short story: step and turn
Feb. 6th, 2011 04:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holliRough draft. Kind of very rough. Concrit appreciated.
It’s not until we leave the house to go to the farmer’s market that the jumps get really bad. I should have known better than to go-- I’m getting over a nasty cold, and I cracked my head a good one on the underside of the sink last night-- but I owe the lady at the mushroom stall a dollar, and Charlie wants apples. So we go, and I jump, jump, jump the whole way there.
Charlie doesn’t know about the jumps, is the thing. I’ve never told anyone. It’s a fact about me, incontrovertible as my mouse-brown hair, my sweet tooth, my stubbornness-- sometimes I jump between universes. But it’s not an easy thing to tell someone, and so I never have.
Maybe jumping isn’t the right word. Most of the time, it’s smooth as stepping to the left, and sometimes I do it without even noticing, when the world I step into is close enough to the one I call home. When I was a kid, I did it for fun, when I was bored: stepped into worlds more exciting than mine, more interesting, places where I could have adventures. But I’m not a child anymore, and I know better than to stick my nose in other people’s universes, so I don’t do it on purpose much anymore.
But this morning I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. My sinuses are throbbing in time with the goose-egg on the back of my head, and I feel like crap, enough that I can’t hide it. Charlie notices, of course, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows I hate being treated like an invalid, even when I am one. So instead we argue about apples: he wants Pink Ladies, and I want the knobbly-sweet nameless heirlooms that one of the vendors brings sometimes. Those are expensive, though, and we’re pretty broke this week. That’s when the first jump happens.
I’m looking at a street sign when I go, and that’s the only warning I get: the font changes, the letters in WALNUT ST going round, serifs appearing from nowhere, and Charlie is still talking about apples. I look sidelong at him. He’s wearing the same shirt, the same battered hoodie he had on a universe ago; his hair still falls in his eyes. I keep the conversation going, pretend I’m still talking to my Charlie and not to someone else’s. I’ve been pretty good about jumping since we started dating; I haven’t met a lot of other Charlies.
I will myself home, and by the time we cross Chestnut the street signs are back to normal. Charlie is asking me if I want to stop in at the vintage store, since it shares a street with the market. He’s been looking for a fedora. I have a weakness for dresses.
That might be what does it: the next time I jump, I’m wearing a leaf-patterned dress with a full, swishy skirt, and Charlie looks sharp in his skinny tie. My ribs ache at the sudden pressure of unfamiliar corsetry. The cars that pass us on the street are bright in shades of aqua and cherry-red, gleaming with chrome.
“You can do it if you want to, Lu,” Charlie’s saying. “I know people will talk, but if it’s what you want, it’s what you want.”
We’re holding hands. The tiny pinch I’m feeling is a ring, pressed against his palm. I try to pick up the thread of the conversation. “Are you sure?” I say. I have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.
“I’m sure,” Charlie says. “You love your job. You’ll still love it after we get married. Don’t quit on my account.”
When the jump unravels itself, the first thing I do is take a deep, unconstricted breath. Charlie glances my way. I smile at him without wavering. Plenty of practice, like I said. “You smell that?” I ask. “Someone’s burning leaves.”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything at all,” he teases, “the way you’ve been honking this week.”
I bump my shoulder into his, and the motion jars me sideways into another universe. Suddenly the trees are green instead of brown, the shadows crisp instead of fuzzy with gray cloud. Charlie staggers sideways, and laughs.
I yank myself home again. Charlie’s still laughing, even as the chill returns to the air. I smile at him like nothing’s wrong, like I haven’t jumped more in ten minutes than in the last five months we’ve been dating, all put together. My control hasn’t been this bad in years.
I stopped jumping, as much as I could, when I was thirteen. I was at home, sitting at the vanity table in my mother’s bedroom, when words flickered into existence on the mirror. GO HOME, LUCY, it said in coral lipstick, in my handwriting, and under that, I DON’T WANT YOU HERE. So I went, back to where the mirror was blank, and wondered what had happened to my other self to make her resent me.
They’re all of them me, is the thing. Every one of me, in every universe, is a jumper, is someone experienced at picking up the threads of conversations, faking it, pretending to be another self. I’ve never had anyone notice my jumps, because every other Lucy covered for me, the way I do for them. I’d never thought to wonder if any other Lucy might feel differently about it.
So after thirteen, I stopped jumping for fun. It made high school easier-- less time spent taking tests I hadn’t studied for, negotiating unmapped social minefields, starting the night kissing one boy and finding myself in the arms of another a heartbeat later. All those things happened, of course. But not as much.
