Cristin Bishara: Relativity

I sit on the ground just outside the tree, hook my arms under hers, then press my heels into the ground and tug. Once we’re mostly outside, the door starts closing again. There must be some sort of internal sensor, a mechanism in the floor, that can feel when the tree is empty of passengers. The only problem is, Mom’s legs from the knees down are still draped over the threshold.

We only have moments.

“Wake up, Mom!” Coughing and gagging against the sooty air, I’m barely keeping pace with the door. If I don’t get her out—now—she’ll be crushed. A massive explosion booms behind me, and a sudden rush of flames casts an orange light on the tree. Mom’s ankles are still inside. I scream again, pull once more, and she’s out.

The door seals shut.

“We made it, Mom.” I pant, gulping in toxic smoke, willing myself to stand up and touch the doorknob. The shock of electricity is momentarily paralyzing; it throws me back onto the ground. The tree door opens again. I gather my senses, hook my arms under Mom’s armpits, and then reverse the procedure, screaming and tugging on her, until we cross the tree’s threshold and are back inside. The door closes behind us.

Retching and dizzy, I try to turn the wheel. Universe One is only seconds away. But it won’t advance to the next position. I twist and twist, but it simply won’t go.

“Turn!” I scream, shredding my vocal cords.

It’s stuck. My lungs are collapsing. We’re suffocating inside this dark and unforgiving chamber. This coffin.

“Mom,” I sob. “I’m so sorry. We’re going to die in here.”

Is this what destiny had in mind? Is this my fate? To die with Mom? Maybe I should have been in that car when I was four. Maybe I’m the one who’s been dodging death all these years and it’s finally caught up with me.

I hold Mom’s hand, waiting to black out. It will only be a matter of minutes. I lay my head on her chest so I can feel her heart, still beating.

She squeezes my fingers. “Ruby,” she says in a raspy whisper.

I press my ear to her lips so I can hear. “I’m here, Mom.”

“Please,” she says. “Undo what you’ve done. You have to go back and reverse it somehow.”

“Mom,” I say. “I can’t—”

An idea jolts me, resuscitates me.

“Reverse!” I scream, crawling back to the wheel. “I need to try it in reverse.”

The wheel slides counterclockwise, returning to the position of Universe Nine. Fresh air blows into the tree, clearing the smoke from the interior of the trunk. Sand darts across the threshold, and the salty, seaside air seems to rouse Mom.

“Are you awake?” I ask, shining the flashlight at her face.

She nods.

“I think you’re okay,” I tell her, brushing a mosquito from her nose. “You passed out from the pain.”

She tries to sit up, holding her wrist limply in her lap.

“Steady.” I wrap my arms around her, trying to offer support.

“What about you? Your leg?”

“Bad,” I admit. “It’s seeping through the bandages and sticking to my jeans.” I think of Dr. Leonard warning me about pus. A chill shakes me despite the balmy humidity here. I’m sure I have a fever.

Mom shifts her weight, pressing her back against the inside wall. “Where are we?”

“Universe Nine. We’re going in reverse now.”

“Good,” she says.

“We hit a roadblock, so we have to double back.” I shine the flashlight at the wheel mechanism, and inspect the pole. There’s the horizontal groove we’d been traveling along. But after Universe Nine, the horizontal groove ends and gives way to a vertical groove going down. So when we reached that point, the disk plummeted a foot, and then settled into place—at the start of another horizontal groove. Poised to rotate in the opposite direction.

“Can you stand?” I ask.

She says yes, and I help her to her feet. “Crutches?” she asks.

“They’re gone. I left them inside the tree, and they vanished.”

“Thank goodness you didn’t leave me,” she says.

“The tree wouldn’t let me,” I say. “Thankfully.” Maybe the tree has a way of distinguishing human cargo from inanimate objects.

We hobble and lurch getting out of the oak, and then we turn to face the dreaded knob. With every touch, it delivers more amperes, more current, more impact. At some point, it will be deadly.

Mom reaches for it, and I slap her away. “No way. I’ll do it.” The electricity tears through me, but I remain on my feet. “Piece of cake,” I say through vibrating teeth.

Mom holds her wrist against her stomach, her shoulders slumped, looking weighed down by exhaustion, pain. “How much time do you think we have left?”

“Zero.” The tree’s humming, engine-like noise has gone up in pitch. It’s straining.

“So let’s keep moving,” she says, determination in her voice.

Back inside the tree, Mom steps toward the wheel. “Maybe we don’t have to go one at a time,” she says. “See if you can spin it all the way to four. All at once.”

I wipe my hands dry on my jeans. “I’ll try,” I say doubtfully, gripping the disk and turning it. It settles into the notch for Universe Eight, but I keep applying pressure. Surprisingly, I can feel that it’s not completely resisting. It doesn’t seem locked into place.

“Is it working?”

“Maybe,” I say, wishing I still had those gardening gloves. “Do you know what happened to that pair of socks?” My knuckles ache and my shin burns, but there’s some movement, a hint of possibility. And then it goes. “We’re at seven!”

“Good,” Mom says.

“It has momentum now,” I say as it slides from six to five. When it lands on four, I let go of the disk. “Yes!” I yell, but my excitement is quelled as the engine makes a grinding noise, like rusty gears wrenching. “That’s not good,” I say.

Mom doesn’t reply. She seems to be holding her breath with anticipation. When the door opens I notice that she straightens her posture. “This is it?” Excitement and relief lift her voice. “We’re behind the school?”

I nod. “Welcome home.” We step outside. The portal door seals shut behind us, and we’re greeted by the rumble of thunder. A low, growling warning. An earth-shaking. “This is Universe Four.”

“Ruby …,” she says, her voice trailing off. “I …” She doesn’t know what to say.

“Do you have your phone on you?” I ask.

Mom looks confused. She pats her back pocket. “I do,” she says.

“Think it still works?”

She slides it open and the screen lights up. “Seems to,” she says. “I’ve got bars.”

“Call Patrick to come pick you up.”

Mom nods and holds the phone to her ear. When I hear Patrick pick up on the other end, I take the phone from her. “Hi, Patrick,” I say into the phone. “It’s Ruby.”

“Ruby!” I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Where the hell are you? And where’s Mom?”

I laugh. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I say. “Mom’s right here. She needs you to pick her up in front of the high school.” I give Mom a look. “She’ll explain everything.”

“I will?” she mouths.

“You were just here!” Poor Patrick. The last time I popped into this universe, he was riding bikes with Ruby, and she—poof!—vanished. One minute she was pedaling behind him, the next there was an abandoned bike lying on the ground. “Why do you keep disappearing?”

I lock eyes with Mom. I could tell Patrick about the science, that it’s quantum physics, but instead I tell him the truth. “I don’t know,” I say. “I honestly have no idea.”

He sighs, sounding frustrated. “Look. It’s about time we hashed everything out,” he says. “No bullshit, once and for all. I set up an appointment with that therapist that the ER doctor recommended. For the four of us. You, me, Mom, and Dad. All of us in the same room at the same time.”