I THOUGHT BEING DEAF WOULD BE . . . QUIETER.
The man beneath the ladder signs back, but badly. “Brush. You. Get.”
Shaking off my bewilderment and the dull roar in my ears, I head back down the ladder. My shoes are kind of clunky—lace-up boots—but not so much that I have to worry about falling. When I get to the bottom, this man hands me the brush. But then he smiles and shrugs, like you do when you realize you’re in a bad mood for no reason.
“Work stop. Night. Goodbye.” After this primitive farewell, he begins packing up brushes and such, even heading up the ladder to collect the paints, which must belong to him. I back away from the dropcloth, looking up at the mural above us. Yes, that’s Paul’s face, but I’m painting him as one of a group of hardy peasants, marching through a field of wheat, being led by Vladimir Lenin to a glorious tomorrow.
I always likened Paul’s build to the idealized, masculine ones shown in Soviet propaganda. Now I’m apparently painting him into it. This might amuse me a little if I weren’t trying to adjust to the staticlike sound in my ears that erases all other noise. It’s just so strange—people walking by me without the thump of their footsteps, no echoes of any kind against the tile, mouths moving during conversation as silently and meaninglessly as koi fish in a pond—
A hand waving at the corner of my vision startles me. I turn to see Josie, wearing a long black coat and a knitted cap. She smiles and signs—fluidly and fluently—“We got off work at the same time! Good, we can head home together.”
“Great,” I reply. “Let’s go.”
I wait for Josie to start walking in the right direction, but she stands there for a minute before scrunching her nose in confusion. “You don’t want your bag and your coat?”
When I turn around I see, in a small pile next to the dropcloth, a dark blue coat and embroidered scarf that seem more likely to belong to me than to my supervisor. I put them on, uncovering a knapsack smudged here and there with dried paint. In my pockets are two cloth gloves. To judge by Josie’s warm hat, I’m going to want to wear these.
By the time I return to Josie, she’s shaking her head in affectionate chagrin. “You’re in a dream world today.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply, slightly amazed at how readily my gloved fingers form the shapes. “I’m a little lightheaded this evening.”
Josie laughs. “Not again already!”
Oh, no. Maybe Wicked has been here. But if so, did she just . . . drop a paintbrush on my supervisor and leave? That makes no sense.
When Josie sees my bewildered expression, she pats my shoulder with her free hand. “I was just kidding, and I should know better than to joke about that. Come on, let’s get you home.”
She doesn’t seem set on continuing our conversation, which is good, because I need a minute.
I always believed deafness would mean profound, permanent silence. Apparently I was wrong. For me at least, now that I’ve had time to begin getting used to this, it sounds less like an explosion’s aftermath and more like having a large seashell clapped to each ear—a rushing-roaring-ringing that never gets any quieter or louder. I’m constantly surrounded by white noise, basically, which either drowns out everything else I could hear or is simply the best my eardrums can do in this dimension.
Was I born deaf here? Possibly. But I also remember my father talking a few days ago about the time I had meningitis when I was two years old. Both he and Mom have told that story several times, either to emphasize how much they love me—which is sweet, if melodramatic—or to laugh about how they knew I was feeling better when I started spitting my hospital Jell-O at the nurse. I’m almost positive meningitis can cause deafness. Maybe, in this dimension, my parents took me to the hospital a few hours later, or the antibiotics were slightly less effective. This dimension’s Marguerite survived just like I did, but her hearing didn’t.
Thankfully this Marguerite learned sign early enough in life to have deeply internalized the language, so I have it too. And I have a little more time to catch up on the situation here, since for once I don’t have to thwart either a murder attempt or a crashing dimension. Nor do I have to search for Paul, who is obviously in my life in this world too. My job is protecting this universe, which simply means staying here and keeping Wicked out. All I have to do is get along well enough for the hours it takes Paul to join me here and start building the stabilizer. So I only need to study my surroundings, and my hearing isn’t necessary for that.
To judge from the scale of the mural and the tiles on the floor, I had assumed I was painting in some kind of civic building—whatever would come closest to a city hall here. But this turns out to be a train station so opulent it makes the BART look like a garbage dump. As we get closer to our track, the crowds thicken. Apparently we got here at the very top of rush hour. The train itself is clean, but sort of old-fashioned. No ads. Josie and I are crunched in together so tightly that there’s no chance to talk. I’m not even sure I could get my hands in front of my face.
We hop off after only two stops, and I take careful note of the station and the directions, in case I have to navigate this on my own later. Then I follow Josie up onto the street.
Josie and I turn the corner, and I see a statue of Lenin, several stories high, seemingly standing against a powerful wind and pointing forward. When I let my gaze follow the direction of his finger, I glimpse the distant, multicolored onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral.
Russia, I think, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. I’d known it might be as soon as I recognized Lenin in the mural, and the style of it, but something similar might have been painted in any Soviet Bloc nation since the Revolution. I could’ve walked out anywhere from Estonia to the Ukraine—and, since this is a new dimension with new rules, potentially even San Francisco itself. But no. I’m back in this country that has come to mean so much to me.
However, this is a very different Russia. Instead of beautiful, elegant Saint Petersburg, I appear to live in Moscow—and I bet in the universe ruled by Tsar Alexander, Moscow looks better than it does here. All the buildings constructed in the previous century are plain concrete, the architecture so dull and uninspiring that the effect has to be deliberate. The elegant subway stations testify to an earlier age, one that wanted its public places to create awe. Apparently that sentiment died out a long time ago. The cars moving past us are so square and squat they could be shrunk down to fit in with a Lego set. Mom told me the Soviet Union didn’t believe in capitalist decadence, and decadence apparently included manufacturing automobiles in any style besides “ugly.”
