Authors: Cristin Bishara
Patrick stops me by the shoulders again. Smoke practically comes out of his ears. He’s beyond furious. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.” I adjust my backpack. “I’ve got data to gather, people to see, things to set straight. Now move.”
“No.” He forces me to face him. That slightly pointed nose, that dimple in his chin. So much like Dad. Patrick points to the Jeep parked across the street. “Get your ass in the car.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m your big brother, and I’m in charge, and you’ve been missing for hours.” He’s trembling. Tears are welling up in his eyes. “Because the divorce is making us both crazy, and it’s my job to take care of you, to get us through all this.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” I feel the urge to wipe the tears from his eyelashes, but he brushes them away first. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on Patrick, considering how things look to him. I’d be pulling my hair out with worry too. “I’m sorry about the way she … the way I disappeared on you.” I’m just not used to this kind of intense attention. I mean, it’s tough getting Dad to detach himself from his computer for ten minutes, let alone ask me how I’m doing.
For a moment Patrick looks exhausted and defeated, but he suddenly gathers his strength and is mad again. “Ass. In. Car.”
There’s no point in arguing. If I try to run, he’ll easily catch up;
I’ve got a leg injury and a ten-pound backpack slowing me down. If I walk, he’ll just continue to follow me like an annoying insect, like a moon in orbit, bound to me.
Besides, maybe I can get him to drive past Mom’s place, just so I can see where it is. Just to look. And then it’s urgent for me to get home.
“Fine,” I say. We cross the street. I toss my backpack in the Jeep’s backseat and strap myself in. “Take me to Mom’s. Or take me near Mom’s. Please.”
“We’re going to the ER,” Patrick says, shifting into drive.
“For what?”
“For what? You’re bleeding. You obviously fell off your bike and you probably hit your head. That’s why you’re acting insane! You have a concussion. Your brain could be swollen. You need an MRI.” Patrick stops at a red light and presses his fingers to his temples. “My head is killing me. I need some Tylenol.”
“Maybe you’re the one with the swollen brain,” I say, staring out the window, watching the town go by. Watching the world move. Thinking that the Earth is rotating and orbiting the sun, and the universe is expanding. The universe is expanding 74.2 kilometers per second per megaparsec. Just because we can’t feel it doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
“Doubtful,” Patrick says.
“But anything’s possible,” I say. “You could have encephalitis.”
Patrick lets out a colossal sigh. “You’re the one who’s acting weird. Not me. I’m just stressed.”
Remind me—why did I get in the car with this guy? If I’d only stayed in the library another half hour, Patrick probably wouldn’t
have found me. If I’d skipped Sweet Treats, he’d have missed me, or if I’d had one more cup of tea with George. But then again, I could get something worthwhile out of this ER detour. It wouldn’t hurt to have a medical professional take a look at my leg. At this point, I know I need something at the prescription level.
“So what do you think of Mom’s new apartment?” I ask. “Her street looks a lot like this one, right?”
Patrick gives me a look.
I slide down in my seat. “Never mind.”
“Kandy’s been shoplifting again,” Patrick says, gripping the steering wheel. “I searched the house for you, and I found a bag of new clothes and makeup. So much for her medication working. Between the two of you I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”
A bag of stolen makeup. I think of that bag of lipstick and eye shadow I found in my room, and suddenly I know that Kandy was busted for shoplifting. Question number twenty-one: Have you ever been convicted of, or pled guilty to, a crime other than a traffic offense? That’s why she marked “yes” on her application to design school.
“The clothes weren’t cheap, either,” Patrick says. “I don’t know how she managed to get them through the detectors.”
Deviant and clever. That’s a dangerous combo. That’s the stuff of sociopaths: high IQ, criminal tendencies.
Finally, we turn into the hospital parking lot. Patrick parks and then hurries around the Jeep to my side and opens the door for me.
“How chivalrous,” I say.
“I’m not being polite,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “I’m making sure you don’t disappear again. Come on.”
He practically yanks me across the parking lot and through an entrance labeled
EMERGENCY ROOM
. It’s quiet, other than a young mother with a baby pressed to her breast.
At the front desk, a woman in scrubs eats the last of a doughnut. “Sign in.” She taps a fingernail to a sheet of pink paper on a clipboard. Powdered sugar cascades across the sheet. “I’ll need your driver’s license and insurance card.”
