The Theory of Everything (12 page)

I guess it was time for Year Four.

“We have to find my dad,” I said. Which meant I needed to forgive him.

How to Forgive Your Dad So He Can Maybe Save Your Life
b
y Sophie Sophia

1. Forgive him.
   
2. Say it out loud so you mean it.
   
3. It's okay if you don't feel it yet. It takes time.
   
4. Remember it's not for him, it's for you. Forgiveness with an agenda.
   
5. Since the agenda is saving your life, fake it if you have to. Maybe one day you'll actually feel it.
   

“It's late,” Finny said, opening a pine chest and pulling a carnation-covered comforter and pillow out of it. He threw them on the couch, setting up camp, but I protested.

“I'm way too amped to sleep,” I said. “Can I sleep out here and watch a movie on your laptop instead?”

“Sure,” he said, handing me his backpack. “But don't stay up too late. I want to start early. I think you're on to something.”

“I think I am, too,” I said. I had to be. Straitjackets weren't my style. Neither was a padded room. “Good night, Finn.”

“Good night,” he said.

The door to his room clicked, and I leaned against the side of the couch, legs stretched out long under the comforter. It was cozy down there, surrounded by all those flowers, which was perfect. I had work to do. I opened Google and typed in two words I never thought I'd type:
Angelino Sophia.

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Dad's name, Angelino, meant “the spirit messenger God sent to men.” He loved to tell people that, like it excused the crazy stuff he did. “Give me a break,” he'd say. “I'm a spirit messenger.” But I always wondered—what kind of message did he send by leaving us? And more than that, what kind of God sends a message to a ten-year-old girl that her father doesn't want to be with her anymore?

In addition to my father's name, I Googled
academics, physics, thesis, dimensions, hallucinations, brain studies, Einstein, string theory, psychosis, NYU professor, controversial theory. Episodes. Eccentric. Abandoner.
And
Where the heck are you?

The Internet made it way too easy to find someone, which is why, when you couldn't find them, it was more frustrating than usual. Even if he didn't do social media or blog, Dad should have been somewhere, in a group shot on Flickr or an alumni list. But he wasn't anywhere, which made me think the same held true for the real world. Except if he'd died, at least there'd be an obituary.

I set the laptop on the coffee table and snuggled under the covers for a minute. Think, Sophie, think. If you wanted to hide, where would people go to find you? The library? The thrift shop? The museum? The record store? If I disappeared, the best way to find me would be to go to the most interesting place in the area, the spot where curiosity and inspiration collided. There were tons of sites like that on the Internet, but only one that was doing it before the web was even invented.

“Got it!” I said, opening a new window and going where I always went when I wanted to find anything: the
New York Times.
Not only did it have the best stories, it also had the best search option, one that should have made all the other search options run away in shame. I typed in Dad's name plus
theoretical physics
plus
NYU.
And then I hit the button I hoped would change everything:
All Since 1851.

Since none of the links were an exact match, I skimmed the stories, looking for clues. And when I clicked on “Quarks and Professors, Reunited,” I found one. It was a photo of a bunch of older guys standing in three rows holding a poster with a colored circle on it surrounded by lines and other colored circles. It said “The Quarks Society,” and there, in the back row, was my dad.

He was smiling, the kind of smile you give when you're really happy, hanging out with friends. According to the article, this group was formed in the late eighties to focus on theoretical physics. I scanned the photo, looking for more clues, but none of the members looked familiar except for the guy standing next to my dad. The list said his name was Dr. Perratto. He had let me nap on his couch when Dad wasn't ready to leave campus yet and given me bags of chips from the vending machines. It was nice to have another place to hang when Dad was running late or forgot about me, which happened more than it should have.

According to the article, Dad was a founding member but hadn't been at the reunion. Luckily, the reunion had a website, but it was pretty basic. It didn't tell me much more than the article had, but it did have something the article didn't: a contact list. I clicked on it, scrolled down—and there it was: Dad's name and phone number, with an area code I knew well because I'd had it, too: 718.

