June, this year #2
What was that he’d said earlier — that they had some kind of agreement about her not asking where he’d been? Is she just turning a blind eye to . . . whatever he was doing?
Am I — is she — a downtrodden, possibly even emotionally abused wife, trapped in a don’t-ask-don’t-tell marriage with a serial womanizer? Probably a sex addict?
Something else he’d said earlier is niggling at me, too.
“You know how I appreciate it when you apologize.”
Yep, if I’m honest, I remember that about him. Nothing is ever his fault — and he genuinely believes that to be true. Zero self-awareness.
Classic traits of a narcissistic personality disorder.
Why did I never see it before? Rufus is a raging narcissist.
Jesus Christ, why did I just let him screw me?
Beside me, on the countertop, his black cellphone pings. I glance at it, then up at the bedroom door. The shower is still running.
I pick up his phone, and a text preview is clearly visible across the top, from someone called Chantel.
Thanks for last night, sexy. Miss you already. See you next weekend when you’re back in town. Xoxo
I mean. It was already obvious, but now it’s confirmed that the guy is screwing around on his wife. And I just had unprotected sex with someone who slept with someone else mere hours ago, which isn’t even safe. Married or not.
This trip down what-might-have-been lane is rapidly becoming an I’m-really-glad-it-wasn’t revelation.
I need to get out of here. Even if that means jumping into yet another universe. I can’t stay where I’m clearly being cheated on and belittled by my husband.
But what about the Millie who really is married to Rufus?
I don’t know how this multiverse stuff works, but I have to presume that if I step out of this reality, she’ll resume her life.
And I really don’t want any version of me to put up with this bullshit.
She may still be blinded — we all know how hard it is for chronically mistreated women to leave relationships — but I’m perfectly able to see this situation for what it is.
Maybe I can try to save her before I leave.
I tap on the text, and it pops open on Rufus’s phone, without even a password to protect it. Arrogant shit.
The running water of the shower stops. I don’t have much time.
I type a reply into the text field.
Hi Chantel. I don’t know if you know that Rufus is married, but this is his wife, Millie.
I found your text on his phone. I’m leaving him, so he’s all yours, but you should know he’s an asshole who WILL cheat on you.
And I know he’s spending the night with someone tonight, and from your text it’s clearly not you.
So he’s cheating on us both. I wish you luck.
I hit send, then immediately second-guess myself. What if Rufus is also physically abusive, and hurts me — or the other me — for sending that text?
I have to get out of here right now. And I have to find a way to get a message to the other me, in this life, after I’m out of it.
Notes — that’s the best way. I always use the Notes app on my phone to jot down ideas and thoughts — maybe she does, too. I can maybe get a message to her that way.
Rufus walks into the kitchen, now dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, running a hand through his wet hair. He looks every inch the cool theater professor.
Shame the man is such a dick.
“You getting dressed today, or what?” he asks, a slight sneer curling his lip. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I gotta run — I’m meeting the set designer at noon, and she hates it when I’m late.”
Female set designer, huh? That tracks.
He grabs his cellphone and keys from the island, walks to the door, and slips on some sneakers. Not even the pretense of a marital kiss goodbye. “See you tomorrow.” He lets the front door slam behind him.
Okay. Now I have some space. But hold up — if “Chantel” replies to my text on his phone, he could be back here any second, in a rage. I’ve got to get out of here, and quick. And I need to make sure the other version of me doesn’t ever come back.
Despite desperately needing a shower, I hurry to throw on yesterday’s clothes and stuff a bunch of others into a weekend bag, along with a large wash bag of toiletries and cosmetics, the passport from the dresser, and the phone charger by the bed.
She’ll need this stuff to be in the Honda, if she’s going to be able to run.
I’m working under the assumption that she’ll find herself outside the Masons’ basement door once I’ve slipped into the next world — if the multiverse shift works again, of course. Hopefully she’ll be able to take refuge with the Masons at the Lake Bluff house.
As long as she knows she must.
I grab my own keys and the floral cellphone, pick up a jacket from the hallway closet, despite the warmth of the day — who knows how long she’ll be without her stuff?
