An Elegant Theory Read online

  “Hey, bugger,” she says. “Whatcha doing?”

  I don’t say anything to her. I’m mad at her. Again, I’m not sure why.

  She slumps into my room. I can tell by the way her shoulders drag and how she sips on her coffee, letting her lips linger on the hot liquid as if punishing herself, that she feels guilty about something. This has troubled me for years, not knowing. What did she do to feel so badly?

  “You got a second?” she asks.

  “I have to go to school.”

  She would’ve been only about thirty-seven in this memory, yet she seems much older. I’m not sure if that is the case or if I’m only remembering her from the skewed perception of an eleven-year-old boy. She walks slowly and with stilted movements, like her joints needed grease to work properly. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but not tightly, so errant loose strands stick out. She has deep crow’s feet and bloodshot eyes and purple half-moons for cheeks. It looks like she hasn’t slept and has been crying.

  “I think we deserve a day off,” she says. “What do you think? Instead of school, how about the Omniplex?”

  I fall for this every time. The Omniplex is the biggest museum in Oklahoma City and my favorite place in the entire world. We spend hours there. I, of course, am drawn to the science exhibits. I climb over a life-size replica of the Lunar Module used in Apollo 11. I shake hands with a Buzz Aldrin mannequin. I name off the constellations in the planetarium.

  “Orion. Andromeda. Cygnus. Ursa Major. Auriga. Caelum. Gemini. Antlia. Apus. Cerberus. Custos Messium.”

  Only Mom and I are there. The museum is mostly deserted being a weekday morning. No field trips must’ve been scheduled on that day.

  “You are so smart,” Mom says. “I’m just so proud of you.”

  “Did you know the Big Bang happened 12.5 billion years ago?” I ask.

  “I didn’t. Tell me more.”

  I tell her about the singularity. How everything in our universe from the carbon and water that makes up the majority of us to the methane on Jupiter’s moons to the farthest molecule of hydrogen millions of light years from Earth all had been condensed into a mass so minute that it would’ve been imperceptible to the most advanced microscopes ever invented. I tell her that around 12.5 billion years ago—which really is a long, long time when you think about it—this singularity expanded, and although a lot of people think it was this huge explosion, like a big nuclear bomb or something, it wasn’t, not at all; first of all, sound waves had nothing to travel through, so a loud bang was impossible, so it just sort of inflated, like a balloon kind of, to millions of light years across in a matter of seconds, and the whole thing is still expanding today. The Hubble Telescope taught us that. It shows that everything is moving away from us.

  “So one day, a long time from now, we’ll look up and nothing will be there?” Mom asks.

  “Well, maybe,” I say. “Maybe in a long, long, long time from now. Maybe.”

  She pauses and sits down in the middle of the floor, her legs crisscrossed like a child. It makes me feel strange to see her like this. It makes her seem vulnerable, and I’m overcome with the urge to run to her and hug her until she feels better. But I don’t. I stay right where I am.

  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Mom says.

  A loud bang shook the wall between our apartment and the fighting couple’s. All of us—Dad, me, and Sara—flinched and looked at each other, asking with our eyes if we should do something to intervene. Call the cops. Go see if everyone was okay. Barricade ourselves in our apartment. It sounded like a blunt object had been thrown into the wall. But there wasn’t any shattering afterward like it was a lamp or vase. There was just a thud and then nothing. Just silence.

  My dad and I both inched closer to the wall and stuck our ears against it. I couldn’t hear a thing. Not the muffled cries of someone who was hurt or frightened. Not a television transmitting static in the background. Not the small children who I knew lived there, wondering what had happened. It was the first time I had heard silence coming from their apartment. I’d never imagined the lack of sound could be so scary. But it was. It was downright horrifying.

