Um, no. He wasn’t attempting to build a jet airplane. He was inventing something more like an elevator. A door opens and people casually stroll out of a wall. Others go in and disappear, transported to an unseen place. The portal isn’t so different. It’s an Einstein-Rosen bridge—a connection between parallel universes, a traversable worm-hole. It’s a quantum elevator.
We may never know, since the world’s most renowned cryptologists have been able to decode little of the section of his journal that Ó Direáin himself labeled “Unbreakable Codes.” Part of what makes his codes inscrutable is that he mixed English letters and numbers, as well as the Celtic ogham, a runic alphabet. Regarding encryption, he wrote: “I am obsessed with rearranging. I sort things out after attempting various combinations. This is how scientific revelations occur.”
It all fits! The travel tunnel, encased in an everyday object. That would be the oak. The runic alphabet might explain the symbols on the floor of the tree, around the metal ring. And attempting various combinations means so much, on so many levels. Whether attempting various math formulae, or chemical compounds, or codes. It’s all about rearranging letters, numbers, and ideas, until you get it just right.
It’s all about trying various parallel worlds, until you find the right one. The perfect world.
Instead of hand-copying Ó Direáin’s biography into my notebook, I snap a few digital photos of it. The graveyard fence runs just behind the Ó Direáin mausoleum, and there’s another gate, half-open. Now I can see the spire of the stone high school in the distance. Nice to spot a familiar landmark, even if it’s at least half a mile from its usual location. If Ó Direáin High School exists in this universe, then beyond that might be a neighborhood. And—maybe—in that neighborhood there’s a house where Mom lives.
I trip over a low tombstone, and a stabbing pain hits me so deeply I actually groan. I need medical help. I need another night’s rest on Mom’s denim couch. Maybe I’ll happen upon a walk-in clinic and make a pit stop. If they could just drain the wound, that might do the trick.
I head toward the school, my backpack bouncing against my spine, my prescription pills rattling in their orange vial. A water fountain in the shape of a shamrock hugs the side of the stone building; its organic shape blends with the manicured hedges. Take one pill every four hours. Breakfast at Mom’s was about that, give or take. I pop one pain pill, then another for good measure, and gulp down water.
A crack of thunder. Lightning darts horizontally through cloud-bottoms. Instinctually, I crouch down, shielding my head. “Major voltage,” I whisper, eyeing the sky. Pillars of vertical clouds line the horizon like chemistry beakers on a shelf, dark and roiling.
Even though it can’t be noon yet, it feels like dusk. Across the street, a field of corn bends with the wind. It’s a collective reaction, like a flock of birds suddenly shifting, averting. I shiver and dig into my backpack to find Mom’s sweater, the one I swiped from her apartment bedroom. It feels good, and smells right.
My injured leg is getting stiffer by the minute. I have to swing it out alongside me as I hurry in the direction of Corrán Tuathail Avenue, toward the squat brick house, the place where our fractured family lives. But the scene will be different in this universe. I’ll peer in the windows and find Mom and Dad sitting together at the kitchen table, playing cards, sipping hot chocolate. There will be no sign of Kandy or Willow. The dogs will be sleeping, curled up on their beds. Patrick might be there too. And later on I’ll get a call from George, who’s been hanging out at Sweet Treats or Shanghai, waiting for me. I’ll apologize for being late.
The asphalt road gives way to cobblestone, and I know I’m not going to find the brick house. Not here. There’s been a variation, a fork in the road of space-time. In this universe, this section of town was built at a different time, by people with a different vision. The houses are straight out of a fairy tale—green with purple trim, blue with pink trim, topped with gabled roofs and ornate cornices. They practically look edible; if only they had licorice shutters and gumdrop chimneys.
My heart leaps with hope. Different is good. This could be the place.
The sidewalk winds through towering oaks, not quite as big as the portal tree. Roots have sent fracture lines through the sidewalk, producing piles of chipped stones, sections entirely popped out of place.
Ahead, I see a wheelbarrow tipped on its side, overflowing with white impatiens.
Mom! Home!
I stand at the cusp of the slate walkway, fighting back the urge to march through the front door and into Mom’s arms. The house is yellow with white trim, subtle shades compared to the rest of the neighborhood. I follow the walkway through a thick patch of ivy, which has been trimmed to the edge of each stepping stone. A plump robin flits into an overfilled bird bath, then darts into the trees. Potted geraniums line the porch’s three steps. A porch swing rocks, pushed by the wind. There is no doorbell, so I knock. I can’t see into the house through the door’s stained-glass window, but I see a shadow, a shape, moving toward the door.
A lock clicks, the door swings open, and there’s Mom. My hands go to my head, as if pressing my skull will help me from blowing a circuit, from totally losing it. “Hi” is all I can manage. I want to kiss those cheekbones, press my nose against her neck and inhale. That grape smell.
“Can I help you?” Mom’s face is friendly but blank. “Are you selling something?” She looks me up and down, shifts uncomfortably.
She doesn’t recognize me. “No, I’m here to—” I can’t finish the sentence.
Suddenly her face softens. “You must be here to see Ruby.” She turns and calls over her shoulder. “Ruby! Someone from your class.”
I start to protest, but Mom takes my arm and leads me in. “I noticed the backpack. Do you have an English study group?” she asks.
The living room is decorated like Mom’s apartment. Denim couches, Americana artwork. A redheaded girl pops up from the couch. “Hello,” she says, cocking her head at me. Freckles dot her cheeks like constellations. “Do I know you?”
They’re both staring at me, waiting for me to say something. My face burns, my entire body feels hot. I think of my leg and infection and fever. “I’m, well, I’m just new here, and I, uh …”
Ruby claps her hands. “You moved into the salmon house at the end of the street. I saw the vans yesterday.”
Mom holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
I shake her hand, holding on too long. I don’t want to let go of those fingers, that soft skin. My eyes drift to the living room and the fireplace mantel. Above it hangs an enormous family photo. Mom’s arm is wrapped around the waist of a man I’ve never seen before. He’s got red hair, and a red beard. Sitting on the floor in front of them is this redheaded girl named Ruby. They’re wearing khakis and white shirts. I’m not in the picture.
“I’m Sally.” Mom presses her hand to her heart. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Ruby too.”
“Really? What a coincidence. Our Ruby was named after her great-grandmother. What about you?”
“Look,” I say, stepping backward. “I’m not … I should get going.”
“But what about your study group?”
“There’s no study group today,” Ruby says.
“Well, it’s about to rain,” Mom says. “There’s lightning. You should stay and have some hot chocolate. We’re ordering pizza for lunch.”
“Yuck, Mom,” Ruby says. “Hot chocolate with pizza?”