— and slip out of the apartment. I’d parked the Honda a couple of blocks away, so if Rufus is still in the basement parking garage, having discovered my betrayal and stewing in fury, he won’t catch me leaving.
I break into a run out of the building and down the street, into the refuge of the Honda. I throw the bag into the back seat and set off, this time knowing exactly where I’m going.
Back to Lake Bluff.
Back to the basement door, and hopefully home. Or maybe, like last time, it’ll be yet another version of my life — where who-knows-what will be happening? Hopefully not worse than a sex-addicted, narcissistic husband who I’ve just spectacularly pissed off.
Driving the familiar highway north out of the city, my racing mind wanders back to that night with Stephen, on our office roof deck.
Infinite universes . . . infinite possible lives . . .
There are literally any number of universes, and versions of my own life, that I could wander into.
And yes, the one I’m escaping is not great, given the toxic relationship I’m in.
But in reality, it could be even worse. A lot worse.
Like I said to Stephen that night, I’m not a crack addict on the streets.
There will be versions of reality where I am a crack addict on the streets. And ones where I’m suffering from a horrible disease, or a debilitating condition. One where I’m horribly beaten and abused, worse than anything Rufus would do.
An infinite number of lives so bad that I can’t even imagine them.
Every step through that basement door is a monumental risk.
But surely, for every horrible life that’s out there, there must be good lives too, right? Better than being with Rufus.
Maybe I can quickly escape the bad ones, knowing that I have an escape hatch, and find my way to a good one. And maybe, just maybe, help some of the versions of me who are in a bad spot, bringing my fresh perspective to their lives, before moving on to find a better version.
Because there’s one thing that is increasingly gnawing at me, filling my body with a chilling sense of dread.
That I might not be going home to my own world any time soon. If ever.
After all, going back through the door last time didn’t take me home, it just took me to another new life. So, given the infinite possibilities, what makes me think I’ll ever get back to my own, or even find one that’s similar enough not to know the difference? The chances are infinitesimally tiny.
Even if I did find my home reality, how would I know that it was really the one I left?
There could be an infinite number of worlds almost identical to mine in every aspect other than a single grain of sand or a blade of grass being in a slightly different place.
There could be literally no way to tell if a world is really the one I came from.
Unless I somehow intrinsically know when I’m home. But it could take forever for that to happen — if at all.
“Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.”
Isn’t that what the Masons’ poster said?
My chest heaving with a sudden sob, I turn off the highway and onto the Lake Forest road where I crashed into the hedge a few days and one universe ago.
I may never get my real life back. The one where I have a cute little rental studio downtown, and the best friendship in Bonnie, and where Ben isn’t disappointed in my choices, and where things aren’t perfect, but life is safe and easy.
I pull over onto the verge at the first opportunity, and let the tears come, resting my head on the steering wheel.
If I can’t find my home, then what? Keep going through the door until I find one that’s good enough?
And why that basement door? Why has it suddenly become my portal to alternate versions of my life?
I mean, yes, it’s the door I used to enter the Lake Bluff home for the first time, that Labor Day weekend before we started Northwestern.
My life definitely changed that day, when the Masons embraced me into their family.
I met Ben for the first time when I went through that door. Maybe that’s significant.
But another thought is starting to tug at me — something from my conversation with Stephen the night of our office party. Something I’d considered while we were tipsily pondering alternate realities.
Somewhere, we’re together.
I lift my head off the wheel.
That’s it.
Maybe I shouldn’t even be looking to get back to my home life.
Maybe this is my chance to find a better version of my life — the one I’ve wanted, the one where I met Stephen first. Where I said yes to astrophysics club, and joined a different singing group.
Where Stephen fell in love with me, not Eve.
And I never got to know Rufus. Where Stephen and I are together, and happy, right now.
Of course, I’ve no idea how many versions of reality I might have to go through to find such a life. It could take hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Infinite.
And each time I’ve gone through the basement door, it resets to Friday evening of the long June weekend.
I may never age.
I may be stuck in an eternal cycle of multiverses, trying to find the one where Stephen and I are happy.
I laugh aloud, despite myself, slightly manically.