The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(7)
She continued down the hall to her old bedroom, where she was considering staying the next night or two. She had thrown her luggage in her brother’s car just in case. Besides, with the house likely going on the market, this could be her last chance to stay in her old room. Whatever dangers Isaac imagined the house posed, he needn’t have warned her about not staying past October: she planned to be back in Seattle well before Halloween.
The bedroom hadn’t changed much over the years. It still contained her adolescent belongings: stuffed animals, ceramic figurines, a bookshelf filled with childhood reading. At another time, these keepsakes might have brought her comfort, but as her eyes scanned the books’ spines—Madeleine L’Engle, Ellen Raskin, C. S. Lewis, E. L. Konigsburg—Hazel felt bewildered and alone. Had this house ever really felt like home? Or had it always been just another way station in a transient childhood? She and her brother had loved Isaac and Lily deeply, but had never entirely rid themselves of the feeling that they were long-term charity cases, forever crashing on the couch of an intimidatingly distinguished family. For a time, at least, she had successfully smothered this feeling of inexpressible exile.
As she pulled the envelope from her pocket and contemplated a hiding place among her Hercule Poirot novels, she took one last look at the contents of the letter, wondering if the desire not to disappoint Isaac over the years had turned into a more general habit of avoidance. What if she chose to do nothing with the letter? She was flying back home in two days and was hardly in the position to be tracking down a room number she’d never heard of, let alone obliterating her grandfather’s legacy. And then to be chasing down some guy named Raspanti? A man apparently fond of only the most popular men’s suiting pattern there is?
Turning to the window, Hazel thought back to the innocent hours before she’d opened the letter. What had she been expecting? Not this sober directive from the grave, but maybe: “Lily no longer recognizes me” . . . “My ability to do math is deteriorating” . . . “No shame in bowing out gracefully, you understand.” But with all his talk of being followed and wishing he could flee—what was she supposed to do with that when he’d forbidden her from going to the police? Could it be that Isaac had lost his foothold on reality and that these were mad ramblings?
Just as she was slipping the letter into Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Hazel heard the loose floorboard outside creak. She shelved the book and stepped into the darkened hall just in time to see someone—a man, she couldn’t see his face—leaving her grandfather’s study. He shut the door and seemed to waver for a moment before disappearing down the stairs.
She became aware of a prickling sensation, as if charged particles were scaling her spine. Being alone on the second floor suddenly felt like a bad idea, so she shut the bedroom door and made her way to the social level of the house.
*
Downstairs, she fell into some hugs and nice-to-see-yous before going to the buffet table for something to settle her stomach. When she had filled her plate, she nearly stumbled over little Drew Severy-Oliver, who was sitting in the middle of the floor, an Audubon guide open in her lap. Hazel was often blind to the allure of small children, but with Drew, she couldn’t help but melt a little.
The five-year-old looked up. “Did you know that the albatross has the widest wingspan of any bird there is?”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“Yeah. No one does.”
While Drew flipped through her book for more bird facts, Sybil appeared and gave Hazel a sideways embrace. “My little bug isn’t bothering you, is she?”
“Oh, no. I’m getting a much-needed ornithology lesson.”
“Birds are her big thing right now, and plants. She’s already identified all the plants in our backyard. She’s bored with them now, of course.”
Drew peered up at her mother. “Did she say ornithology?”
“No, honey. She didn’t.”
Drew bounced toward Hazel. “But you did, didn’t you?”
Hazel looked to Sybil, who grimaced.
“Ornithology is the study of birds!” Drew announced.
“Drew, please. Not now—” pleaded her mother.
“Orology is the study of mountains. Orthopterology is the study of crickets and grasshoppers!”
“Oh, God,” Sybil said, running a hand through her hair. “She’s memorized all of the ‘ologies’ in alphabetical order. When she reaches zoology, she starts all over again. There are hundreds of them. Hundreds . . .” She broke off, exasperated.
“Well, I’m feeling very inadequate,” Hazel said.
“Osteology!” Drew sang. “The study of bones.”
“She’s going to be very smart. Everyone says so,” Sybil said in unmasked dismay. “We have to go find Daddy, Drew. Say bye to Haze.”
“Bye.”
Sybil lifted her daughter from the floor and floated away, but not before Hazel heard: “Ovology, the study of eggs . . .”
Nothing like a know-it-all child to make you feel completely worthless. Hazel looked down at her food, realizing she wasn’t at all hungry. A drink, that’s what she needed. A strong drink would put the letter out of her mind.
She headed for the kitchen, first having to circumnavigate the depressed geeks who were closing in on Philip and Paige, the new default celebrities of the family. Without meaning to, Hazel met Paige’s eyes again. Her aunt had always been an intimidating figure. Hazel’s early memories of her usually involved some odd comment thrown her way that she had been too young or too nervous to comprehend. Only later did she register it as a steady stream of disdain and sarcasm. Hazel mustered a cursory smile at Paige and moved on.