It’s now a string of mathematical code. It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s closer to a language than the gobbledygook that was there before. In Schr?dinger’s universe—Grey’s “mad shagger,” he of the cat that is neither living nor dead—there are an infinite number of possibilities. But I think there are only a few now. I think I’m getting closer to peeking inside the box.
The change in the constellation on the bulletin board is so tiny I almost don’t see it. I’m half turning away from my desk when I notice that the little orange dot, the Umlaut dot, has moved.
And when I look back at my bed, the real Umlaut, the one naughtily clawing my pillow, vanishes with a pop.
Friday 8 August
[Minus three hundred and forty-one]
“Do you believe in heaven?”
The afternoon air is drenched in pollen, and everyone’s soporific in the garden.
Seriously, everyone. Worlds converged. Inviting Sof begat Meg begat Jason begat a panicked silent sorry-no-wait-I-can’t-reveal-this-help-aaargh flail behind his back from Sof. The three of them are in the grass, ignoring the promised gluten-free cupcakes, playing a card game that doesn’t appear to have any rules.
Ned’s in sequins, skipping his bookshop shift in favor of taking photos and swigging from a water bottle I suspect isn’t filled with H2O.
By mutual, silent consent, Thomas and I retreated under the apple tree. Grey’s last diary is in the grass next to me. Above us, beyond the leaves, the sky is bright, bright blue, and I wonder if that’s why Thomas is asking about heaven. If he thinks Grey’s up there, looking down at us.
But Grey didn’t believe in heaven—he was all about the reincarnation.
“Gottie,” he’d tell me now, “I’ve come back as a beetle. That’s me climbing the stalk of grass near your foot. You want to know where Umlaut is? The answer’s everywhere around you, dude. You’re so close to figuring it all out.”
I watch the beetle as it reaches the very top of the meadowsweet, which bends under its tiny weight. From its perspective, this garden is the whole universe. I want to tell it what I’ve discovered, that there’s so much more. For a moment, I let myself believe it’s true. That it’s Grey, and he’s thinking beetle-y thoughts: “I hope there’s ants for dinner.” But I don’t think he can see us from the grass, or the sky, or heaven. I don’t think that’s how it works.
“No. Heaven is too easy.”
Heaven lets me off the hook. Heaven is warm and happy and a big cosmic harp. It’s not waiting for wormholes and counting down the days to Ned’s party, powerless.
“G—” Thomas sneezes, interrupting himself. “Gah, pollen. I didn’t say heaven. I asked if you believed in fate. You and me. This summer.” He peers at me over his glasses, solemn. “Us.”
“Like it’s destiny that you came back?” I don’t know if I like that idea. I want to think I have some choice in any of this.
“I mean that it doesn’t make a difference whether or not I’d fallen off the books and chinned you that day at the bookshop,” Thomas says. “You’re not my first kiss. But you’re the one that counts.”
Whoa. I glance over at our self-appointed chaperone. Ned’s got his back turned so I dart in fast, kiss Thomas smash boom on the mouth. Intending it quickly, but it’s like the Big Bang—a kiss that keeps expanding.
“Children,” Ned interrupts us, striding over, and we break apart. I glance across the garden—Sof’s watching, her eyebrow cocked. I’d had the sense to text her about me and Thomas before she came over.
“Say K?se.” Ned tilts the camera. A drop from his bottle falls onto my leg, followed by the Polaroid fluttering down. Minutes drift by while the picture fades in: Thomas and me side by side, our fingers linked between us in the grass. His head is turned towards me, smiling. I want to reach inside the picture and turn my face to his.
Ned keeps on idly playing paparazzo. Sof makes him take three or four shots on her phone with a poppy in her hair, until she gets one she’s happy with—“New profile pic,” she says to Meg. “There’s a girl I want to invite to the party…”
Time passes in a sleepy way. It could be any summer from the past few years—ours was the house people congregated at. Except there’s no Grey to play conductor, and there never will be ever again. Ned’s party is in a week. Summer’s last hurrah. I turn the diary to a blank page and write, Why aren’t you here?
“We should do something,” someone murmurs.
“Definitely,” comes another voice.
“Think we should throw the party open to the whole village?” Ned’s asking. “Or bequeath it to the next generation?”
“What, like Star Trek?” Thomas whispers.
I lie on my stomach, resting my chin on my hands. I want to stay this way forever, drowsy in the heat, where nothing matters. Not wormholes and a grave with my birthday on it, not willow coffins and ashes in a box. Disappearing cats. I want my biggest concern right now to be the effort required to stand up, go to the kitchen, and root around in the freezer for Popsicles. I want it to be like last year, the endless summer when I fell in love and imagined a future and lied to Sof and didn’t care.