“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.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
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.
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.
She must sense me, because she slowly glances over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine. She doesn’t seem rested at all. In fact, from the dark half-moons that have formed right above her cheeks, it doesn’t look like she’s slept since December.
“Where did you get this?” she asks, her voice weak and hoarse.
For a moment, I worry that she’s upset with me, but then I notice the small smile forming on her lips, like she’s trying to remember how to be happy.
I set down the package, but I hesitate. I know that when I respond, the small smile is going to disappear. I consider lying and telling her I found the book hiding somewhere, but she keeps this house like a shrine to my dad—everything he owned is still sprinkled around this place�
�so she wouldn’t believe that for a second. I almost feel a little angry with her for putting me in this position.
“At the depository. It was in his lockbox.”
“Oh my God, Regan. The appointment.” Mom covers her mouth with her trembling hand, and just like that, the smile is gone. “I’m so, so sorry. I got a call from Orexis about Elusion’s CIT approval a few hours ago, and I just got so worked up, thinking about your dad; I went to Elusion, and then I was just so tired. I sat down on the couch and . . .” She shrugs, choking back tears. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Really.”
I want to believe what I just said. I tell myself I just have to be more patient. But I know what she’s going to say next.
“All I need is a little more time. I’m going to do better tomorrow, I promise.”
Mom wipes her eyes with her shoulder so she doesn’t have to let go of the book. My heart immediately replaces anger with guilt, and the shift makes me hunch forward. Suddenly, I have the posture and regret of a woman five times my age.
“You’re right—tomorrow will be better,” I say.
She sits back down on the couch to collect herself and looks up at me. There’s a lot of red around her green irises, but that doesn’t stop her from forcing a grin for my benefit. I know this sounds selfish, but I wish she’d do that more often. Just to let me know she’s fighting to come back from wherever she is.
“This book,” she says, tapping on the cover, “this is the first gift I ever gave your father. It was his birthday, and we hadn’t been dating that long. But I knew he was a nature buff, so I just ordered it on a whim. I had no idea he still . . .”
When she pauses for a while, I sit down next to her, thinking my closeness might be comforting. “Well, he liked it enough to keep it under lock and key. That’s really sweet.”
“I suppose. I just thought he, I don’t know, was protecting something more important than this.”
“What do you mean?”
“The monthly fee of a security box at Morton and Wexley is almost a thousand credits a week. I’m sure this book represented a lot of fond memories, but it’s strange he’d spend so much just to prevent it from getting damaged or lost.”
“Or stolen,” I say, even though that thought seems a bit ridiculous.
Mom must think so too, because she chuckles a little. “Regan, who’d want to steal this? It’s not worth anything; it’s falling apart.”
“I know. I’m just trying to make sense of it.”
“Well, sometimes things don’t make sense right away, so you might as well put them aside and wait until they do.”
She finally lets go of the book and takes my hand. I was expecting her skin to feel cold, but it’s just the opposite. Her palm is warm and soft.
“So what’s inside the package?” she asks me, a hint of playfulness in her tone.
“I don’t know, something from Alessandra Cole.”
My mother’s eyes brighten. “Oh good, it’s your dress. I’m so glad I called over there this morning to confirm delivery. They totally messed up the dates.”
It takes me a second to register what she’s talking about, but when I do, my stomach performs a little flip of excitement. Before my dad died, she and I went to Alessandra to get fitted for formal ball gowns for Cathryn Simmons’s huge spectacle of a fiftieth birthday bash, which Cathryn has been planning since the day she turned forty-seven. I had seen a dress I loved, but because it was so expensive, I had put it on hold, intending to get my friends’ opinion before buying it. With everything that happened, it had slipped my mind entirely.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Open it up,” she says, squeezing my hand.
The way I spring off the couch catches me by surprise. I’m not really a girly-girl who squeals at the thought of putting on a pretty dress. But my mom is, and since she is clearly looking forward to seeing me in something sparkly and decadent, I don’t want to sour this moment.
Maybe she’s trying to find her fight.
After running into the kitchen to snag a laser pen from the utility drawer, I come back into the living room and waste no time aiming the red dot at the quick-seal and slicing through the sides of the box. Inside, there are a lot of small foam peanuts, tissue paper, and plastic to wade through. I have to admit, it’s fun throwing it all onto the floor. When I finally dig deep enough and get to the dress, I remember every single detail I loved about it.
The sweetheart neckline adorned with sequins. The mermaid fit that makes my waist look freakishly tiny. The bold emerald color that contrasts my light complexion perfectly.
As I pull it out of the box and hold it up to myself, my mom almost gasps.
