Little Universes

by Heather Demetrios

  After graduation, I started working the morning shifts with Ben, making the sandwiches and soups and stuff for the lunch crowd, along with regular barista duties. I write acorns on the sandwich board outside.

  And I love it. All of it. I really do.

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  Jo glances at me, eyebrows up. “Uh-huh…”

  “Cooking chills me out. It helps me think. My dad always said that my mom did soup meditation. Remember I told you that whenever we’re stressed or something happens, we make soup? Like, the night of the wave, Mae and I made chili. We weren’t hungry, we just … had to.” She nods. “I was thinking … I’m writing a lot now, but I need a job, too. I don’t want minimum-wage barista work forever. What if cooking’s one of my things? Like, how I contribute to the world? Food is healing. Making it, eating it. Growing it. I could maybe take some classes?”

  Jo throws an arm around my shoulder. “Hell yes! I fucking love that idea. Mostly because I will directly benefit from whatever delicious shit you make.”

  I laugh, and it sounds good, that music coming from my mouth.

  We peek into the sizable kitchen and the backyard, thick with trees and flowers and a big garden—tomatoes crawling up vines, rows of herbs, bunches of greens.

  Jo tells me a bit about the others as she leads me to the second of the three floors. There are ten of us in all, including Jo, who’s the oldest at twenty-five. A few are students at one of the many universities and colleges in Boston; many are like me, just working and trying to figure things out.

  “We’ve got a lot of artists here,” she says. “As you can see.”

  The upstairs walls are covered in a collage-like mural: flowers and suns and moons. There are five bedrooms on this floor, and a communal bathroom.

  “There’s a cleaning schedule, and you can sign up for your shower time if you need to be in there before work or something,” Jo says. “We’re strict about sign-ups and our commitments.”

  “Is it insane, trying to get in there?”

  “Each floor has two toilets and two showers. Usually something’s open if you need it.”

  All of the bedroom doors are shut except for one. Jo knocks, then pokes her head in.

  “Hey, V. Got our new sister here. Come say hi.”

  My heart tightens at that word—sister. It’s only been six days since Mae got on a plane for Annapolis. But I miss her.

  A girl maybe a year or two older than me comes out. Her whole head is covered in dreadlocks, and she has an elfin face that reminds me a little of Mae.

  “I’m Hannah,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Valerie. You, too. So what’s your deal?”

  “Um…” I have a choice. Do I define myself by my addiction—or by something else? “I’m a poet. And I cook.”

  She grins. “Right on. I’m a painter. I did some of the stuff on the walls here. You should contribute to my zine. Like, a poem. I can make the art for it.”

  My words, with my name next to them. Not anonymous. Not secret. I can almost feel the stardust Mae is always talking about, falling on me. It tingles a little. All over.

  “Okay. Yeah.”

  “Cool. Well, knock on my door any time you need something.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jo leads me across the hall, opens the last door on the left.

  “And … here we are.”

  Pale yellow walls.

  Thick wood floors.

  A wide window overlooking a side yard crawling with flowers and bicycles.

  A polished teardrop crystal hangs from the window, catching sunbeams and turning them into rainbows all around the room.

  “My little present to you,” Jo says, nodding at the crystal. A new kind of diamond.

  The room is warm and cozy, big enough to roll out my yoga mat. I’ll put a desk by the window, my bed in that corner, by the large closet.

  A gilded mirror on the wall, so I’ll remember I’m not invisible.

  “Thank you, Jo. For everything.”

  “You won’t want to thank me when you hear we have a curfew.” I groan, and she cackles as she heads toward the door. “I have to check on my curry. You want to come down or do you want to soak this in before the guys get here?”

  “I want to soak a bit,” I say.

  When Jo leaves, I lie in a patch of sunlight on the hardwood floor and look at the little tattoo on my right ankle, sitting in the same spot where Mom’s Om was. Mine is one of Yoko’s drawings from Acorn, a beautiful dot-art fly for her poem “Life Piece VII.”

