“It was worth it,” I say.
“Really?” She runs her tongue along her chipped tooth, narrows her eyes like she’s trying to bring my sincerity into focus. “You usually make an assortment of faces when I sing.”
“You ooze cheese,” I admit, “but it’s quality. Like brie.”
“Wow. I’ve finally been promoted from Cheez Whiz.” We laugh as she cuts the engine outside a three-story, redbrick building. Its tall windows are framed in white wooden trim. Maybe it was formerly a private home, Victorian era, back in the days when you’d lead your horse to the stables behind the main house, rather than park your car.
“Sorry about the stairs,” Mom says. She’s on the second floor, no elevator. “Can you make it up?”
“I’m okay, but how about you?”
Mom struggles with my hefty backpack, dragging it up the last two steps. “What do you have in here?”
“Books. I can carry it now. You get the door.”
Mom slides the key into the lock and turns the knob. “Home sweet home.”
Mom’s apartment is tiny and—well—cute. Hardwood floors, denim couch, and some of the Americana art that’s hanging back at the squat brick house on Corrán Tuathail Avenue. A large wooden cow, painted in red, white, and blue stripes, with white stars on its head, hangs over the TV.
“Take your shoes off, and relax on the couch.” Mom tosses me a blanket. “I’ll brew up some hot chocolate with marshmallows.”
“Okay.” I shouldn’t even be here! I promised myself ten minutes of looking, and not a second more. Watching from a safe distance. I never intended to be curled up on Mom’s couch with a steamy drink. But now that I’m with her, the idea of leaving fills me with desperation.
Mom opens the refrigerator door, making bottles clink together. “I’ll call Frankie’s for delivery.” She pauses, then laughs. “Hot chocolate and pineapple-bacon pizza. That sounds horrible.”
“A little, yeah.”
“I’ve got lemonade, milk. I can make coffee instead.”
“Soda?”
“Perfect,” Mom says. “You could probably use a good dose of sugar.”
I take a deep breath and lean back against an overstuffed couch pillow. My body is aching for rest, my brain needs REM sleep.
Mom dials the pizza place. She orders “the Hawaiian,” a Caesar salad, and Italian wedding soup. Too much for two people, but I guess that’s what moms do—try to make everything better with food. George’s mom, without fail, made brownies whenever there was a crisis. Sometimes he faked some drama just to get the brownies.
“Now,” Mom says, settling into the recliner. “We can talk.”
“Do I have to?” I’m happy to just quietly absorb. There’s so much. I’d like to silently look at photos from the past eleven years and hear stories about Mom’s life. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, dodge questions, or try to explain why I’m acting weird. “You talk, and I’ll listen,” I say.
“Patrick filled me in,” Mom says, searching my face. “I’m worried about you.”
I sigh, close my eyes, burrow under the blanket.
“Ruby, you look so … different,” she says. “Edgy. I feel like you’re wearing a Halloween costume. It’s a little bizarre.”
“Speaking of bizarre, did you know there were once eight-foot scorpions?”
Mom studies me for a long, silent moment. “And?” She raises her eyebrows, begging for me to make my point.
“They lived four hundred million years ago, in swamps. But think about how unbelievable. I mean, can you imagine an eight-foot scorpion? It would be longer than this couch. The point is, the unbelievable is true.”
“Like the divorce,” Mom says.
“Like a lot of things,” I say, twirling the fringe of the blanket around my fingers. “More things than you know.”
“That’s what this is all about, I know. I’m not stupid. I hate to use a cliché, but this sudden change in your appearance … it’s obvious you’re acting out. You’re reacting to a change in circumstances.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not going to get angry about it. Your hair will grow back. What we need to talk about is your happiness, and how we’re going to get that back.” Mom turns away, striking the same pose as she did in the old snapshot. Looking wistful. She presses the tip of her thumb against her chipped tooth, biting down on her fingernail, maybe a hangnail. Finally she says, “Sweetheart, you can change your mind. You don’t have to live with Dad. He’ll understand. You’ve been through a lot of changes. It’s no wonder you wanted to change yourself. I understand.”
“Mom,” I say, relishing the word “Mom.” I don’t want to talk, but I could say “Mom” a thousand times. “I can’t explain myself. I just can’t. All I can say is, I’m happy to be here with you, now, in this moment.”
Mom leans forward. “Is there a boyfriend I need to know about? Or is there a girlfriend? Ruby, you know I’d understand, whatever it is. Drugs? Are you smoking that stuff, what’s it called? Crust?”
“For real, Mom? Come on.”
“We need to get our Ruby back, don’t we?” Mom asks. “You’re drifting out to sea.”
I look into Mom’s eyes and see the confusion, the concern. I smile at her weakly. “I admit I’m not the same Ruby you’re used to seeing.”
“You know I would go to the ends of the earth for you.”
“Ditto,” I say.
She tries to subdue a yawn. “I don’t know where it went wrong. My life, my marriage. I try to figure out the turning point. Maybe our ten-year anniversary. Terrible meal, and we fought over where to park the car.”
“Turning point?”
“You know—the point of no return. An event that thrust us over the edge, toward divorce.”
“So if you could change that one event, you’d be living in a different world right now?”
“Of course.” Mom leans over, pulls her socks off, then starts plucking at an imaginary guitar. “Can’t you rewind our days?” she sings, closing her eyes and tilting her head toward the ceiling. “Don’t say there’s not a way.” She motions for me to join in.
I shrug. No clue what the lyrics are.
“Top of the charts for sixteen consecutive weeks in the year 1987?” she prompts. “Have I taught you nothing?”
“I wasn’t even born yet.”
“No excuse!” She throws her hands up in mock disgust. “I need my slippers. Are you cold?”
She gets up and adjusts the thermostat, then disappears into the bedroom.
“The butterfly effect,” I mumble to myself. Guess it’s time to revisit my logic; a ripple effect might actually be a good thing. If the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can alter the path of a tornado, then a happy event could alter the path of a marriage. Little alterations, big repercussions.
I’m stung with a burrowing, twisting thought. If there was a turning point in this universe, maybe there wasn’t in another. Maybe in, say Universe Five or Seven, Mom and Dad are still happily married. They spent their tenth anniversary on a beach in Mexico, renewing their vows. Willow and Kandy never entered the picture.
Suddenly another path reveals itself. What if I don’t hurry back to Universe One as planned? What if I explore each universe? What if there’s a perfect world out there, where Mom and Dad are blissfully together and Patrick is my brother? And, of course, George would be there too. My heart swells at the possibility.
The doorbell rings and Mom emerges from the bedroom. She puts an eye to the peephole. “Pizza,” she announces.
She pays the delivery guy and carries a plastic bag and a large pizza box into the kitchen. I get up and follow, helping her clear the table. “What’s this?” I ask, glancing at the papers as I set them on the counter.