What to Say Next(19)

“Basically, the gist is that our brain is the repository of our feelings, thoughts, desires,” I say, and blush. I wish I hadn’t used that word: desire. “It’s the in-box of our consciousness. And when we die and that physicality erodes, our consciousness may still live on.”

Her eyebrows knit, and she leans forward farther over the wheel. I wonder how long I could watch her think without getting bored. I estimate at least thirty-nine minutes.

“The duality between body and mind mirrors that of the relationship between wave and particle, which leads modern quantum physicists to posit that the mind is ruled by the same quantum mechanic rules as particles, like it’s a physical object,” I say. I wonder for a moment if I’m right. I find this whole area fascinating, but it’s a little slippery. One second it’s clear in my brain—I can see it, the three-dimensionality of the theory laid out in front of me in pictures—and then a moment later, it’s gone.

“My dad told me you talked to him about this stuff when you came in for an appointment. Is this what you guys discussed? Whether consciousness survives death?” she asks. If I had thought that what I said in Dentist’s chair would get back to Kit, I would have been much more careful with my words. Maybe even strategic. Isn’t there some sort of doctor-patient confidentiality? I know she thinks I’m weird. Good-weird, maybe, but still: weird. I don’t need her to think I’m a dork too.

“Not really. We talked about a new quantum theory about the flow of time. I can tell you all about that too if you want.”

“Nah, it’s okay. My dad was always interested in random stuff. Like he had this collection of antique microscopes and magnifying glasses. And he loved art books, so our house is full of them. He was totally obsessed with meteorology and the Weather Channel and those tiny plants. Bonsais. That’s what they’re called. Anyhow, I’m rambling. My point is, he mentioned you to me and he liked you.” I stare out the window as we drive down Main Street. Though still cold, it’s sunny today, and people are out with strollers and dogs, their winter jackets on but unzipped.

There’s too much to look at. Too many colors and people and shapes. Babies in fleece hats. Signs advertising one-day sales. An old-fashioned revolving barber pole. I turn my attention back to Kit and focus.

“The feeling was mutual.” I picture Dentist, that bright light he wore on his forehead and how he always smelled like latex because of his rubber gloves. I’d have loved to discuss meteorology with him, as my own knowledge in that area is rudimentary at best. “Who knows? Maybe the physicists are right and he’s not gone. I mean, of course your father’s dead, but I think it’s comforting to believe or at least hope that a small part of him, actually the most important part of him, his consciousness, may be out there somehow.”

“Yeah, it is,” she says.

“But it still sucks that you’ll never ever be able to see him again. I mean, consciousness is not the same thing as him continuing to be your dad. Obviously that would have been the preferable outcome.”

She snorts. I have no idea what that means. Whatever way it falls, a snort does not feel neutral.

“You sure tell it like it is. Not many people do that, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone tiptoes around me these days. Even my mom. Your brutal honesty is…bizarrely refreshing.”

I tell her to turn right, that my house is up at the corner. She pulls into my driveway, and now there is nothing left to do but get out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime,” she says, and I want to ask what she means by that. If it’s a real offer or just a courtesy. The English language, like all languages, is full of frustrating ambiguity. Well, except, of course, for Loglan, which was derived from mathematical principals of logic to avoid just this sort of confusion. Honestly, we’d all be better off if we spoke that instead.

Once inside the house, I watch from my front window as Kit’s car retreats. The distance grows between us exponentially, and I wait there, hands on the glass, until I no longer have a sense of its measurement.

Ten minutes later, my mom drives me the five miles back to school to pick up my car.

She smiles the whole way there.





To: Kit


From: Mom


Subject: The Five Stages of Everything Sucks


It’s the middle of the night. Just stumbled across this attached article re the five stages of grief:



1. Denial 2. Anger 3. Bargaining 4. Depression 5. Acceptance




Of course BACON should totally be number one on this list. Also, I’ve decided I’m skipping over the first three steps and heading straight for DEPRESSION. You with me?



* * *





To: Mom


From: Kit


Subject: Re: The Five Stages of Everything Sucks


You should really text like a normal person. Who emails anymore? Things this list is missing: Chocolate. Netflix binges. Pajamas.


As for depression, already beat you to it. Sure am #livingmybestlife



—

“Hey!” Gabriel says when I walk in to the Pizza Palace. He is overly excited, as if I didn’t just sit behind him in calc less than two hours ago. Like we are in the arrivals hall of a large international airport and I’m just back from a yearlong trip around the world. He lets go of Justin, who he has in a headlock, to envelop me in a big hug.