The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(18)

“I see,” Hillary says, her small face unreadable. “How bad is it?”

“He had surgery,” George says, stepping closer to the bed. “After some physical therapy, he might be able to walk again.”

“Did you want to tell us anything else?” her father asks. “Besides this lad”—he glances at me—“being a potential?”

Hillary’s jaw tightens. “What do you want to hear, Dad? That I found someone better than George?” She casts a derisive look at the man in question. “Yes, I have. I have a man, and I’m happy.”

She squeezes my arm again, but at this point, I know to keep my mouth shut.

“That’s good,” Ronald says, his eyes watering. “We always wanted—”

“—to make sure that I didn’t embarrass you,” Hillary says. “That I did my duty.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” my grandmother says.

“I think we should let Ronald rest,” George says. “Let’s go back to the kitchen.”

“I’ll stay here with my husband,” Anne says, approaching the bed. “I’m sure George can help with this Elders business better than I can, since I would’ve had to call him for you anyway.”

“It was nice to see you,” Ronald says to Hillary. “I hoped I’d get the chance to before . . .” He swallows.

“I’m sorry you’re hurt,” Hillary says, her usually expressive face showing almost no emotion. Before they can say anything else, she follows George into the other room.

When we’re back in the kitchen, I phase into the Quiet. Then I make my way back to the bedroom and take a closer look at my new set of biological grandparents. I see the familial resemblance. I share Ronald’s blue eyes, and Hillary and I have the shape of his nose in common. And Anne’s cheekbones are very much like those of my aunt’s.

I don’t know how to feel about these people. They disowned my mother and, being Traditionalists, they’d probably find my hybrid self to be some kind of an abomination. I should be angry with them, but for some reason, I’m not. I feel a sense of regret, mixed with sadness. These people managed to alienate their only remaining daughter with their stupid prejudices. Still, in a weird way, I owe my existence to them. Had they not been such *s to my biological mom, she wouldn’t have rebelled and married a Reader to possibly spite these very people.

If I ever see my shrink Liz again, she’ll want to talk about this.

Having had enough of staring at my grandparents, I decide to snoop around and find a family album in the second drawer of the ancient oak dresser.

Jackpot.

Leafing through it, I see pictures of Margret. She was a beautiful young woman, though she looks sad in many of these photos. Younger pictures of George, the guy who opened the door, show up throughout the album as well. Is he a relative? But there was a hint that he had been Hillary’s suitor or something. Weird.

Time to learn more about that, I decide, and return to the kitchen.

I approach my frozen aunt, who looks as emotionless as before. We need to have a private conversation, so I touch her forehead.

“Darren,” Hillary’s animated double says. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to pull me in.”

“And how did I do, compared to your expectations?”

“You exceeded them all with your patience.”

“Right, okay. Can you tell me who the hell he is?” I point at George, making sure I don’t accidentally touch the man.

“He’s your great-grandmother’s cousin’s grandson.” As she talks, Hillary walks to the stairs in the middle of the house.

“Wait a minute.” I follow her up the stairs. “If he’s a relative, why did your parents want you to marry him?”

“He’s a distant enough relative where it wasn’t his blood that I had a problem with. I just didn’t care for him one iota.” She stops on the second floor and looks around.

I think about George. Height is the only trait we share. He’s a bit taller than me, probably six-one. With his brown eyes and hawkish nose, he could just as easily have been Bert’s relative. This reminds me of what Hillary said earlier about finding a man, and I smile. Her parents probably thought she was talking about me.

“Would you like to see my old room?” Hillary asks, nodding her head toward the door on the right.

“Of course,” I say. “I’d love to.”

She gingerly opens the door and walks in, waiting for me to catch up.

“I didn’t peg you for a metal head,” I say, examining the Metallica posters plastered all over the walls.

“It was a phase,” she says, looking around. Her eyes suddenly well up. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I think we should go back,” she says, but doesn’t move. I guess the dingy bed, the stuffed toys, and those posters are bringing back some unpleasant memories.

I feel like an intruder, so to lessen the discomfort, I ask, “What’s an Ambassador? And while you’re at it, what’s an Unencumbered? Also, why did you lie about me?”

Hillary walks up to a desk and sits down in the rotating chair. Then she picks up an old hairbrush and absentmindedly says, “Unencumbered is a condescending term Guides came up with when referring to regular people. My circle of friends doesn’t use it. The insinuation is that people without powers are not encumbered by the weight of the decisions we, the mighty and chosen ones, have to make. Baloney, if you ask me. The only good thing I can say about the term is that it’s better than something like ‘Powerless.’”