Ruby’s smiling. C’est cheese!

It’s me. Or someone who looks like me, though I’ve never owned a fuchsia V-neck sweater. And my hair has never been that shade of reddish orange—the color of iron oxide, the color of Mars.

My name, my face, my smile.

Panic pulses through my veins. I can’t process this. With trembling hands, I slide the yearbook back into its spot on the bookshelf.
Now my eyes are drawn to a shoe box on the bottom shelf. The box’s top is off and I can see that it’s loaded with postcards and letters. Yeah, I know. The last time I read someone’s personal stuff, I got chased smack into a coffee table. I’ll just read one or two things. I need to get my bearings; I need some clues.

A handwritten note on top, dated a couple of days ago.

Dear Ruby
,

I can’t remember the last time we talked (really talked, like we used to), and I know that’s at least half my fault. So I thought I’d try the old-fashioned way to get a few things aired out. We can’t scream at each other in a letter, or storm off angry. For me it’s a better way to organize my thoughts and feelings. Maybe if you like this method, you can write me back, and we can work out a few things this way
.

So I wanted to say thanks for letting Willow and me escape for a weekend. I wish your mother would have kept her promise to stay with you three at the house, but I don’t blame her. I hope that someday we can be on friendly terms again, but that will no doubt be a slow process
.

Please spend some time with Kandy while we’re gone. Willow is hopeful about the new medications … Kandy seems to have found her footing. I think eventually you’ll be fast friends. We need to talk again about the two of you sharing your room. We can find a way to divide it fairly. Just keep an open mind
.

I understand that this has been difficult for everyone. I apologize for the hurt, Ruby, but you know that your mother and I have been heading in different directions for some time. I love Willow, and my hope is that we can all move forward with forgiveness and acceptance
.

Love
,

Dad

P.S. No parties! And enjoy Patrick’s gourmet cooking. I don’t know where he gets his talent
.

I know that handwriting. It’s Dad’s. I start to read the letter a second time, trying to make sense of it. Kandy is on medication; Mom was supposed to stay for the weekend.

Mom? Whose mom?

A voice jolts me. “Ruby?” It’s Patrick, shouting from the kitchen.

“I’m fine!” I holler back.

The house is starting to smell like food. Kandy must be back with the wings, and maybe Patrick is baking something too. Smells like chocolate chip cookies.

If I weren’t so completely disturbed and confused, I would be tempted to eat. But right now I just feel queasy, frazzled.

As I push the box of letters back into its slot, the corner of a photo catches my eye. I pull it out and hold it in the palm of my hand. It’s my three-year-old self, wearing a red-gingham blouse with denim overalls. I’m sitting on Mom’s lap. This is my photo, from my dresser!

Only it’s … not. In this version, Mom is looking straight at the camera and she’s forcing a smile. This photo is in focus.

Oh my God.

I rush back into the hall and hold the snapshot next to the eight-by-ten I saw earlier: Patrick, Dad, a woman, and me. All of us wearing khakis and white button-down shirts.

The woman in both photos is Mom.

But it can’t be! My eyes dart back and forth between the old photo I recognize and the eerie eight-by-ten wall photo. Mom is dead, has been for eleven years. She can’t be in a photo that’s only a few years old.

I put my hand in my mouth and bite down on my knuckles. I’m going to throw up. I gotta get out of here, or scream, or both. I don’t care that it’s raining.

I lock myself in the bathroom, gag into the toilet, then swish my mouth with water. I open the window, pop out the screen, and ease myself through. In an instant I’m soaked. I wipe rainwater and tears from my eyes. Crouched down, I circle the house. The rain’s coming in torrents, which is good. Good because Patrick and Kandy won’t be able to see out the windows. They won’t be able to see me in the driveway.

The Jeep is unlocked. No keys in the ignition, but there’s an Ohio road map in the glove box and an umbrella on the floor. I tuck the map inside the waistband of my jeans, close the car door as quietly as possible, then take off running.

The rain is relentless. I slosh through ankle-deep water at the edge of the road where the storm sewers are backing up. A gust of wind blows the umbrella inside out, bending the metal frame. I keep scanning the horizon for a landmark, but it’s too bleak to see.

