Elusion(10)

Regan: Yeah. My dad would have been really proud of you.

The elevator comes to such a soft stop that I barely even feel it. When the doors slide open, Mr. Burton exits and waves at Patrick and me.

“Follow me, please,” he says.

We tuck our tabs away, and Patrick puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Obviously, he senses the sudden tension that has taken hold of me once we walk out of the elevator and into a long, narrow corridor that looks like it belongs in a morgue. The dimly lit hallway extends in both directions for what seems like a thousand yards, and there are multiple sets of steep metal staircases leading to other floors filled with windowless rooms.

“Don’t worry, I’m right here,” he whispers.

I take Patrick’s hand, locking fingers with him. “I’m fine,” I lie.

Mr. Burton guides us to the left and ahead a few feet before pausing in front of a set of stairs and offering me an orange passcard.

“Your father’s security box is waiting for you in chamber twenty-eight. It’s on the middle level and you’ll have complete privacy there. Feel free to take your time. I’ll wait to escort you back up to the main floor when you’re done,” he says.

“Thank you, Mr. Burton,” I say.

Patrick and I walk up the steps to chamber 28, still hand in hand. I let go to swipe the passcard in front of the code reader, and the door whooshes upward, barely giving us enough time to enter before swooshing back down again behind us. Inside is a large, brightly lit, gray cement room with a tall aluminum table surrounded by several black high-backed stools. On the table is a square metallic box affixed with an electronic lock.

I shoot Patrick a nervous glance, but his calmness doesn’t waver at all. I hate to admit this, but I’m actually kind of glad that my best friend is here right now instead of my mom.

“Go ahead,” he says, prodding me a little.

I inhale and wave the passcard in front of the lock. I hear the click of a hinge, and the top of the box snaps open just enough so I can see a crack of darkness. I draw in another breath and lift it up the rest of the way. There’s only one thing inside—an old, worn paperback copy of Walden by Henry David Thoreau.

A book? Dad left Mom a used book?

While I’m really relieved that there isn’t anything scandalous in here—like a birth certificate revealing that I’m adopted, or an apologetic letter from Dad admitting he has a secret family stashed away in China—I don’t know what to make of this.

I gently pick it up and flip through the pages, hoping that some kind of hidden meaning will jump out at me.

“Is there anything else?” Patrick asks. “Like notes in the margins?”

“No. Nothing.”

Patrick leans over and inspects the book over my shoulder. “What about an inscription?”

I check both the title and the copyright pages to see if my father wrote my mom or me a message.

Still nothing.

“I don’t understand,” I say quietly. “Why would he put a book in a safety-deposit box?”

“What if it’s a collector’s item? It could be worth a lot of money,” Patrick suggests.

“I doubt it. There’s a bunch of dog-eared pages, and the cover is just holding on by a thread.”

“Well, maybe it doesn’t make sense right now,” Patrick adds. “But there has to be a reason why David kept this here, and why he wanted you and your mom to have it.”

When my dad was alive and Patrick would give me insight into his behavior, it made me feel like such an outsider, like he understood my dad better than me. And the sad thing was, he did. But it always bothered me, and given the ripple of heat that’s creeping across my brow line, it obviously still does.

“You’re right.” I tuck the book into my bag and close the metal box, crumpling my emotions up into a little ball. “Do you think you could give me a ride?”

“Sure, but what about your mom? Shouldn’t we wait around a bit longer?”

I smile at Patrick but shake my head. “That’s okay. I think I know where she is.”

“Really? Where?” Patrick asks.

I swipe the passcard near the code reader, and the door rises to the ceiling again.

“Right where I left her.”





THREE


MY MOTHER IS CURLED UP ON THE COUCH with a pillow tucked underneath her head and a throw covering her legs. As I sit beside her, I see the sprigs of gray in the roots of her chestnut-colored hair and the deep lines in her forehead.

She’s so worn down. Sometimes I fear she’s going to give up.

I lean over and whisper, so I don’t startle her too much. “Mom? Mom, wake up.”

She stirs a bit, turning from her left side so that she’s flat on her back. But that’s all the response I get. I notice a tiny circle imprint near her right temple, and my eyes flick over to the end table next to the couch. Near the base of the silver halogen lamp are the components of her Equip. I clutch Dad’s book in my hands so hard that it bends into an arch.

Mom has been back and forth between reality and Elusion so much lately that sometimes I’m not sure she knows which is which. She’s trying to do the impossible—Escaping so that she can feel a release from the agony of losing her husband—but all I needed was one trip to understand what she can’t accept just yet.