I wipe the paper clean and sign
Ruby Wright
. All I have is a student ID with my old California address, which is tucked into the pocket of a wallet I took from Universe Three. So it’s not even my ID, technically. And does Walnut Creek exist here, in this universe? Does it have a different name? Maybe the western edge of the state has cracked off and fallen into the Pacific. In another universe, there could have been a massive earthquake.
Patrick presses his cell phone to his ear. “Come on, Mom,” he breathes. “Pick up.” He shakes his head and tucks the phone in his back pocket.
“Look,” he says to the woman. “Let me cut to the chase. We’re both minors. She’s fifteen and I’m seventeen. Our dad’s on his honeymoon and our mom’s phone is probably buried at the bottom of her purse. Can someone help us?”
The woman sweeps her long hair over her shoulder, revealing a name tag. Amanda. She looks unfazed. “No one gets turned away,” she says, taking the pink sheet of paper away and replacing it with a blue one. “We prefer to get parental consent before we administer treatment. Fill in your address, your parents’ addresses and phone numbers, your parents’ employers, insurance carriers, if you know them. Sign at the
bottom. It’s slow at the moment. It’ll only be a minute before Maria calls you back.”
I take the clipboard and sit down. Patrick sits next to me. I blink at the questions I can’t answer. This is what it must feel like to take a test you haven’t studied for. Not sure of my address here in Ó Direáin, no idea where either parent works, couldn’t even tell you the area code or zip code.
I hand the clipboard to Patrick. “You’re right. I don’t feel so hot. Could you fill this out for me and I’ll just sign it?” I put the back of my hand to my forehead.
Patrick gives me a look. Worried? Annoyed? “Sure,” he says.
I sneak sideways glances as he pens in the information. Patrick writes
548 Corrán Tuathail Avenue
as the home address, and journalist as Dad’s profession. He works for the
Ó Direáin Chronicle
. Mom is a high school math teacher. I’m painfully reminded of all the times I’ve written
deceased
next to
mother’s name
.
“Ruby Wright,” a woman in scrubs calls into the waiting room. She’s propping open the door to the emergency patient rooms.
“Me,” I say, standing up. Patrick jumps to his feet like he’s spring-loaded.
“Right this way.” We follow Maria into room four. She motions to a stretcher. “Have a seat.” She takes my blood pressure, pulse, listens to my heart, and sticks a thermometer in my ear. Patrick keeps sitting down, then standing up. “Any allergies or preexisting medical conditions?” Maria asks.
I shake my head.
“Are you currently on any medications?”
“No.”
Maria keys my information into a computer. “And what are your concerns today?”
“She might have a head injury,” Patrick says.
I roll my eyes. “I have a nasty gash on my right leg. That’s all.”
“Blood loss,” Patrick says with this eureka! look on his face. “Maybe that’s why she’s acting strange.”
“Are you up to date on all your immunizations, including tetanus?” Maria asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I think so.”
Maria nods and gives me a warm smile. “Doctor Leonard will be with you shortly.” She gently closes the door behind her.
A wall clock ticks audibly as I sit in silence. I watch the second hand sweep. After five long minutes of Patrick pacing and peppering me with questions I can’t answer, there’s a knock, then the door opens.
“I’m Doctor Leonard.” He extends a hand. His ash-white beard hides a young face underneath.
“Ruby Wright,” I say.
“I’m her brother, Patrick.” He grabs the doctor’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “She’s not doing well,” Patrick says, pointing at me. “Head injury, amnesia, something.”
Dr. Leonard pries himself from Patrick’s grip and reads the information on the computer screen. “Let’s take a look at the laceration on your leg, okay, Ruby?”
“She’s just not herself. She’s acting really weird.” Patrick’s talking a mile a minute. “First off, she disappeared. Poof.” He snaps his fingers. “Gone. I was about to call the police, but then I found her walking
around downtown. I hardly recognized her in those glasses.” He waves his hand toward my face. “She doesn’t need glasses! She’s had LASIK surgery. She’s not dressing like she normally does, and she whacked off her hair.”
When Patrick finally comes up for air he must sense that he’s operating in hysterical rapid-fire mode. He visibly regroups, straightening his posture and making eye contact with Dr. Leonard. He even drops his voice to a deep, authoritative tone. “Look, Doctor Leonard. The thing is, our parents don’t exactly have their heads in the game these days. I’m the one in charge.”