“It’s every bit as perfect as I remember it,” she says proudly.
As much as I hate to admit these things, she’s right—it is.
“Go upstairs and put it on; then make an obscenely dramatic staircase entrance,” she adds, laughing.
This feels so good, being normal with her.
“Okay, but only if you try yours on with me,” I say, holding out my hand. We had also picked out a dress for my mom to wear. “Is it upstairs in your room?”
She visibly stiffens, and I feel my arm dropping.
“Regan, I’m sorry. I . . . I can’t go with you to the party.”
And suddenly, I’m clinging to the dress like it’s a safety blanket. “Why not?”
“Honey, it’s tomorrow night,” she says, casting her eyes away from me. “I don’t think I’m ready to be out in public just yet.”
“But you just said that tomorrow you’d be better.”
God, I sound like such a little brat. What I said is so manipulative and whiny, and I want to take it back, but it’s too late.
“I will be better. Just not enough to be social in a group of people who are going to want to talk about your father,” she explains. “Can you understand that?”
I want to say yes, but my bottom lip is quivering. I’m so ashamed for acting like a five-year-old who’s not getting her way, but . . .
Doesn’t she understand how hard it is to miss both Dad and her?
Mom gets up, leaving Walden behind on the couch, and comes over to hug me. My dress might get wrinkled, pressed between us like a pancake, but I couldn’t care less.
“Listen to me, Regan. I want you to go and have a great time with Patrick,” she says as she strokes my hair. Then all of a sudden I feel her start to shudder, like she’s about to cry too. “And don’t be afraid to keep living your life, either. Whatever it takes for you to heal from this, that’s what you should do.”
I want to say something, but if I let one word escape my lips, I won’t be able to hold us up anymore. So we stand like that for a while, quietly, until we’re both strong enough to let go.
I don’t look or feel at all like myself.
Maybe it’s because I’m not used to wearing haute couture, diamond chandelier earrings, waist-length hair extensions, or the pound of makeup that I let my mother layer on my face.
Or maybe it’s because the last time I followed hordes of guests up the polished granite walkway of the Simmons estate, Mom and I had just finished watching an empty coffin being loaded into our family crypt.
I inhale deeply, trying not to remember Dad’s memorial service or the reception that Patrick’s mom hosted for us afterward. But images from that day start flooding my mind, and I freeze, right in the middle of Cathryn’s stream of incoming party guests.
The boring black shift that I mindlessly slipped on that morning.
The minister bestowing blessings that I paid no attention to.
Mom doubled over when we said our final good-byes with the help of two single red roses.
I was in so much shock then; I didn’t even shed one tear. Perhaps if I’d seen my father’s body, I might have cried.
As I stand here, unable to move in my perfectly fitting, two-thousand-credit designer gown, I wish that shock had never gone away. Some
times I desperately miss the beautiful numbness that gets you through that first stage of grief or, if you’re lucky, makes you think that what’s happening to you isn’t even real.
Before my dad’s accident, Patrick and I used to Escape together with our Equip prototypes so we could feel that wonderful nothingness, but now . . .
Running my hands up my bare arms, the same way I did at my dad’s funeral, I feel like all the nerves on my skin are raw and exposed. It only gets worse post-Aftershock.
I know it. And so does my mom.
Suddenly, two women whiz by in identical hot-pink pantsuits, almost knocking me over. I’m actually thankful for their rudeness, because it propels me forward, although in baby steps. I steel myself and set my gaze on the enormous villa that Patrick grew up in. I don’t recall this place looking so intimidating, which is strange, because it’s the size of a city block and, with its large, domed ceiling, bears a strong resemblance to the old Detroit Observatory. It’s also on top of a steep hill in the exclusive Heights Sector, far from the reaches of Florapetro pollution, so no one has to worry about putting on their O2 shields.
I glance at the sparkly little white lights that coat the postmodernist sculpture garden and the three-tiered outdoor fountain, which bookend the house. Strands of silver garland are skillfully hung over the front of the forty-foot-tall arched windows. I’ve never seen the estate so impeccably decorated before, but I suppose that’s because a few years ago, Dad thought I was too young and immature to attend galas like these.
If only he could see me now.
I wait for the crowd to thin out a bit before I approach the grand entrance, and when I do, a long-legged woman in a gold spandex leotard holds out a scanner and smiles at me.
“Welcome,” she says. “Passcard, please.”
I open my silver beaded clutch and pluck the card out. While Goldie scans it and politely gives it back, another woman walks over, decked out in a similar blue costume and batting her glittering eyelashes.
“Follow me, Ms. Welch,” she says, motioning toward the right.
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