Triplicate

By Carol Steinel

Moira Leash hates decisions. When the entire Earth collapses under the weight of a fractured collective consciousness and splits into three separate realities, she’s faced with choices that make picking out the right dress for a date or committing to a political party look like a walk in the park.

Will she stay in the same-old-same-old reality with the handsome, unavailable neighbor from upstairs, move to a utopian wonderland where she doesn’t quite fit in, or remain in Armageddon and protect the one being she feels truly connected to?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Steinel
• Release date: Dec 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301063475

Carol Steinel

Carol Steinel is an author, teacher, and cosmic comedienne. When she's not writing, teaching, or attempting to crack people up, she's doing other things. A lot of other things. This is not to say: "Don't bother me" or anything -- just to let you know that if you email her, she might be doing something else, so be patient -- she will get back to you. Probably. If she's not doing too many other things.

Book preview

Triplicate

Published By Carol L. Steinel at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Carol L. Steinel

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

The paper was just this side of tragic, after a week in her purse tumbling with the checkbook and the lipstick and the brush and all the other whatnot.

Moira smoothed down a corner that had accordion-pleated when she stuffed the croissant in on top of everything else that morning, and felt momentarily comforted. The ring-shaped mark from her coffee mug in the middle of the form now had a butter-stain only a few inches away to keep it company.

A deep breath.

She fished in the cup on her desk for a pencil that looked like the requisite #2.

If you wish to affiliate with a political party, please fill in only one circle below.

She paused, then let the breath out.

Moira hated decisions. Quizzing out of first year math in college, faced with even the most rudimentary multiple choice questions which had answers of the most unambiguous nature, she still found herself thinking, Who am I to say which one is ‘right’?

She’d driven her siblings crazy because family tradition dictated that the youngest picked their flavor first at the ice cream store while everyone else waited. By the time she was thirteen, her mom had given up on shopping with her altogether. Later, one by one, her adult friends had done the same.

Her wardrobe now consisted of items that people had sent her as gifts or otherwise picked out on her behalf, and, as a result, it was impossible to ascertain any particular style in her whatsoever – she was entirely garbed in other people’s tastes.

So it was that the pencil hovered over the form, as Moira wished that something – anything – would happen to reprieve her.

Maybe an earthquake would rock the building and the lead would scrawl itself across one of the blank circles, or a great voice would boom out, saying Green Party!, or . . . the phone would ring.

Hello?

She pressed the receiver fiercely to her right ear, trying to keep the relief out of her voice.

Moira? It’s Richard.

Oh. Oh – hi.

Do you have a minute?

"Yes. Yes, I do." The pencil was already back in the cup, although she didn’t remember putting it there.

Uhmmm – I have something I want to ask you about.

I can take Parker any time this month, Richard. I’m going to visit my folks in early February, but it’s just the fifth through the seventh.

"No – no, it’s not about Parker – well, wait – I do want to talk about Parker, maybe, but that’s not what I want to ask you about right now."

Richard sounded weird – fumbly – not at all how he usually came off when he called to arrange care for his schnauzer. For the weekend, or the week (once for a month, even), the only trouble Parker had ever given Moira was occasionally attempting to pull her up another flight of stairs to Richard’s apartment after a walk, rather than trotting into hers.

The truth was, she enjoyed the company, and would have done it for nothing. Still, to keep the relationship clear, she always accepted the overly-generous wad of cash that Richard pressed into her hand when he came to pick up his dog at the end of a business trip.

I want to ask you . . . A long silence.

Richard?

Yes, sorry – I’m here . . . would you have dinner with me tonight?

What?

Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?

Uhmm . . . Well, at least the options here were limited – it was either yes or no.

It’s okay if you say no, of course, but I’d really like it if you said yes. Suddenly, all the forthright, efficient tones were back in his voice. He sounded, again, exactly as he looked – perfect posture, well-groomed, self-assured.

"You mean – like a date?" Moira didn’t mean it to sound suspicious, but she was pretty sure that it did.

Well, yes, as a matter of fact.

You want me to have dinner with you tonight.

Yes.

She looked down at the form. Decisions.

Richard’s voice ransomed her. Moira, just say yes.

Okay – yes.

Good. What time works for you tonight?

Oh good God!

Maybe he’d finally gotten it. Does it work for you to meet for a drink at 5:30 and then have dinner?

Yes. Yes, I can do that.

I have a place in mind. Is it okay if I just pick you up at 5:30?

Yes. That would be perfect.

I’ll come by at 5:30, then.

