She searches my face, and my stomach sinks. At any moment she’s going to realize I’m not the right Ruby. I concoct a chipper grin and change the subject. “Are you making breakfast?” The smell of bacon fills the apartment.
Mom nods. “One or two pieces of rye toast?”
“Three. With lots of butter.”
I follow her to the kitchen, limping a little. She flips the bacon over in a skillet on the stove and slides the bread into the toaster.
While Mom’s busy cooking, I use the bathroom, clean my glasses, splash cold water on my puffy face, and gargle mouthwash. Other Ruby’s pink pajamas go into the dirty laundry basket, triple-antibiotic cream and a fresh bandage go onto my wound. There’s something filmy that looks like pus around the raw, red edges. No sign of a scab forming, but maybe it’s too soon for that. Does it matter? I mean, taking a week off to stay here and recover is out of the question. I put on my clean clothes and rejoin Mom in the kitchen.
She hands me a glass of orange juice and my prescription medicine. “Down the hatch.”
We eat quickly and in silence. I can feel Mom’s concern lingering in the air between us. Even though she’s not voicing them, I can hear all her questions. She pushes her empty plate away and bites her lower lip, which gives me serious déjá vu. Has she always done that when she’s worried? Do I remember that gesture from when I was four years old? Yes. I’m sure of it. Dad rubs his temples, Mom bites her lower lip.
The wall clock—a red rooster with a round belly—squawks, “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” letting us know that it’s seven thirty.
“We need to get going.” Mom clears the table, gathers her briefcase and purse. I push my chair back and set my empty juice glass in the sink. It’s perfect, actually. Mom’s giving me a ride to school—and essentially the tree—because I only have a short hike once we’re on school grounds.
I slip the vial of medicine into my pocket while Mom pauses at a small mirror next to the door. She twists a tube of lipstick and glides the color over her lips. I’m having trouble watching. Her breath fogs the glass. She breathes, she lives. Leaving this version of Mom behind would feel like a colossal mistake if I weren’t confident about saying hello again soon in another universe. Where everything will be flawless and complete, like a balanced chemistry equation.
“Ruby?” She’s waiting for me to snap out of my thoughts. “You ready?”
“Sorry. Let me get my backpack,” I say. I’m dreading the idea of lugging it around with me. All those books, my notebook, the code …
Suddenly I make a mental connection I should have made last night. But I’d been too exhausted, my mind too cluttered.
Ó Direáin’s journal!
A vibrating noise startles us, and Mom grabs her cell phone. “It’s a text message from Patrick,” she says, stepping out into the hallway. “He wants to know how you’re doing.”
She starts typing a response.
“Just give me a second,” I say, ducking back inside and into the bathroom. I close the door and pull the shower curtain and find what I want—the bottle of grape shampoo. I dry it off and tuck it into my backpack. If I can’t take Mom with me, it’s better than nothing.
Then I slip into her bedroom and visually search her nightstand. The big brown book I assumed was the Bible is there, and now I know it has to be Ó Direáin’s journal. Mom said she loves to read it at night before falling asleep.
I flip it open and read:
Ó Direáin, an eccentric genius, spent hours at the end of each day encrypting his scientific journal to protect his ideas. At least forty pages of code continue to elude even the best cryptologists’ efforts.
My heartbeat accelerates. This is major.
I shove the book into my backpack, making it a few pounds heavier. I have to strain to zipper it shut. For a moment, I consider ditching one of the string theory books, but I’m not ready to let my science go. Mom is tucking her phone into her back pocket when I rejoin her in the hallway. She locks the apartment door behind us and slips her hand into mine. “Okay?”
“Yep,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I’m jealous. I think of Ennis High and its narrow hallways, its buzzing and yellowed fluorescent lights, and the pitted football field. To go to Ó Direáin High every day instead? A dream. I run my hand along the massive stones as I enter the front doors. It’s a castle.
Mom guides me into the main office and explains the situation to the secretary, who keeps sneaking glances at me, trying not to stare. Then Mom takes me by the arm and leads me into a room with a leather couch, an exam table, a sink, cabinets, and a TV.
“You probably should keep your leg elevated,” she says, steering me toward the couch. She hands me the remote. “I’ll see you in less than two hours, okay?”
It hits me that the time has come to say good-bye, because a few minutes after she leaves the room, I’m taking off.
“Mom?”
“The nurse will be in later to check on you,” she says.
“But Mom,” I say, grabbing her arm, feeling that same disorienting vertigo I felt yesterday when I first laid eyes on her. As if the Earth is reversing its rotation, the ground shifting beneath us.
I pull her onto the couch next to me.
“What is it?” She takes my face in her hands, searching.
“I—” I choke on a sudden heaving in my chest and concentrate on not crying. “I—”
“Is it your leg?”
“No, not at all.”
We sit in silence, and I start to fidget. Will these be the last words we say to each other? What was the last thing she said to me that day eleven years ago before she left for work, for her accident on the interstate? Be careful on the monkey bars. Don’t suck your thumb. Have a great day.
“What did you pack for me? For lunch when I was four years old?”
Mom bites her lower lip. “In Pre-K? Why?”
“Just wishing I could remember.” I try to visualize opening a brown paper bag and finding a peanut butter sandwich, chips, an apple, and a note in my mother’s handwriting.
“I don’t remember what I put in your lunch, but I do remember what you took for show-and-tell.” A mischievous grin spreads across her face. “You had to bring something every Monday, for the letter of the week.”
“Like C is for ‘cat’? I took my favorite stuffed animal?”
Mom shakes her head. “For C we took a live cockroach in a jar.”
“Really?” I grin. “I bet that went over big. Whose idea was that?”
“Both of ours. We used to make lists of ideas. For P you took the potty from your dollhouse, which sent the entire class into giggles that your teacher couldn’t contain for fifteen minutes. By the time we got to W, we were in big trouble. Whoopee cushion.”
“I love that,” I whisper. I feel like I’ve been given a few pieces of an incomplete puzzle, one that I’d given up on a long time ago because I’d lost the box top and didn’t even know what picture it was supposed to make.
She pulls my face to hers so we’re touching foreheads. “I love you.” She glances at her watch, pops to her feet, and forces a smile. “I’ll check on you between classes.”
Just like that she’s out the door. The room buzzes, the lights seem to flicker. She’s gone. I force myself to count to sixty, to take ten deep breaths—H is for “heartache”—and then I’m gone too.
The secretary’s back is turned; she’s busy dealing with two guys arguing about who hit whose car in the parking lot. So I sneak out of the office unnoticed.
The hallway is crowded with students, and I’m going the wrong way, a fish swimming upstream. Finally, I make it to the front door and squeeze my way through, muttering apologies as I go.