Page 117 of Under Story

During Gloria’s first semester, Laurel brought her to the cave. They dropped their suitcases at a motel and went straight to the beach. Parking in the familiar lot, Laurel tensed, and Gloria asked whether something was wrong. But it was a sunny day in March, just before spring turned toward winter; it had rained the day before, and the woods were fragrant. Gloria gasped when they reached the composing tree, and Laurel grinned in fondness for both of them.

While Gloria explored the cave, Laurel walked back to the oak. She thought of what she’d felt for the trees in the orchard. They were not objects she observed but beings with whom she had relationships. She hadn’t properly introduced herself. Nor had she treated the tree with the respect it deserved. In her determination to hack through the branches, Laurel hadn’t even stopped to identify which kind of oak they belonged to. Its acorns were toffee brown with nubbly yellow berets. The leaves were waxy and green, pearly sage on the underside. A white oak, she thought: unlike the pointy lobes of the red oak, these had rounded tips, like fingers.

“Hello,” she said. She almost felt that she was seeking its permission. Laurel listened for such a message but heard only the rustling of leaves. Well, she thought, that was fair. It would have to learn to trust her.

The tree had changed since her visit in August. The crown looked broader, and the bark seemed less prone to flaking. Still, composition would continue for years. In her world, after all, a tree this large could decompose over decades. Their first visit was largely a scouting expedition. Laurel showed Gloria her double’s work, though Gloria didn’t know it as such, and they strategized about how to begin again. They cleaned the mess of the cave, too, removing fallen pins and the other Laurel’s rusted supplies.

Since then, Laurel and Gloria have visited every three months. They’ve experimented with voltmeters and pins, and Gloria has used her computer to map potential circuits. In December, they gather to discuss the impending fall semester. A pipe burst in Science Hall, so Gloria comes to Laurel’s house. Laurel makes chai tea, which they take to the fireplace.

“I’ll log the winter data while you’re gone,” Gloria says, making a note on her tablet. “And when you come back, we can strategize for our September trip.”

Laurel has dreaded this moment: their last meeting before the cruise. She tries to think of a way to respond without lying. It feels unbearable to leave without a hint—a breadcrumb that Gloria might remember later.

“You know,” she says, “no matter what happens, you should keep pursuing this. I think we have something here. And you’re in charge as much as I am.”

Gloria looks up from the tablet. “What do you mean, ‘no matter what happens’?”

Laurel casts about for a response. “Well, I’m thirty-two. Plenty of people my age have already retired.”

“You’re not that young!” Gloria says. “You could keep working for years.”

“And maybe I will.” Laurel forces a smile. “Forget I said anything.”

She tries to right the mood, but Gloria becomes withdrawn. The face of Gloria One was sly and wondering; it was not always possible to read what she was thinking. Gloria Two is exquisitely legible. By the end of the meeting, Laurel feels worse than she did when it started.

One week before the flight to Argentina, Laurel drives to the other Clare’s apartment. Her nerves have frayed even further. On their first dive, the stakes were high enough, but now the pressure has doubled. If this one is unsuccessful, they will have found Silas only to lose him again.

Clare senses her agitation. She situates Laurel on the couch with a newspaper before retreating to the kitchen. Laurel skims the technology page—“Apple’s New iPhone 6 Improves on 7 with Headphone Jack, Reduced Brightness”—as Clare rustles through the herbs she grows and dries. She returns with a mug of pungent tea.

“What’s this?” asks Laurel.

“Valerian root,” says Clare. “Good for worry.”

“It smells like feet,” Laurel says, but Clare’s transformation has amazed her. To focus on fruit-growing courses, Clare dropped down to part-time at the symphony. She rents a room in a co-op full of recent college graduates. Laurel brings groceries whenever she visits; otherwise, they seem to subsist on beer and vegetables.

“The worse it smells, the better it works,” Clare says. “And aren’t cruises supposed to be fun?”

Laurel sighs. “It was Eli’s idea.”

Clare joins her on the couch. “Silas must be excited.”

“He keeps saying that he wants to ride a whale. We haven’t had the heart to burst his bubble.” Laurel tries her tea. “You know, this doesn’t taste half as bad as it smells.”

“Good.” Clare has brought socks in need of mending: a simple, scrappy pair she knit for Laurel. “I don’t like to see you out of sorts.”

Clare’s sweetness makes Laurel feel more anguished. “I’m sorry. Silas threw a tantrum today when we put the Christmas tree on the curb.”

About this, at least, she isn’t fibbing. By the time they managed to distract him, Laurel was vibrating.

“Poor thing.” Clare threads an embroidery needle with yarn. “I think it should be socially acceptable to keep a tree up year-round.”

“You do?”

This doesn’t sound like her mother. Aren’t there enough trees in the orchard? the Clare who raised Laurel might say. Or: Trees are plants, not pets. But perhaps she wasn’t always so pragmatic. Before Laurel’s grandmother died, Clare One might have had Clare Two’s lightness.

“Of course,” Clare says. “Why do you think I want to buy an orchard?”

For a time, they sit in quiet, Clare darning while Laurel drinks tea. Outside, winter is morphing into fall: warmer mornings, lighter evenings, crisp leaves only dusted with snow.