And then I met Charlie. I’ve been with him longer than anyone I’ve dated before. It’s hard to date someone, when an infinity of selves are seeing other people. But I’ve tried hard to make this thing with Charlie work.
Just this minute I don’t want Charlie here, though; I don’t want anyone. For a moment the desire to be alone is so powerful that I jump again, and suddenly Charlie’s gone. Everyone’s gone. The street is deserted, the few cars stopped, their doors hanging open. There is no sound but the wind. No birds are singing. I look down at myself. I am wearing practical, sturdy clothing, much-mended, and big boots. There is a rifle slung on my back.
I jump back, not wanting to know more about that world, about that Lucy. Charlie shimmers into being again. We walk in silence for a little while; I swing the empty tote bag in my hand and focus, focus, on staying where I am.
We’re almost to the farmer’s market when I jump again. This time it’s a big one, apparent instantly: the cars turn to ornate horseless carriages, and I am wearing a long, pale dress. The breath whooshes out of me, corseted again. My tote bag is a woven basket. Charlie looks comical to me in his high collar and hat, his velvet coat, but I hold in the laughter.
Then my head throbs, the lack of air making the hurt worse, and I stagger. Charlie is at my elbow instantly, solicitous, and guides me to a nearby bench. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “My head just hurts a little. I bumped it last night.”
“Should we turn back?” he asks. “If you’re not well.”
“I’m fine, I promise,” I lie to him. “Really. Just let me catch my breath.” We sit in silence for a little while. When my head stops swimming, I will myself home. Charlie’s top hat melts away with my skirts and my basket, and the park bench grows plain.
“I wish you’d tell me,” Charlie says. “Whatever it is you’re not telling me.”
My mouth drops open a little, involuntarily. I turn my head enough to stare at him.
“Just-- I know there’s something,” he says. “And if it’s important to you, I want to know about it.”
I bite my lip. For the first time today I want to jump, to make some other Lucy have to deal with this conversation. But the universe stays solid around me. I don’t go anywhere.
“When we get home,” I say. “After the farmer’s market. We should talk.”
Charlie nods, and helps me to my feet. His hand is steady at my elbow. The world is steady under my feet.
We walk together, hand in hand, and I don’t jump, and I don’t jump, and I don’t jump.
It’s not until we leave the house to go to the farmer’s market that the jumps get really bad. I should have known better than to go-- I’m getting over a nasty cold, and I cracked my head a good one on the underside of the sink last night-- but I owe the lady at the mushroom stall a dollar, and Charlie wants apples. So we go, and I jump, jump, jump the whole way there.
Charlie doesn’t know about the jumps, is the thing. I’ve never told anyone. It’s a fact about me, incontrovertible as my mouse-brown hair, my sweet tooth, my stubbornness-- sometimes I jump between universes. But it’s not an easy thing to tell someone, and so I never have.
Maybe jumping isn’t the right word. Most of the time, it’s smooth as stepping to the left, and sometimes I do it without even noticing, when the world I step into is close enough to the one I call home. When I was a kid, I did it for fun, when I was bored: stepped into worlds more exciting than mine, more interesting, places where I could have adventures. But I’m not a child anymore, and I know better than to stick my nose in other people’s universes, so I don’t do it on purpose much anymore.
But this morning I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. My sinuses are throbbing in time with the goose-egg on the back of my head, and I feel like crap, enough that I can’t hide it. Charlie notices, of course, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows I hate being treated like an invalid, even when I am one. So instead we argue about apples: he wants Pink Ladies, and I want the knobbly-sweet nameless heirlooms that one of the vendors brings sometimes. Those are expensive, though, and we’re pretty broke this week. That’s when the first jump happens.
I’m looking at a street sign when I go, and that’s the only warning I get: the font changes, the letters in WALNUT ST going round, serifs appearing from nowhere, and Charlie is still talking about apples. I look sidelong at him. He’s wearing the same shirt, the same battered hoodie he had on a universe ago; his hair still falls in his eyes. I keep the conversation going, pretend I’m still talking to my Charlie and not to someone else’s. I’ve been pretty good about jumping since we started dating; I haven’t met a lot of other Charlies.
I will myself home, and by the time we cross Chestnut the street signs are back to normal. Charlie is asking me if I want to stop in at the vintage store, since it shares a street with the market. He’s been looking for a fedora. I have a weakness for dresses.