  The Temple—or what was called a temple but was actually a ranch—was much larger than she’d anticipated. Nestled into the hills in the middle of over 300 acres, she couldn’t see the end of it. As far as she was concerned, there wasn’t an end. There were just the endless rolling knolls covered in thick Bermuda grass and Black Walnuts and perennials and Tanoaks. Everything seemed brighter and crisper, like the sun devoted more of its energy here than back home. It made California hotter, too. But the sun felt good against her shoulders. Oklahoma had been hot, sure, but it was a different kind of hot in California. Drier, surprisingly, since the ocean was so close, and less sweltering. Natalie felt freer, without inhibition, like she could move.

  She was mending clothing alongside two Senior Ladies of the Unification Church—she had to, among other things, burn her clothing when she’d arrived a few months back so as to throw off the bonds of the material world. It had never occurred to her that she could’ve appreciated such a task. In her previous life, she would have been judgmental of such domestic work, ashamed at having to fight feelings of condescension towards women who stayed home and did laundry and scrubbed floors and popped Tylenol from back pain caused by hours bending over to put potpies in and take cookies out of the oven. An attorney for Eller & Detrich, one of the largest firms in Oklahoma, she had specialized in mergers and acquisitions, toiling day in and day out with leveraged buyouts and settlement packages, important things that affected a lot of people. Her therapist had said it’s what led to her depression, an inflated sense of ego that she could no longer fulfill. She also enjoyed the simplicity of sitting in the shade, sipping hand-squeezed lemonade, and not feeling like she needed to argue anything, or to say anything, to discipline her son, to devote herself to a marriage she no longer believed in. She could fully dedicate her time to herself, her newfound family, and her burgeoning faith in God.

  From the gates, Natalie saw a yellow school bus appear, the new family members arriving. Natalie remembered when she’d first arrived, how frightened she was, how skeptical that the Unification Family could help her. She’d tried therapists, psychiatrists, medication, Xanax and Zoloft and Pristiq, meditation, even tantric sex, with her husband and others, but none of this offered any comfort, any solace that she could be healthy, be loved, and be a part of something bigger than herself. Before, being an agnostic, she wouldn’t have had attributed this longing to a higher power, but now she knew that God could be the only love and belonging that could fill her completely. No penis or Xanax could ever replace the feeling of God’s love.

  The new members were all kids in their teens or twenties, wild-eyed and hesitant. From the houses and barns and the Temple, the members flocked to the newest arrivals, embracing them in hugs and telling them that they loved them, unconditionally, and that nothing they could ever do would change that. Their eyes softened, and they felt that first, gleaming embrace of God envelop them like a favorite blanket. They were safe now. And they knew it. Natalie could see it in their eyes.

  With new arrivals, the Leader always held a service. The Temple was located in the very center of the ranch. It was domed and made from white stucco. No ornamentation decorated its façade, no stained glass windows or painted murals, no cast iron crosses or carvings of saints, only unadorned, brilliant white walls. Inside, simple pews lined bare wood floors. The stage had a podium. There was no organ or place for a choir, none of what the Leader called distractions to true faith. Worshipping was not a moment of jubilation and an exercise in fun; instead, it was a moment of self-reflection and penance. A sacrament to God, it should not be diluted by song or frivolity. It remained pure that way, and Natalie felt comforted by this. She had something in which she could, unabashedly, trust.

  The entire family gathered for the event, and each senior member paired off with the new arriv
als. For the first three weeks, the new arrivals would only be able to interact with a senior member, dubbed their mentor. They would be completely immersed in their new culture from waking to rest. They would sleep on a cot at the foot of their mentor’s bed. They would bathe in their mentor’s tub. They would wear their mentor’s clothes. They would eat their mentor’s food. They would work alongside their mentor. They would worship with their mentor. They would study with their mentor. They could not, for any reason, leave their mentor’s side. They could not speak with the other new members. They could not listen to the radio or watch television. They could not, in any way, have contact with the outside world.

