Elusion(68)

My focus is almost obsessive; I’m searching for hidden meanings in each sentence, hoping that some kind of pattern will appear. I pull out my tab and start a list of quotes that seem to connect to each other, or sound like something my father might say, like Begin where you are and such as you are, without aiming mainly to become of more worth, and with kindness aforethought go about doing good. Or Things do not change; we change.

But one line really jumps out at me every time, though I haven’t yet jotted it down:

To be awake is to be alive.

I close the book and reach into my pocket, hoping to find my black stylus there so I can add it to the list, but instead I pull out a wrinkled ball of paper. I smooth it flat against my book, which is now lying in my quilt-covered lap. As my palms press firmly against the paper, ironing out the folded corners and crinkles in the middle, I look at the words that are written on the page over and over and over again in a frantic scrawl.

HATE OUR NEW LAND

HATE OUR NEW LAND

HATE OUR NEW LAND

I remember picking this note up off the floor in the foyer, where Patrick had thrown Josh up against the wall, most likely dislodging it from Josh’s back pocket. Then something strange happens. Just as I’m about to fold up the paper, the words kind of blur a bit, so that some letters are sharper than others. Next my gaze shifts to the title, which is at the top of the book cover, along with the author’s name.

A gasp escapes from my lips. This can’t be.

I lunge over to the nesting table at the left side of my bed, where my stylus is, so I can scribble on the screen of my tab and test out my theory to see if it works, or if I’m just delirious from sleep deprivation.

I write the phrase Hate Our New Land, grasping the stylus hard with my fingers, and then begin to rearrange the letters, just like in the word puzzles my dad and I used to play. When I’m through, my heart is racing.

Nora’s note is an anagram. The letters also spell out:

Walden Thoreau.

I erase all the letters on the tab and write everything out a second time, to make sure I didn’t mess anything up, but there it is, plain as day.

H A T E O U R N E W L A N D

W A L D E N T H O R E A U

I’m bursting with excitement. All this time I’ve been looking inside the book for answers, and the words on the cover are what have a hidden meaning. I begin scribbling on my tab—anything and everything that enters my mind.

“Why didn’t you call me when you got home?”

As I catch my breath, my mother walks into my bedroom, still dressed in her scrubs, returning from her shift at the hospital.

“What are you doing back so early?” I ask.

She isn’t supposed to be home until seven thirty.

“I was worried,” she says, folding her hands together, and sighs, as if disappointed. “I tried reaching you on your tab for hours. If I hadn’t checked the entry log at the house, I would have called the police. When I call, you answer. Got it?”

It’s as if my old mom is back, the one who was in charge and not afraid to give me a little hell for screwing up. But even though it’s encouraging, I doubt she’s strong enough for the truth. The QuTap is with Avery now, and there’s no telling what she might do with it. Everyone saw how quickly Patrick acted when Avery was just making accusations against Orexis. What she did pales in comparison to my dirty deeds. It’s only a matter of time before the police are banging at my door.

“Whatever,” I say as I scoot up, one hand closing around the paper and the other tucking my tab under my legs. I don’t want my mom to see what I’m up to. Ever since I found the Zolpidem, I’ve been avoiding her. Even though I know my mom wasn’t part of some grand cover-up, she did write the prescription. I’m angry that she’s always been so trusting. I’m angry that she didn’t ask my dad more questions. That she wasn’t stronger.

“What’s with the attitude?” she asks.

I lean forward and turn around, pretending to fluff my pillows as I shove the paper behind me. “You don’t pick up when I call you,” I say. “You didn’t even show up at the appointment to go through Dad’s lockbox.”

“I see,” she says, her brow furrowed with concern. “So that’s what this is about? You’re angry with me? Trying to teach me a lesson?”

“No,” I say abruptly. What am I doing? I don’t want to fight with my mom. She just returned to work. I should be encouraging her, not acting like a bratty kid. I tell myself I’m just geared up because of my recent discovery and soften the look in my eyes. “I’m sorry. I just lost track of time.”


My mom tugs a clip out of her hair, which uncoils onto her shoulders. She walks over and sits on the edge of my bed. “No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve let you down lately. You’ve had to be strong for the both of us. I didn’t realize what a burden I was placing on you.”

Oh God. Even though she pretty much just summed it up, I suddenly feel a million times worse. “It’s not you,” I say, trying to backtrack. “This isn’t a big deal. Really. I’m just . . . tired.”

“Why are you still awake?”

“No reason,” I say, with a shrug.

She glances behind me, where a corner of the paper is peeking out. And that’s when I know she’s on to me. I grab for it, but not fast enough. She whisks Nora’s paper out from behind me and stands up. “Is this from your boyfriend?” she asks, waving it in front of me.