Little Universes

by Heather Demetrios

  Petr Ginz was murdered in Auschwitz when he was sixteen.

  Ilan Ramon, one of Columbia’s crew, had brought Petr’s drawing with him. He was the first Israeli in space.

  Today, I picture Petr, looking past the barbed wire, gazing up at the moon. And that man, decades later, flying away from it. With that dead boy’s drawing in his pocket.

  What we need, I think, is a grief sim. But I’ve never heard of one of those.

  24

  Mae

  ISS Location: Low-Earth Orbit

  Earth Date: 31 October

  Earth Time (EST): 19:45

  The Celestron CPC 1100 telescope cost my dad over three thousand dollars. We named her Lucy, for Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

  She’s one of the best telescopes money can buy: an eleven-inch diffraction limited Schmidt–Cassegrain telescope with an aperture of 280 millimeters, which means I can see craters on the moon. And the rings of Saturn. The bands on Jupiter, and its great red spot. The Orion Nebula.

  Since we’re in an urban landscape, my images will never be as clear as they would be if I were in true darkness, somewhere like the Cape at night. Still, Venus is gorgeous tonight—bright and huge (with a surface temperature of 750 DEGREES!). The Big Dipper traces the sky with its ladle line of stars. Somewhere out there, past our atmosphere, stars are colliding and exploding and black holes are swirling all while Earth spins at 1,040 miles per hour. (This speed is at the equator. Here in Boston, at forty-two degrees north, it’s roughly 770 miles per hour, which seems fast—except Earth’s orbital velocity around the sun is 67,000 miles per hour. Which ALSO seems fast until you realize that the whole solar system—of which we are, of course, a part—is orbiting around the black hole at the center of the Milky Way galaxy at over 500,000 miles per hour. Which means all the humans on Earth are ACTUALLY moving through space at 140 miles per second. WE ARE SPEED DEMONS.) We spin and we spin, like whirling dervishes, swirling in our little pocket of the universe.

  But no matter how hard I look, I’m not going to find my parents up there.

  I wish I could believe in heaven, in a kingdom in the sky where Mom and Dad are staying at a resort, waiting for us to join them someday. I wish I could see them from my telescope. But I can’t. Actually, I don’t wish I believed in that. Because then that would mean that some god had allowed my parents and all those other people to die a horrible death. And, somehow, that seems worse than total annihilation.

  My mother’s body is in a mass grave.

  We don’t know where my father’s body is.

  They were hurt. And scared. And alone.

  These are the facts. I can’t change them, no matter how much I want to.

  I close my eyes.

  Sky mind. Sky mind. Breathe. Thoughts are weather. Sky mind. Breathe.

  I wait until my mind is not swirling, and then I open my eyes, adjust the telescope, zoom in on the moon. Its incandescent light reaches us from 1.3 light-seconds away. It’s by far the largest satellite body in the solar system and the only one astronauts have set foot on. But I bet we’ll be on Mars soon. Dad said if his next book hit the New York Times bestseller list, he’d buy tickets for us to orbit the moon. Mom had said she could think of better things to do with half a million dollars, but when pressed, she couldn’t come up with anything cooler than the moon, so she gave us her permission to go.

  But he will never write that book. So I will never orbit the moon with my dad, or call him from the International Space Station wearing a NASA flak suit. When I’m on a rocket filled with over seventy-six thousand gallons of fuel and thinking about the Challenger blowing up, he won’t be down on Earth, hoping I make it into orbit in one piece.

  “Visibility is good tonight, Dad,” I say.

  I’m grateful Uncle Tony “accidentally” broke the streetlamp right in front after we moved in. He reported this accident to me while handing me the box labeled MAE’S TELESCOPE.

  Mars—perfect visibility

  Venus—fairly good visibility

  Saturn—average

  Uranus—average

  Mercury, Jupiter, and Neptune—slightly difficult to see

  Mom and Dad—zero visibility

  Tonight, all I want to do is look at the moon.

