Once Upon a Wardrobe(35)

“It’s like you don’t want to love the stories, but you just can’t help it.” He grins again and I stand, frustrated and annoyed without real reason.

“You think only stories can move you?” I ask. “You think only stories can take you somewhere you had no idea you were going? That’s not true.”

He sits back and that red hair seems to flame from his head, but his smile tells me he is enjoying this. He is giddy, like I’ve told him he is the most enchanting boy I’d ever heard or seen.

“Don’t dismiss my work because it’s not as magical as yours,” I say. “It’s most likely more magical.”

“I don’t think that at all. I suspect you are the one who thinks that only your discipline holds the true answers.”

“It does. The mathematical equations have to come to a conclusion. And there aren’t numerous answers. There’s only one.”

“Oh, is there?” Padraig’s eyes hold stars in them. His smile is mischievous, but I will not be charmed.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, from what I understand, both Einstein and Newton are correct, and yet their theories contradict each other. I’m no math genius, just a medieval literature student, but that’s how I understand it.”

“They can both be right. There’s a theory that will explain it all. And I bet Einstein finds it.”

“Someone will. But that’s not what I meant.” The left side of Padraig’s grin lifts. “You know what Einstein says about imagination, don’t you, Megs?”

“No.”

“I went with Dad to one of his lectures, and Einstein said that the true sign of intelligence was not knowledge but imagination.”

I sit back down, softening. “So what did you mean?”

“It’s all a mystery, Megs. The stories and where they come from. Physics and how the universe works. We’re privileged to try to figure it out, whether it’s a story or a math equation.”

“Surely you know physics is more important than fiction?” This is an absurd discussion. I can rightly enjoy a good story, but thinking novels are the same as Einstein’s and Newton’s theories is absurd.

“I think they are neither more important nor less important,” he says to my surprise. “No. Not one bit.”

“But we cannot understand our world without the genius of the mathematicians. It’s a language of the universe,” I say.

Padraig causally drapes his arm over the back of a chair. His worn gray sweater and vibrant green eyes make it appear as if he is as comfortable here as at home. “You are ignoring imagination; you need it for your work too. But I can’t really understand my life without stories. They offer me . . . they offer all of us the truth in their myths, mysteries, and archetypes.”

I stare at him and shake my head and stand up to in another meager attempt to leave.

“Just like my father,” Padraig says in mild exasperation. He leans back in his chair and for the first time in his cheerful demeanor I see something like melancholy. Not so much anger as sadness.

“Your father?”

“He’s a professor. And he’d agree with you.” Padraig stands also. He is at least five inches taller than me, and I have to look up to see his eyes. “Sorry I bothered you, Megs. Go back to your plus and minus signs. Go back to your equations that might add up but can’t soothe a heart.”

I let out a puff of resignation and sit again. “I’m sorry. I’m being a dolt. I just can’t figure out how to help George, and this whole thing is frustrating me. At least with a math problem I can work on it until the right answer shows up.”

“Shows up?” Padraig sits again also, then scoots even closer so our knees are touching. “Like a character.”

“How so?”

“When I’m writing—”

“You write stories too?”

“I do. But that’s not the point.”

“Must we have a point?” I try to make light, to lift some of the darkness I’ve painted onto the quiet room.

He chuckles. “No. But I think what I was trying to say is that when my fictional characters show up, or the ones you’re reading about in that book, they have a place they’re going. A journey. A math problem does too. I’ve seen Father spend years on one equation until it shows him the way it is meant to go. That’s what a story does with me. I’m not trying to convince you, Megs with the flashing blue eyes, that my work is more important than yours, but maybe it’s just as important.”

I nod and feel the ugly blobby lump in my throat that hints I might cry.

“I bet your brother doesn’t want you to read him a math problem.” Padraig sets his hand on my shoulder and my stomach does a little flip.

“No, he doesn’t.” I push my fingers into the corners of my eyes. “But he also wants something I can’t give him. He wants answers I cannot find. And I’m trying so hard. I’m listening to Mr. Lewis’s stories and writing them down, and I’m trying . . .”

“Oh, Megs.” Padraig slides his fingers down my arm and takes one of my hands in his and holds it gently. “I wish I could find the answers for you. We aren’t always in control of these things, are we?”