Eden

While on sabbatical, I met a curmudgeonly, older gentleman who had been receiving hospice care. This was twenty years ago, but our three-month long friendship incomprehensibly changed the course of my life forever.

My name is Mariama Aline Jean Pierre; I am the granddaughter of Haitian immigrants. My mother and father named me after two dynamic, Senegalese women, Mariama Bâ and Aline Sitoe Diatta.

Tragically, we lost my parents in a landslide the same year I became a member of Mensa. They were part of a research team that was working to rehabilitate a region that had been overly deforested.

I had just turned five, and my family was so proud.

Consequently, my grandparents, who loved me profusely and supported me tirelessly, reared me from that moment on. As I’m sure you can imagine, the death of my parents colored my worldview rather graphically. It shaped the choices I made regarding my studies, as I desperately sought to ensure no one else would lose loved ones as a result of avoidable ecological disasters.

Shortly after my 20th birthday, I’d just completed my second doctorate program. With one PhD in Environmental Engineering and another in Sustainable Development, I had yet to decide whether I would pursue my third in either quantum mechanics or astrophysics.

Seemed like every time I turned around, one of my confidantes was telling me I should take a break.

First it was Dean Webster, my academic advisor, who insisted, “This institution will still be here when you return, Ms. Jean Pierre, and we’ll welcome you back with open arms. You have my word.”

Then Granmè Rosemarie, my grandmother, began dropping not-at-all-subtle hints about how, “Even God rested, Mari. Are you better than God? I don’t think so. Sit down, child! Let them big brain cells breathe some.”

The final straw was when Isabel, my best friend since kindergarten, promised that if I took at least 6-9 months off from school, she’d finally stop trying to set me up with every cretin — I meant to say, anymore of the perpetually “eligible” (because no one ever wanted to date any of them) bachelors from her church’s Saturday night Star Wars reenactment group.

Her actual words were, “¡Por Dios, Ama! The world ain’t gonna end if you have a little fun every now and then. Matter of fact, you won’t hear nothing else out my mouth ‘bout these Jedi boys if you chill for just a minute, yo.”

I couldn’t pass that up. And since the general consensus was that “fun” could be defined as anything that couldn’t be graded, I decided to be a hospice volunteer.

I had been reassessing my own life so much that I was sick of thinking about myself and decided to spend the next several months being fully present with those who’d come to the end of their journeys.

What had they learned? What, if anything, would they do differently? How do they desire to be remembered?

I expected this time to be transformative and life-altering. However, nothing could have ever prepared me for all that took place after I met him.

His name was Malachi Nisim.

He was … complicated. Charismatic, yet reticent. Equal parts charming as well as enigmatic. Brilliant and deeply heartbroken, which rendered him wary of most. He was a shrewd judge of character; thus, it will always be one of my greatest honors that, though totally unexpected, he chose to open up so completely to me.

In fact, our fondness for each other was fairly effortless.

I didn’t initially realize how much of a big deal it was until his housekeeper walked me to the front door that first day.

“Mr. Nisim seems to fancy you, Ms. Jean Pierre.”

“This surprises you, Mrs. Wilmington?”

“Well, dear, you’re the eighth volunteer the agency has sent over in the last two weeks.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m afraid the others barely lasted ten minutes with him. Yet the two of you have been chatting amicably for the better part of an hour. And he expects you to be back here day after tomorrow! What’s your secret, love?”

I took a few moments to earnestly assess what could’ve possibly set me apart from all the others. In sincerity, the only conclusion I could come to was that, “My company is quite enjoyable, Mrs. Wilmington. It appears Mr. Nisim was able to discern that right away.”

“Ahh,” she sighed, then smiled knowingly to herself. “I understand who he sees in you,” she trailed off.

“Who?” I inquired.

Before she could backpedal her Freudian slip, Mr. Blackthorne swooped in and admonished, “Mrs. Wilmington, you were supposed to escort Ms. Jean Pierre to the front door, not hold her hostage in the foyer.”

Without turning his head, he cut his eyes back towards me,” Please pardon her, Ms. Jean Pierre; she’ll talk your ear off if you let her.” Simultaneously whisking me away before I could utter a response, he pronounced, “We look forward to seeing you again in two days’ time at 11AM sharp. Be well and drive safely.”

Did I forget to mention that “Mal,” as he later implored me to call him, was exorbitantly wealthy? By the time we met, his net worth was nearly $985 million!

Over the course of the next several weeks, I learned he was a successful investor who lost his wife and only son in a fatal accident after they were struck by a drunk driver fifteen years prior. Once a jovial and carefree man, he was never the same after losing them.

Apparently the “who” to whom Mrs. Wilmington unwittingly eluded was, Elias, his son. Mal told me all about him and how, “If he were alive today, you’re the kind of young lady I would’ve wanted him to meet.”