  During Natalie’s apprenticeship, as it was called, she had trouble at first. She couldn’t sleep, racked with regret and shame. She couldn’t stop thinking of Coulter, his freckled face, as his father told him that his mother would not be returning, that she was sick, and that it would be better this way. It would be better for all of them. She had cravings for the outside world, too. For the simple things, like a hot fudge sundae or a bowl of popcorn. A cashmere blanket and a cheesy 1980s romantic comedy. The way her leather seats used to make that staccato sound as she pulled herself into the driver seat of her luxury sedan. She’d heard about narcotic addicts going through withdrawals when trying to wean themselves off of, say, heroin, but she never thought the mundane could evoke such cravings. Slowly, though, these material and familial matters ebbed away. They were merely residue left behind by a greasy hand, able to be wiped away with the mildest of cleaning agents.

  Once everyone had been seated, the Leader entered through a side door and walked up to the podium. When Natalie had first met the Leader, she’d been surprised. Of course, every member spoke reverentially about him, nearly elevating him to a deity himself, though he disputed the claim, saying he was no more than a conduit, if even that, but he didn’t have an overwhelming presence. He didn’t command attention. In fact, unless you were purposely made aware of him, he would most likely go unnoticed. He was an average looking man, middle-aged, perhaps 5’ 7” or 5’ 8”, with an average build, not fat, not scrawny, not particularly handsome. He had brown eyes and brown hair. He didn’t have any scars or tattoos or birthmarks. The only thing that really stood out about him was his face—it was the most symmetrical face Natalie had ever seen. Most people have slight, but oftentimes noticeable, asymmetries. A nostril will be wider than the other. An earlobe will droop further. One eye will be wider. But not the Leader. Natalie swore that if she drew a line down the middle of his face, each side would be the mirror image of the other. To be sure, this was impossible, but Natalie couldn’t help but wonder.

  When he took the stage, he smiled at his audience and began to speak in a nasal voice. “I’d like to be the first to welcome you to our home. I know it must have taken much courage to leave behind everything you’ve known in order to come here, and this courage does not go unnoticed. This is no ordinary kind of courage. You didn’t save a child from oncoming traffic or jump into a pool to save someone from drowning. You didn’t cover a grenade to save your compatriots or subdue an attacker assaulting an elderly woman. While these acts are indeed heroic and deserving of our adoration, these acts are, for the most part, instinctual. Many of us, perhaps even a majority, have this instinct hardwired into our genetic makeup. Fight or flight. Since the dawn of mankind, we’ve had this instinct. It’s programmed into us by evolution and design. No, what you’ve done is much more impressive. Your actions are a different kind of courage, requiring forethought, premeditation, planning, and execution. This type of courage is altogether more uncommon. It makes you special. It makes you unique. Don’t ever forget that. You are, on a fundamental level, one of a kind.”

  The first time Natalie had heard this sermon, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. She wanted to. She wanted to be special, to have courage, to be brave when faced with tribulations. Being a lawyer, though, she’d always entrenched herself in fact. It was a fact she had left her husband. It was a fact she had tried to kill herself. It was a fact she’d abandoned her child. Her life consisted of the letter of the law, and that was it. What she failed to consider, however, was the nuance. The greater welfare. The right thing to do. She couldn’t care for her child. She couldn’t love her husband. They could not make her happy. What she did then was the most courageous. To slip out in the dead of night. To not say goodbye. To never return. That was the courageous thing to do.

  We scheduled to meet at the Old North Church because I didn’t want her in my home. To do so would seem to forgive her, which I couldn’t for obvious reasons, so we decided that all of us, Sara and me and Dad and her, should meet at a tourist attraction like we were doing a ransom drop. It aggrandized the whole thing for me, which seemed to alleviate some of the conflicting emotions I had about the whole scenario. First, I wanted to make her feel guilty for what she’d done, to shame her publicly, to shout out at the top of my lungs for everyone in the church to stop what they’re doing and point and hiss at this woman who abandoned her child. But, on the other hand, I also wanted to study her. I wanted to recruit two or three psych PhDs and design elaborate experiments to see if she’d save a drowning child as she walked by a swimming pool or if she would just keep on walking, pretending not to notice. I hated myself for both these impulses, the first seeming to be the effect of crass emotionalism, the second the detached neurosis of a mad scientist, but I couldn’t help either. They were impulse. Instinct. Devoid of premeditation.