It’s twilight. Josie must be tired after a day at work, but her attention is all for me as she asks, “Do you want me to walk with you all the way to your place? I don’t mind.”
The sunset light catches a glint on her finger as she talks to me, and I realize she’s wearing a slim band of gold. A wedding ring? Oh, please don’t let her be married to Wyatt Conley in this universe. After the carnage of that final, fatal car wreck in the Triadverse, I will never again be able to see his face without remembering what it looked like after it had been split open. And even the worlds where he’s an okay guy, where his love for Josie is true and good, remind me that his grief for her is fueling the Home Office’s brutal slaughter of the dimensions.
“Hey.” Josie frowns. “Did you catch what I said?”
“Yes, sorry. I’m really not feeling well. If you could walk me home, I’d appreciate it.” My smile probably looks pretty weak, but Josie will assume that’s because I’m tired, or coming down with something. Sure enough, she offers her arm to me so I can hold on. It’s an oddly formal gesture, yet an affectionate one—something Josie wouldn’t do at home, even while she fussed over you. Maybe it’s something distinctly Russian, or maybe it belongs to this dimension, which I hereby dub the Moscowverse.
Apparently Josie and I don’t live in the same home anymore. Well, if she’s married, no wonder. She must live with her husband, Mr. Anyone Who Is Not Wyatt Conley. Now that I take a good look around, I can see a number of other people her age, and even my age, who definitely seem to be coming from work instead of school. The schoolkids all wear uniforms, complete with red neckerchiefs or ties with a Lenin pin at the center, and they’re all at least a couple of years younger than I am. Since I’m already painting for a living, my school days are probably over. People must be expected to grow up a little faster here.
To judge by the cars and the trains, the technology level seems to be roughly what ours was in the early 1980s. So my parents won’t be anywhere near developing Firebird technology of their own. But if they’re leading scientists in the Moscowverse, as they are in most worlds, then they’ll have access to the kinds of materials Paul will need to build a stabilizer. We can keep this dimension safe.
My apartment building turns out to have been built pre-Revolution. At first I’m happy to see that I live someplace that isn’t spitefully drab, even if the paint is flat gray and the original decorations that would have ringed the doors and windows have been chipped or filed away. When it’s bright outside, light must stream through the large windows, illuminating the large entryway and wide halls. Then I discover that old doesn’t just mean “pretty and full of character”; old also means “stairs.” Thank goodness I’m only on the third floor.
As we go through the front door of my apartment, I take off my hat and begin unbuttoning my coat, eager to settle in and explore. The first thing that hits me is that this place is pretty small for me, Mom, and Dad to live in. Josie and I walk into the kitchen, which is tiny, with ancient appliances and no microwave, but it’s all in white and pleasantly cozy. The living room is also small, and the walls are painted a deep, vivid green that somehow seems more lively than overpowering. No rug covers the wooden floor. A small table is pushed to one side of the room and covered with a white tablecloth that has red flowers embroidered along the hem. Portraits I’ve painted of my parents, Josie, people who must be friends, and someone’s child are on the walls alongside framed black-and-white photos. A compact, rather faded sofa sits in front of the old-fashioned, boxy TV, which has a screen hardly bigger than a laptop’s. Overstuffed bookshelves cover almost all the remaining wall space. Sure enough, tons of science texts crowd the shelves, interspersed with novels and poetry that must be mine. Even though I’ve never seen this apartment before, on some deep level, it does feel like it could be my home.
A tap on my shoulder makes me jump. Josie is standing right behind me. I’d forgotten I wouldn’t hear her walk up. “You’re sure you’re all right?” Josie cocks her head, studying me. “You’ll be okay here by yourself for a while?”
“Definitely.” Mom and Dad must still be on their commute back from work. “I’ll take a nap. That always helps.”
“No doubt you could use one.” Josie kisses me on the cheek—another sign of affection she wouldn’t show in our own world. “Thank goodness it’s not your turn to get Valentina home. You need your rest.”
“Don’t worry about me. Really.” Do we have a third sister in this world? Or maybe Valentina is a coworker I share my commute with from time to time. As long as it’s not another clone, I can deal. “Josie, you should head home. Your husband will wonder where you are.”
“Yuri’s hockey team is playing tonight, remember? But if I’m going to get to the game, I should hurry.” Josie bustles out the door. “See you tomorrow!”
I wave just before she vanishes behind the door, then breathe out a sigh of relief. Yuri. While I have no idea who Yuri is, he isn’t Wyatt Conley, and that’s good enough for me.
Slipping off my heavy coat, I hang it on one of the wall hooks along with my cap. Then, as I tug off my gloves, I venture into the back of the apartment—which seems to have only one bedroom. That can’t be right. Once I’m in the bedroom, I see a pair of men’s shoes by the closet, so this is obviously where Mom and Dad sleep. There’s one more door though, by the corner in the very back.
I wrinkle my nose. If I remember correctly, neither walk-in closets nor en suite bathrooms were big features of Muscovite life in the Soviet era. Instead, people had to deal with a serious lack of privacy. Can I only get to my bedroom by walking through my parents’ bedroom? Wow, the potential for awkward is infinite.
Get used to it, I tell myself, and I open that door.
The first thing I notice is my own left hand on the doorjamb, bare of its glove—with a ring of my own on the fourth finger.
The second: this tiny back room, which is hardly bigger than a closet, contains a baby’s crib.
Wait. Whoa. Wait.
A light blinks in the corner, startling me. What is that? Then I remember—some deaf people install signals like that to alert them to when the doorbell is ringing or someone opens the door.
Dazed, I go to check, hardly able to look up from my hand until I reach the living room, peer through the opening to the small kitchen, and see Paul standing there with a baby in his arms.
Our baby.