Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

“Do you think that when this guy died, that he knew his insides would be on display for thousands of people? Like, do you think that’s what he’d want?” I ask, ignoring her, moving closer, my nose close enough to the glass that mostly I can just see my own reflection.

“He’s dead,” Nicky says behind me. “It’s not like he knows.”

“You’re a real downer,” Vanessa retorts. “Are you like this all the time?”

“My mom blames puberty,” he shrugs. “I think the terrorists could have something to do with it.”

He walks off to the next encasement.

“Wow,” she says.

“Tell me about it. Though actually, he’s got a point.” The kid is really growing on me.

We pass under a sign that reads, “The History of Anatomy,” and Bobby scrambles over to the next body.

“ Penis!” He screams, then starts giggling wildly.

Grey stands on his tippy-toes and points to another body.

“Boobies!” He matches Bobby’s laughter.

“Boys!” Gloria reprimands.

A woman turns to Gloria and affirms:

“Oh, boys will be boys. It’s always the same.”

And Gloria nods her head and offers a smile because she knows that to be true. That running around shouting penis or boobies really isn’t the end of the world. She needs only to look at Nicky to understand what the end of the world really is. Gloria nudges the boys away from the glass, and they gleefully run in front of her, chasing their discontented second cousin (by marriage) down the hallway.

I watch them for a hopeful beat.

Stay four, I think. Don’t grow up into twelve. I think again. Don’t keep going to thirty-two. It’s all so much more complicated.

“Before we get to my grand idea, I want to talk about Shawn,” Vanessa starts. “You’ve been ignoring the subject since Wednesday.”

“I’m not ignoring the subject. It is what it is. A break. An intermission. He’s in Palo Alto, and I’m here. What can I say about that?”

“A lot. There’s a lot to say about that.”

“Telling me that he’s an asshole doesn’t help. Up until this moment, Shawn has never been an asshole. I love him, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Willa. But in this moment, he’s a real asshole.”

We wander toward the children who have rushed far ahead, but we stop, start, stop again, stare some more at each piece of flesh, each part of the human body that is tucked somewhere inside of us but seems completely foreign all the same. The kidney. The liver. The pancreas. The lungs. I have these things?

“Okay,” Vanessa begins again. “Let’s not talk about Shawn. Let’s talk about you.” She touches my elbow, slowing me.

“I’m fine. If this is what’s meant to happen, this is what’s meant to happen.”

“Willa, that’s ridiculous.”

“What should I say? That I’m heartbroken? What’s the point of being brokenhearted? It will all work out. I really believe that in August, it will all work out.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be heartbroken.” She pauses. “Besides, that’s what you want? For it all to just work out in August?”

“Of course that’s what I want.”

“He just unceremoniously took a break from you.”

“I know what he did!”

“Then why not reconsider what it is that you want?”

I drop my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say.”

“Why don’t you though?” She turns to look at me, to really meet my eyes.

There’s nothing to answer in reply, so we start back toward Gloria and the boys, but find ourselves thwarted behind a tour group of French Canadians. So rather than push forward, we study the display in front of us.

The Human Heart.

The heart weighs between 7 and 15 ounces (200 to 425 grams) and is a little larger than the size of your fist. By the end of a long life, a person’s heart may have beat (expanded and contracted) more than 3.5 billion times.

I inhale and think of Grey’s little fist. I think of how many times Nicky’s dad, Kyle’s, heart must have beaten. Not 3.5 billion.

“So I have a proposal,” Vanessa says. “I met with the Dare You team and my publisher this morning.”

“If you want me to sign a waiver to be your next of kin because they’re requiring you to skydive without a parachute, I’m going to have to draw the line.”

“No,” she says. “It’s nothing like that.” Then she reconsiders. “Well, it’s sort of like that.”

The French Canadians filter down the hallway, but we stay put, still staring at the human heart, at its power, at its ability to grant life and to take it away.

“What if I told you that we had the chance to prove once and for all that your dad isn’t right? That you don’t have to sit around and wait for August for your life to begin?”

“Can we get off the subject of August? I really don’t want to delve into it right now.”

She waves a hand, dismissing me. “Okay, what if I told you that we are the masters of our fate, that life is what we make of it?”

“I’d tell you that the Nobel Prize committee would disagree with us.”

“Fuck the Nobel Prize committee.”

“Actually, my dad would say the same thing.”

Vanessa smiles, so I gather the strength to smile too.

“I pitched my editors a new idea. A better idea. And they love it. I told them that I found the loophole in your dad’s theories.”

“There isn’t a loophole, Vanessa. Part of the reason it’s so brilliant is that you can’t disprove that something didn’t happen on purpose. You can’t disprove an intangible proof.”

“I believe that you can. But I need you to trust me.”

“V,” I say, “You know that I trust you, but I’m not really interested.”

She grabs my wrist and forces my gaze.

“Willa, don’t you ever wonder what would happen with your life if you hadn’t been born William, if you’d actually been given a chance without your dad?”

Every day, I think. Though that’s not necessarily true. Some days, and even then, it’s exhausting to consider the alternatives, so mostly, I don’t.

“Please, come with me. Write this book. Tell this story. At the very least, we might change our lives.”

I can feel my own heart, just like the frozen one on the pedestal in front of me, come to life, beating with anxiety, beating with fear, beating from the utter terror of taking a leap that might change everything.

“I like my life,” I say finally.

“Actually,” she reminds me, “you sort of don’t.”

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