Claudia Gabel - Elusion

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.”

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.

Coming back from Elusion is like finding out he’s dead all over again.

High pollutant levels or no, I need some air.

I stand up, setting the copy of Walden in my place, and sneak out of the living room through the front door. There’s a chill outside that wasn’t there fifteen minutes ago when Patrick dropped me off, and it’s enough to make me shiver. The cool temperature feels really good against my flushed skin, so I push up my sleeves and unbutton the collar of my shirt down to my breastbone. But when I breathe deeply, it feels like something is scraping against the back of my throat.

I know I should go and get my O2 shield. Dad was so militant about protecting ourselves from inhaling Florapetro residue. He would have a conniption if he caught me without it. Still, retreating into our house isn’t an option right now.

To me, it seems more toxic inside than it is out here.

I park myself on the steps and look down Hollow Street, which hasn’t changed since the day I was born. The rows of historic brick townhomes are all perfectly indistinguishable, with one exception, of course. The pathway in front of our house is the only one with the shape of a star pressed into the concrete, signaling that someone important—in this case, my father—once lived here. I guess that’s supposed to make me feel proud. Usually I walk right over the seal and pretend it’s not even there, but tonight it takes a Herculean effort to keep my eyes focused on the pops of light coming from behind my neighbors’ windows.

Thankfully, the roar of a V12 synthetic-oil engine pulls my attention somewhere else and my head turns. A bulldozer-size delivery truck lurches down the road and comes to a stop a few feet away. I rise to my feet when a slender man in a light gray shirt and black pants exits the driver’s side, carrying a large parcel. When his shoes walk across the star on our pathway, it feels like something is coiling around my midsection and squeezing.

“Regan Welch?” The man’s words come out quick behind his O2 shield, like he’s in a big rush, so I just nod. He sets the package down on the steps with a thud and types on his tablet, his eyes never meeting mine. Then he shoves the tablet in front of me. “Scan here, please.”

I reach into my cargo-skirt pocket and pull out my card, tapping it against the screen. Once we hear a chirping sound, the deliveryman yanks the tablet away from me so he can dash toward his truck, practically knocking over the package in the process.

“Thanks for being so careful!” I shout sarcastically, but he slams the truck door in reply and slowly chugs away, a stream of exhaust hurtling behind him.

Sighing, I pick up the package, which is surprisingly heavy considering that it’s packed in a durable foam box, and look to see who sent it. The tag reads Alessandra Cole. The trendiest boutique in the Heights Sector.

It wasn’t my birthday. Who would send me something from Alessandra Cole?

I’m about to rip it open on the steps, but when I see how secure it is—there are thick, orange strips of quick-seal on every side—I realize I’m going to need a laser pen to tear into it. The other thing I realize is that I’m starting to wheeze a little, so going back inside the House of Darkness is an absolute must now.

I hold the package in between my knees as I wave my passcard in front of the lockpad near the front door, unlocking it and pushing it open with my left hand. I gently set the box on the ground and nudge it forward until it passes through the entryway. The door softly shuts behind me and I lift the package up with both hands, almost dropping it when I see my mother standing in the middle of the living room, her back to me as she holds the book my dad left in the lockbox out in front of her.