  A promise. To myself. To my dead.

  To dream of flying, to trust that I won’t fall. I whisper the last line of the fly’s poem, out loud: “Try to remember the feeling when you are awake.”

  “I remember,” I say. “I remember.”

  The scent of roses and seawater hits me, and I turn my head. Mom is lying next to me, in corpse pose. Her lips are turned up in a smile, eyes closed.

  That Death card I’ve been getting all year? It just means the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

  I’m not afraid to die. But I’m not afraid to live, either.

  “This is the last time,” I say to her, “isn’t it?”

  Her palms are turned up to the sky, and her fingers twitch the tiniest bit. I reach out and hold my mom’s hand.

  Just like when I was a little girl, we walk home together.

  Epilogue

  Mae

  ISS Location: Low-Earth Orbit

  Earth Date: 29 August

  Earth Time (MYT): 18:06

  It is the one-year anniversary of the wave.

  The beach my parents died on is littered not with bodies or debris, but with white roses. Hundreds and hundreds of white roses.

  For so long, it felt like Nah and I were the only ones who’d lost people in the wave. But here, now, surrounded by women and men and children from all over the planet who are crying, but also smiling and laughing and remembering, I realize we are not alone. Not one little bit.

  This grief, it is collective.

  This loss, it is the world’s.

  It is so beautiful here. I can see why Mom wanted to lie on this beach, walk in this sand, put her toes in this warm water. This gentle water, a sleeping giant. Even though a part of me knew better, I thought I would hate it. This ocean that took them.

  But you can’t be angry at water.

  And I don’t believe in God.

  So there is no one to be angry with.

  That’s nice.

  Nah carves the words in the sand with a piece of driftwood. When she’s done, I stand beside her and slip my hand into hers.

  Last Words

  1. Say thank you

  2. Say I love you

  3. Say these words until you die

  —HANNAH WINTERS

  “Who do we say thank you to?”

  “To Mom and Dad,” Nah says. “The universe. Ourselves.”

  “I thought you and the universe weren’t on speaking terms.”

  Nah smiles. “We had a heart-to-heart when I was in the hospital.”

  I look up at the sky, where the moon is already starting to peek through the sunset clouds and the ISS is making its rounds of Earth.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. To me. To them. To everything.

  I turn to my sister, watch her lips move as she whispers the same words, her eyes on the water.

  I lean my head against her shoulder. “I love you.”

  “I love you back.”

  We stand with our toes curled in the sand, and we don’t leave until the sea has washed Nah’s words away and the sun has fallen out of the sky.

  “Are you ready?” she asks.

  To say goodbye.

  Am I?

  “No. But also yes.”

  Some problems take a long time to work.

  We walk into the water. Hand in hand. Nah’s fingers tighten around mine.

  We raise our arms. Throw our roses into the wave
s.

  The sea takes them, like it took our parents, and, for just a second, I think I hear two long sighs deep in the heart of the ocean.

  But maybe it’s just us.

  We turn our backs on the water and walk toward the lights of Langkawi and the present of our aliveness, which feels like it’s wrapped in shiny paper. The ocean says goodbye, goodbye in its melancholy, lonesome voice, and just when I’m about to cross from sadness to despair, I remember something super cool.

  I look at my sister. “You wanna hear something amazing about stars?”

  Nah laughs and throws an arm around my shoulder. “Tell me.”

  “Okay, so the light that we see beaming from stars is actually thousands of years old, and it’s possible that the light we see has traveled so far and so long that the stars the light comes from are already dead. BUT WE STILL SEE THEIR LIGHT. Isn’t that awesome?”

  My sister’s eyes are shining just like Dad’s used to when we talked about stars and planets. And when she smiles, her eyes crinkle up just like Mom’s.

  Gone, but we can still see their light.

  Mental Health Resources

  I wish I could show you

  When you are lonely or in darkness

  The astonishing light of your own being.