I grabbed my phone and dialed, but luckily I hung up before anyone answered. The website was old. He probably didn't have the same number anymore. And even if he did, what was I going to say? Hi, it's your daughter. I know it's six o'clock in the morning, but would you mind if I came to New York? It was smarter to use the number to get his address and show up. Maybe he didn't live there anymore, or maybe he did, and it would be this big homecoming, complete with apologies and answers. Offers to help and solutions. Everything I'd ever wanted to know about myself and all my episodes would come out in one glorious afternoon.

I imagined Dad explaining things to me, and it was exactly what I wanted to hear. There were reasons for everything, explanations that put things into place and—most important—would keep me out of the psych ward. We'd drink pink lemonade and float away on clouds and spend the rest of the trip getting to know each other again. He wouldn't be crazy, and I wouldn't be crazy, and Mom would fall in love with him again. They'd get back together, and the last four years would seem like a blip in an otherwise extraordinary life. Crossword puzzles and cereal, zoos and pancake faces, parasols and popcorn. No more fights, no more being apart—just us, like we used to be. Before the disappearing started.

I knew reunions were very rarely like that.

But I was going to New York anyway.

The next morning I snuck into Finny's room. It was early, but I couldn't wait. I sat on his bed and leaned in.

“How would you like to thrift in Greenwich Village?” I whispered in his ear. “Eat artisanal bread in Brooklyn? Feed the ducks in Central Park?”

“Stop teasing,” he said, groaning and rolling over.

“I'm serious,” I said. “MoMA. Real bagels. We could even find some famous physicist's house or something.”

Finny bolted up and threw off his plaid wool blanket, which matched his pajamas. He was so adorable I wanted to die. Hopefully he would want to die, too . . . of joy in a vintage shop on Bleecker.

“It's another day in Havencrest, not one of your fabulous episodes,” he said. “You can't choose where they're set, right?”

“Nope,” I said. “I'd actually have to be in Times Square to have an episode there. So let's do it.”

“Do what?”

Finny made his bed and piled it full of pillows. He called his room Escape from Carnation Palace, but I thought it was more boarding school chic.

“Go to New York,” I said.

“If we're going to New York, I better wear something good,” he said, pulling a mustard cardigan out of the closet. “And by New York do you mean getting a slice after school?”

“I mean I found Dad's phone number,” I said, putting his laptop on his desk. “He's not in Timbuktu or Tanzania, Finny. He's in New York.”

Finny opened the laptop and there, on the screen, was what I found last night.

“Whoa,” he said. “Did you call him?”

“No,” I said. “I think it's better just to show up. We can do a reverse lookup to get his last known address, but I need a credit card.”

Finny opened the top drawer of his dresser, and there, underneath a pile of argyle socks, was the answer to our problems, packed in a blue plastic rectangle.

“Forget Saint Christina,” I said. “I'm going to have to start saying all of my prayers to Saint Visa.”

“Hallelujah!” he said, typing, while I remembered the two hundred dollars Mom had stashed in her sock drawer for emergencies. Enough for a train ticket.

“And then, like magic, he appeared,” Finny said, scooting back from the screen. It showed the phone number. Right underneath it was Dad.

Owner: Angelino Sophia

Address: 262 4th Street, Brooklyn, New York.

He was in Brooklyn, which made me wonder—was he there while we were there, too? Streets away from my school on Father–Daughter Day? Subway stops away, when he could have been lulling me to sleep with his latest theory or making me laugh with his newest invention? All those afternoons I spent crying, missing him, wishing he'd explain, was Dad on the other side of the borough doing the exact same thing? And if so, why didn't I ever see him?

“Sophie,” Finny said, “are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” I said. I needed answers, and this was the only way to do it.

“But now we have an even bigger problem,” I said. “It's New York. What are we going to wear?”

“Something fabulous!” he squealed, diving into his closet, which meant I had to go home and dive into mine.

|||||||||||

When I got there, Mom's car was gone, so it was safe to go in. At least, I hoped it was. If she popped out of my closet or something, like in a horror movie, I was going to come unglued.

“MEOW!”

Balzac flew off the couch and landed at my feet instead.

“Crap!” I said, jumping back. “You scared me. Did you miss me?”

