She wanted me to smile, to give her a hug, and put my foolishness behind me so we could get to bed. But all I could think of was how to jump from one universe to another. If I could imagine what happens in another bubble, then why couldn’t I be there? When I wrote, I saw real people saying and doing real things. There was no difference in my mind between what I saw with my eyes and what I imagined I saw. So wasn’t I in another universe when I used my imagination?
I couldn’t go back in time, but maybe I could skip sideways. “When I write, I live in these different worlds.”
“In your mind, Laney.”
“Could I ever see another universe?”
She shifted her legs and moved closer. “Let’s try this thought experiment. In one universe, you decide to stay inside the house. In another, you run outside to play in the rain. The you inside the house looks out the window by chance at the same time as the you outside looks through the window inside the house. What would either of you see?”
I wanted to say, “Each other,” but I knew she’d scoff at me. So I gave the answer she wanted. “An empty, dry living room and an empty, wet front yard?”
“Yes, because the act of looking causes another split in your own universe, one that fits logically into your particular story. Besides, by the time either of you decide to look through the window, you would have already made a dozen decisions, creating more universes which have moved forward in their own time frame. How would either of you ever catch the other?”
I stood, holding my stories. My brain was like a racehorse, ready to take off as soon as she moved away from the gate. “I need to write something.”
She stared at me, mouth open, right eye squinting slightly like she didn’t recognize me. Then she shook her head. She held her hand up for me to help her stand. “You’re not going to stop this obsession, are you?”
I pulled her up. “No. I can’t.”
She tightened her lips and touched my cheek. “Maybe . . .”
“No.” My words rushed out of my mouth. “Thanks for explaining this to me, Mom. I’ll read more about what you told me, and then we can talk again.” I turned toward my desk and pulled out my chair.
“Please don’t stay up too late, Delaney.”
“Sure.” I sat in my chair and tapped my keyboard to awaken my computer.
I heard my door close then tried to imagine all the worlds my choices had created. In one of them, surely, Hannah Strong and Sean West still lived together in our house, happy, with a perfectly normal daughter who doesn’t dream about losing herself in unseen universes. Or finding herself in them.
2
Some time after I left Marissa’s sleepover, I drove by the park where the girls were found. I don’t remember why. Later, I arrived home. My mind was in a fog for the rest of that weekend. I read the article about the two girls many times. I tried to imagine what had happened to them, even wrote several pages of their story, but stopped. I tried imagining the other option of staying at Marissa’s and never opening the story on my phone. That version was more interesting, but ultimately led nowhere. I think I studied for finals.
A simple choice had changed my life and sent my father packing. Another choice—reading the article—has possibly changed things, though I’m not sure how. Make a few choices here and there, and pretty soon—bang—you’re in a universe you never intended to visit. Better to know each decision and make sure it’s the right one. And to recognize the important ones.
Months ago I decided to keep track of each choice, trying to avoid mistakes. But some days it’s hard because I deliberate over each option, afraid to commit to only one.
I worry that counting is crazy and unhealthy. Sometimes I try to stop, but it’s like being trapped underwater. I’m holding my breath, but it can only last so long before I panic, before I worry about drowning. Eventually I have to break through the surface, gasping for air, and realize I just made a choice that could’ve killed me.
I have to stay focused. Too much is at stake.
Monday, I decided to just do and not think. Didn’t worry about each choice. Just took them as they came. Clothes, driving route, parking space, who to respond to in the hallway, who to seek out, whose invitation to accept or reject. As a result, I beat my previous record of just over two hundred recorded choices. None of them seemed life changing, but who knows?
Today, I start over and am up to ten when I watch Khannan grimace as Mom kisses his cheek before she rushes out the door this morning. I could’ve turned away to fill my travel cup with coffee. But I don’t.
By lunch, I’m at thirty-five when I drive home and yell at a girl about my age wearing shades practically running from my front door in a pleated miniskirt.
“Who the hell are you?” I bark.
I could’ve bitten my lip and pretended to find something in my car until she pulled away in hers. But I don’t.
About my height but showing so much more skin than I’ve ever dared to, she flashes her white teeth behind purple lipstick and brushes past me, saying nothing, headed toward her red Outback. Mine is white.
Is there a gold stud in her tongue?
She hurries down the sidewalk, her skirt riding up obscenely with each step. She waves at me and purposely spreads her legs as she slides into the seat, smiling again before she shuts her door. Then she guns her car around the rest of our circular driveway and races down the street.
I’d left my graphing calculator on my desk this morning and need it for class this afternoon, so I have to go inside.
The foyer reeks of weed. Sofa pillows lie scattered around the living room, and a chair stands in the middle of the kitchen, ropes sagging in loops onto the seat. Others lie curled around the legs.
Visions of Khannan’s skinny body filling the chair grate against my eyes. I shake my head and turn away, trying to keep the bile out of my throat.
I don’t want to see this. I want to scream but force myself to take deep breaths instead.
The same thing has happened again—a man my Mom trusted has cheated on her! And I doubt it is Khannan’s first time.
He and his son, Eddie, moved into our house a year ago. Mom seemed happy and asked me to give the man a chance, and I did. But during the past few weeks, his boredom with her has become more obvious, to me at least. Despite his gourmet dinners for us each night. Despite rubbing her feet with lotion as they watch TV. The man is faking it, I’m certain.
But I already screwed up one of her relationships. I can’t do it to her again.
I stare at the ropes and see a flash of wrists tied together. A girl’s? Did he tie her up? What the hell?
A door opens down the hall. My throat tightens, and I hold my breath, trying to back away. I hear footsteps. Or think I do.
I run as quietly as I can to my room and close the door. My calculator rests on top of a folded section of newspaper I read last night. I grab both, head toward the window, and pop off the screen, which I shove under my bed like I’ve done many times before when I needed to sneak out of the house. Straddling the tree limb, I reach back and push the window down before jumping to the ground and running around to the driveway. My face burns as my eyes stare at the front door, willing it to stay closed until I leave our neighborhood.