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Sara asked before we walked in.

  “Of course,” I said. “Yes.”

  “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she said. She played with my hair, running her fingernails down my scalp. It was comforting, but it annoyed me. I was not a child any more. “We can go home and call the whole thing off.”

  “No,” I said. “We’re already here.”

  Even though we’d lived in Boston for years, this was the first time we’d visited Old North. A few members of the congregation spotted the pews, their heads bent in prayer, hands clasped in front of them, but the church was mostly empty, the tourist season having ended a couple months prior. During the summer months, it would be full not with worshipers but history buffs, snapping photographs with high-resolution lenses in order to catch a bit of the American Revolution flavor, daydreaming about when Paul Revere had warned the patriots the British were marching toward Concord. Of course, this bit of history wasn’t all that factual, elevated to mythic lore by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Not that anyone cares all that much. Sometimes, I’ve come to learn, the legend is much more compelling than the truth.

  “Coulter?”

  I turned to find my mother, Natalie, standing to the side of the aisle. I knew her right away. She looked the same as she did in my memories, like she’d been stuck in a time capsule, not marred by the undertakings that are everyday life. She did look a bit differently, of course. Her skin wasn’t so taut. Discernible wrinkles framed her eyes, and her hair seemed a bit thinner, although it still had the same blond sheen I remembered. It was her demeanor, though, that hadn’t changed, that cockiness lodged in how she stood, her shoulders perched with kinetic energy like she might lunge at you if you so much as flinched. As a child, I had erroneously believed that all mothers were hardwired this way, but later I learned that it was more a defensive posture, the result of being a lawyer when it was still a boy’s club, she always having to prove herself and fight twice as hard as her male colleagues.

  “How are you?” she asked. She attempted to smile, but she seemed incapable of mustering one, instead her expression challenging, lips puckered, chin upturned.

  “Good,” I said. “And you?”

  “Good,” she said. “Nervous. Thought you might bring a gun or something. Shoot me down.” She chuckled nervously.

  When I didn’t answer, an awkward silence followed. It was as if the electromagnetic force had strengthened around us. Being of the same b
lood, we had the same charges, creating an overwhelming repelling force. Sara stood to the side, her fingers interlocked underneath her belly. She peered at her feet and dragged her left toe along the floor like she was drawing a line in sand. Dad, I could tell, wanted to intervene, to serve as a buffer between the two of us. He kept sucking in his teeth like a toothless man eating oatmeal. Natalie popped her knuckles, the cracks echoing against the centuries-old brick, and I stood there feeling like I should do something, anything, shake her hand or tell her off or backhand her. She had occupied my daily thoughts for years: where she was, what she was doing, who she was with. As a kid I’d made up fantasies, that she’d been whisked away by the C.I.A. to work as a spy or that she was an astronaut colonizing Mars in some top secret NASA mission. As a teenager I yearned to ask her questions about her life, her habits, her hobbies and passions and pet peeves. Later, as an adult, my thoughts were of how I’d ignore her if I ever saw her on the street, act like she was nobody, even after she confronted me, said hi, begged for my forgiveness, and all I would say is, ‘Sorry, lady, you’re a stranger to me.’ But all I could say was, “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” she said. “And this must be Sara. Marcus told me about you.”

  “Hi,” Sara said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Natalie—I couldn’t bring myself to call her “Mom”—took in a deep breath and smacked her hips like she didn’t really know what to do next. “You look good,” she said to me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Marcus tells me you’re working on your PhD.”

  “Yes,” I said, seemingly unable to utter more than one-word answers.

  “I always knew you would do well. You were such a smart child. Loved science especially.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She motioned toward a pew. “May we sit?”

  “We’ll look around,” Sara said as she looped her arm around my father’s and pulled him away. “Just call if you need us.”