Cristin Bishara: Relativity

First, George. He’s smiling, holding a bottle of water, wearing a backpack. The blue of the sky behind him matches the blue of his eyes. That was the day we hiked Mount Diablo. From the summit, we could see the Golden Gate Bridge.

Next to that, the photo of my old dogs, Isaac and Galileo. They’re outside our apartment in Walnut Creek, looking through the sliding-glass door. Their ears are straight up, mischief in their eyes. When the dogs both died of cancer within a year of each other, I kept that photo under my pillow. Dad bought a frame for it before it got completely wrinkled and ruined.

And finally, the faded, out-of-focus photo of Mom and me. My only photo of her, after our roof leaked years ago and ruined a closet full of keepsakes. I’m about three years old, sitting on her lap, wearing a red-gingham blouse with denim overalls. Mom’s hair is long and black; the Cherokee in her blood also asserts itself in her cheekbones. She’s looking off to the side, like something has caught her attention. She seems not quite sad. Maybe wistful is the word. I know the feeling.

“’Night, Mom,” I say, settling into bed with the Hubble book from George. I flip through the thick, glossy pages, stopping at 30 Doradus #016, a heavyweight star in the Tarantula Nebula. It’s ninety times bigger than the sun, and it’s zooming across space so fast it could travel from the Earth to the moon in an hour.

Next page, a titanic collision of galaxy clusters. Followed by a photo of galaxies aligning to form an “Einstein ring,” which could help us understand dark matter and the curvature of the universe. I rub the tattoo on the back of my neck. Rμv−½gμvR = −κTμv . The Einstein tensor.

I read for I don’t know how many hours. Dad and Willow have both ducked their heads into my room to say good night. The house is quiet when there’s a flash of light outside my window, then crack ! Thunder. The room goes dark, the electricity out. I slide a metal ruler between the pages as a bookmark and flip my book shut. Nothing to do now but sleep.

But I can’t. For hours, I turn from stomach to side, trying to get to REM, but every time I’m half dreaming, the thunder startles me awake. I let out a frustrated growl, push the sheets back. I listen for Dad or Willow, but the house is silent. Hurray for everyone else, snoozing through the storm.

The pounding rain suddenly subsides to a rhythmic drip-drop-drip . The storm is tapering off. I press my face against my bedroom window, trying to catch a glimpse of the tree, but there’s nothing but darkness. As black as outer space.

I press my forehead harder against the glass, wishing I had a better angle. Because that’s the tree … glowing! Light purple, like a pale neon sign. So it wasn’t my imagination.

First it hums from within, and now it lights up? Forget locusts or underground caverns. Something more is going on here. I need to get a better look, so I pad across the hallway. Luckily, Kandy’s door is still ajar. I gently press my fingers against it, pushing it open wide enough for me to sneak in. She’s snoring.

A battery-operated book light illuminates her desk, creating a dim glow throughout the room, just enough for me to safely dodge furniture. I’m shaking—anxious to see the tree and afraid that Kandy will catch me in her lair.

The windowpane is cold under the palms of my hands, and my breath leaves a fog of condensation across the glass. There it is. The magnificent oak, illuminated by an eerie incandescence.

Crack! I jump back from the glass, shielding my face. For a split second, I think the window has shattered. But it’s just the crack of nasty thunder—thunder that’s penetrated Kandy’s sleep. She thrashes in bed, and a surge of adrenaline rushes through me. Time to get out.

I creep back past the desk and now notice that the book light is attached to an open journal. Handwriting on lined pages. I know, I know! I should keep walking. Instead, I pause and listen to Kandy’s breathing. It’s steady; she’s settled back into sleep. Besides, I’m already holding the diary. Think of Sir Isaac Newton’s first law of motion. You know—an object in motion will remain in motion in a straight line with constant speed unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force. There’s no external force keeping me back.

So I’m reading. For two seconds. Ten seconds tops.

Kandy’s handwriting is all loops and bubbles. She dots her i ’s with little circles, sometimes hearts. All over the margins, she’s written the name Maddy.

Ennis (aka Pissville), Ohio, day 694. Could we be about halfway through the bleak period??? Mom’s bright period lasted four years, so maybe. But by the time she gets through this stupid phase, I might be moved out anyway .

There are a couple of sheets of loose paper folded together, so I carefully pull them apart and see that it’s an application for admission to the Miami International University of Art & Design, about half filled out. Kandy has checked the box for an associate’s degree in fashion design. Question number twenty-one is: Have you ever been convicted of, or pleaded guilty to, a crime other than a traffic offense? Kandy has checked the box marked “yes.”

Lightning gives the brief impression that every lamp and chandelier in the house is on. A roll of thunder follows.

Kandy committed a crime? Nobody mentioned that juicy tidbit. I’m dying to read more of her journal, but Kandy mumbles something in her sleep, which sends a fresh jolt of panic through me. Really, I’m pushing my luck here. I silently put the journal back on the desk, book light still flipped on, as it was. I sidestep through the doorway and pull the door shut to exactly where I’d found it, glancing up at the GET LOST, GO AWAY, DIE sign.

Then I remember to breathe.

Back in bed, I burrow into my pillows and start counting backward from one hundred. If I could just stop thinking about the tree. Eighty-seven, eighty-six, eighty-five. If I could forget about Kandy’s journal and the university application. Sixty-three, sixty-two …

I’m asleep for what seems like two minutes. Daylight is suddenly streaming through my windows. The house’s electricity is back on. I feel like my electricity is back on too. I’m amped up, and I know exactly what I need to do today. First the library, then the oak. I slide out of bed and head to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

The shower gauge is cranked to hot, but nothing’s happening in the heat department. If I wait twenty minutes, it might happen. But this house was built in 1876, back in the days of outhouses. It was never meant to have indoor plumbing. I keep testing the temperature. Frigid … icy … hopeless. I hop in and make it fast. It was somewhere around eighty degrees outside yesterday. What’s going to happen when the pipes are cold, when it’s zero degrees in January? Yeah, tune in for more tales of torture here in Ennis, Ohio.

After drying off, I throw on the usual—jeans and a T-shirt. I make three scrambled eggs for myself and a big glass of orange juice, which I practically choke on when I notice the wall clock. It says it’s 1:15! How could I have slept so late? I hurry back upstairs to decide what I should take with me: notebook, digital camera. I’ve just finished tying my shoes when Kandy appears in my doorway.

“’Morning,” I say. “I mean, afternoon.”

“What’s this?” She holds up a metal ruler. I recognize it as my bookmark. “I found it in my room.”

Busted.

It must have been caught in my pajamas, and it fell out while I was at the window. Or worse, while I was at her desk. I can just imagine my bookmark sitting next to her diary.

“Kandy, I’m sorry, I—” I fumble for the right words. “I was just—”