“Does it, though? How can we really know? Doesn’t all of this,” she says, gesturing around us, “feel like we’re trying to have control over something that we can’t? All we can do is let whatever’s meant to happen happen and then try to understand the meaning of it after the fact.”
I shake my head. “I don’t subscribe to the belief that we should be passive in life. If we want something, we have the power to go get it. To make it happen.”
Rooney reads a placard in front of a triceratops. “Sometimes things in life happen without us having to try very hard,” she says. “I think it’s those outcomes that are the most meaningful. We don’t even see them coming, like the dinosaurs. Not that I want their fate.”
“Between the volcanoes and asteroids, they certainly didn’t have it easy,” I say.
Rooney purses her lips. “Maybe it all happened as it was supposed to, and we were meant to be here.”
I cross around to the side of the assembled dinosaur skeleton. “Fate implies that it was intended to happen. That was another result of gravity.”
“We already have so many awful things to deal with as it is on Earth. Now we have to be on the lookout for asteroids?” Rooney asks with concern.
“Don’t worry,” I say with a tone of reassurance. “At NASA, we track near-Earth objects that pose a risk.”
“You can’t stand the thought of being out of control, can you?” she says with a grin.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Just like you can’t stand the thought of being in control.”
“We have different thoughts on how the world works. Try keeping your eyes open for the signs, Jack. That’s what I’m trying to do. That’s where the inspiration will come from,” she says, pulling her extra-long sleeves over her hands. It’s cool in the museum but eighty degrees outside. And yet, she’s still in a red sweater, though this one looks like it’s made of cotton. I’ve learned during our time together that she runs cold. She’s either wearing a sweater or carrying one with her, just in case.
“Have you ever considered not wearing red outfits made of string out in public?” I ask.
“Never. I like living on the edge,” she immediately responds.
“I guess it is practical. If you ever run out of material, you always have a spare roll or two.”
Rooney threads her fingers through her sweater’s knitted loops. “Oh, I’ve definitely had to unravel a sleeve before.”
I imagine it and laugh. These days, I’m laughing a lot more. And I know it’s because of Rooney.
“Besides, if I didn’t wear red,” she adds, “I’d be… String Girl.”
“That’s not as catchy,” I admit. “So these signs. How am I supposed to know when one happens?”
“They’re often personal so I won’t be able to say exactly what something might mean to you,” Rooney explains. “But pay attention to meaningful moments, big and small. Be observant to what’s happening around you. It’s like Jewel sang, you have to listen to your intuition.”
“Personal, observant, intuition. Got it.”
“Good. I think you’ll start to see signs in the most unexpected of places,” she says. “Speaking of places, wouldn’t this museum be perfect for an installation? Let’s make sure we check out the Rotunda.”
We leave the dinosaurs behind and head down the halls of the museum toward the Help Desk. Before we reach it, a woman in a khaki vest waves us over as we pass her, asking if we’d like to see some butterflies.
I slow my steps. “If I’m following the winds of fate, then yes, we would love to see some butterflies today. You did pick us out of all these other visitors, so… that makes us the chosen ones?”
“I never saw my job in that way before,” the Butterfly Lady says, noticeably happier. “Thank you. We’re having a special monarch butterfly event.”
“Oh, we really need to get to the Help Desk,” Rooney says to mewith urgency, her eyes wide. She grabs my hand to try to pull me away.
Rooney scans the lady’s vest covered in colorful flying-insect pins. The Butterfly Lady looks between the two of us. “So is that a no?” she asks.
I pull Rooney back to me. “This feels like a sign. Bring us to the monarchs,” I say before turning my head toward the woman and adding, “please.”
She leads us toward the door. “Wonderful! Right this way.”
Rooney exhales. “You first.”
“After you,” I say, regrettably dropping her hand so I can gesture toward the butterfly entrance.
