“Becky won’t talk to me. I need you to intercede.”
“What? Tell her that you didn’t do it? She knows you did it.”
“I can prove that I didn’t do it. That’s why I came here. I want you to agree to come by the university.”
Zack, who was wearing a Ryerson T-shirt, bristled; Kyle knew that those who attended Toronto’s other two universities hated the way U of T types always referred to it as the university. “Why?” asked Zack.
“They teach forensics at U of T,” said Kyle. “We’ve got a polygraph lab, and I know a guy who works there. He’s been an expert witness in hundreds of cases. I want you to come to that lab, and I’ll have myself hooked up to a lie detector. I’ll let you ask me any questions you want about this topic, and you’ll see that I’m telling the truth. I didn’t hurt Becky—I couldn’t hurt her. You’ll see that that’s true.”
“You could get your friend to rig the test.”
“We can have the test done somewhere else, then. You name the lab; I’ll pay for it. Then, once you know the truth, maybe you can help me get through to Becky.”
“A pathological liar can beat a lie detector.”
Kyle’s face went flush. He surged forward, grabbed the boy’s shirtfront. But then he backed off, spreading his arms, palms face out. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry.” He fought to calm down. “I tell you, I’m innocent. Why won’t you let me prove it?”
Zack’s face was flush now; adrenaline must have surged through him when he thought Kyle was going to rough him up. “I don’t need you to take a test,” he said, his voice ragged. “Becky told me what you did. She’s never lied to me.”
Of course she has, thought Kyle. People lie to other people all the time. “I didn’t do this,” he said again.
Zack shook his head. “You don’t know the kinds of problems Becky had. She’s getting better now, though. She cried for hours after we left your place on Thursday, but she’s a lot better.”
“But, Zack, you know that Becky and I have lived apart for almost a year now. If I’d really been doing something wrong, surely she would have left earlier, or at least have said something as soon as she got out of the house. Why on earth—”
“You think this is easy to talk about? Her therapist says—”
“Therapist?” Kyle felt as if he’d been struck. His own daughter was in therapy. Why the fuck didn’t he know this? “What the hell was she in therapy for?”
Zack made a face indicating the answer was obvious.
“What’s the therapist’s name? If I can’t convince you, maybe I can convince him.”
“I… don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
But the accusation just made Zack more determined. “I’m not. I don’t know.”
“How did she find this therapist?”
Zack shrugged a little. “It was the same one her older sister had used.”
“Mary?” Kyle staggered backward, bumping into the other wooden desk. There was a half-eaten donut sitting on a napkin on its corner; it fell to the floor, crumbling in two. “Mary was in therapy, too?”
“Of course she was. Who can blame her, after what you did to her?”
“I didn’t do anything to Mary. And I didn’t do anything to Becky, either.”
“Now who’s lying?” said Zack.
“I’m not—” He paused, trying to get his voice under control. “Damn it, Zack. God fucking damn it. You are in this with her. The two of you are going to file a lawsuit, aren’t you?”
“Becky doesn’t want your money,” Zack said. “She just wants peace; she just wants closure.”
“Closure? What the fuck kind of word is that? Is that what her therapist told her this was all about? Fucking closure?”
Zack stood up. “Mr. Graves, go home. And for God’s sake, get to a therapist yourself.”
Kyle stormed out of the office, through the retail area, and out into the hellish heat of the summer day.
4
Kyle remembered the day he’d learned that Heather was pregnant with their first child, Mary.
It had come as a complete shock. They’d been living together for about a year, sharing an apartment in St. Jamestown with a few hundred cockroaches. Kyle was in the second year of his master’s in computer science; Heather was just starting her master’s in psychology. They were in love—no doubt—and had talked about building a life together. But Kyle and Heather both knew they should each go somewhere other than U of T for their doctorates. Not that U of T wasn’t a fine place for grad school; indeed, if it really did have any claim to that “Harvard of the North” label, it was because of its graduate studies. But having all three degrees from the same institution would be an automatic red flag in future job interviews.
Then, suddenly, Heather was pregnant.
And they’d had tough decisions to make.
They’d talked about abortion. Although they did eventually want children, this was without doubt an unplanned pregnancy.
But…
But, hell, when would be the right time?
Not while they were finishing their masters’ degrees, of course.
And certainly not while doing their doctorates.
And, well, the starting salaries for associate professors were abysmal—Heather had already decided that an academic life was what she wanted, and Kyle, who didn’t enjoy stressful situations, was leaning toward that as well, rather than the high-pressure world of commercial computing.
And then of course they wouldn’t really be secure until at least one of them had tenure.
And by then—
By then, more than a decade would have slipped by, and Heather would be into the high-risk age for pregnancy.
Choices.
Turning points.
It could go one way or the other.
At last they’d opted to have the child; countless student couples had done the same over the years. It would be difficult—a stretch financially, an additional demand on their already overtaxed time.
But it would be worth it. Surely it would be worth it.
Kyle remembered vividly the class he’d been in the day Heather had told him she was pregnant. It had seemed so appropriate, somehow.
“Suppose,” Professor Papineau had said to the dozen students in the seminar that had seemed to start out a long way from computer science, “that you live just north of Queen’s Park and you work just south of it. Further suppose that you walk to work each day. You’re faced with a choice every morning. You can’t walk down the center line, since the Parliament Buildings get in the way. Of course, I’m sure there’ve been times when many of us have wanted to plow through the Legislature in a tank… but I digress.”
Laughter from the students. Papineau had been a wonderful prof; Kyle had gone to his retirement dinner fifteen years later, but hadn’t seen him since.
“No,” said Papineau, once the chuckling had stopped, “you have to go around the buildings—either to the east, or to the west. Each way is pretty much the same distance; you leave home at the same time and you arrive at work at the same time regardless of which route you choose. So, which route do you choose? You, there—Kyle. Which way would you go?”
Kyle had his beard even back then. As today, it was red, even though his hair was black. But in those days he’d kept it scruffy, unkempt—never trimming it, never shaving his neck beneath. He cringed now to think about it. “Down the west,” he said, shrugging to convey that it was a purely arbitrary selection.
“A fine choice,” said Papineau. “But it’s not the only choice. And in the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics, we believe that any time a choice can be made one way, the alternative choice is also made—but in a parallel universe. If Kyle did indeed come down the west side in this universe, there would also exist a parallel universe in which he came down the east side.”