True: An Elixir Novel

by Hilary Duff

  “No,” I say. “I’m not.”

  “So you’re not a freak. Good. Miranda vouched for you, but you never know. What do you need?”

  I tell him I’m researching an article and would love the name and location of the Walk-Ins’ commune. I promise him I won’t let anyone know where I got it.

  “Don’t. They’re crazy. Especially Burnham Brightley. That one’s crazy-brilliant.”

  “Burnham Brightley?”

  “He runs the place. ‘Transitions,’ he calls it. Charges an arm and a leg for people to go and ease their way from one inner soul to another. He knew I was doing a puff piece, but he still wouldn’t let me go anywhere without him, and he wouldn’t let me ask any questions. Residents came and told me their stories, that’s all I got.”

  “Interesting. So what do you think would be the best way to approach him for an interview?”

  Greene laughs. “Good luck. After my piece he had some lawsuit against him, trying to pin him as a fraud, asking for all kinds of damages. No clue what happened with it, but I hear he’s even more clamped down than before. Don’t blame him; place has to be a cash cow. Last thing he wants is an exposé that’ll keep the loons away.”

  We talk a little more, and after I assure him again that his name will stay out of things, he tells me Transitions’ address and phone number.

  “So it’s a total scam?” Rayna says when I hang up.

  “Greene thinks so. At least, he thinks Brightley’s a fake . . . but that doesn’t mean everyone who goes to Transitions is a fake.”

  “He just thinks they’re crazy.”

  “And all those who’d be called crazy if they told everyone the true story of the last six months?” I ask. Rayna smiles as we both lift our hands. “Brightley may or may not have real information. But remember in the article it said some people stick around after they transitioned to help other people? If even a few of those are genuine Walk-Ins, they’re immersed in that world. They could have information that would help Sage.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Unless it’s different with a Walk-In because the new soul was invited in,” I say, “so maybe the body’s less likely to reject it.”

  “Body and soul are two different things. Just because the soul agrees to the swap, the body might not be on board.” Rayna draws a deep breath, then says, “Clea, what if that’s happening with Nico? What if his body doesn’t want Sage to be there?”

  “It’s possible, I guess. Whatever the reason, Sage is getting worse, and I feel like the people at Transitions are the first real chance we have to get help.”

  “I think so too. But do you really think they’ll talk to us on the phone?”

  “No, I don’t. If we want to talk to the Walk-Ins, we need to go in with one.”

  nine

  CLEA

  “You should have told me,” Ben says. “That was exactly the kind of thing you were supposed to write down in the notebook.”

  The rows in the plane are so close together that all he has to do is lean forward a little and his voice is right in my ear. Sage and I are in one row of two, me on the aisle, with Ben right behind me and Rayna right behind Sage. Sage is asleep, or Ben and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  “I know,” I say, “but I was handling it.”

  We’ve been going over this again and again since last night. Once I’d decided on our new plan, I went to find Sage and tell him. That left Rayna and Ben in the house together, and she told him about Sage’s violent episodes. He cornered me later and I admitted everything to him, and while he’s been smart enough not to say anything in front of Sage, he hisses my ear off about it every chance he gets.

  “Handling it? You got your head busted open. You still don’t know what the hell he did before you found him in Rhode Island. He could have assaulted someone.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t assault anyone.”

  “How are you sure?”

  I’m not sure at all. The truth is, I’ve been torturing myself about it for days, scouring the papers online and holding my breath while I wait for a story about a random body left in the woods. But I don’t want to say that to Ben.

  “He’d have wanted you to tell me,” Ben says. “If he was in his right mind, you know he would. He told us what he wanted me to do.”

  I wheel in my seat to face him. “He doesn’t need to be locked up. Look at where we are. We’re taking steps to heal him. And you’re here, right? That should make you feel better.”

  My original plan hadn’t involved Ben coming to Sedona. I wanted him and Rayna to stay with Sage and keep an eye on him while I went alone. When Sage refused to stick around without me, Rayna insisted on coming too, to help me handle him, which Ben thought was a joke. If Sage acted out at Transitions, I’d need more than just Rayna’s help. Much as I hated to admit it, he was right, so now there’s four of us jetting out to Arizona.