Yes. I’ll see you then.

She didn’t realize that she’d gotten up, but after she put the phone on its cradle, she collapsed into the desk chair.

Richard Johnson just asked me out.

It wasn’t as if she’d never thought of him that way – but it seemed so long ago. After two years of nothing but brisk, business-like negotiations about Parker, Moira had definitely put Richard on her really-handsome-but-clearly-not-available and probably-out-of-my-league-or-gay-anyway lists.

There was not the slightest longing left in her when she thought about him now. In fact, she found it difficult to even recall those moments when she’d noticed his carriage, coloring, or the shape of his body.

She reached to remember that he had broad shoulders and a swimmer’s build, with sandy blond hair over hazel eyes.

As one part of her mind wrestled with his possible re-categorization, other, more suspicious voices began to poke up with cautions and warnings flimsily framed as questions:

What could he want? Is he about to dump his dog on me for good? I don’t even know what he does for a living. What if he’s a serial killer?

But it didn’t take long for the internal cogs to wheel toward a far more terrifying consideration:

Jesus. I have to figure out what to wear.

This propelled Moira out of her desk chair toward the closet, the voter registration form left to the same state of un-resolve it had endured for the last three months. Perhaps, at last, it had become tragic.

She screeched the hangers down the bar.

I don’t even know where we’re going. Should I call him back? No. I’m going to look all controlling and weird if I say he can decide, and then call him back like I don’t trust him. Wait! Yes, I should call him back. I’m going to look like an idiot if I dress for a cocktail lounge and he takes me to a sports bar.

Moira put both hands on the closet rod and hung her weight back from it for a moment. This is why she’d given up on dating.

It isn’t the possibility of meeting an asshole – it’s all the fucking decisions.

Who could she call? Marcia? No – Jessie. No – Cherie.

Oh hell, hell, hell, hell, HELL!

For a moment, she thought that the knocking was her, bashing her head against the wall, but it wasn’t. It was the door.

Oh no. Did he come down? Did he change his mind?

She crept into the living room, staying out of direct view of the front door. The spy-hole wasn’t supposed to let anyone see in, but really, could you trust that? She snuck to the side of the door and tried to peek out quickly.

It was Joey. He was standing, his lanky frame elongated further by the fish-eye lens, staring down the hall to his left. Moira saw his closed fist come up and the next knock thundered into her ear.

She swung the door open.

Hey, Joey – or are you still transitioning to JJ?

He laughed. Joey’s fine for you, Miss Leash. Hope I’m not bothering you. Mom asked me to come over and see if you got those eggs you’ve been talking about? He held up a five-dollar bill, wiggled it, and grinned as he sing-songed, She’s makin’ cookies.

Moira looked up and found herself grinning back, in spite of it all. Yes – I’ve got them. Come on in, Joey. She started toward the kitchen and turned back to wave him in. "Now really, come on in, would you?"

I’m not a kid anymore, Miss Leash. I just got my driver’s license. There was the slightest tinge of pride in his voice. "So I’ll just stay right here until you get those eggs, if you don’t mind. You know Dad would kill me if he came up the stairs and found me alone with an attractive, unmarried woman – much less a woman outside the Truth." He didn’t wink, but you could tell he was itching to.

Moira went into the kitchen and pulled out one of the cartons of eggs that she’d brought home from her weekend at Cherie’s.

She opened it and checked for cracks on her way back to the door, then handed it out to Joey. Tell your mom they’re just like I told her – from the best-loved chickens in the universe – ought to make superior cookies.

Joey poked the five in her direction, but she waved it away.

Didn’t cost me a cent. Consider it a gift – and pocket the five if you want to.

Joey’s big, freckled face clouded, and Moira realized that she’d offended him.

"I may not be baptized yet, Miss Leash, but I would never do that, you know."

Oh Joey – I was kidding. I know you wouldn’t. Tell your mom I’m glad to share – there’s no way I can use two dozen.

As she looked up at him, she realized how big he was going to be when he filled out - bigger than his father, which was saying something.

Joseph White senior was a bit of a legend in the neighborhood, not just for his ceaseless knocking on doors Saturday mornings or his archetypical demonstration of the word patriarch, but also for the time that he single-handedly lifted Randy Taylor’s VW bug off him when the jack failed during a valve adjustment.

Oh, Mom said to invite you tonight for study.

Even though she already knows what I’ll say?

Yeah. Joey’s grin had returned. Even though.

Please tell her thanks for the invitation, but actually, I have a date tonight.

