The Intangible

by C.J. Washington

“I believe that one true objective reality exists. A full understanding of that reality is beyond our reach, however, so we construct narratives, approximations of reality. We collect rules, like ‘Good guys always win,’ and they become the framework for our narratives. Fiction genres, for example, have different rules. In an action story, a character can jump onto the roof of a speeding car and just hang out there until he debilitates the driver, shimmies his way behind the wheel, and coasts into the sunset. In a romance, that might kill our hero, but the same guy could make love all night without bathroom or water breaks. In our lives, we tend to assume that the rules are self-evident. But often, they aren’t. And small shifts in rules can lead to large differences in narratives.” “Chaos theory,” Amanda said. “The butterfly effect.” “Exactly. My mother believes that she can size up a person’s character in a single meeting. I don’t believe that I or anyone else can consistently do that. That small difference in belief can lead to very different narratives. And who’s right? I can’t say for certain that my mother is wrong. There are things I believed ten years ago that seem crazy to me now. But my change in perspective can be explained by small shifts in the rules I accept.” “Some narratives,” Amanda said, “fit reality better than others.” “Presumably because the underlying rules are closer to reality. When I said that people can get creative in the face of the inexplicable, ...

“Why were you so mean to Wayne?” she asked. He glanced at her. “Who is Wayne?” “You told him to sue Halford University.” “Oh,” he intoned. “Wayne. I was trying to do him a favor.” “Some favor. What do you do when you’re trying to humiliate someone?” “My algorithms professor in college asked me to complete a simple proof by induction on the first day of class. I couldn’t do it. He asked me what year of my studies I was in. When I told him I was a junior, he went on a rant. If I’d picked up so little in two years of schooling, it was doubtful I belonged in college, much less at Stanford, much less in his class. It felt like he went on for twenty minutes. I was the only Black student in the class, and I thought he singled me out for that reason. So I dropped the course. I was furious, and I couldn’t let it go, so I went to his office hours. I wrote an inductive proof on his whiteboard and told him it took me fifteen minutes to understand it. I just needed a refresher. “‘Why haven’t I seen you in class?’ he asked me. “I told him I dropped. He shook his head and said he was sorry he wasted his well-chosen words on me. By now, I was ready to go to the dean and report him for being a racist. And then he offered me a job in his lab. I was flabbergasted. When I asked him why, he said, ‘You came here to show me induction. I suspect you’ll never come to me unprepared again.’ He became a mentor to me and helped me find my first job after graduation.” Amanda shook her head. “Men.” “Wha...

“I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m trying to get into the Christmas spirit.” She huffed. “I’m just angry. I’ve been listening to myself talk, and I only have one question: Why am I spending Christmas with these people?” “They’re coming to your house,” he answered. “You have nowhere to hide.”

“Were you religious when you got married?” Meredith asked Derrick. “We raised him in the church,” Derrick’s mother said. “But he had the good sense to stop going.” “Meredith Lynne,” Amanda’s mother rebuked. “It’s okay, Glenda.” Derrick smiled. “My parents did raise me in the church. And I did stray. But I’ll tell you, it’s good to be back.” “It’s good to see you back,” his father said. “Right,” Meredith said. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with one of you going off and joining a church. Assuming the church is reasonable.” “Reasonable?” Derrick asked. “Yeah,” Meredith said, “reasonable. Women are allowed to have opinions. Gays aren’t condemned to conversion therapy. I don’t know where your church stands on those things, but the idea that diabetes is caused by demons isn’t encouraging.” “That probably wasn’t literal,” Amanda’s mother said. “The prayer warrior on stage,” Meredith countered, “literally commanded the demons in Sister Jocelyn’s foot to return to hell. No one said anything about her pancreas. But I digress. If neither of you were religious when you married and then one of you became a Methodist, that’s a bridge that could be crossed. But when one of you becomes a snake handler—” “We don’t handle snakes,” Derrick interrupted. “I didn’t mean that literally.” “You’re being rude,” Amanda’s mother told her. “I can’t wait until you meet my family,” Brian said, grinning. He squeezed her hand. “She says what she’s thinking.” Meredith smiled at him. “Thank you, honey. But...

