Cristin Bishara - Relativity

“Yes.” She rolls onto her side and slowly sits up.

“Can you stand?” I brush the sand from her hair, then drape her arm over my shoulder and try to pull her up with me. My good leg quivers; it isn’t strong enough to lift both of us.

“Stop,” Mom says. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m already hurt. Can you use my crutches? Hey! Don’t lose consciousness!” I gently slap her cheeks. Her face is cold, despite the greenhouse temperatures. “Look at me!”

“I’m okay,” she says. She crawls toward the oak.

“Take your time.” I tuck the flashlight into my back pocket so I can get the crutches under my armpits and go ahead of her. Between the darkness, the blizzard of insects, and my broken glasses, I’m blind. I feel my way back to the opening in the trunk, patting my hand along the rough bark.

“We don’t have time,” she calls to me.

I step inside the portal, drop everything, and extend my arms. She’s walking on her knees and is halfway through the door when she collapses backward. Swearing under my breath, I kneel next to her and put my finger to her neck to find her pulse. I put my ear to her mouth until I feel her warm breath.

Then the door starts to close in its relentless, steady way.

“Get inside!” I scream at her, pulling on her legs, her pants wet from all the rainstorms she’s been through tonight. “Try, Mom. Anything. Come on!” Her eyes jerk open, and with a hint of awareness she struggles to move forward.

I yank on her waist, and she sits up, wrapping an arm around my neck. The open space diminishes. Twelve inches, six inches. I shove my backpack into the sliver that remains, trying to buy an extra moment, trying to get the last of her inside. There’s a sickening crushing sound, Mom’s screams, and the tree seems to spit both Mom and my backpack into its interior. Swallowed. The door seals shut. We pant and shiver in total darkness.

“Mom?”

“My wrist.” She moans in agony. I find her head and run my fingers through her hair.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say. “We’re almost home.”

“You’re almost home. I’ve got farther to go.” She presses something into my fingers. It’s my flashlight. Though I really don’t want to know, I click it on and shine the light on her mangled hand.

“Your wrist looks okay,” I lie to Mom, and myself. “I’m sure it’s just a couple broken bones. No biggie.”

“Liar,” Mom says, and the word stings. I have been a liar, a fake. Posing as her true daughter, trying to step into her parallel life with the intention of stealing it for myself.

The tree’s engine seems to growl at me, angry, threatening. I pull myself to my feet and point the flashlight at the wheel. I wipe my hands on my jeans, but they’re slick with sweat. “I need those gardening gloves,” I mumble, digging into my backpack. My fingers don’t find the gloves, but I do find socks. I wipe the one remaining lens of my glasses clean, then put my hands into the socks to use them as mittens. I turn the disk and— clang! The disk suddenly drops a foot.

“What was that?” Mom asks, alarmed.

“The steering wheel just slid down the pole!”

“Is it broken?

“I don’t know!”

Before I can assess the damage, the door opens upon Universe Ten, marked by a runic symbol that looks like a capital H but without the left-hand stem.

At first I think I’m seeing large snowflakes, suspended and swirling through the air. But the air is hot and smells sulfuric. I squint into the darkness, and add a little logical deduction. Yuck. It’s ash and soot, not pristine snowflakes.

“What’s it look like?” Mom asks.

“The apocalypse,” I say, squinting harder. The landscape is an indistinct, glowing blur. But even with my bad vision, I can tell that the world is burning.

“What’s that smell?”

“Fire,” I say. “I think it’s been all lightning and no rain here.”

I shine the flashlight on Mom, flat on her back. There’s no way she’s getting up. “You’ve gotta stay in here while I go out,” I tell her.

“No, Ruby,” she says. “Stay inside with me. Maybe the door will close.”

“I haven’t tried that,” I admit. “I always get out, the door closes, then I have to touch the knob to get back in.” The tree’s engine hums, surges suddenly, stutters, then regains its steadiness. I don’t like the sound of it. At all.

“Let’s wait it out.” Mom’s voice is a weak whisper.

I sit next to her and hold her hand. Smoke blows into the tree and into our sinuses, but the air is thick and warm, and the heat feels good.

I pull my shirt over my nose and mouth to filter the smoke. Mom hacks.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. The door hasn’t budged.”

“Try turning the wheel.”

“Okay.”

It’s now at knee level, so I lean over it, into it, but it refuses to turn. And it’s not just slippery; it’s stuck. No give whatsoever, even with the socks over my hands.

“It might be broken,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as frantic as I feel. “I’m sure it will turn once the door is closed.”

Mom hears me straining and tells me to stop. “Save your strength,” she says.

I stand on one leg inside the doorway, looking out. I’m not sure, but that might be Ó Direáin High School burning, throwing plumes of flame and smoke into the sky.

“It looks like primordial earth,” I say.

“Volcanoes?” Mom mumbles.

“Right.”

Universe Ten is disintegrating into ash. I imagine downtown Ó Direáin crumbling. Shanghai, Sweet Treats. All the books in the library, consumed by flames. Mom’s apartment. Her denim couch, her messy bedroom.

Mom coughs and coughs and can’t stop. I sink to the floor and gently shake her. “Mom, the air is poisonous. We’ve gotta get the door shut. I’m going to step out, wait for the door to start closing, then jump back in with you. Maybe it will finish closing, and we can move on.”

She’s silent, motionless.

“Mom?”

I press my finger against her neck and find her pulse. Her breath is warm against my cheek. But she’s unconscious. Her fingers are icy, so I press them between my palms, trying to rub some warmth back into them.

“Mom?” I bury my face in her neck. “Please wake up. Please, please, please. I promise to take you back to Universe Four, back to your home.” I wait for her to respond, but she says nothing. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll take you wherever you want. I’ll get you there.”

Her silence is more than I can bear. “Back in ten seconds,” I say before limping out of the tree, backpack in hand in case I need to wedge it in the door again. The moment both feet are outside the tree, I expect the door to start closing. But it doesn’t.

I force myself to count to thirty before giving up, then step back inside. “It’s okay, Mom. Let me try the wheel again.”

A gust of wind carries a cloud of smoke into the tree. Horrendous. My eyes sting and water; my throat is seared with hot pinpricks.

Of course the disk won’t budge. “Go!” My muscles strain and fatigue. I abandon the wheel and proceed to kick and spit at the door. “Close, you stupid thing!” I grab the edge and lean backward, trying to pull it to get it moving, but I can barely get my fingers around its massive width. Futile.

“I don’t think the wheel’s going to advance until we’re both out,” I tell Mom, though she’s silent. “It might not work at all anymore, but we have to try.”

We need to hurry, to escape this stew of carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide, ammonia—unbreathable air. Desperate, I look at her slumped body. It will take every molecule of strength I have, but I’ll get her out.