A Million Worlds with You
Page 56

“Xiaoting, perhaps. She’s an assistant professor at Yale now. I’ve been meaning to call her—she emailed me, and I never got around to—”
“Reach out to her.” Mom needs her support system back. Xiaoting and the other grad students who practically moved in with us over the years—they’d be a good place to start. “Get in touch with as many of your former students as you can. Soon you could make one of these yourself. Once all of this is over, I’ll see whether Paul or Theo can come to this dimension and talk you through it for a few days.”
“And if I can figure out how to communicate through the dimensions, I might be able to move even faster than that.” Her expression is wistful. “It won’t be the same as being with my Henry and Josephine again. I understand that. But even knowing how they are . . . how they would be, if they were here . . . it feels like I can breathe again. Like I stopped breathing the moment they died but didn’t realize it until today.”
I hug her tightly from behind, and once again look at the wilted, withered houseplants. “I guess I haven’t been doing so well either.” It’s not like I couldn’t have picked up a watering can once or twice.
“No. We’ve buried ourselves in here together. I suppose we ought to find a new place. One without—one where we can make new memories.”
Even the idea of moving away hurts her, I know. This house is more than a shelter and a place to put our stuff. In the deepest, best sense, it is home. But a person can have more than one home. “That might be a good idea.”
Mom breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth—a sign she’s forcing herself to move on. “I’ll start working on cross-dimensional communications immediately. And I’ll know to watch for visitors.”
“Come up with a security question, maybe. The others won’t be able to remember the answer, and if I need to come back here, I’ll always tell you who I am.”
“Why did you decide to tell me?”
“I’m telling all the worlds from now on.” My mind is made up. “At least the ones where I wouldn’t be burned as a witch for it. You guys have a right to understand what’s happening. Besides, the more universes that team up against Triad, the better.”
The Triadverse itself is effectively taken care of. Conley kept the power and knowledge to himself there, and he’s dead. So far as I know, I’m the only perfect traveler left in the multiverse.
We can take the initiative, I think. We can turn the tide.
“Tell me again something else about how they are,” Mom says. “Just one more thing.”
“Let’s see. Josie is considering taking up competitive surfing—part-time, so you don’t have to worry about her dropping out. And Dad was so psyched about getting one of those cars that parks itself. Was he as bad at parallel parking in this universe as he was in ours?”
“Worse, probably.” Mom turns toward me and brushes one of my curls from my face. “When will you try to leave this dimension? I’m not trying to rush you, sweetheart, but I really can’t wait to talk all of this over with my own Marguerite.”
“Soon. I ought to try now.” All my good intentions to keep checking through the night vanished when I had my breakthrough about Wicked. At least her more elaborate scenarios usually take a while to set up.
“One thing,” Mom says as I take the Firebird in hand. “Don’t underestimate your will, Marguerite. Or hers.”
I nod and hit the controls, expecting nothing—
—and then it’s all I can do to catch myself against the tiles before I slip and fall in the shower.
Hastily I take off the Firebird and put it on the nearby toilet tank. It’s endured being dunked in water a few times now, and Mom and Dad tried to make sure it was waterproof, but I’d rather not tempt fate if I don’t have to. Apparently I landed in this dimension mid-shampoo, so I pretty much have to rinse before I can do anything else.
In some ways I feel cheated that I didn’t get to say more of a goodbye to my mother in the . . . the Josieverse. I have to stop relying on the opportunity for a longer farewell. My mom could’ve used another hug, more information . . . something. But what would ever have felt like enough? I couldn’t give her Dad and Josie back, but I gave her the best thing I could: hope. Maybe that will be enough.
For now, I just have to figure out where I am, and why, and what Wicked’s done this time. Although hair-washing isn’t a supremely hazardous activity, Wicked wouldn’t have left this dimension without putting me at risk.
This bathroom is really tiny, I think as I step out and wrap one towel around my hair before drying off with the other. Like it was in the Mafiaverse, when we lived in Manhattan. But there’s something about the fixtures—the oddly streamlined faucet, the unfashionable royal blue of the tile, the ten-kinds-of-shower-head—that makes me think this isn’t the United States. Sure enough, when I search through the vanity for some anti-frizz crème, the information on the back is given in both English and . . . is that Chinese? Japanese? Well, I’ll find out.
Hanging on the bathroom hook is a simple white T-shirt, jeans, and a yellow silk kimono jacket embroidered with flowers and birds of paradise. It looks almost like one my counterpart had in the Londonverse; it was the only piece of clothing she owned that made me feel like we had something in common.
My hands aching—losing their grip—the Thames below me—
I have to save this one.
As I get dressed, I take stock of my physical condition. I have no cuts. The house doesn’t appear to be on fire. What did Wicked do? Then I see something else in the vanity drawer: a bottle of Tylenol. I shake it and realize only one or two pills remain.
If she were going to overdose, wouldn’t she have taken them all? But I can’t be sure. I wouldn’t put it past Wicked to know exactly how much it would take to overdose.
So far I feel fine, but it might take a while for the medicine to kick in. Could medics pump my stomach if I warned them now, got started in time?
I put my Firebird back around my neck, knot my damp curls into a bun at the back of my neck, and walk through a house I’ve never seen before—surprisingly large, given the tiny bathroom. Teak wood covers the floors, and the walls are all stark white. Following the sound of running water takes me into an enormous dining room, with a table long enough to entertain royalty but as cluttered as the rainbow table back home, and slightly different species of potted plants in the corners. Bamboo appears to be a favorite, its jade-green stems stabbing upward from squat, square pots with mustard-colored glazes. “Hello?” I call as I head toward what looks like the kitchen.