A Million Worlds with You
Page 69
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Hey.” Josie frowns. “Did you catch what I said?”
“Yes, sorry. I’m really not feeling well. If you could walk me home, I’d appreciate it.” My smile probably looks pretty weak, but Josie will assume that’s because I’m tired, or coming down with something. Sure enough, she offers her arm to me so I can hold on. It’s an oddly formal gesture, yet an affectionate one—something Josie wouldn’t do at home, even while she fussed over you. Maybe it’s something distinctly Russian, or maybe it belongs to this dimension, which I hereby dub the Moscowverse.
Apparently Josie and I don’t live in the same home anymore. Well, if she’s married, no wonder. She must live with her husband, Mr. Anyone Who Is Not Wyatt Conley. Now that I take a good look around, I can see a number of other people her age, and even my age, who definitely seem to be coming from work instead of school. The schoolkids all wear uniforms, complete with red neckerchiefs or ties with a Lenin pin at the center, and they’re all at least a couple of years younger than I am. Since I’m already painting for a living, my school days are probably over. People must be expected to grow up a little faster here.
To judge by the cars and the trains, the technology level seems to be roughly what ours was in the early 1980s. So my parents won’t be anywhere near developing Firebird technology of their own. But if they’re leading scientists in the Moscowverse, as they are in most worlds, then they’ll have access to the kinds of materials Paul will need to build a stabilizer. We can keep this dimension safe.
My apartment building turns out to have been built pre-Revolution. At first I’m happy to see that I live someplace that isn’t spitefully drab, even if the paint is flat gray and the original decorations that would have ringed the doors and windows have been chipped or filed away. When it’s bright outside, light must stream through the large windows, illuminating the large entryway and wide halls. Then I discover that old doesn’t just mean “pretty and full of character”; old also means “stairs.” Thank goodness I’m only on the third floor.
As we go through the front door of my apartment, I take off my hat and begin unbuttoning my coat, eager to settle in and explore. The first thing that hits me is that this place is pretty small for me, Mom, and Dad to live in. Josie and I walk into the kitchen, which is tiny, with ancient appliances and no microwave, but it’s all in white and pleasantly cozy. The living room is also small, and the walls are painted a deep, vivid green that somehow seems more lively than overpowering. No rug covers the wooden floor. A small table is pushed to one side of the room and covered with a white tablecloth that has red flowers embroidered along the hem. Portraits I’ve painted of my parents, Josie, people who must be friends, and someone’s child are on the walls alongside framed black-and-white photos. A compact, rather faded sofa sits in front of the old-fashioned, boxy TV, which has a screen hardly bigger than a laptop’s. Overstuffed bookshelves cover almost all the remaining wall space. Sure enough, tons of science texts crowd the shelves, interspersed with novels and poetry that must be mine. Even though I’ve never seen this apartment before, on some deep level, it does feel like it could be my home.
A tap on my shoulder makes me jump. Josie is standing right behind me. I’d forgotten I wouldn’t hear her walk up. “You’re sure you’re all right?” Josie cocks her head, studying me. “You’ll be okay here by yourself for a while?”
“Definitely.” Mom and Dad must still be on their commute back from work. “I’ll take a nap. That always helps.”
“No doubt you could use one.” Josie kisses me on the cheek—another sign of affection she wouldn’t show in our own world. “Thank goodness it’s not your turn to get Valentina home. You need your rest.”
“Don’t worry about me. Really.” Do we have a third sister in this world? Or maybe Valentina is a coworker I share my commute with from time to time. As long as it’s not another clone, I can deal. “Josie, you should head home. Your husband will wonder where you are.”
“Yuri’s hockey team is playing tonight, remember? But if I’m going to get to the game, I should hurry.” Josie bustles out the door. “See you tomorrow!”
I wave just before she vanishes behind the door, then breathe out a sigh of relief. Yuri. While I have no idea who Yuri is, he isn’t Wyatt Conley, and that’s good enough for me.
Slipping off my heavy coat, I hang it on one of the wall hooks along with my cap. Then, as I tug off my gloves, I venture into the back of the apartment—which seems to have only one bedroom. That can’t be right. Once I’m in the bedroom, I see a pair of men’s shoes by the closet, so this is obviously where Mom and Dad sleep. There’s one more door though, by the corner in the very back.
I wrinkle my nose. If I remember correctly, neither walk-in closets nor en suite bathrooms were big features of Muscovite life in the Soviet era. Instead, people had to deal with a serious lack of privacy. Can I only get to my bedroom by walking through my parents’ bedroom? Wow, the potential for awkward is infinite.
Get used to it, I tell myself, and I open that door.
The first thing I notice is my own left hand on the doorjamb, bare of its glove—with a ring of my own on the fourth finger.
The second: this tiny back room, which is hardly bigger than a closet, contains a baby’s crib.
Wait. Whoa. Wait.
A light blinks in the corner, startling me. What is that? Then I remember—some deaf people install signals like that to alert them to when the doorbell is ringing or someone opens the door.
Dazed, I go to check, hardly able to look up from my hand until I reach the living room, peer through the opening to the small kitchen, and see Paul standing there with a baby in his arms.
Our baby.
24
PAUL SMILES AT ME, AS SHY AS HE HAS EVER BEEN IN ANY world, even holding the baby. With one hand he clumsily signs, “Look, Mama’s home.” This must be Valentina—my daughter with Paul.
I sink down heavily onto one of the chairs by the dining table, and Paul frowns in concern. He puts Valentina down on the floor. She’s big enough to crawl and happy to do so while he comes to my side. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“I feel faint. Josie walked me home.” And now I’m going to pass out from shock. The fate of the Grand Duchess Margarita flashes through my mind. First I find out I’m pregnant, then two weeks later, I have a kid.