"A date date?"

"Yes, an honest to goodness date date – with an honest to goodness guy guy. It’ll be the first New Year’s Eve I’ve spent with someone else for . . . she searched her memory, . . . three years, I think."

Yeah, well, you know – we don’t . . .

Yeah, I know – have a good study.

Okay. You have a good date – and be careful. Joey looked at her seriously.

It’s Richard, from upstairs.

Really? Huh!

Wait! What should I wear?

"What?"

What should I wear, Joe?

He colored right up to his hairline, which popped his bright blue eyes into prominence against the dark hair and reddening cheeks.

You’re asking the wrong person, Miss Leash. I don’t know anything about dating.

Yeah, but you’re a guy. What do you think I should wear?

Oh, I . . . well . . . The next part came out in a rush. I like that blue dress you wore when your mom came down last year.

Moira laughed softly. My mom gave me that dress.

Well, it’s nice. Okay. I really gotta go.

Joey jogged away and disappeared into the apartment across the hall without looking back.

Okay. Blue dress it is.

She laughed again – at herself, this time. Taking fashion advice from the virginal son of a fundamentalist family – a kid whose mode-o-day was simply: no stains or tears, hair-off-the-collar-and-over-the-ears, look godly and conservative.

The thing was, she trusted Joey. She believed that his honesty wasn’t the product of a religious upbringing; it was something that just seemed to flow out of him.

She’d always been puzzled as to why the Whites continued to interact with her and had allowed their children to do so freely, too, when she knew that their religion specifically counseled staying as far away from worldly people as possible.

Maybe they hadn’t completely given up on her yet, despite her polite refusals of invitations to study and meetings. Maybe Mrs. White just couldn’t get along without knowing someone in the building who could look after the kids for a minute or two in an emergency. Or maybe Joey lobbied for her.

Yeah, probably it was Joey.

They’d hit it off from the moment she’d opened the door that Saturday morning nearly four years ago. Joe senior towered in her doorway with a Bible under his arm while Little Joe (a name he’d started actively rejecting less than a year ago) tried, and failed, to look solemn at his dad’s side, holding the magazines.

Joey was the reason she’d invited them in, even though they didn’t accept her invitation that first time. She’d calmly taken the little magazine that they offered and waited through Joe senior’s spiel. Well, thank you, I’ll consider what you’ve told me, she’d said, but her attention had been on the twelve-year-old Joe junior the entire time.

He kept trying to look like he was not trying to look into her apartment, and when she would catch him, he’d grin impishly, then glance up to see if his dad had noticed, and again, try, and again, fail, to pull a completely straight face.

He was a beautiful kid, but it was more than that. He seemed . . . lit up, somehow.

So, she’d opened her door every Saturday morning for three months, and by the second or third visit, Joe Sr. accepted the invitation in and even let Little Joe have one of the cookies she laid out, then sipped a cup of tea with Moira.

Of course, Moira wasn’t listening to a word that Elder White was saying. For the first month, she was seeing if maybe she could somehow rescue this poor kid, dragged around every weekend by his severe father, passing out pamphlets and rapidly outgrowing those neatly-pressed black slacks.

Her intended crusade didn’t last long. It became obvious that Little Joe was enjoying every minute of the Saturday adventures. He seemed to have mastered the art of appearing to focus on his father’s words with rapt attention, while simultaneously taking in all the details of Moira’s apartment, and occasionally catching her eye to flash a conspiratorial grin at her.

Moira returned Joey’s attention to detail, and before the third in-home visit, she’d figured out which kind of the store-bought cookies Joey would take from the plate and which he would leave. She stopped putting the leavers out altogether.

By that time, she’d done a little research on the internet and realized that it didn’t matter how many doors Elder White knocked on, just how many hours he spent witnessing each week, so she found questions to ask. Some of them were earnest, even – and she managed to keep the dual Josephs on the sofa for a half hour or more every week.

Afterwards, she’d call Cherie and regale her with stories about her Saturday morning adventures with the Two White Men.

About two months into it, Moira announced, during one of these post-mortems, I’m going to go with them to their meeting hall on Tuesday.

"You’re not! Cherie gasped, then giggled. Girlfriend, should I be worried about you?"

"It’ll be an adventure. And no, I’m in no danger of joining the fold. It was the kid that did it. Elder White asked me, and I said I’d think about it, and then, when they were leaving, Little Joe turned around in the doorway and took my hand, for God’s sake, and said, ‘I really hope you’ll come to the Hall with us. It’ll be fun!’ And he looked at me with those big blue eyes, and I just heard myself saying that I would. I can’t believe it either. Want to come along?"