He meowed, which I took as a yes, even though we both knew he snuggled up with Mom in my absence. The first time I spent the night at a friend's house in New York, Mom said Balzac whined at my door all night. I think we all do some form of that when someone leaves unexpectedly. Meowing at the door, crying yourself to sleep, it's all the same. Which is why I was never going to do that to anyone. If I had to leave for some reason, any reason, I promised myself I'd always leave a note.

I ran up to my room, grabbed my Army Navy messenger bag from under my bed and stood in front of my closet. What did you wear to a reunion, especially when you hadn't seen the person in four years? And especially when that person was your father?

Balzac meowed and batted my elephant skirt, which was kind of the perfect choice, if I wanted to analyze it. Elephants had amazing memories, and that's what this entire trip was about: making a memory. No matter what happened, I wouldn't have to start every morning not knowing whether or not I would be okay. Instead of hiding from the craziness that was my life, I was doing something about it.

The skirt was blue with a gray elephant pocket and a trunk that wrapped around the bottom like it was coming to life. I paired it with my favorite black turtleneck, thin black V-neck sweater, black-and-white-striped tights and boots. I packed the rest of the bag with another skirt and a few T-shirts, a thin striped sweater and socks. Another scarf, a woolly hat, gloves, underwear,
Franny and Zooey,
a journal, some pens, lip gloss and dangly earrings. Just in case.

“See you soon,” I said, giving Balzac a kiss. He rubbed against my knee, and I thought about taking him but took my wool peacoat off the chair instead. I scrawled Mom a note on the back of a bill and left it propped up next to that psychiatrist's card on the kitchen counter, next to the phone. The note said that I'd borrowed the emergency money, that I'd pay it back and that I was taking the night train with Finny to New York. I promised to call her when I got there. I promised to be safe. But I didn't tell her when I was coming back. I needed proof that I wasn't crazy, and I'd stay gone however long it took to get it.

|||||||||||

“Someone looks adorable,” Finny said, sizing me up as I approached my locker. I had no idea how many costume changes he'd had, but I loved what he'd landed on: a
Life's Rich Pageant
R.E.M. T-shirt, vintage suit jacket, striped scarf and gray Levi's corduroys.

“Thanks,” I said, twirling around. “As do you. Very New York.”

If Dad had been in Dallas or Cincinnati, I'm not sure Finny would have gone, but New York was an easy one. Not only was he following his science project—me—he was also going to walk the same sidewalks as his idols, go to the Museum of Natural History and hopefully meet one of the greatest physicist minds of all times—my dad.

“So we'll meet at your locker after class?” Finny said, bouncing beside me. There was no way he was going to keep his mouth shut until after school.

“Yes,” I said. “But you can't tell anyone.”

“What makes you think I'm going to tell?” he said as we sat down in physics class.

I smiled. “You're especially enthusiastic about everything today,” I said.

“Maybe that's because I drank too much coffee,” he said. “At least, that's my party line.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Mr. Jackson? Ms. Sophia? Would you mind if we began?” Mr. Maxim stood in front of us, tapping his foot.

“Sorry,” I said. “This one has a case of the caffeines.”

Everyone laughed, including Finny, and Mr. Maxim lectured about kinetics or something, but I barely heard him. All I could think about was a certain train leading to a certain person until the bell rang and knocked me out of my reverie.

“Mum's the word?” I said, looking at Finny and zipping my lip. “Right?”

“Mum,” he said, grinning. Bringing him to New York was like packing extra sunshine. We walked into the hall.

Finny turned left, and I took the stairs two at a time, not looking where I was going, which is probably why I ran into Drew. Drew, who I hadn't seen since The Cure or the Massive Mom Fight or the Great Dad Finding Adventure. A lot can happen in a day.

“Oh!” I said. “Sorry.” And then, like an idiot, I just stood there.

“Sorry for running into me or sorry for bailing on our date?” Drew said.

So it
was
a date.

“Both,” I said. “I feel awful.”

“I waited for almost an hour,” he said. “I got that waitress friend of yours to knock on the bathroom door, but nobody answered. That's when I figured out that you'd left.”

