Strangelets

by Michelle Gagnon

  She grumbled something about him yelling, then shouted up, “As if you don’t remember missing mass. Sunday. Now get your arse downstairs, the roast is going cold.”

  “No, I mean, what’s the date?”

  She didn’t answer, plainly refusing to carry on a conversation up a flight of stairs. Declan ran a hand through his hair. On an impulse, he reached out and opened the box.

  What he saw inside made him fall back into the chair. “Bloody hell,” he breathed.

  It was a claw: long, yellow, and all too familiar. A thrinax claw, here in Galway.

  What the hell was going on?

  Sophie opened her eyes. She was lying in a hospital bed. She recognized the pale-puce colored walls and tacky oil paintings immediately; she’d spent over a month staring at them. The bed was familiar, too, as was the view of Stanford University’s spires. She was back in the hospice. For a second, she wondered if the past few days had all been a crazy, morphine-induced dream: Declan, Anat, the thrinaxes, everything.

  Then she felt a throbbing in her arm. She lifted it up to inspect it: a long, narrow cut where the thrinax had sliced her with its claw.

  Sophie let her arm drop back down on the covers. Not a dream, then. She’d done it; she’d hit the reset button. Hopefully they’d all gotten back home.

  Of course, that meant she was still on her deathbed.

  Oh well, she told herself, trying to repress a surge of disappointment. The others might be okay. And she’d had a decent couple of days, barring that whole narrowly escaping death thing. At least she’d been moving around again. And she’d visited Long Island, for the first and last time. Too bad we never made it to the Hamptons, she thought with a slight smile.

  Sighing, Sophie took a physical inventory. She ached all over and felt like she could sleep for a week. Still, she was alive. For the moment, at least.

  Her room was empty, which was odd but kind of a blessing, since she’d prefer a few minutes alone before facing her family. An IV line jutted from her left hand, the cord led to a hanging stand. The nurse call button was right where it should be, resting on the covers.

  She hesitated for a second, then tapped it.

  A minute later, a middle-aged nurse with close-cropped hair and kindly eyes bustled into the room. It was Betsy, one of her favorites.

  “Miss Sophie,” she said brightly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Um, well …” Sophie’s head swam, there were a dozen different things she wanted to know. Like, what day was it? Hell, what year? And were there dinosaurs running around outside? She decided to start with an easy one, though. “Where are my parents? And Nora?”

  “They went out for lunch.”

  “Lunch?” Sophie said dubiously. Kind of weird that they’d left her all alone at death’s door. “Um, did they say when they’d be back?”

  “They mentioned something about swinging by the house to grab a few of your things.” Betsy moved adroitly around the bed, double-checking the saline drip and monitors. There were fewer than usual, Sophie noticed. And the morphine drip was inexplicably gone, it usually hung right next to the saline.

  “Great,” she grumbled, digging her head into the pillows. “Hopefully I won’t die before they get back.”

  “Die?” Betsy’s forehead crinkled. “Is that a joke?”

  “A joke?”

  “I thought … oh my, are you feeling disoriented?” Betsy leaned in, checking her pupils.

  “No,” Sophie said, resisting the urge to push her away. “I feel fine.” And she did, she realized suddenly. Sore and achy, but basically fine.

  “Well, I’m not surprised that it would take some getting used to.” Betsy stepped back and smiled broadly at her. “I mean, it’s not every day we send someone home, you know.”

  Sophie blinked, trying to process what she was saying. “I’m going home?”

  “This afternoon. That’s why they’re getting your clothes. You don’t want to walk out of here in that thing, do you?” Betsy eyed her nightgown reprovingly.

  Sophie followed her gaze; she was still wearing the smiley face one with the bullet hole in the forehead. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What about the lymphoma?”

  Betsy swept her hands in a wide arc. “Gone.”

  “Gone?” Sophie was dumbfounded. “But … it can’t just be gone.”

  “That’s what Dr. Zimmerman thinks, too,” Betsy said smugly. “But they’ve run every test. Of course, you’ll still need to come in for regular check-ups. But with any luck, it’ll stay in remission.” Unexpectedly, Betsy leaned down and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m so happy for you, dear,” she said, her voice thick. “Miracles don’t happen much around here.”

  And with that, she swept out of the room.

  Sophie lay back on the pillows, stunned. Was it possible? If anything, this was even more surreal than waking up at the facility.

  Declan, she thought.

  She had to find a way to get in touch with him. Of course, he was probably back home now … which meant back with Katie. She bit her lip, wondering if he’d even want to talk to her. Would it only make things more complicated? Maybe she should pretend it was all a dream …

  But just because she’d ended up back in the same place, didn’t mean he had. There was no harm in checking to make sure he was okay, right? Deciding, she grappled for the call button and pushed it repeatedly.