"No way. You are crazy."

Well, now I’m all curious about the rest of the family. I see the wife in the hall sometimes, and I know there’s a daughter, but honest to god, I’ve never seen her yet. And there’s something about that kid. I don’t understand it, but there’s . . . something. It’s like I’ve known him before. You ever have that?

Momo, maybe it’s just that your biological clock is ticking and now you’re having non-buyer’s remorse.

Moira hadn’t laughed along with Cherie. Yeah. Who knows? Gotta go, hon.

She dangled the blue dress on its hanger in front of her and swapped various pairs of shoes out against the fabric.

Never mind. I’ll wear the same shoes I wore when Mom came to visit.

She pulled on the black pumps, slipped the dress over her head, and regarded herself in the mirror.

Joey was right (she didn’t want to admit that this meant that her mom had been right, too). The dress looked good – it set off her brown eyes and made her short form look petite rather than squat.

It was noon. She wasn’t fussy about makeup, and her hair was fine – it fell around her face in loose, dark curls – just as Cherie’s hair goddess had said it would when C had dragged her to the salon.

Then Moira realized that she had five and half hours to figure out what to do with herself. With all of the major decisions about presentation made, she almost regretted saying yes to Richard.

She could call her mom, or Cherie, and crow about the date, but somehow she didn’t think that was a good idea. The whole thing might be a bomb, and if that happened, she’d rather not tell anyone about it.

Mom would be all twittery and hopeful and would just make her more nervous, and Cherie would be skeptical and cautionary. If she called them both, they’d balance each other out, but at the moment, it all just seemed like too much work.

Moira sat down at her desk, swept the voter registration form into the top drawer, and slammed it shut. She’d hadn’t voted since she moved here five years ago.

Why break a streak?

She opened her laptop.

Very little from work – they were all still in the post-Christmas haze, and besides, everyone knew this was her every-other Monday off. They’d all be getting drunk by this time on New Year’s Eve, anyway.

Breezy email from Mom about their plans for tonight – quiet at home with Daddy and a bottle of wine. We’ll give you a call at midnight to bring in the new year, but if you don’t answer, we won’t worry, so don’t stay home on our account!

Another weird-ass New Age forward from Kelly. Subject: Get Ready for the 2013 Phase-Shift! Directly under this email was another from Kelly, not a forward this time, with the subject line: You really should READ that last one!

FROM: [e-mail]

SENT: MON, 12/31/2012 10:40 AM

Hey Mo – look, I know you think your old roomie just dropped a little too much acid in the bad old days ;), but just this once, in memory of all our late night rambling convos in the dorm, give my last forward a look-see.

I have NO IDEA why I think this, but I have the sense that this one came to me for YOU – IT EVEN HAS YOUR OLD MANTRA IN IT!!! – Decisions murder the alternative. How weird is that?! Maybe the author is someone we knew at State - LOL

Seriously, I just HAD to forward it to you. (I know, I know – I forward all sorts of weird shit to you) But this seemed different. READ it.

Big Love, and Happy New Year,

Kell

Moira hit the send/receive button again, hoping something else would come it to distract her, but there was nothing, so she opened the forward.

"Greetings, Utopian-Dawn Subscribers –

Well, this is it. The phase-shift we’ve been expecting is at hand. 2013 will be the year we move, finally and fully, into the World we want to inhabit.

Astrology, world events, and individual evolution will all conspire to create this particular phase-shift, which will be more powerful and complete than any of the 13 activations we’ve passed through since 1999.

This is IT. This is what we’ve been waiting for. The time to choose which reality we want to inhabit is NOW.

Don’t be troubled by those who would put you in fear about this shift. Stay focused on what you want, and choose, choose, choose – don’t decide. Decision murders the alternative, while choosing allows each individual to navigate to the inter-dimensional reality they desire without denying or judging other realities.

Here’s a brief exercise to help you during this time of swift and certain transition:

1. Get yourself in a physical position that you will be comfortable in for 15 to 20 minutes.

2. Begin with at least three deep, conscious breaths, and visualize yourself nestled safely in your own physical form.

3. Imagine that all possible universes and realities are spread out before you like a smorgasbord, and that you can pick any one of them for yourself.

4. Allow yourself to simply be pulled to the reality that draws you. Imagine yourself picking up this reality and putting it on your plate.