“I know this is going to sound weird, but I didn't mean to leave,” I said. “I didn't want to.”

The stairwell was small, and Drew leaned against the wall while I leaned against the railing. We were so close I could smell his citrus-rific hair again.

“So why did you?”

“I panicked,” I said, which was true.

“Like a panic attack?”

Lie for the greater good.

“Yes,” I said. “It happened while I was in the bathroom. I was too embarrassed to face you like that, so I left.”

“Huh,” he said, crossing his arms. He was wearing a black button-up shirt over a white T-shirt with flat-front khakis. I was tempted to tell him that Kerouac had called and wanted his pants back, but he mentioned him first.

“You know, Kerouac had anxiety.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It's in here.” He held up a copy of
Big Sur.
“I was reading it while I was waiting for you.”

“Well, at least your hero and I have something in common,” I said, smiling, but he didn't smile back. My heart dropped and then I realized—not only did I leave, I never called. Strike two, Sophia.

“I should have called you last night,” I said.

He didn't say it was okay or that I could make up for it the next time; he just looked at me. I'd thought I'd screwed it up, but now I
knew
I had. The second bell rang, and he squeezed my arm.

“Calling is good,” he said, letting his arm linger on mine. I wouldn't wash that sweater again. Ever. “I was worried about you.”

He let go, and I stood there taking it in. He didn't ask me out again or say he forgave me, but he was worried about me, which meant he was thinking about me.

“Maybe I'll see you at lunch?” I said as he walked away.

“Maybe,” he said. I could tell he was trying to be tough, but he smiled. Just a little.

I understood if he was being aloof, if he thought it was safer to keep me at a distance. But he could have also been channeling Kerouac. It was hard to tell. All I knew was that he liked the me he thought I was, and I wanted to keep it that way. If there was a chance I could make my hallucinations go away—make it seem like none of it had happened in the first place—I wanted someone waiting for me on the other side. And I wanted it to be Drew.

|||||||||||

Dad loved trains so much that he built one out of the things I gave him—pieces of a broken
Pop Goes the Weasel
record, a hairbrush, an apple key chain—and things he found around the house like spatulas and eggbeaters, paper clips and soup cans. Christmas tree lights covered the top, and they flashed while it moved around the basement floor.

“It works!” I said, so excited that I jumped up and down.

“I know!” Dad said, jumping up and down with me.

We held hands, bouncing and hollering at the train he'd built out of nothing. When Mom found us, she didn't even look at the train, she just whisked me up and away to the kitchen, where she sat me down and put a glass of milk in front of me.

“Drink,” she said, turning away.

“But, Mommy,” I said, “Daddy made a train out of nothing!”

I didn't know why she hated the train, but when Dad came upstairs, she threw a plastic colander at him. He ducked, and it hit the wall behind him instead.

“She missed school again,” Mom said.

“And yet she still learned something,” he said, winking at me.

“Angelino, I swear,” Mom said, which was how she started a fight.

Dad stood there, waiting, and I hiccuped and squirted milk through my nose, a five-year-old's version of a protest. The only way I knew to say “stop.”

|||||||||||

The seats on the train were red like strawberries, like beating hearts, like stop. Stop the secrets and lies. Stop the hallucinations. Stop my life, I want to get off.

“Nervous?” Finny said. He gave me the window seat and then settled in beside me for the next twenty-something hours.

“Yes,” I said, hugging my bag to my chest. “I can't tell if he likes me or not.”

“Of course he likes you,” Finny said. “He's your dad.”

“Not Dad, Drew,” I said. “We have twenty hours to fill. Can't we start with a little gossip?”

I knew Finny wanted to work on the Normalcy Project, also known as Me. He wanted to be prepared when he met my dad, and I didn't blame him, but I'd been up all night. I wasn't ready for string theory just yet.

“Yes!” Finny said. “Gossip. Spill it.”

“He cornered me in the stairwell,” I said.

“Dramatic! Go on.”

“He was so close I could smell him,” I said.

“Musk?” Finny asked. He knew as well as I did that a guy could be everything you ever wanted, but if he smelled like Old Spice, it was over.