That might be what does it: the next time I jump, I’m wearing a leaf-patterned dress with a full, swishy skirt, and Charlie looks sharp in his skinny tie. My ribs ache at the sudden pressure of unfamiliar corsetry. The cars that pass us on the street are bright in shades of aqua and cherry-red, gleaming with chrome.
“You can do it if you want to, Lu,” Charlie’s saying. “I know people will talk, but if it’s what you want, it’s what you want.”
We’re holding hands. The tiny pinch I’m feeling is a ring, pressed against his palm. I try to pick up the thread of the conversation. “Are you sure?” I say. I have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.
“I’m sure,” Charlie says. “You love your job. You’ll still love it after we get married. Don’t quit on my account.”
When the jump unravels itself, the first thing I do is take a deep, unconstricted breath. Charlie glances my way. I smile at him without wavering. Plenty of practice, like I said. “You smell that?” I ask. “Someone’s burning leaves.”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything at all,” he teases, “the way you’ve been honking this week.”
I bump my shoulder into his, and the motion jars me sideways into another universe. Suddenly the trees are green instead of brown, the shadows crisp instead of fuzzy with gray cloud. Charlie staggers sideways, and laughs.
I yank myself home again. Charlie’s still laughing, even as the chill returns to the air. I smile at him like nothing’s wrong, like I haven’t jumped more in ten minutes than in the last five months we’ve been dating, all put together. My control hasn’t been this bad in years.
I stopped jumping, as much as I could, when I was thirteen. I was at home, sitting at the vanity table in my mother’s bedroom, when words flickered into existence on the mirror. GO HOME, LUCY, it said in coral lipstick, in my handwriting, and under that, I DON’T WANT YOU HERE. So I went, back to where the mirror was blank, and wondered what had happened to my other self to make her resent me.
They’re all of them me, is the thing. Every one of me, in every universe, is a jumper, is someone experienced at picking up the threads of conversations, faking it, pretending to be another self. I’ve never had anyone notice my jumps, because every other Lucy covered for me, the way I do for them. I’d never thought to wonder if any other Lucy might feel differently about it.
So after thirteen, I stopped jumping for fun. It made high school easier-- less time spent taking tests I hadn’t studied for, negotiating unmapped social minefields, starting the night kissing one boy and finding myself in the arms of another a heartbeat later. All those things happened, of course. But not as much.
And then I met Charlie. I’ve been with him longer than anyone I’ve dated before. It’s hard to date someone, when an infinity of selves are seeing other people. But I’ve tried hard to make this thing with Charlie work.
Just this minute I don’t want Charlie here, though; I don’t want anyone. For a moment the desire to be alone is so powerful that I jump again, and suddenly Charlie’s gone. Everyone’s gone. The street is deserted, the few cars stopped, their doors hanging open. There is no sound but the wind. No birds are singing. I look down at myself. I am wearing practical, sturdy clothing, much-mended, and big boots. There is a rifle slung on my back.
I jump back, not wanting to know more about that world, about that Lucy. Charlie shimmers into being again. We walk in silence for a little while; I swing the empty tote bag in my hand and focus, focus, on staying where I am.
We’re almost to the farmer’s market when I jump again. This time it’s a big one, apparent instantly: the cars turn to ornate horseless carriages, and I am wearing a long, pale dress. The breath whooshes out of me, corseted again. My tote bag is a woven basket. Charlie looks comical to me in his high collar and hat, his velvet coat, but I hold in the laughter.
Then my head throbs, the lack of air making the hurt worse, and I stagger. Charlie is at my elbow instantly, solicitous, and guides me to a nearby bench. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “My head just hurts a little. I bumped it last night.”
“Should we turn back?” he asks. “If you’re not well.”
“I’m fine, I promise,” I lie to him. “Really. Just let me catch my breath.” We sit in silence for a little while. When my head stops swimming, I will myself home. Charlie’s top hat melts away with my skirts and my basket, and the park bench grows plain.
“I wish you’d tell me,” Charlie says. “Whatever it is you’re not telling me.”
My mouth drops open a little, involuntarily. I turn my head enough to stare at him.
“Just-- I know there’s something,” he says. “And if it’s important to you, I want to know about it.”
I bite my lip. For the first time today I want to jump, to make some other Lucy have to deal with this conversation. But the universe stays solid around me. I don’t go anywhere.
“When we get home,” I say. “After the farmer’s market. We should talk.”
Charlie nods, and helps me to my feet. His hand is steady at my elbow. The world is steady under my feet.
We walk together, hand in hand, and I don’t jump, and I don’t jump, and I don’t jump.