The doctor gives Patrick a curt nod, then looks at me with concern. “What did you do to your leg?”
I roll up my jeans to my knee and peel the bandages off. “Ran into a coffee table.”
“How long ago?” Dr. Leonard asks.
“Yesterday,” I say.
The door opens a crack, and Amanda peeks in. “Sorry to interrupt. I spoke with Sally Wright, Ruby’s mother, and she gave verbal consent over the phone.” She looks at Patrick and me. “Your mom was shopping in Cleveland. She’s on her way.” Amanda retreats and the door clicks shut.
“You should have come in sooner,” Dr. Leonard says to me. He snaps on rubber gloves and pinches the wound together. “Sorry. I know that hurts. It’s too late to stitch it. It will heal by secondary intention, which means you’ll have a nice scar. You can take Motrin for pain.”
“Could I get something a little stronger?” I ask. “It really jabs at me. I’d like to be able to sleep.”
“Is that why she’s been acting weird?” Patrick asks. “Pain? Not enough sleep?”
“The pain is likely coming from an underlying bone bruise. It’s not uncommon. Unfortunately there’s nothing we can do for it, other than give it time to heal. I’ll write you a prescription for pain medicine.”
“Doesn’t she need an antibiotic?” Patrick asks, sounding somewhat panicked. “That’s got to be infected. Look at it!”
Dr. Leonard checks the computer. “You’re not running a fever,” he says, but then he raises his eyebrows at me. “However, Ruby, if you see redness around the cut, pus coming from the wound, or a red streak up your leg, you must return for reevaluation. Understand?”
“Yes,” Patrick answers for me.
“Anything else going on, Ruby?” the doctor asks.
“Nothing,” I say, looking directly at Patrick. “I didn’t fall off a bike and hit my head.”
“Anything at home?”
“Things are a little complicated,” I admit.
“A little?” Patrick laughs. “Divorce, remarriage within weeks, a stepsister who’s been in jail, and our stepmom painting all day long … these dark globby things called
Beneath
and
The Obsolete Desire
.”
“Bad titles,” I agree.
“A lot of stress,” Dr. Leonard says. He peels his gloves off and runs his fingers through his beard. “Have you had any headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, or slurred speech?”
“No.”
Patrick slaps his hands together. “I know! Why didn’t I think of
this sooner? It’s the tattoo she just got. Maybe the needles were dirty.”
I turn my head so Dr. Leonard can look at the Einstein tensor. “What does it mean?” he asks.
“It’s one of Einstein’s general relativity equations. It has to do with space-time, which has been on my mind a lot lately. More than when I got the tattoo, actually.”
Dr. Leonard looks interested, so I continue. “Did you know that two uncharged parallel plates, metal ones, put really close together, create negative energy? Negative energy is what you need to make a wormhole.”
“What?” Patrick slumps back into his chair, covering his eyes, as if I’ve just dropped my drawers and totally embarrassed him.
“It’s called the Casimir effect,” I say. “I’m not making this stuff up!”
Dr. Leonard runs a finger over the nape of my neck. “It’s not a new tattoo.”
“Not new?” Patrick leaps up and cranes to see. “Ruby! You’ve been hiding that under your hair? For how long?”
Dr. Leonard holds his hands out, like he’s trying to push some space between himself and Patrick. “Ruby,” he says. “Is it possible you need someone to talk to? A family counselor, perhaps.”
“Not at all,” I say. What I need is someone to translate the inscriptions carved into the tree. I need to get back to the tree, I need to get home, I need to figure out string theory.
Dr. Leonard hands me a business card. “It’s up to you. Linda Bell is excellent. I highly recommend her.”
The business card is purple and in the shape of a bell, or maybe it’s supposed to be a hat.
“I’ll call her first thing tomorrow,” Patrick says, snatching the card out of my hand. God, his overly worried voice is so like Dad’s. It’s irritating and confusing to hear it coming out of Patrick’s mouth. I still can’t fathom that I have a big brother.
“We have some work to do here,” Dr. Leonard says to me. “We need to irrigate this wound, get it thoroughly cleaned out, and dress it.” He turns to Patrick. “You can go back to the waiting room.”
Patrick nods. “Thank you, Doctor.” He has his hand on the door, then pauses. He pulls his vibrating cell phone from his pocket. “Text message from Mom. Stuck in construction. Be there asap.”