The spiral in a snail’s shell is the same mathematically as the spiral in the Milky Way galaxy, and it’s also the same mathematically as the spirals in our DNA.
—JOSEPH GORDON-LEVITT
Victor opens the sunroof for the drive home, then blasts the heater.
It’s the perfect night. We drive mostly in silence with little pockets of conversation here and there, until …
“So, you must’ve had some notions about what your father would be like. Any thoughts you’d like to share?” he asks. “You know, so I’ll know what’s expected of me.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve had a lifetime of notions and fantasies. “Mostly what I imagined was the ‘big tall guy on white horse rides in to save the princess’ kind of stuff.”
“Really?” He sounds incredulous. “That surprises me, because you are one hundred percent the capable princess who saves herself and the dad. And come to think of it, that is exactly what happened.”
We share a laugh. “I really like how you talk to me.”
“How is that?” he asks.
“Like I’m a regular person and you’re not being overly cautious and worried that I might break. Or overprotective. Or concerned that I might be too sensitive.” I pause to think it through and wonder if I’m properly expressing myself. “Yeah. You just talk to me straight. And I really like that.”
Victor nods. “Straight talk. Check. Anything else?”
“Wait. Now I’m worried,” I say.
“About what?”
“Well, you don’t think that opening the envelope will—” A sudden flood of emotion closes my throat again. I struggle to croak out the rest of my question. “Change things between us. Do you?”
A car passes going in the opposite direction and the headlights sweep over us. I glance at Victor’s face. His lips are pinched together. A quirk I’ve noticed when he’s thinking.
“Good question,” he says after a pause. “I believe that opening the envelope will change everything … but for the better. Right? It could prove we’re actually related.”
“Or not.”
“True. Or not.”
“But we’ve already agreed we’re related no matter what the envelope says. So, opening it or not opening it won’t change anything,” I say. “Or will it?”
He pauses then emits a full-bodied chuckle. “Dear lord, we have Schrödinger’s cat.”
“I love cats.”
Victor is suddenly ramped up and excited. This is exactly how he looked the night he came home with all the supplies to run a DNA test in our kitchen. “How much do you know about quantum mechanics?” he asks.
I give him my very best raised-eyebrows look.
“Yeah. Okay. Follow with me here,” he says. “So, scientific theory is based on facts that have been observed. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. Miss P was big on our observations.”
“Quantum mechanics describes probabilities, or what could happen over time. In fact, there was this one physicist who believed that our observations actually caused the results.”
“Wait … I’m getting confused,” I say.
“Hang with me,” Victor says. “Schrödinger’s cat is a scientific way to describe probability without screwing it up by observing it. Are you with me?”
“Maybe.”
“So, Schrödinger posed a question: If you sealed a live cat in a box with a radioactive particle, what would happen to the cat?”
“It would die. The radioactive thingy would kill it.”
“Probably. But maybe not.” Victor smiles. “Maybe the cat is really strong and the radioactive thingy is tiny and weak. Probabilities. That’s the key word.”
“So?”
“So, this might freak you out a little, but the theory is that as long as you never look inside the box the cat is both alive and dead.”
I sit up. “Wait. I understand this.”
“You do?” Victor chuckles, sounding surprised.
“Yeah. It’s like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel.”
Victor laughs. “Believe it or not, those were about the only books I actually read as a kid.”
“I devoured them too. But you have to admit they’re a little like Schrödinger’s cat for books.”
“They are,” Victor says. “Those books are Schrödinger’s cat in a nutshell. You’re amazing, Erin.”
“You’re pretty amazing too, Victor. You’re going to make a great high school teacher.”
By this time, Victor is driving down our street. It looks the same, even though everything changed tonight.
“So, we agree. We’re not going to open the envelope?” I ask.
“That’s right,” Victor says. “Envelope stays sealed … unless one of us needs a kidney.”