  I zoom in on the craters. Imagine the moon mansions I would build on them. This is something Dad and I would do. Moon mansions. Dad’s had a Zen rock garden in the back, the most intricate and beautiful Zen garden ever, made with moon rocks and moon sand.

  Mom said she didn’t want a mansion, just a wide expanse where she could do yoga, so I always made sure to have a nicely tended patch for her. I zoom in on a plain beside one of the craters, half expecting Mom to be up there, doing sun salutations. Or would they be moon salutations?

  I can’t believe they threw her body in a pit.

  Down below, I hear laughter and shouts. The sidewalks are full of goblins and witches and maybe some astronauts. We had plans to hand out candy and line the driveway with jack-o’-lanterns, but our porch light is off and the pumpkins are in the trash. Tomorrow is the Day of the Dead, and I suppose it’s fitting, getting this call when we did. In Mexico, they go to their loved ones’ graves and light candles. Gram will go to her church in Florida and light candles in front of saints. Even though Dad was an atheist, I bet he would like that a little. If only because it probably makes Gram feel better.

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  Uncle Tony stands behind me, his eyes heavy. He’s wearing his favorite Red Sox jacket and carrying a blanket and a thermos.

  “Figured you’d be a little chilly up here,” he says.

  I reach for the blanket, throw it over my shoulders. “Thanks.”

  “Now, this hot chocolate has some peppermint schnapps in it,” he says. “Don’t tell your dad.”

  I smile. “You were Dad’s favorite. In the family.”

  He nods. “He was mine. We had some good times, him and me.” He sits next to me and pours me a little cup of spiked hot cocoa. I never drink, except for a glass of champagne on Christmas, but this is a special occasion, I think. “He was so smart, but he never made me feel stupid. You know?”

  I nod. “Me, too.”

  He runs a hand over his head. “Your sister and me. We’re the only nongeniuses in the family.” He leans closer. “Sometimes that’s hard. On her. You know what I mean?”

  “But I don’t care. Mom and Dad never did, never treated us differently or—”

  “I know.” He shrugs. “Food for thought.”

  I almost tell him about Hannah, but that would be too much, after today’s news. It wouldn’t be fair to him and Aunt Nora. Or Nah. Today is about Mom.

  We look at the sky for a long time. Quiet. Peppermint schnapps is good. I can see why people drink alcohol. But it makes the stars blurry.

  “What if they never find him?” I whisper.

  The finding matters. I didn’t know how much it would, but I should have. I want to find everything: the origin of the universe, a cure for my sister, the answer to every problem ever put before me.

  “He’ll get where he needs to go,” Uncle Tony says. “That man, he’s not the type to be lost. Know what I mean?”

  I nod. Maybe I’m not giving Dad enough credit. He was like Ben, a Zen master. Maybe he rode the wave until he reached enlightenment, then welcomed it with open arms.

  “Mae.” Uncle Tony clears his throat. “I would never try to replace your pops … and you can never replace my Annie. But…” I remember him holding her little body. Her shallow breathing, his lips kissing her bare head. “It occurs to me that I’m a dad without a daughter, and you’re a daughter without a dad. On this plane, I mean. They’re still ours and we’re still theirs. Always. But. I’m here. If you or Hannah need me. Okay?”

  My throat grows thick. I nod.

  “Okay.” He smiles. “I’m freezing my balls off out here. I’m going inside.”

  I laugh. “I’ll be down soon.”

  “All right, kiddo.�
�� He lays a hand on my shoulder, then heads for the dormer window that leads into the attic.

  I turn. “Uncle Tony?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, kiddo.”

  I stay outside for a while longer, until the schnapps makes the moon’s craters turn into pools.

  When I’m back inside, I peek in the kitchen. Nah has Mom’s soup pot on the stove.

  “What are we making?” I say.

  She looks up from the cutting board. Her eyes are puffy and red.

  “I just want to be alone.”

  “Oh.” We’ve never not made soup together. “Okay.”

  In the middle of the night, I get up. Can’t sleep. Keep thinking about the weight of dirt. Mom hated being dirty. Every time she got out of the shower she’d say something like, God, I love showers.