Marissa, Patrick thought, was a mathematician to her core. That was his early impression of her, anyway. He imagined opening her like a Russian doll and finding a smaller mathematician that he could open to find an even smaller mathematician. If he continued, he would find a mathematical equation, perhaps one that unified her consciousness.

It was her birthday, and he shouldn’t have brought up children. He took her hand again and smiled. “Okay.” But it wasn’t okay. He could imagine them sitting here in ten years having the same conversation. He wondered, not for the first time, if marrying her had been a mistake. He didn’t love her any less as he contemplated his doubts. The doubts had always been there. Before he’d proposed, he’d visited his mother in Virginia to get her advice.

He’d met people at dinner parties who turned hostile when they learned that he was a neuroscientist. He understood why. The absence of understanding allowed people to project magic upon phenomena. A spiritual experience could be explained by something otherworldly. Human intelligence could be described as sacred. To him, the revelations of science were magic. To others, science pulled back the curtain and revealed a lackluster world they didn’t wish to live in.

In some sense, it seemed to her that consciousness was not the driver but rather along for the ride. Perhaps her unconscious mind made decisions and let her conscious mind take credit for them. That wasn’t contrary to the notion of free will. Her unconscious mind was just as much a part of her as her conscious mind. The morning before, she’d awakened and eaten three squares of chocolate, her self-imposed daily limit. Somehow, after lunch, she’d found herself in the pantry eating another three squares. Whether she blamed her conscious mind or her unconscious mind, it was her hand inserting chocolate into her mouth. She was the culprit.

The constant vector represented a universe. In every example, it was a linear combination of the other two universes as well as the two Marissas—meaning it shared a commonality with them all. This property, she understood, was the link that connected the Marissa in one universe with the Marissa in another: consciousness. Marissa’s consciousness was not something that belonged solely to her. It wasn’t even something that existed within her. It existed in a separate universe, and it was shared by every Marissa across dimensions. That the Universe of Consciousness remained constant took on a new beauty for Marissa. Even when Marissa left Universe Y to enter Universe Z, a signature of her consciousness remained behind. The Universe of Consciousness was still a linear combination of Universe Y as if to say: Marissa was here.

“What will happen if I’m miserable there?” she’d asked Jen. They were sitting on the back porch, sharing a smoothie and waiting for a breeze. “You won’t be miserable there.” “What if I don’t make any friends?” “You’ll make friends.” Jen’s confidence matched Marissa’s doubts. Marissa decided on a direct approach. “Will I be able to come home if I want?” Jen laughed. “That’s why it’s called home. Of course you can come home.” Marissa had felt like crying, and Jen had taken her hand. “The best thing about the word sister,” she’d said, “is that it’s a permanent title. You can stop being friends with someone. You can stop being married to someone. You can never stop being my sister. You’re the one person I know I’ll still talk to when I’m old.”

Her mother hadn’t asked why she was coming. She just wanted to know what time to meet her. When Amanda tried to answer, she was overcome with sobs. She couldn’t control it, and it made her mother cry. “I can stay on the phone for as long as you need me,” her mother said. “We can talk until morning, until you get on the plane.”

“People are saying that my math will transform the world, but I don’t care about any of that. I learned one thing from it.” Patrick leans forward. “The only way to live meaningfully is to forge new connections. As much as we want what we had in our past, we can only experience the present. Rigley was a great dog. I loved him so much. But the only way I can experience the joy he and I shared is to bond with a new dog. New connections don’t erase the past. They allow us to appreciate it. I finally understand that. “When I look back now, I realize that I own the good moments. I had a happy childhood before my parents left. Their leaving doesn’t change that. I had good times with Jen before the drugs. Nothing can take that away. Our marriage.” Her voice cracks, and she pauses. “We loved each other, and you made me happy. If I made you half as happy as you made me, our marriage was a success. Even if it wasn’t forever.”