  —HAFIZ

  National Suicide Prevention Hotline (24/7, free, confidential):

  1-800-273-TALK (8255)

  SAMHSA’s (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration) National Helpline (24/7, free, confidential):

  1-800-662-HELP (4357)

  Narcotics Anonymous (NA):

  NA may or may not be the right path for you if you’re suffering from an addiction. If you want to learn more about getting sober, or if you think you might have a problem, you can go to www.na.org, or find out more here: https://na.org/admin/include/spaw2/uploads/files/EN3113_2008.pdf

  Naloxone:

  If you or someone you love has an opiate addiction, please, please keep Naloxone with you at all times. Many cities offer this lifesaving medicine for free or without a prescription. You can find out more here: http://www.getnaloxonenow.org/find.html

  Acknowledgments

  This book was a lifetime in the making, a journey spanning the globe and my own spiritual topography. Sometimes I was alone, although, as Hannah says, we’re never really alone; I was often with others—be they real or simply in the pages of books. (For the record, Yuri Gagarin is also fucking with my serenity.)

  I want to thank some of those people below, but first, I want to say something I hope my younger readers especially will hear:

  I’ve never taken a physics class in my life and was always intimidated by science. (Hello, Patriarchy). Working on this book gave me the permission I needed to explore a whole world of study that had felt off-limits and impossible for me since I was a kid. For all you girls out there who think science isn’t for you—give it a try. I hope you take up lots of space in all the places you inhabit. Shoot for the moon—or even further. I’m rooting for you.

  I’m grateful to the following people who have been with me on this journey:

  First, I have to thank my sister, Meghan. This book has her DNA all over it. She has kept me afloat in many a wave. If you have a sister, hug her today—if you can—or do what mine does and send her a playlist of songs when she’s sad. Meghan, I love you to infinity and beyond.

  Sarah Torna Roberts: my forever kindred spirit. We might not share blood, but you will always be family. It took me decades to write the book I wanted to dedicate to you. Your unwavering belief in my work helped me leave it all on the page. You are my favorite person to solve the problems of the universe with—and one of the best people in it.

  Zach, my definite position in the universe: I am lost without you. (And you know I mean that very literally, since I can’t read a map.) Thank you for helping me see that I can science, for explaining all the things, and for watching all my favorite space movies with me—including Gravity in 3-D at the most expensive movie theater in Manhattan. Thanks are also in order for all the times you read this extremely long book and all your excellent insights about it. I love you to the moon and back. (Better yet, MARS and back).

  Frankie Bolt: Thank you for your generosity and the deep, powerful read you gave this heart book of mine. So much of what makes this book tick should be credited to you. I bow down to your brilliance, and I adore you for getting my girls so hard.

  Kate Farrell, my editor: Thank you for holding space for my work. Your trust in my ability and vision allowed me to shoot straight past the atmosphere. Writing under such conditions is like getting to see sixteen sunsets, and sixteen sunrises Every. Single. Day. Special thanks to everyone at Holt, especially Christian Trimmer, Brittany Pearlman, and Rachel Murray.

  Jessica Welman: I can’t begin to thank you enough for all your incredible insights into Mae. And for keeping my inner romantic in check. Well, as much as anyone can. I’m so glad your bed was across from mine freshman year.

  Lisa Papademetriou: Your comments on the early pages helped me bring acorns to the next level. Thank you, thank you.

  Laura Sibson: Your last-minute reading for me was so clutch! Thank you for your insights and wisdom on this complicated family.

  Linda Fehst, the mother-in-law of dreams, for her ongoing support and an early read with incredibly helpful suggestions.

  Brenda Bowen and everyone at Sanford Greenburger who were alongside me at the beginning of this ride: I am ever so grateful for all that you’ve done.

  Thank you to the astronauts whose lives and work helped me understand Mae, especially Peggy Whitson, Chris Hadfield, Scott Kelly, and the NASA 2017 Class of Astronaut Candidates. You are all the right stuff.

