Dad glances at me with a look of reproach.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that.”
“Today we’re going to a mall.” She turns to me, an apology in her eyes. “Ruby, we didn’t invite you because we didn’t think you’d care for it. It’s sort of—”
“High fashion,” Kandy finishes. Then she looks at me with total disgust, like I’ve got the pneumonic plague.
“I told Kandy I’d treat her to one splurge item,” Willow clarifies. “For the start of the school year. If you’d like, we can bring you something—”
Kandy snorts. “What would she do with designer heels, Mom?”
“Oh, Kandinsky,” Willow says with an admonishing tone.
Kandy’s posture turns rigid. “Do. Not. Call. Me. Kandinsky.”
“It’s your name.”
“For another two hundred and eighty-one days. When I turn eighteen, I’m filing the paperwork for a legal name change. Then I’ll be Amy or Jennifer. Something normal.”
“Why would you want an ordinary name?” Willow looks wounded. “Well, I know you still like Kandinsky’s art.”
Kandy rolls her eyes.
I point my fork at my plate. “Good pancakes, Dad,” I say, mouth full. “Yum.”
“You like?”
“I love.”
Kandy stands up, leaving her plate at the table like she’s at a restaurant or something. “My opinion? They’re too sweet, or big, or, like, I don’t know.”
Dad’s face goes blank. “Too much sugar?”
“I guess,” Kandy says. “They need cinnamon.”
Dad scribbles on a notepad.
Kandy grabs her purse—a huge thing with a flashy metal logo—and Willow kisses Dad good-bye. As they leave, Willow harangues Kandy about being civil to her, seeing that she’s the one with the credit card. The garage door grinds up, and car doors slam shut. A few moments later, the garage door is back down with a satisfying, final jolt.
“Scrambled or over-easy?” Dad asks.
“No thanks.”
“You’re eating too fast.”
“I’m in a hurry,” I say. “I’ve got a lot to do today.” I shouldn’t have slept so late. I need to get my gear and head for the oak tree.
“Really? What’s on the agenda?”
I’m tempted to spill the beans, but now I feel like it’s a secret I need to keep to myself, until I have more data and a better grasp of what’s really going on. I don’t want the word getting out yet. I want the tree to be my discovery—all mine—at least for a while.
“Library,” I say, which is true. Because now I need something on string theory since my books are torn too badly. Thank you, Kandy.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Dad says.
“I can walk,” I say, though I wish I could find a pair of crutches to keep the pressure off my leg. After a long night’s sleep, it feels okay for now.
“I’d rather drive you,” he says.
“Da-ad,” I moan. “I’m not a little kid. Besides, you have work to do.”
His eyes go to his notepad, and the writing he needs to finalize. “Be back by five,” Dad says. “Don’t make me panic again.”
“Promise.” I’m finally a little more awake, and my mind is racing ahead to all the field work that’s waiting for me. Taking photos and notes, translating the foreign inscription that’s over the tree’s door.
I’m about to eat the last bite of pancake when I notice a framed photo sitting on top of a moving box. It’s the one of the dogs, Isaac and Galileo, their ears straight up, looking through our sliding-glass door.
“What’s this doing down here?” I ask, picking up the photo. “This was on my dresser.”
“We haven’t unpacked that box yet,” Dad says.
“But—”
“What was it you said about that photo?” he asks.
Even though the photo is black and white, I know that Isaac’s collar is green, and Galileo’s is blue. “It’s like they’re still waiting for me to open that sliding door,” I say. “Like they’re still right there.” My cheeks burn hot. Man, I miss those dogs.
Isaac and Galileo. Perfect dog names. But wait. I couldn’t have been the one who named them. We got the dogs when I was two years old.
“I never thought about it before. Who named the dogs?”
Dad clears his throat. “Mom did.”
The thought of Mom hits me hard and morphs into that fresh image of her, that in-focus snapshot of her staring directly into the camera, forcing a smile. Then my mind flashes to that eight-by-ten family photo hanging in that brick house in Ó Direáin.
“You know she loved astronomy,” Dad says. He gets this intense, far-off look in his eyes. “You’ve got her genes, kiddo.”
Another reminder of what’s missing. All these little pieces of Mom. That she loved emeralds, pineapples on her pizza, and the smell of gasoline. That she hated pantyhose and watching the nightly news. You’d think the pieces would go together to make a whole, not more emptiness. But it’s like a black hole. The more matter you feed it, the bigger it gets.
Dad goes on, “She worked at the Leuschner Observatory in Lafayette for about a year. You probably don’t remember. You were really little. Anyway, she liked having good tools to see the universe. You can mistake a planet for a star with the naked eye.”
“I remember when I was a kid, I thought airplanes were shooting stars,” I say. “Meteors.”
“Exactly.” Dad points his dishwashing wand at me to punctuate the point. “Your mother liked to remind me that sometimes things aren’t what they appear.” Then Dad shakes his head and starts putting dishes into the dishwasher. “Maybe we can get another dog, Ruby.”
I snort. “Kandy would want one of those rodent dogs that you carry around in a purse.”
“We’d get a Lab,” Dad says. “Or whatever you want.”
I push my chair back and hand Dad my dirty plate, shoving another moving box out of the way with my foot. It’s half-open and full of books, dozens of the same book.
I reach down and pull the box’s cardboard flaps wide open.
Parsley, Parsnips, and Paisley: More Inventive Cooking from Alan Wright.
Alan Wright? That’s Dad’s name. That’s Dad’s photo on the front cover! He’s wearing a paisley apron and holding a wooden spatula, for crying out loud.
I yank a book from the box and hold it in both hands. I hold it hard, like there’s no gravity and it might fly away. My heart pounds as I flip to the back flap. Next to a small, square photo of Dad is this:
ALAN WRIGHT is a regular contributor to Gourmet and Cooking Light magazines. He is the author of three cookbooks, including the New York Times bestseller Please Pass the Paisley: Artful Cooking with Alan Wright. He is a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu Program at the California Culinary Academy in San Francisco.
Oh God.
I’m in the wrong universe.
In this universe, Dad doesn’t write ad copy. He’s a chef. He writes recipes. In this universe, Dad went to culinary school.
Frantic, I look around, like I’m waiting for the house to implode. Now I notice. I notice all the differences. The stove is a stainless steel Viking with eight burners. The refrigerator is enormous, like it belongs in a restaurant. I spot a Julia Child cookbook. Back in the other Ennis, we have basic white appliances and maybe one grease-stained cookbook.
My heart races as I scan the room. What else is different here? Who am I in this universe? What is this Ruby like?
“Uh? Dad?” I’m not even sure what to call this guy. I mean, I guess he’s still my father.
“Ruby, you know I’d love to talk more,” he says, “but I’ve got to finalize this pancake recipe.”
“Sure,” I say, glad to have an excuse to flee. “It doesn’t need more cinnamon,” I say as I hurry out of the kitchen. My lungs are tight, my blood vessels clamping down. I’m not a candidate for a heart attack. But I might pass out. Do a total face-plant.