  Betsy scrambled back into the room. “Sophie? Are you okay?” Her eyes darted reflexively to the machines that recorded her stats. “What happened?”

  “Can you access the Internet on your cell phone, Betsy?”

  “What?” Betsy’s forehead wrinkled, and she crossed her arms sternly over her chest. “You called me in here for my telephone?”

  “Please, Betsy. It’s really, really important. I swear.”

  Betsy eyed her for a minute longer, then drew an iPhone out of her pocket as she grumbled under her breath. Sophie quickly thumbed open the browser. An Internet search for Declan Murphy produced thousands of results.

  She swore, and Betsy threw her a sharp look. Why couldn’t he have a more unique name, like Aloysius or something? Sophie chewed her lip, then narrowed the results by “Galway City” and “seventeen.”

  Still dozens of websites. She scanned through them quickly, until a Facebook page caught her eye. There was a small jpeg next to it. She hit the button to enlarge it, and Declan’s face stared back at her from the small screen. It was a typical teenage photo: his arms flung around two other boys, mouth open as if the camera had captured him mid-yell. He was wearing jeans and a ragged T-shirt and he looked absolutely incredible.

  “Betsy, can I use this for another minute? I need to get on Facebook,” Sophie asked, suddenly feeling breathless.

  “Facebook?” Betsy looked bewildered. “Sophie, what on earth—”

  “It really is important, Betsy. Life or death.”

  More grumbling, mostly about what teenagers considered to be life or death, and how Sophie of all people should know better. But seeing the expression on her face, Betsy softened. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” she warned. “And I’ll want it then. No calling China, hear?”

  What about Ireland? Sophie thought, but she nodded meekly in response. After Betsy left the room, she logged into Facebook and navigated to Declan’s page. Her breath caught at one of the photos on his timeline—the kind people take by holding the camera above themselves, super close-up. Declan was cheek-to-cheek with a gorgeous red-haired girl, both smiling like they’d never been so happy. Sophie’s gut wrenched. Maybe she should just leave Declan to his normal life. He might not want anything to do with her now, anyway. He probably just wanted to forget any of it had ever happened.

  She was about to log off when an alert flashed: Declan Murphy wants to chat with you. Accept?

  Heart thudding in her chest, she clicked the yes button.

  After a brief pause, words streamed onscreen.

  Never so happy to see stin
king Galway. U make it home all right?

  Yes, she wrote back, heaving a sigh of relief. So Declan had made it home too. She wanted to pour out everything she’d experienced since the moment she opened her eyes … including how anguished she’d felt when his hands slipped from her grasp. But she hardly knew where to begin. Finally, feeling totally lame, she wrote, U ok?

  Still got a knot on my head, but yeah. Another beat, then he wrote, R u sick?

  Nope, I’m fine.

  A dancing emoticon with a goofy grin appeared.

  Sophie smiled in response. She was sorely tempted to ask for his number, but Betsy would kill her if she made an international call. For now, they should stick to IM’ing.

  Sophie rubbed her forehead, debating what to write next. She was exhausted, it still felt like she’d spent the day tearing through a forest, fleeing down dark hallways … of course, she had. Although that had all really happened … what, two days from now? Or twenty years? Just thinking about it made her head hurt.

  Still there?

  Yes, she typed back. Have u checked for Anat yet?

  Was going to do that next. Wanted to find out if u were ok first.

  Thanks, she wrote, feeling her cheeks flush. He’d thought of her first—that was good, right? I’ll check too. Do they even have Facebook in Israel?

  They have FB everywhere, you nutter. Americans. Always think you’re so special.

  Reading it, Sophie could practically hear his voice. She didn’t know what to write next, her hands hovered over the screen. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure if any of them were a good idea.

  I’d like to talk to you, he wrote. I miss you already.

  Sophie bit her lower lip. Her eyes misted over as she typed, Miss you too.

  Good. Send me your # and I’ll call tomorrow. Night, love.

  “Good night,” she said out loud, even though it was late morning in California.

  Commotion in the hall. Sophie looked up, her parents and sister crowded through the doorway. All three of them beamed at her.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Ready to come home?” her mother asked, rushing to her bedside.

  Sophie threw her arms around her and squeezed. “Oh, Mom. I missed you.”

  “It’s only been a few hours.” Her mother laughed and touched her cheek. “But I missed you too.”

