Chapter 9 #3
“Everyone is so obsessed with learning how I got the passcode!” Cilla says, edging toward real exasperation.
“It wasn’t that hard to figure out. Yes, maybe it involved spying on you when you didn’t know I was watching, but hey, I was like fifteen and I never did anything meaningful with the information until right now.
And it’s a good thing, isn’t it? Because otherwise you—the other you, the one we know—would be lost forever. ”
“I doubt he’s lost,” this Dallas says. “But you two sure are.”
Tears spring to my eyes. It’s hard enough to lose our Dallas so abruptly, but hearing from another version of him that it might have been intentional makes it worse. Why would he do that after all we’ve been through together? Wouldn’t he want to say goodbye?
“Can you please tell us what the machine is for?” I ask. “I think we’ve earned that much.”
Something in my desperation makes him relent, because the hard shell of his expression softens as he says, “It’s supposed to allow me to travel to an alternate version of my own memories to take over for myself.
If you’ve seen another version of yourself here, that means this version of the machine may be operable, but it doesn’t work necessarily. ”
Nothing he says sounds very good. In fact, it sounds very bad.
“What version of the world is he—are you—trying to find?” Cilla asks.
“That’s not for me to share,” Other Dallas says.
Cilla nudges his shoulder. “We’ve made it this far! And you’re him. He’s you. We are all one. The secret of the machine is safe with us.”
“I’ve told you plenty,” Other Dallas says. “Why don’t you tell me some things in return? How is it you two ended up doing this together? Are you from a world where you’re friends? Because that would certainly be the wildest thing I’ve heard all day. Two versions of the same person don’t compare.”
“We’re not friends,” I say.
“We’re adults,” Cilla overlaps. She looks at me. “Isn’t that right? We’re too old to be anything other than serious adults who do very serious things and have zero feelings about anything from our past.”
“That’s not at all what I said,” I tell her.
“I’m paraphrasing,” she replies.
“As you so often are.”
“Yes, you two are very much the same,” this Dallas confirms, halting our bickering.
“I haven’t been back to Garden Meadows in a very long time, and I haven’t spoken to Marlowe in just as long,” Cilla tells him. “But you disappearing without a trace brought me back. Isn’t that nice of me?”
“I’m surprised to hear you two don’t talk at all,” he says, expertly skirting around every attempt Cilla is making at playing to his sympathies and getting more information.
“Around here, Dr. Covington-French makes a big show of donating money to our department every year. She wants our theater to be named after her. Marlowe’s always sending her angry emails. ”
“It should be named for Dallas!” I say, forgetting for a moment that this is Dallas. “You! It should be named for you!”
“That’s what you always say,” he tells me.
“And you always tell me that your legacy isn’t defined by a theater, but by the pieces of you that live inside all the actors you’ve taught,” I reply.
This makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up as he grins in pleasure. “Seems the other me taught you well.”
“Seems the other you abandoned me without a trace,” I say, immediately regretting it. This anger feels way too potent, and this Dallas is the wrong audience. “We need to get back to where we came from. Wherever this is, we can’t stay here. It’s probably breaking the universe.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Nothing can break the universe,” Other Dallas tells us. “Believe me, I’ve tried. And I’m sure your Dallas would tell you the same. We’re not as powerful as we think, but we also contain so much more than we could ever imagine.”
“Then how do we get back home?” Cilla asks.
“Honey, I have no idea,” Other Dallas says. “Like I told you, this hasn’t worked for you the way it’s intended to. You’re not supposed to be here. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”
“Well, then, allow us to be on our way.” I walk to the machine and stuff myself inside, feeling exactly like a child who’s gone to hide.
For as long as I can remember, Dallas has been my outlet.
He’s always respected my opinion and wanted to share his own thoughts with me.
But now it’s clear even that hasn’t been totally true.
“This sure has been memorable!” Cilla tells Other Dallas, probably blowing him a kiss or giving him a big, showy hug he doesn’t deserve.
When she climbs into the machine beside me, Other Dallas reaches for the door’s handle before either of us can pull it shut.
“Don’t be afraid to make your greatness known,” he says.
It’s one of his signature phrases, and probably my favorite of the ones he’s kept in long-standing rotation. In my regular life, every time he’s ever said it to me, I’ve needed to hear it.
But I don’t need to hear it now. I need closure, not greatness. I need to know why my Dallas would do this.
Since he’s left me without a trace or a map, the best thing I can do is move forward. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Suffering an indignity and soldiering on, safe in the confines of Garden Meadows.
“Goodbye,” I say. “It’s time to get as far away from this place as possible.”