“Yes, sorry. I’m really not feeling well. If you could walk me home, I’d appreciate it.” My smile probably looks pretty weak, but Josie will assume that’s because I’m tired, or coming down with something. Sure enough, she offers her arm to me so I can hold on. It’s an oddly formal gesture, yet an affectionate one—something Josie wouldn’t do at home, even while she fussed over you. Maybe it’s something distinctly Russian, or maybe it belongs to this dimension, which I hereby dub the Moscowverse.
Apparently Josie and I don’t live in the same home anymore. Well, if she’s married, no wonder. She must live with her husband, Mr. Anyone Who Is Not Wyatt Conley. Now that I take a good look around, I can see a number of other people her age, and even my age, who definitely seem to be coming from work instead of school. The schoolkids all wear uniforms, complete with red neckerchiefs or ties with a Lenin pin at the center, and they’re all at least a couple of years younger than I am. Since I’m already painting for a living, my school days are probably over. People must be expected to grow up a little faster here.
To judge by the cars and the trains, the technology level seems to be roughly what ours was in the early 1980s. So my parents won’t be anywhere near developing Firebird technology of their own. But if they’re leading scientists in the Moscowverse, as they are in most worlds, then they’ll have access to the kinds of materials Paul will need to build a stabilizer. We can keep this dimension safe.
My apartment building turns out to have been built pre-Revolution. At first I’m happy to see that I live someplace that isn’t spitefully drab, even if the paint is flat gray and the original decorations that would have ringed the doors and windows have been chipped or filed away. When it’s bright outside, light must stream through the large windows, illuminating the large entryway and wide halls. Then I discover that old doesn’t just mean “pretty and full of character”; old also means “stairs.” Thank goodness I’m only on the third floor.
As we go through the front door of my apartment, I take off my hat and begin unbuttoning my coat, eager to settle in and explore. The first thing that hits me is that this place is pretty small for me, Mom, and Dad to live in. Josie and I walk into the kitchen, which is tiny, with ancient appliances and no microwave, but it’s all in white and pleasantly cozy. The living room is also small, and the walls are painted a deep, vivid green that somehow seems more lively than overpowering. No rug covers the wooden floor. A small table is pushed to one side of the room and covered with a white tablecloth that has red flowers embroidered along the hem. Portraits I’ve painted of my parents, Josie, people who must be friends, and someone’s child are on the walls alongside framed black-and-white photos. A compact, rather faded sofa sits in front of the old-fashioned, boxy TV, which has a screen hardly bigger than a laptop’s. Overstuffed bookshelves cover almost all the remaining wall space. Sure enough, tons of science texts crowd the shelves, interspersed with novels and poetry that must be mine. Even though I’ve never seen this apartment before, on some deep level, it does feel like it could be my home.
A tap on my shoulder makes me jump. Josie is standing right behind me. I’d forgotten I wouldn’t hear her walk up. “You’re sure you’re all right?” Josie cocks her head, studying me. “You’ll be okay here by yourself for a while?”
“Definitely.” Mom and Dad must still be on their commute back from work. “I’ll take a nap. That always helps.”
“No doubt you could use one.” Josie kisses me on the cheek—another sign of affection she wouldn’t show in our own world. “Thank goodness it’s not your turn to get Valentina home. You need your rest.”
“Don’t worry about me. Really.” Do we have a third sister in this world? Or maybe Valentina is a coworker I share my commute with from time to time. As long as it’s not another clone, I can deal. “Josie, you should head home. Your husband will wonder where you are.”
“Yuri’s hockey team is playing tonight, remember? But if I’m going to get to the game, I should hurry.” Josie bustles out the door. “See you tomorrow!”
I wave just before she vanishes behind the door, then breathe out a sigh of relief. Yuri. While I have no idea who Yuri is, he isn’t Wyatt Conley, and that’s good enough for me.
Slipping off my heavy coat, I hang it on one of the wall hooks along with my cap. Then, as I tug off my gloves, I venture into the back of the apartment—which seems to have only one bedroom. That can’t be right. Once I’m in the bedroom, I see a pair of men’s shoes by the closet, so this is obviously where Mom and Dad sleep. There’s one more door though, by the corner in the very back.
I wrinkle my nose. If I remember correctly, neither walk-in closets nor en suite bathrooms were big features of Muscovite life in the Soviet era. Instead, people had to deal with a serious lack of privacy. Can I only get to my bedroom by walking through my parents’ bedroom? Wow, the potential for awkward is infinite.
Get used to it, I tell myself, and I open that door.
The first thing I notice is my own left hand on the doorjamb, bare of its glove—with a ring of my own on the fourth finger.
The second: this tiny back room, which is hardly bigger than a closet, contains a baby’s crib.
Wait. Whoa. Wait.
A light blinks in the corner, startling me. What is that? Then I remember—some deaf people install signals like that to alert them to when the doorbell is ringing or someone opens the door.
Dazed, I go to check, hardly able to look up from my hand until I reach the living room, peer through the opening to the small kitchen, and see Paul standing there with a baby in his arms.
Our baby.
24
PAUL SMILES AT ME, AS SHY AS HE HAS EVER BEEN IN ANY world, even holding the baby. With one hand he clumsily signs, “Look, Mama’s home.” This must be Valentina—my daughter with Paul.
I sink down heavily onto one of the chairs by the dining table, and Paul frowns in concern. He puts Valentina down on the floor. She’s big enough to crawl and happy to do so while he comes to my side. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“I feel faint. Josie walked me home.” And now I’m going to pass out from shock. The fate of the Grand Duchess Margarita flashes through my mind. First I find out I’m pregnant, then two weeks later, I have a kid.