  Sage groans in his sleep and shifts mightily. His knees push against the seat in front of him, and the woman sitting there glares back at us. I give her an apologetic, close-lipped smile and wish I’d thought to upgrade us to business class. Ben, meanwhile, leans back in his seat, and I’m grateful for the break in his diatribe.

  After a five-hour flight and a two-hour drive, we get to Sedona. The minute we cross the town line, it’s like the atmosphere gets thinner and we can all breathe again. It’s so beautiful, like driving through a watercolor. Giant red striated rocks burst out of the ground on either side of the road, standing in stark contrast to the crystal-blue sky. Even the roadside scrub seems green, lush, and—okay, fine—energized. As if on cue, all four of us roll down our windows. I’m in the back with Rayna, and I take a deep breath to drink in the desert air. It works its way through my body and makes me feel loose and calm. Sage and Ben are feeling it too, I can tell. In the passenger seat, Sage closes his eyes against the soothing wind, then reaches his hands back and presses his palms against the roof of the car, stretching himself long. Ben rests his elbow on the window and bounces his head to music only he can hear.

  Maybe there’s something to healing vibrations after all.

  The plan is to go right to Transitions. We have an appointment. I called yesterday from my cell, which has caller ID blocked. I told the receptionist I was “Clementine,” that “my sister, Charlotte” was weary of the world, had already reached an agreement with a spirit now sharing her body, and needed help transitioning to the beyond. At that point I knew we’d all be going, so I said Charlotte would be accompanied by me, our brother (actually Sage), and my husband (Ben). When I told the receptionist we’d be flying in the next day, she took down our flight time and said she’d be happy to welcome us the minute we landed.

  We rented a car with GPS, so we wouldn’t get lost. It’s good we did, because the place is almost impossible to find. There’s no sign, and the entrance all but disappears among the succulents. Even after we turn and pass the twin stone walls that flank the driveway, we can only assume we’re in the right spot.

  “Smile,” I say. “If they’re as careful here as Randolph Greene said, I’m sure we’re already on camera.”

  The driveway winds over half a mile of desert, and when we eventually see the building, it looks like nothing special—a flat, square adobe in a sandy color that blends in with the grounds.

  “Okay,” I say, “let’s go over it one last time. I’m Charlotte.” I turn to Rayna. “You’re Clementine, and you called yesterday and spoke to the receptionist. Ben, you’re my brother-in-law—”

  “Does that mean he’s married to me?” Rayna asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ew.”

  “What?” Ben says. “Like that would be so horrible?”

  “Not horrible, just . . . weird. Can we maybe be separated?”

  “Get over it,” I say. “It’s a pretend marriage. Sage . . .”

  Sage is agitated again, his jaw working as he taps his fingers in an unsteady rhythm on the roof of the car. His episodes come fast
and furious now. I’m amazed he hasn’t had one since we left, but there’s only so long our luck can hold out.

  Apparently he knows what I’m thinking. He turns and gives me a smile. “I’m here. I’m good.”

  I want to believe him, but there’s a sheen of sweat on his face, and I don’t think it’s from the desert air. Still, I know better than to challenge him.

  “Great,” I say. “So you’re all believers, and you’re all checking in to be with me while I transition.”

  Ben pulls into a parking spot, and I only start to panic as we get out of the car.

  What am I doing? I take pictures, I’m no undercover reporter. I don’t do sting operations, or embed myself with military groups. And it’s not like I can act. What makes me think I can pull this off?

  Sage squeezes my hand as he helps me out, then leans close and whispers in my ear, “You don’t have to do this. We’ll find another way.”

  He says it . . . but I know it’s not true. We’ve looked for another way and haven’t found anything yet. If we had more time, maybe this wouldn’t be our first choice, but Sage’s soul is losing its grip. He needs answers, and this is the best chance we have of finding them.

