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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Parallel
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The secret of the multiverse is the kind of thing you’d expect to be held by a sect of mysterious Buddhist monks, or at least a deep-thinking philosopher, but I learned it in school- at the satellite university. And it wasn’t in my physics class- but in webdesign.
One day the instructor held me after. He said he had something to show me. He waited until the silence was thick, and I was about to ask what he needed when he started to speak. “Reality isn’t the things we see, or hear, or feel- there’s a lot going on there, under the surface. There isn’t just this world, but countless ones. But they exist on top of one another, like plates in an anatomy textbook. What we see, then, is the average of all existing universes- in the same way that the two different pictures from your eyes are synthesized into one.” “What I figured out how to do is look at these other worlds. Walk in them. Touch them.” Mostly bemused, I asked how. “How about a programming example. Let’s say you want to open up FireFox- you don’t start programming from scratch all the commands that go into starting FireFox- you just run the program. It’s something your brain already does. It knows how to synthesize all of that input- all you’re doing is convincing it not to- but instead to focus on just one input.” He described it as “reprogramming the sensory parts of your mind,” but in practice it was as much about meditation as it was about any kind of complex logic problem-solving. I played with his techniques for a week, usually barely able to do more than catch glimpses of things that shouldn’t be there- like a horse galloping towards me in the middle of the campus commons; then again, when I was younger I’d believed I could talk in tongues. But the things I thought I saw, I couldn’t talk to, and it didn’t seem like they saw me, let alone felt inclined to talk. Then one night I woke to the sound of heavy breathing. I realized I had been asleep, that the breathing had been layered into a dream- a dream about my father. My father killed himself when I was thirteen; he’d been having an affair with a woman at work, and she ended it- and while I never blamed her, because there were obviously other things at play, it factored heavily in my dreams about him. But the breathing was loud, real, and certainly not mine. “You shouldn’t have come here.” I knew the voice immediately, and my eyes broke open. “This was my house- mine and your mothers. Only she took it from me in the divorce.” I knew that wasn’t right- dad hadn’t lived that long- mom only found out about the affair because he’d swallowed a shotgun. He put his hands around my throat. I don’t remember much of what he said, then, but he blamed me, for siding with her, for living with her after she took his house, for living with her and her new husband while they rented his house out. But I knew he wasn’t a ghost- just someone from a place different from this one. I closed my eyes, told my mind to filter things again, and his fingers slid through my neck as he dissipated like vapor. The next day I talked with my webdesign teacher. “Why did you show me this? It’s not just because you think I’m bright enough to do it, or even understand it. So why?” He stroked his beard, suddenly very professorial, preparing his sophistry to answer a student’s question. “Hmm. Okay, how about this: think of the multiverse as an organism. As decisions, and I mean important ones, not should I put butter or jam on my toast ones, but as their consequences manifest, universes split, like cells dividing. Normally, that’s fine- after all, we exist in an at least theoretically infinite space. But sometimes, something happens that shouldn’t. A universe becomes warped, tainted, and its histories, maybe even its physics, are no longer descended from its parent universe- you can think of it as a kind of multiversal cancer.” “Now in an organism, there’s a defense system that cleans out cancer cells- but in the multiverse- well, there’s none that we know of. But I discovered a universe just like that. Right now it’s just a small deviation- a girl who doesn’t seem to exist anywhere else but this one world, and not as part of the mean, like a cell with damage on a single chromosome. But if we let it continue, the damage will multiply over time- eventually, it could kill entire universes, squeezing them out. So we have to burn the cancer out. And that, in a nutshell, is why I need you. You see, I met this girl teaching a class in one of these other worlds- so she has some connection to me, and that connection could allow her taint to travel over into our world, or, more worrisome, into the collective reality, in effect infecting all universes at once.” “This is a bit much to take in.” I hesitated. “But you want me to kill this girl.” I’d started it as a question, but it ended a statement. “There was a world, far removed from the consensus, where my mother didn’t die from cervical cancer. I was, of course, happy, because I had her back- though only kind of. But one day she told me she’d started dating a man- and naturally, I felt protective, and tried to look into him. And he didn’t exist here; I couldn’t find evidence of him existing anywhere. And details kept changing, and I was convinced he had to be a con artist, and planned to tell my mother so, only to find the two of them having lunch- and he was now a woman. The inconsistencies increased, metastasized, until there was no longer any denying that there was something wrong. So one day I walked with my mother’s lover to the grocery store, and when a large truck passed by, I shoved her into its path.” “But already the damage had spread. I recognized it in my mother at the funeral. I visited another couple of times before I realized what was going to happen, and stopped; I’d buried my mother once before, and couldn’t stand to do it again. Eventually I overcame my cowardice, and tried to return, but she was gone. In fact, that entire world was gone, replaced by something barely even recognizable as the Earth.” “It’s no small burden, I know- but our time is short, and you’ll need to decide soon, or your decision will be made without you.” I pondered for the next thirty hours, unable to sleep, unable to force myself to read my schoolbooks. So I “glanced sideways,” which was how I’d started referring to it, and attended the class where he’d met her. It wasn’t difficult finding her- she sat up front in the class, and stared up at him with raw admiration, dutifully scribbling in a little notebook. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned that she was beautiful, with long, curly blond hair and a round but pleasant face. I’m not entirely sure why, but I decided to talk to her. So as class ended, I made sure I bump into her rather hard on my way past her seat, knocking her bottled water out of her hand and emptying its contents on the carpet. