A World Without You(34)

In some of Phoebe’s futures she’s rich, and in some she’s not. In some she marries—in those versions, she almost always ends up with the same guy, although she meets him in different ways—and in some she doesn’t. In several of her futures, she dies young—either from some stupid risk or decision, or from just blind, dumb, horrible luck. Most of her futures give her at least sixty or seventy more years, though, and in one she makes it to 103, with three kids and eight grandkids and even a great-granddaughter.

But the thing that strikes me most about Phoebe’s future is that, of all the possibilities, there’s not a single one that’s definitively right. I cannot pull apart the threads and find the one that’s perfect for her. They’re all perfect and imperfect in different ways, even the one that includes Wyoming. They all have moments of intense joy and intense sorrow. Each decision Phoebe makes, each circumstance she can’t change and must find a way to live with . . . every one ends in a life that’s not really that much better or worse than any of the others. She finds just as much joy in having kids as she does in not having them; in getting a high-paying job as working for pennies in an art gallery; in traveling the world or making one place home. But she finds just as much sorrow in each life too.

After I sort through her threads, I sit back on my bed, and . . . I don’t know, I feel sort of peaceful. It’s weird. I was super anxious before, but this is like a perfect moment of calm. I can’t really help my parents; they’re old, they’ve made their decisions, they made them a long time ago, before I was ever born.

But Pheebs . . . man, Phoebe has a real chance. She has the whole world, a myriad of futures, all within her reach. And it feels a little like a burden has been lifted.

I’ve never really known what I was supposed to do with this power of mine. Stop horrible things from happening? Ensure the right course of events? But I don’t have to worry about Phoebe. There is no right path for her, no wrong path. They’re all just . . . possibilities, and she can pick whichever one she wants. It’s not up to me to change her future, to make sure the right future happens. I’m not responsible for her. I can let her spin-spin-spin away into her own future.





CHAPTER 20


Phoebe



Rosemarie’s house is almost hidden by the trees in her yard. It’s . . . not much. Dad’s in real estate, and he was the one who sold Rosemarie’s family their home three years ago. So he knew exactly what kind of loan they had (and hadn’t) qualified for. On the few occasions when I couldn’t drive, Dad would drop me off at her house, grumbling the whole ride there and then frowning at the trash in her yard and the car that never left the driveway because it didn’t work.

Whatever. I love it here.

There are already tons of cars in Rosemarie’s driveway and yard. I park near the mailbox and walk up to the house. Late wild daffodils bloom in scattered patches, filling in the spotty grass. The front door is mostly open—Rosemarie’s home is always hot—and I don’t bother knocking as I walk inside.

“Bee!” Rosemarie’s little brother shouts, crashing into my legs.

“Hey, Peter.” I rub the bristly ends of his buzz cut. “Nice hair.”

“Rosie did it,” he says.

Peter’s nine years old and what his parents call “precocious” on good days and “annoying as hell” on bad ones. Rosemarie always calls him the latter, but she usually doesn’t mean it.

“Phoebe!” Rosemarie yells from the couch. An episode of some reality show blares over the noise spilling in from the kitchen. I can see Rosemarie’s mother in there, stirring a giant pot of homemade pasta sauce, flanked by at least two aunts, a cousin, and someone I don’t know, all in various stages of baking garlic bread, straining noodles, clattering pots, smashing the oven door closed, and rooting around in the fridge.

“Hey,” I say, plopping down on the big brown sofa beside Rosemarie. Peter crawls over my lap and Rosemarie’s legs to get to the good corner seat of the sectional.

“Can I braid your hair?” Peter asks his sister.

“You know how to braid? I’m impressed,” I say.

Peter nods. “I can French braid,” he says seriously.

“No kidding? Show me.”

Rosemarie scoots around on the couch, turning the back of her head to Peter, who stands up on the cushion and starts finger combing her hair. His face scrunches up as he carefully sections off pieces to braid.

Across the room, I notice Rosemarie’s grandfather scowling at Peter. Rosemarie doesn’t move her head—she doesn’t want to mess up Peter’s braiding—but she glares until he turns his attention back to his beer. She shoots me a look; she’s often complained about how her grandfather pressures Peter to be more manly. I’m glad he doesn’t start a fight. If his biggest worry about his grandson is something as stupid as that, he doesn’t know how good he has it.

When Peter gets to the end of the braid, he realizes he doesn’t have a hair tie, so I pull the elastic out of my ponytail and pass it over.

“Gorgeous,” I say, as Rosemarie turns her head left and right, framing her face Vogue-style. She checks her hair by patting the top of her head, and then she punches her brother in the arm. He falls over laughing for no apparent reason.

Dinner’s a casual affair. Everyone gets bowls until the bowls run out, then they get Tupperware or plates loaded down with spaghetti and garlic bread dripping with butter, and we all sit wherever we can. Rosemarie and I reclaim the couch along with some of her aunts, Peter sits on the floor, the older relatives take the tables, and Rosemarie’s mom eats standing up by the kitchen counter. It’s both awkward and fun trying to balance a full glass of soda between my knees as I sit on the couch, everyone still moving around me. One of Rosemarie’s aunts, who married “a fifth-generation Italian” from New Jersey, complains bitterly and loudly about the inauthentic garlic bread while licking butter off her fingers and grabbing a third piece. Peter spills his milk on the floor, then Rosemarie’s homophobic grandpa spills his spaghetti down his shirt, and despite all that—or maybe because of it—everyone’s still in good spirits and filling the entire tiny house with talking and laughter. It sounds like family.