5. Lift a forkful of this reality to your mouth. Allow yourself to taste it fully, and swallow the bite after you’ve thoroughly chewed it up and tasted it.

6. Now this reality is inside you. It will blossom and grow, and become a part of you."

Moira stopped reading.

Imagine that all possible universes and realities are spread out before you like a smorgasbord, and that you can pick any one of them for yourself.

That sounds horrifying.

She picked up the phone and hit the speed-dial for Kelly’s home number. She wouldn’t be home, which was just as well, as Moira planned to leave her a half-seriously scathing message about proselytizing.

Momo!!!! Baby! Happy New Year!

Kelly, Why are you home? You aren’t supposed to be home.

I came home early. Fuck it. I’m drinking champagne at 3:30, so I’ll probably not even make it to midnight. What time is it there? Are you celebrating already?

It’s not even one yet, and no, but – I do have a date for tonight.

Get. Out. The great northwestern hermit has a date for New Year’s? Seriously, Mo, that’s great.

I was calling to ream you a new one about sending me this New Age crap, and now you’re being all cheerful and fun and messing me up.

"Sorry, baby. Did you read it? I mean, did you read it? Is that so weird, or what?"

I read as much of it as I could stand, until the special treacle-coated hogwash got in my eyes and I had to stop . . .

"No, but did you read the mantra part?"

Yes, I read the mantra part. Honest to fuck, Kell, you’re as bad as the Two White Men.

Why? Just because I believe in spiritual stuff? It’s entirely different!

"No it’s not. They’re all excited about Armageddon, and you’re all excited about the Big Phase Shift of 2013. You’re both excited about something that is crap."

"Yeah, but my crap is better."

It’s still crap.

"As my old friend Momo used to say ‘Who are you to say what’s crap?’"

Don’t be a bitch.

Can if I want.

Can not.

Can too.

Both ends of the phone dissolved into giggles.

I love you, Kelly Belly.

I love you too, Mo. And hey, there is TOO a Big Phase Shift going on – you’re having a DAAAAAAAAATE!!!! Moira had to pull the phone away from her ear as Kelly shrieked the last word.

Me having a date is not proof that parallel realities exist.

Wanna bet?

No, actually, I don’t.

So tell me everything. Who is he? Where are you going? Will there be sex involved? You know, things inserted into other things?

It’s Richard from upstairs.

Mr. Schnauzer? I thought you said he was gay.

Apparently not. Oh geez, I hope not. Who knows, though, maybe I’m just his cover date for a party at work or something. I hadn’t thought of that.

Wait a minute – you don’t know what the date is? You don’t know where you’re going?

No. I let him decide.

"Okay, maybe you’re right about this not being a phase-shift thing. Moira! How can you not know where you’re going on your date?!"

I’m thinking of it as an adventure.

Oh, like that trip to the Armageddon Meeting Hall? ‘Cause that really worked out, didn’t it?

That was four years ago, and I am both older and wiser.

And wizened-er.

That’s not a word.

"Who are you to say what’s not a word?"

I wish I had some champagne. Pour a glass into the phone.

I’m not drunk enough to think that’s a good idea yet, but give me an hour. So, Mr. Schnauzer is taking you on a Mystery Date. What are you wearing?

My fabulous personal dresser Joey White has selected a conservative little ensemble that features the blue dress Mom sent me.

Joey’s picking out your clothes now? That ought to throw the Elder into a tizzy. In fact, if things end up being inserted into other things tonight, you may end up getting shunned by the entire Two White Men clan.

Well, we knew my days as a Project were numbered.

How is little Joey?

Not so little anymore. You wouldn’t recognize him from your last visit. Speaking of which, when are you coming out west again? Surely your boss must need you to attend some important conference that I can spirit you away from.

No such luck. Travel funds are in lockdown. There’s some kind of quirky shit going on in the market the past two months and everyone’s nervous again. So, no tripping for little Kelly.

Maybe it’s the Phase Shift. Just take a few deep conscious breaths and see yourself on a plane to Portland.

"My crap is still better than their crap. At least I’m not consigning everyone who doesn’t read my forwards to hell."

Actually, I don’t think they believe in hell.

Armageddon, then.

Yes, and a New Earth where everyone will be happy-slappy perfect. Which sounds awfully New Agey, if you ask me.

Elder White believes in a happy-slappy perfect world?

No, but Joey does. A couple of months ago he told me his dad was putting the pressure on for him to get baptized – you know what he told me?

What?

"‘You know, Miss Leash, I’d do it in a minute if I could just tell people