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Please, let me buy you a cup of coffee as a peace offering.” She smiled, a little dubious, and said, “That’s got to be the clumsiest come-on I’ve ever seen.” “No, it’s- really, it’s not. I just, I feel awful. Just let me buy you a cup of coffee, to ease my conscience. You don’t even have to drink it, if you don’t want to. It’s just my penance.” She smiled, and followed me to the cafeteria. When we got to the barista she bit her lip and said, “Actually, I should probably just have some tea.” I had a big iced mocha- I was jittery already, and at least then I’d have some excuse. We sat just long enough for it to get awkward before she smiled at me. “So, um, tell me about yourself,” I said, stumbling over the words. “Well, my name’s Clare, but I think I’ve already said that. Um, I’m not sure what you want to know.” I really wanted to know that she was a closet anti-Semite, or something, anything, that would make me want her dead. “Uh, why are you in the web design class?” “I’m a digital technology and culture major- a fancy way of saying I want to start in web design and eventually tell other web designers what to do. Oh, and I want to be successful enough at it that I’m not working on porn websites. What about you?” “Oh, I’m an, um, English major, actually. I took the class kind of on a whim- I needed an elective in that time period. But Dr. Barbeau seems great.” At the mention of his name she became suddenly animated. “Oh, I know. I’ve taken every one of his classes I could. It started in a community media class a couple of semesters ago and- he’s just wonderful. Knowledgeable, but he’s really good about conveying that in a way that’s really generous and easy to get.” Then she sighed, and absently prodded her tea with a stir stick. “This is the last of the classes he teaches,” she said, almost sad, then she looked squarely at me for a second, and said, “I need to go to the bathroom.” I counted to twenty after she’d left, then stood up slowly and followed her. The café was largely empty, since only students who didn’t have class were here, so not an eye was on me. I walked to the women’s bathroom door, and paused only a moment to prepare feigned surprise if I ran into someone else there, and pushed the door inside. My hand had been fixated on the pocket knife in my jacket for nearly fifteen minutes, tracing its subtle contours, my fingernail stepping across the serrated back of the blade. My thumb caught on the switch, prepared to flick it open at a moment’s notice. The bathroom looked empty, and oddly genderless, save for the lack of urinals. I began to wonder if Clare had just run out on me when I heard a little gasp, soft and wet. I froze, certain someone had noticed me, but a second gasp came, and a third, which became a sob. Great, slimy sniffles echoed across the bathroom tiles, and I shivered, my fingers suddenly repulsed by the blade in my pocket. I left the bathroom. I pretended to be surprised when her eyes were puffy and red. “Are you- are you all right? Did something happen?” A large tear streaked down her cheek; and she seemed to understand that it was inevitable, that the size of the ball of moisture was equal to the size of her pain, and that that was more than she could fight. “I’m pregnant.” There was a pause, before she added, “don’t congratulate me. Everyone else does. Of course, nobody asks if I want to be pregnant, or if her father wants to be a father. Really, how many people were really actually trying to have a baby when it actually happens to them? It’s always people trying who can’t, and people who weren’t who do... it all was just an accident” she stopped, horror striking her features as she realized she’d said too much. “An accident- not a mistake. Wait- it’s Dr. Barbeau’s, isn’t it?” She nodded. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid- he can’t be with me. I just, I feel like such a fucking cliché.” I let her talk; she didn’t blame him- she’d seduced him- and when she stopped, I gave her platitudes, because the truth would have been far worse. I told her I’d see her around, in class, maybe, if I didn’t drop it; I had to deflect when she asked for my number, because I didn’t think my cell would work across worlds, and I knew the immediate rejection of the moment would sting less than the persistent rejection of ignored phone calls. As soon as she went home for the day, I went to Barbeau’s office. He had his reading glasses on, and regarded me with a cold look; it woke something animal in me, and I fought to keep a snarl from my lips. “It isn’t done. I talked to her. And I know what you did.” He tried to get up, I think to let his tall frame add to his aura of authority, “Wait-” I pushed him back down into his seat. “You’re going to pay for her education. You’re going to pay for her medical costs, and you’re going to pay child support. You’re going to pay in cash, because I’m not pushing across checks that will be cashed out of a version of you who didn’t sleep with his student’s accounts. This is not a negotiation- you will do these things, or I will ruin you. Oh, and if you make another attempt to harm her- or if you’re even dumber and come after me- I’ll ruin enough of your parallel lives that it will irrevocably fuck your aggregate life.” His mind raced for a moment, as he pondered all the possibilities, and I think he realized he was getting off light. “Fine,” he said, “now get out of my office.” I had to wait a day, because Clare’s class only meets Mondays and Wednesdays. I dropped in after her class was over. “So you didn’t decide to stick it out?” she asked, a little hurt I hadn’t stayed just to keep her company. “I kind of need to talk to you. Coffee?” “Um, I’m not really sure I can…” she said, and my ego shrunk a little. “It’s not about you and me- it’s about your baby, and Dr. Barbeau.” She mouthed the word “Oh,” and got up and followed me. We were silent all through ordering, and it wasn’t until we sat down that I finally spoke. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t just let things go. I talked to Dr. Barbeau. He- he said he never intended for things to happen the way they did with you- and for obvious reasons they can’t continue. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if his lawyer advised him to pretend like he didn’t know what you’re talking about. But he’s agreed to help you pay for your baby, including covering your medical bills and child support. He also volunteered to pay for your tuition. His one condition is that you don’t tell anyone the child is his. I know it’s not ideal- but he’d lose his job, his livelihood- he knows he made a mistake. He doesn’t want you to think of this as hush money- he just wants to do right.” I had to keep telling myself that I was lying for her, and for a different Barbeau than the guilty one, but I still felt like crap for it- particularly at the end, when with tears in her eyes she actually thanked me. “For obvious reasons, he can’t give you the money himself, so I’ll be the go-between. You probably won’t see me in class anymore; it’s just not my kind of thing, but I’ll be around.” |
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