  Besides, I remind myself, I really have nothing to be afraid of. Burnham Brightley might do anything to protect his moneymaking scheme, but it’s not like I’m out to expose it. He can bilk as many gullible people out of their money as he wants, as far as I’m concerned. The information I need has nothing to do with all that.

  We walk in a close knot as we make our way toward the entrance. Sedona might have a warm and healing energy, but Transitions does not, and we all feel it. There’s something ominous about the place. The door is as brown as the rest of the building. There’s no welcome mat, no sign, no knocker or doorbell. There isn’t even a doorknob.

  Ben knocks, but no one answers. It’s Rayna who finds the intercom on the wall to the right. It’s the same dirt brown that blends into every other surface we can see. If I was really a Walk-In about to spend my life’s savings on an extended stay, I’d be seriously bummed out.

  “Hello?” comes a voice through the intercom.

  “Hi,” Rayna says. “It’s me, Clementine. I spoke to you on the phone yesterday about my sister, Charlotte?”

  “Oh, yes!” the voice says. “We’re all ready for you. Come in.”

  We hear a buzz, and Ben pushes on the door. It gives easily, and we move inside from a world of beige and brown to full Technicolor. When the door closes behind us, it’s almost impossible to believe this lush wonderland was even attached to what we saw up front. The lobby has no back wall—it’s open to the grounds and the red rock mountains in the distance, a color echoed in the red terra-cotta tiles on the floor. These end at a lush green lawn that spreads around a black-bottomed amoeba-shaped pool, with a raised circular Jacuzzi at one end. A waterfall flows from the Jacuzzi to the pool, and while I know it’s manufactured, it looks like a completely natural oasis. Giant flowers add bursts of red, yellow, orange, and pink to the landscape.

  We’re clearly all staring, because the receptionist clucks her understanding. “You’d never know it from the outside, right? Spirit Burnham did it that way on purpose. He built into a hillside so we’d have more privacy.” The woman is tiny, and looks almost exactly like a sunflower. An older sunflower that’s starting to wither, but a sunflower nonetheless. She wears a green pantsuit and has a leathery, suntanned face and a mane of frizzy blond hair. When she gestures outside, I see that both her hands are folded in on themselves, curled by severe arthritis. “I’m Spirit Bitsy. You just enjoy the view. I’ll go get Spirit Burnham.”

  She clicks across the tile on four-inch heels that mean she’s even shorter than I imagined. I don’t know what’s more remarkable, her tiny stature or that at her age she can still walk on stilettos.

  “The minute we check in, I’m jumping in that pool,” Rayna says.

  “Clementine . . .,” I say, trying to remind her we’re surely on camera and won’t be welcomed if they think we’re crashing.

  “Right. Sorry, Charlotte.”

  I look up at Sage and follow his gaze to the chairs on the lawn. Two heavyset men play cards, while a young woman relaxes on a chaise. Is he wondering if one of them knows how to save him from soul rejection? I am. The place gives me more creeps than warm fuzzies, but something tells me we’re in the right spot to get answers.

  “Good afternoon, my friends!” Burnham Brightley coos. The man is almost disturbingly well tanned, and when he shakes, he does so with a double-handed grip. He wears a crisp white suit, his posture is perfect, and he exudes power, charisma, and a friendliness that makes you want to lean toward him and get closer. If it weren’t for the jarring slight surfer-boy accent and the fashion-crime Birkenstocks on his feet, I’d mistake him for Mr. Roarke on Fantasy Island.

  He shakes my hand last, and cradles it in his while he looks deep into my eyes. “Spirit Charlotte, it is an honor that you’ve chosen our little slice of paradise in which to make your transition. We do not take your trust lightly, and I promise you we’ll make this fork in the road as seamless and beautiful as possible.”

  He’s good. I almost wish I was transitioning; he makes it sound so lovely. “Thank you.”

  “Now just take a moment to say your good-byes and we’ll get you checked in.”

  Good-byes?

  “Wait,” I splutter. “I thought friends and family could stay and be involved in the process.”