  Neil de Grasse Tyson said, “The universe is under no obligation to make sense to you.” That might be true, but there are several people who have helped it make more sense to me, and made it easier to science the shit out of this book. This is a good time for curious people and I’ve been the grateful beneficiary of countless books and online resources, including the entire catalog of the On Being podcast. However, I’d like to especially thank the following scientists who were kind enough to take time out of studying the universe to help a layperson out—please note that ALL MISTAKES IN THIS BOOK ARE MY OWN (that deserved some Mae caps, methinks):

  Dr. Chanda Prescod-Weinstein, who was so kind as to spend an hour on the phone with me talking about dark matter, axions, and the challenges for female-identifying persons in the sciences. Bonus: she didn’t make me feel like an idiot for even a nanosecond. I know Mae would have had a new shero if she’d met this kickass science maven. You can find her on Twitter at @IBJIYONGI.

  Colin Bischoff, who took time out of his busy schedule doing observational cosmology to read several pages of the book and school me on all things physics. He kept me from making Mae look like a dumbass, and I am forever grateful. He ALSO gave me the opportunity to casually drop into conversation that I have to return a physicist’s email. You can find Colin on Twitter at @colinflipper. (Special thanks to Robin Kirk and Jenn Barnes for getting us in touch.)

  Allison Campbell, my cool astrophysicist friend: Thank you for understanding what I was trying to do with this book, and advising me on dark matter and how an astronaut might go about having her cake and eating it, too.

  Matt Anderson, for our lively email back-and-forth about geophysics: Dude, geophysicists are COOL. Thank you for making that so clear. Ben says hi.

  There are many people who’ve been a part of helping me authentically portray Hannah’s struggle with addiction. Since their experience with addiction or loved ones’ addiction is their story to tell, I won’t be naming them here, but I am in awe of their vulnerability and generosity.

  A huge thanks to someone I can name, Dr. Diana Deister at Boston Children’s Hospital, who was incredibly generous, answering questions via email and phone. All mistakes in the book are, of course, my own. The work she and everyone at this fantastic institut
ion does on behalf of young people suffering from addiction is so incredibly important. Extra thanks to Megan Gallagher for helping me navigate the Boston Children’s system.

  Andrew Sullivan’s article in New York Magazine, “The Poison We Pick” (Feb 19–March 4 2018), was incredibly helpful in understanding the nature of opioids, why people use them, and what we’re up against with this epidemic. A powerful must-read. Also, we need to take down these companies that are killing our loved ones, and those in power who let them. Who’s with me?

  This book was mostly written in Bournemouth, UK, Bäch, Switzerland, Sitges, Spain, and Scottsdale, AZ—thanks to the housesitting fam for opening up their homes to me and trusting me with their desks and pets, and for my in-laws, Linda and Walt Fehst, without whom a certain rocket woman wouldn’t have had a safe place to land this ship.

  Huge thanks to my writers—students, clients, and friends—who cheer me on and keep my boat afloat. Big hugs to all my readers, who do the same. I love and appreciate all of you. I’m glad we all get to be on Earth together at the same time. We can do impossible things.

  For all my spiritual teachers—the ones I know personally and the ones I only know on the page—thank you for your wisdom and your lifetime of doing the hard work of figuring out what it means to be human. I could never name you all, but here are a few who have personally helped me work the problem of being this particular collection of atoms: David Chernikoff, the MNDFL family—especially Lodro Rinzler and Adreanna Limbach—and, last but not least, Father John Unni at St. Cecelia’s in Boston.

  I’ve thanked a lot of scientists here, but there are scores of poets and musicians and writers and painters and makers of things who were with me every step of the way on this journey—you’ve met many of them in these pages. I think they know the secret Dr. Winters was looking for. After all, you can’t spell Earth without “art.”

  For everyone reading this, and especially to all the people I know and love struggling with addiction (and the ones I don’t know): you are the miracle. Let’s do right by it together.