  The kitchen is dark and smells like lemons and onions. I check the fridge, peek inside the container of soup sitting on the top shelf. I already know, though. What it is.

  Avgolemono.

  Mom’s favorite. And the soup she made when Yia-yia died. Secret Karalis family recipe.

  My sister didn’t make a goodbye soup for Mom with me. Because she has decided I am leaving, too. Maybe she already knows what soup she’ll make for me when I go to Annapolis. Except.

  I’m not going.

  I grip the counter. “I’m not going, Dad. I’m sorry. I know you understand.”

  Hannah will not be all right by June. And I won’t be a second wave in her life. Not making soup together was the sign I needed. She’s never been that far gone.

  There is a bloom of orange light outside—a flame. Aunt Nora is in the backyard, smoking a cigarette. She looks a million years old. Tonight, she found out her sister was buried in a mass grave.

  Aunt Nora’s accelerated aging makes sense. I think maybe I am a million years old, too.

  “Mom,” I whisper. “Aunt Nora’s smoking. You should come yell at her.”

  Somewhere, Mom sighs.

  The soup pot sits in the sink, soaking. I turn on the faucet, wait until the water is so hot I can hardly stand it, then I scrub the pot.

  Cleaning up my sister’s mess.

  Part 2

  Across the Universe

  25

  Mae

  ISS Location: Low-Earth Orbit

  Earth Date: 24 November

  Earth Time (EST): 15:21

  It is November now. Almost Thanksgiving.

  We are at an apple orchard because that is a thing people do here in Boston. They pick apples. Then they take them home and bake pies, because there isn’t much else to do with a bushel of apples. When Ben insisted we celebrate my birthday, I told him he had to plan it because I am not interested in a birthday without my parents, and this is what he came up with. He said it’s good to get some dirt underneath your fingernails. Typical geophysicist.

  After, we are going to the Dresden Dolls concert. Maybe it will be fun, but I feel bad about dancing when they’re dead.

  This is not the first birthday party I’ve had without my parents.

  I had three whole birthdays without Mom’s cakes and Dad making thermodynamics jokes whenever I blew out the candles. I don’t remember my first birthday with them, which was when I turned four, except for the ball pit. I remember being in the McDonald’s ball pit with my mom, how she held me in all that color. How she kept pressing her lips against my cheek. I’d been a little frightened of that sea of plastic, but I already knew she wouldn’t let me go, not ever. That there was someone who would finally hold on to me for dear life. I think that’s the day when I knew I was home.

  Sometimes, now, when I am alone, I just whisper, “Mama.” I feel like she hears me. I will never tell anyone I do this.

  I say Mama when I wake up in the middle of the night and I feel the pressing. When the sheets are heavy and I start thinking about the hundreds of pounds of dirt in that other pit, the one without color. The one Mom was in for so long before they took her out.

  Mama.

  I close my eyes and I picture Mom and me in the center of that galaxy of plastic spheres, the smell of French fries in the air, those little red and blue and yellow and green planets orbiting us. Mom, encircling my body like the rings of Saturn.

  “The tree of knowledge,” Nate says, resting his hand on a knobby trunk. “From Eve herself to Isaac Newton watching an apple fall, the malum really is the fruit of all knowledge.”

  There are rows and rows of trees all around us. Not too many people, since it’s the end of the season. It’s a beautiful day. Blue, with puffy white clouds. Bright sun.

  “Which one is Isaac Newton?” Nah asks.

  There is color in her cheeks. Maybe it’s the wind, but maybe it’s because we’re out here and it’s good, fresh air and friends and a thermos of apple cider. Maybe Ben was right about the benefits of getting dirt under your fingernails. The tightness in my chest loosens a bit and, for a second, I feel hope. This day is going to be good. And it’s going to make her better. Nate and I agreed that before we tell my aunt and uncle about Nah’s problems, I can play one last card. The ace up my sleeve. Maybe it’s more of a wild card. I’ve never gambled, but I feel like I am today. If my plan doesn’t work, we tell them everything. This is naive, but I can’t bear to make things more miserable for Nah during the holidays. It’s already going to be hard enough.