I’m cold. Every once in a while a searing jab of pain cuts through my shin, and I limp until it subsides. Finally the rain lets up, and I spot something recognizable—the spire on the high school’s stone building.

After a little effort, I find the courtyard where the Shakespeare rehearsals were going on earlier. The broken umbrella goes into a trash can, and I duck into a nice, deep doorway. Shelter from the wind and drizzle. I yank my T-shirt off, wring as much water out of it as possible, then put it back on.

Kind of stupid. I just soaked the cement. There’s barely enough dry ground for me to smooth out the Ohio road map. I squat down and study the alphabetical listing of cities with grid coordinates.
E. E
is for “Ennis.” I read the list once, twice. It goes from Englishville to Eno.

“No Ennis,” I mumble.

O. O
is for “Ó Direáin.” The map coordinates are H-5.

I flip the map over and scan the northeast corner. Exactly where Ennis should be is a black dot and
Ó DIREÁIN
in bold print.

I don’t understand. Cleveland, Columbus, and Cincinnati are where they’re supposed to be. It must be a typo, or the map is outdated. Nothing computes.

A bird squawks. Sounds like a blue jay. The sun breaks through a patch of clouds. I look up at the clearing sky, fold the map, and start walking.

Mom could be here, alive. You could go see her.

I press my palms against the top of my head, as if that might slow the barrage of confusion. My vision blurs and the pebble walkway becomes a haze of gauzy brown. Fluid. The sky tips forward. I drop
to my knees, breathing deeply, trying to coax away the urge to black out.

You can’t go see Mom! This isn’t right. You don’t belong here, Ruby. You need to get home.

Mom is dead. I don’t have a brother. If I’m somewhere with a dead person and a nonexistent person, I don’t want to be in that somewhere. I need to get out of this limbo land.

Really, only one thing makes sense. Only one course of action feels like the right choice:

Head back to the tree, and get the hell out of here.

“Damn!” I yank my hand away from the copper doorknob. The static shock and lightning spark take me by surprise. With the humidity from the rain, it seems impossible that the metal could’ve been charged. But it was. Electromagnetic force in action.

I shake the sting from my fingers, and wait while the door swings open. “Here goes,” I say, with a feeling of utter dread. I step into the pulsating oak tree, and a vivid memory surprises me.

I’m ten years old, with Dad, in Jewel Cave in South Dakota. The calcite formations—stalactites, stalagmites, flowstone, and frostwork—make my brain fizzle. Fizzle in a good way. The cave’s tour guide is an old guy with a mop of yellowish hair. He makes a big deal about a rare formation called a hydromagnesite balloon.

Then he turns out the lights. A complete void. Not a single visible wavelength.

Dad presses my head to his chest. I can hear his steady heart. “They’ll leave the lights off just long enough to spook everyone.”

Right now, inside this dark oak tree, there’s no one to hold me. My own heart beats frenetically, like a maxed-out Geiger counter. I can’t turn the wheel. My hand just keeps slipping around the perimeter.

“Please,” I moan.

One more try, and the disk rotates. There’s a single clank—the out-of-tune bell sound. Fresh air spills through the widening crack, and I grab the edge of the door to hurry it open. Out of the tree and into the blinding sunlight, I cover my eyes with my hands, waiting for my pupils to adjust, wondering what I’m about to see. What if I’m nowhere recognizable again? What if I’m at the edge of our solar system, clinging to an icy rock in the Oort cloud?

Get a grip. You wouldn’t be breathing right now. There’s no atmosphere on a comet.

Wherever I am, I could use a warm, dry sweater. That rainstorm in Ó Direáin left me drenched and shivering. I pull my hands away from my eyes, and as far as I can tell, I’m back in Ennis. It’s got that good, fresh-air smell, and the tree is surrounded by cornfields. I have to admit this feeling of relief, so strong, is a moment of sheer joy. Do I have to call it home? Okay, fine. I’m glad to be home!

Still squinting, I step over the gnarled roots of the tree and walk into the cornfields, looking over my shoulder at the tree, half expecting it to reach out with a limb and grab me, Stephen King–style. So what was that? A passage to another place, a tunnel of some sort. Makes no sense. My scientific brain doesn’t like it, not one bit. Kandy’s voice—
brain tumor
—resonates through me, and I get a fresh wave of the chills.