  Sophie didn’t think she’d ever felt so happy. “I’ve had enough of hospitals for pretty much ever,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You could just audit a class, you know,” Sophie said, nudging Declan with her elbow.

  “Already checked the catalog.” He bit into his roll, talking around it as he continued, “Read it through twice, didn’t see anything on safe-cracking. And here I thought university was supposed to teach some useful skills.”

  Sophie furrowed her brow. “You said you were done with all that.”

  “Have a sense of humor, lass.” Declan reached over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m kidding.”

  She smiled. Every time he touched her she still got chills. “Sure you are.”

  She kept having to remind herself that this was real: the two of them, sitting at a café right off campus in the center of Dublin. Sophie tilted her head back, drinking in the sun. Declan kept warning her that this wasn’t typical Irish weather—in the two weeks she’d been here, it hadn’t rained once. He kept joking that she must’ve brought the California sun with her. She didn’t care if it poured every day. After nearly a year apart, all their plans had finally come true. She was enrolled as a first year student at Trinity College in Dublin. And Declan had moved in with friends from Galway: it was a raucous apartment filled with five guys, all of whom regarded watching soccer to be a competitive sport. Not that he’d spent much time there lately. She smiled at him across her mug of coffee.

  “Y’know, a proper Irish girl would be drinking tea,” he pointed out.

  Sophie grimaced. “Ugh. I still can’t stand the stuff.”

  “It’s an acquired taste,” he acknowledged.

  “Good thing I’ve got four years to acquire it, then.”

  Declan expression turned serious. He leaned in closer and said, “Listen, I heard from Anat the other day.”

  “Really?” Sophie repressed a twinge. Apparently Anat’s contempt hadn’t faded over the past year. Not that they’d become close in 2033 Long Island, exactly, but it still hurt that Anat had reached out to Declan, not her. “How’s she doing?”

  “Eh.” Declan shook his head. “Not good. Hazim is still locked up, and hasn’t a clue who she is.”

  “Poor Anat,” Sophie said, half to herself. She couldn’t even imagine how awful that would be. It had become apparent over the past year that the place where they’d landed was slightly different from the one they’d left. Most of the inconsistencies were small and insignificant, at least for her. But Anat wasn’t having the same experience in Israel.

  “Anyway, I invited her to come for holiday. She probably won’t,” he added, taking in her expression. “But I figured I’d offer.”

  “That was sweet of you.” Sophie reached out and took his hand. He was right; it was unlikely that Anat would come. But maybe being asked had made her feel better.

  “Anat’s the toughest bird I know,” he said. “She’ll be fine, yeah?”

  “Sure,” Sophie said, gnawing her lip.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just …” Sophie shook her head and looked down. “It’s just strange that we never found any sign of Nico or Bruder here. I mean, it’s like they never existed at all.”

  Declan shrugged. “We’ve talked about this. Maybe they didn’t. Many worlds and all that, right?” He squeezed her hand. “Might be for the best, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe,” Sophie acknowledged. “Still, I can’t help but wonder …”

  “Wonder what?” Declan pressed gently when she didn’t continue. They’d come to an unspoken agreement long ago not to dwell on the fates of Nico or Zain.

  “I wonder if there’s another version of us out there somewhere … a dimension where we both died,” she said softly.

  Declan took her face in his hands, leaned forward, and kissed her. Sophie closed her eyes, giving in to the rush of emotions. “It doesn’t matter if there is,” he said, pulling away. “We’re here now. Together. And nothing is going to change that.”

  “Okay.” She managed a slight smile, but it felt forced. Survivor’s guilt, probably. Over time, that would fade.

  “Grand. Now that’s settled, let’s get out of here. Plans tonight, you know.” He winked.

  “Oh, really?” She cocked an eyebrow. “What sort of plans?”

  “There’s a Godzilla double feature playing,” he said gravely. “Not to be missed.”

  Sophie burst into laughter. Linking arms with him, she leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked away from the café. Music and laughter spilled out the open doors of pubs as they strolled past. The sun hung low in the sky; the streets were packed with people. She felt light, clean, happy. A year ago, she was at death’s door. Declan was right. Maybe there were thousands of versions of them out there somewhere, but for now, she was right here. And it was as close to perfect as she’d ever known.

  Michelle Gagnon is an International Mystery Book Association bestseller whose books have sold worldwide. Her first YA thriller, Don’t Turn Around, was published by Harper Teen in August 2012. Michelle has also been a modern dancer, a dog walker, a bartender, a freelance journalist, a personal trainer, and a model. She lives in San Francisco. Visit her on the web at www.michellegagnon.com.

 

 

 
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