Finance came easy to him; so in his spare time, he studied multiple languages, read about obscure topics, and researched all sorts of arcane subject matters. His personal library was not only enormous, but also rivaled that of any small university.

He had a profound predilection for occult practices and mysticism from various cultures. We talked for hours about the universe and how modern science is just beginning to scratch the surface of possibilities once thought of as realities by ancient scholars.

I treasured our time together. He had quickly become one of my most favorite people.

Then I showed up one day at our usual time. Before making it across the threshold of his home, I could sense a heaviness that was confirmed when Mr. Blackthorne greeted me at the door.

His face was marred with sorrow, and in the distance, I could hear a mournful Mrs. Wilmington weeping faintly.

Mal had died peacefully, thankfully.

I was ushered into his study. Though the weather was warm and sunny outside, it felt cold, dark, and empty indoors.

Reuben Ricci, Esq., a middle-aged man, was sitting at his desk; like the primary members of his household staff, Mal’s lawyer had been under Mal’s employ for 25 years or more.

“Ms. Jean Pierre, I regret us having to meet under these circumstances. Mr. Nisim made me aware of how very important you’d become to him these last several months. And on behalf of everyone who will hold memories of him dear, I’d like to thank you for bringing him so much happiness.”

“Of course,” I whimpered. “The pleasure was all mine.”

He nodded in approval, “I’ve asked Blackthorne to bring you here because Malachi requested that I bequeath you with a few personal items.”

Mr. Ricci then proceeded to hand me exactly three things: a handwritten letter in a sealed envelope, an odd key, the likes of which I’d never seen before, and a small, black, leather-bound notebook.

Mr. Blackthorne whispered, “Mr. Nisim assured me you’d know what to do with the key as he left explicit instructions for you inside his journal … the black notebook. Whenever you’re ready to use it, I’m here at your service.”

“Thank you both,” I could hardly contain my grief as I stumbled out of my seat.

Mr. Blackthorne offered to have me chauffeured back home; I declined and instead bawled in my car until I was able to gather myself enough to drive off.

In the privacy of my bedroom, I opened the envelope. I gasped when a check for $20K fell out of it. Then I read his words. He’d thanked me for bringing joy back into his life and said I’d reminded him what a privilege it is to be able to leave a legacy behind for future generations.

He explained that the journal contained some of his most private, personal musings, which he suspected only I could truly appreciate.

Still not quite sure what the key was for, I excitedly opened the book. I was taken aback once I saw that he’d written entirely in either Hebrew, Latin, or French.

It took me a few days to decipher the text, but there was no mention of that key.

Flummoxed and bewildered, I went over my translations again; that’s when I saw it. In the lefthand corner of every third page was the same sentence, “Most secrets are hidden in plain sight.”

Mal loved his riddles and puzzles. However, those seven words would’ve haunted me had I not remembered him telling me how he and Elias used to send each other invisible messages so they could surprise Tahlia, his wife, with something special.

He also knew that I had a mild case of germaphobia, so I took out my ultraviolet sanitizing wand and waved it over the pages revealing Mal’s dying wish, which was for me to go on one final quest for him.

The key went to his safety deposit box in Switzerland. Along with additional need-to-know information about why he’d entrusted me with this task, it also contained his invitation to a silent auction in Hong Kong.

His clues were so cryptic, I couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Very much in the style of a Tom Cruise film, he stated that should I choose to accept this “mission,” I must call Mr. Blackthorne and say, “Please take me to Eden.”

So, I did.

Thirty minutes later, with passport in hand, Mr. Blackthorne, Mrs. Wilmington, and I were on a private jet to Switzerland.

Mrs. Wilmington walked with me into the bank. Mal had designated her as secondary on all his accounts.

His safety deposit box contained a self-charging mobile device that was locked. The password clue was based on the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics.

At first I entered the equation for the quantum state of a world.

“Buzz!” The phone chastised me and warned I only had two more guesses.

“Don’t look at me, honey! Mr. Nisim left that one just for you,” exclaimed Mrs. Wilmington.

Slightly unsure of myself, and with fingers crossed, I typed in the quantum state of the universe equation instead.

After a brief pause, the phone began to hum, then clicked open. Finally able to exhale a sigh of relief, I nearly fell over backwards upon reading the screen.

It was a legally binding document in which Mal had signed over 51% of his company to me. I’d planned to fund my trip to the mysterious silent auction in Hong Kong with the $20K, which suddenly paled in comparison to instantaneously becoming a multimillionaire.

That still isn’t the most mind-boggling aspect of this adventure, though.

What was being sold, and why was it so imperative to Mal that I go in his place?

A portal had been discovered. The multiverse theory that seemed more like an urban legend or sci-fi, fantasy fiction? Somebody managed to prove its existence. The auction was actually an audition to find the brightest minds who could stabilize our side of this portal to other worlds.

Spoiler Alert!

We did it. Not only is it real, it’s better than we ever could’ve imagined it would be.