  I asked Ben if I could invite anyone I wanted to my birthday party, and he said yes, of course. So I invited someone that I hope will make things better. You can only stand hearing your sister cry herself to sleep for so long. In fact, you can’t stand it at all.

  But now, in this orchard, I realize that I am the dumbest smart person I know. Because Hannah already brought someone to my party.

  She goes for a dangling Red Delicious, but it’s just out of reach. Drew helps, his fingers grazing hers. Her eyes flick to his, hold. Then away.

  “Ben,” I whisper.

  This panic, it’s what you feel when the rocket has launched, but you missed something very important on the preflight checklist.

  “Yes?” he whispers back. Then he leans closer. “Why are we whispering?”

  I had no idea she was going to bring him. I haven’t seen him since the day the Red Cross called, other than at school. Forgot all about him. Stupid, stupid. Why have my observational capacities failed me? Why did I not connect those dots?

  I think this day is not going to be good.

  Drew hands her the apple. Squeezes her hand once before letting go. Her skin, oh god, she’s a rose when he touches her. Karalis skin doesn’t hide a thing.

  Now I know where she goes at lunch. When she gets on the train without me. When she climbs through her window late at night.

  “I made a tactical error,” I whisper. “A huge one.”

  “Birthday girls don’t make tactical errors.” He kisses my forehead. “That is a mathematical certainty.”

  I grab his arm, pull him from the tree and Nate’s impromptu lecture on the history of gravity.

  “Ben. You said I could invite anyone I wanted.”

  He nods. “Drew’s nice.”

  “Ben—”

  “Happy birthday, little sister.”

  I look over Ben’s shoulder. “Micah. You made it.”

  they tell you if the airplane is going down

  to put your oxygen mask on before you help anyone else

  Apple Crate

  Blossom Hill Orchard

  Natick, MA

  26

  Hannah

  I should be over the moon that he’s here.

  I should be running, sprinting, vaulting into his arms.

  Micah is here. He is standing a few feet from me, this improbable, beautiful blond surfer in the middle of a New England apple orchard.

  But I can’t move.

  Micah looks at me, hazel eyes in sunny skin that I have bathed in and kissed and loved and missed. His lips turn up in that smile, the one he gave me
when he walked out of the ocean, his board under his arm, stood over my towel, and said, “I’m Micah. And you’re my future wife. So you better give me your phone number.”

  My body, it never does what is socially acceptable, the right thing. I know this because my body leans, it leans back. Against Drew.

  “Are you sure?” Drew murmurs, so soft only I can hear it.

  He’s never met Micah, but it’s so obvious, that claiming gaze. There is only one person who would think they had the right to look like they owned me.

  I press against Drew and he lets out a soft breath. “Okay,” he says.

  Mae—brilliant, calm, cool, collected Mae—flails her hands. Actually flails.

  “It’s … so good to see you, Micah! Thank … thank you for coming. I, um … This is my boyfriend, Ben. He, uh, he goes to MIT and—”

  Micah is ignoring Mae. Staring at me. The smile disappears from his face, and now he just looks confused. Because I was supposed to run to him. To be happy. To give him a big kiss.

  But I just stand here.

  “Hi,” I say.

  All those missed calls swim between us. The ones he missed. The ones I missed. On accident. On purpose. The awkward texts. The ignored texts. The photos that were promised and never sent. All the things we can’t say, won’t say. The entire month of March, and everything after. The wave.

  He walks past my sister, toward me. Looks at Drew. Looks harder at Drew. At the lack of space between us.

  Drew slides his hand into mine. Holds tight.

  And now Micah stops. Goes completely still.

  “Fuck,” Nate whispers.

  “So were you waiting to tell me about this when I came for Christmas?” Micah’s voice is so quiet, that calm sea inside him getting ready to swell. “Or was I never supposed to find out?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  “You’re sorry.”

  “Nothing’s happened,” I say. “I promise.”

  He gives our hands a pointed look.

  “Yeah, that’s a lie.” Micah turns to Drew. “So, what, my girlfriend fucks you, and you give her pills?”