  “That used to be the case, yes,” Brightley says, “but we’ve since changed our policy. Unfortunately, we’ve had some bad experiences with supporting guests who came in with the wrong energy and threatened to sabotage everything we work to achieve. While I’m sure none of you would do such a thing, the stakes are just too high for our transitioners. It’s not a risk we can take. I’m sure you understand.”

  I understand that whatever lawsuits Brightley faced have made him gun-shy. He only wants the true believers. My throat constricts when I think of staying here by myself, and I try to talk him out of it. “I’m sorry, but my sister told your receptionist we’d all be coming. I heard her.”

  “And they’re welcome to be here, Charlotte. To drop you off, not to stay. If Spirit Bitsy gave you another impression, I apologize. So please say your good-byes, then we can quickly handle all the nagging bookkeeping and paperwork and get you settled in your new home.”

  Sage puts his hands firmly on my shoulders. I lean back slightly, letting his strength prop me up. “One question first,” Sage asks, “how many other residents do you have here now?”

  I immediately recognize what he’s doing. He wants to make sure there are enough people around that it’s worth the risk of me being here alone.

  “At the moment we have ten transitioners, plus five facilitators who have already transitioned and choose to stay on and help others. It’s an option we offer, for those who don’t wish to go back into the outside world. There’s a fee, of course, but the calling comes with great satisfaction.” Brightley turns to me, his eyes brimming with ersatz kindness. “You might choose that route yourself.”

  Ten transitioners and five facilitators. That’s fifteen people who might know something that can help. We only need one.

  “That sounds nice,” I say meekly. My plan is to say pretty much everything meekly as Charlotte, since I’m supposed to be the soul who wants out. Fifteen people shouldn’t take that long to interview, either. A few days, tops.

  Sage gives voice to my thoughts. “Clementine never found out the length of stay,” he says. “If we can’t be here with Charlotte, when can we get her? When can we see her?”

  “You won’t see Spirit Charlotte at all, now will you? You’ll see . . .”

  He turns to me for a response.

  “Spirit Krysta,” I supply.

  He smiles warmly. “Spirit Krysta, then. That’s who you’ll see. When she has arrived and is ready.”

  “Assuming she wants to see you,” Spi
rit Bitsy giggles. “After all, she’s a whole new person. You never know!”

  “Thank you, Spirit Bitsy,” Brightley says tightly, and Bitsy immediately clams up and looks at the floor. “As for visiting hours,” he continues, “they’re entirely dependent on how Spirit Charlotte is feeling. If you provide Spirit Bitsy with all your numbers, she’ll be sure to call and let you know.”

  On cue, Spirit Bitsy grabs a clipboard and passes it around to Rayna, Sage, and Ben so they can write down their numbers.

  “Very well,” Brightley says. “Now, Spirit Charlotte . . . are we ready?”

  I feel Sage’s hands tighten on my shoulders. I reach up and cover them with mine, but it’s Brightley’s eyes that I meet.

  “Spirit Charlotte and Spirit Krysta are both ready,” I say.

  Brightley nods, and I turn to my family. My fake family, but they’re as much my real family as anyone. The three of them all look frightened for me, but there’s no reason. It’s just that we weren’t expecting to split up, and now we are. And sure, this place is a little creepy, especially since I’m pretty sure Brightley’s just a con man trying to wheedle money out of people, but when I’m ready to leave, I can say that “Spirit Krysta” has arrived and taken over, then I’ll check out . . . ideally with a way to help heal Sage.

  Easy.

  I hug Ben and Rayna first, then Sage, gripping on to him as tightly as I can. I lift onto tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek in as sisterly a way as I can manage, then bring my lips to his ear to whisper, “You’ll hear from me within twenty-four hours. I love you.”

  “Off we go then!” Spirit Bitsy says, and shoos them out the door. Sage’s eyes gazing back at me are the last thing I see before it slams shut.

  That’s when I notice there’s no knob on this side of the door either.

  “Well then,” Brightley says, draping an arm over my shoulder. “Let’s get you situated, Spirit Charlotte. Shall we?”

  ten

  RAYNA

  “Okay, let’s just say it out loud, ’cause the silence is killing me: It totally sucks leaving Clea there.”