James Patterson - The Gift

“Oh, I shall, Wisteria.” She laughs. “These old bones don’t sprint anywhere anymore anyway.” Can this lady be serious? “Yes,” she says, looking at me as if to warn me she might be able to read my mind. “It showed some real chutzpah, making the decision to come here through all of that. Your parents are very proud of you.”

“How do you know that?” Wisty blurts.

“Have you heard from them?” I ask at the same time.

“I have. And you are about to, my dears. I’ve been practicing my holographic technique and, wouldn’t you know, your parents just popped up!”

Wisty and I look at each other. “Isn’t that the same thing The One was talking about back at the BNW Center?” I exclaim, first with surprise, then with horror. For all we know, this strange little lady might be partners with the guy.

“But it’s not… real, is it?” Wisty’d hoped that the twisted hallucination of our parents was just The One’s theatrics.

“Oh, it’s real, all right,” Mrs. H. says, and I frown. What does “real” mean anymore anyway? “Come here, and I’ll show you. Come quickly. I don’t know how long my magic will last.”

We weave our way around the barrel and settle down at a table cluttered with stacks of books, pens, paper, candles, matches, and the odd pot and pan.

“Now, where did it disappear to? Oh, here we go.” She lifts up a dirty dishcloth to reveal-as if she’s just itching to make her whole witchy image complete-something that looks like a glass ball .

This can’t be where the answers to our problems lie.

“How does it work?” Wisty asks.

“Ask your brother.” Mrs. H. looks at me and smiles knowingly. “Here, Whit. Put your palm on the glass.” She picks up my hand and places it on the ball along with hers. The globe feels really warm, like a coffee pot that’s only just starting to cool down.

There’s a flash of light as soon as my hand makes contact.

“Whoa!” I say. I definitely felt something surge from me-something powerful-but I’m too freaked out to let on. I’m so not ready to accept this new gig as a fortune-teller.

“Ben? Liz? You still there?” Mrs. H. shouts as if she’s yelling into a phone with a bad connection. “Your children decided to show up. I gather the bombings slowed them down a bit.”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing play out right under my hand. Clouds and shapes swirling and then coming together-as the faces of my parents suddenly appear.

“Mom! Dad!” Wisty and I shout together.

They still look eerily gaunt, but this time Dad’s eyes are open, thank God, and they both smile when they hear our voices.

“Whit! I see you so clearly!” Mom says. “Can Wisty come a little closer? We need to talk.”

Whit

GREAT! WE’RE TRYING to fight a war, our parents are scheduled to be executed, and they’re having a “we need to talk” moment. Here’s the thing: you never grow up in your parents’ eyes.

Wisty pushes me to the side a little. “I’m here. Mom! Dad! Are you okay? We’re so worried about you,” she says in a burst of words and emotion.

“Don’t worry about us,” Dad says firmly, avoiding Wisty’s question. “We don’t have much time, but we wanted to let you know how you’re doing.”

I’m more confused now than I was even a second ago. “Shouldn’t we be telling you how we’re doing?”

Mom shakes her head. “You’ve been so brave-both of you. We’re very proud of your strength and spirit. It’s been tough going, we know, but you’re really getting the hang of the magic. And you’re starting to understand how to share it, which is extremely important.”

“The thing is,” Dad jumps in, “time is starting to run a little bit short. So… we wanted to suggest that you… pick up the pace a bit.”

“Dad! Pick up the pace? ” Wisty’s a little indignant now. Good old Dad, always trying to get us to be the first and the fastest.

“You may have to do some things that don’t feel… right to you. Things outside of your comfort zone. Whit knows all about that, right, Whit? ‘No pain, no gain.’ You’ll need to be counterintuitive at times.”

Wisty looks troubled, but I can’t help hearing Celia’s voice in my head. “Do you mean, like… turning ourselves in?” I ask.

Wisty shakes her head and butts in. “But, Mom, we’ve had so much pain! We’ve got blood and scars all over ourselves to prove it.” Her voice is trembling now. “You’re our parents! Don’t you want us to be safe?”

“Doing important things isn’t always safe, sweetie,” Mom says with a pained look. “It’s the hardest lesson for a parent to teach, or for some kids to learn. But that’s what the Allgoods were born for. You’ve found your Gifts. Now give them away.”

“Give them away?” I exclaim. “What’s that mean? To who? The One? ”

“That’s insane!” Wisty shouts, and I’m instantly reminded of her wild ways back in school.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but that’s about all we can tell you right now,” Dad says. “Because it’s all we know. We love you and miss you both…”

Our parents’ faces begin to fade. And they’re both smiling bravely.

“Don’t go yet! Mom! Dad! ” Wisty is still shouting. “Please don’t go!”

Mrs. Highsmith shushes her. “My neighbors cause me trouble enough without them complaining about somebody yelling in my kitchen,” she says.

“But we need to talk to them some more,” Wisty argues. “We really do.”

Mrs. H. is already up and back at her freaking cauldron-thingy.

“The important thing is that your parents are safe for the moment, even if they’re in a little trouble, shall we say.”

“‘A little trouble’? Listen, lady,” I tell her, ignoring the fact that it’s probably a bad idea to insult a crazy witch, “we risked our lives coming here to get advice. Our parents are on death row. Our friends are trapped in a steam pipe under a war zone. The New Order has nearly completed their total occupation of the Overworld. And we don’t have any clues about what The One wants from Wisty or how we’re supposed to win against these egomaniacal wackjobs.”

She stops stirring her pot and looks at us, rather amused. It’s enough to drive me insane when a grown-up does that. And they do it all the time.

“Heavens, children. The clues are all there in front of you. You just have to look harder. And as for what The One wants with your sister, well, it’s perfectly obvious what you have, my dear, that he doesn’t have.”

It’s the worst possible moment for a gale-force wind to crash through the apartment windows and virtually demolish the apartment. And us.

The One has found us!

“You told him we were here!” Wisty shouts at the old witch.

Wisty

I’VE NEVER FELT his power as strongly as I do right now.

After barely escaping flying shards of glass, Whit and I are gripping an old-fashioned radiator, holding ourselves down and out of the way of crashing furniture, cutlery, and appliances as a tornado of fury tears through the apartment.

Mrs. Highsmith, on the other hand, resolutely stands her ground in the middle of the swirling maelstrom. “He’s mastered the air!” she shouts through the din. “Study his every move. Learn from this.”