Idly thumbing through the divorce papers, Sam actually felt disappointed with her findings. She’d expected something juicier, like money laundering, bribes from a drug cartel, something . . . not this. Well, it wasn’t as if Sam’s life would change all that much. She doubted her dad would want visitation rights. Although it was wrong to just assume she would stay with her mom. Maybe they’d just draw straws to decide who would keep her.
Disgusted, she moved to replace the unhinged door when something else caught her attention: A brown leather folder, lying at the very bottom of the largest pile. For some reason, Sam had the distinct feeling she’d seen it before. She reached a shaky hand toward it. When she pulled it out, a terrible urge to put it back came over her. Against her better judgment, she undid the leather strap that held it closed.
As she read the old document, the pages shook in her hand and a crazy rhythm hammered her chest. Like a rain gauge, her eyes filled up with tears until they spilled over her cheeks and fell onto the words that finally explained her entire life all too clearly. She sat there, completely still, before moving a muscle.
After several minutes, Sam came back to life. Mechanically, she put everything back in place. When she left, it was as if she’d never been there. Just as planned. She went into her bedroom, placed the screwdriver next to her books and stared at it for a very long time. A simple tool, one in a set of twelve, all with bright red, ergonomic handles. An expensive set that had helped Sam find out the cheapest, most tasteless piece of news.
She wasn’t their kid. Gibson & Gibson had adopted her when she was two years old.
After some time, Sam crawled under the blankets, suddenly cold. She closed her eyes and quietly wept. There were tears, but they didn’t register. Just like she couldn’t feel her nails or her hair growing, she couldn’t feel the tears leaving her eyes. What did register, however, were two thoughts. Or maybe it was one, except it was double-edged.
One, Gibson & Gibson—it was amazing how quickly she became unable to think of them as “Mom and Dad”—had always had a reason for not loving her. Two, her biological parents had given her away. In the end, both facts led to the same conclusion.
She was unwanted.
Sam felt lost. Adrift. In an instant, the precious little bit of self-image she’d cultivated was snatched away. She was left with an empty void, an enormous desolation that immediately stole her sense of direction. She wanted to run away, but had nowhere to go. All she had were questions. One of them stood out as the most important.
Who are my real parents?
Chapter 7 - Greg
Greg was alone in his room. He sat up slowly, his body unable to fulfill his urgent desire to escape. A fog clouded his brain as if it’d been burning hot and someone had dropped a bucket of ice water on it. Heavy steam rose, obscuring all but the most basic thoughts.
He peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He was absolutely parched. Throwing his feet to one side of the bed, he set them heavily on the floor. He wiggled his toes and stared in disbelief. His feet had grown three sizes, at least! They looked as if they belonged to someone else.
Feeling clumsy, still unaccustomed to his new size, Greg wrapped a sheet around his waist, stood and wobbled on his large extremities. Strangely, he didn’t feel tall; rather, everything in the room looked smaller. It felt as if his head would hit the ceiling. Stumbling, he headed for the bathroom and had to duck under the door frame. He had to be well over six feet! Days ago, he’d been barely five nine.
He approached the mirror over the sink and was again shocked by his new look, by how much he resembled his father. He felt stupid to be surprised; for once, people would finally believe he wasn’t the homely kid adopted by the nice, gorgeous couple. He examined his chest and arms. His biceps bulged and looked as if he’d been pumping iron with some infomercial exercise guru. He wondered if the new musculature would help on the basketball court. He couldn’t wait to give it a try.
So this is how Dad always keeps in shape? Morphid genes? Maybe if I worked out on top of it, I could be the next Mr. Universe. The thought amused him for a split second, then reality struck. He didn’t look like himself. No one would recognize him, or believe this was some uncanny growth spurt over summer break. No one! Not his neighbors, or teachers, or even his friends. The thought made him sad. He knew he couldn’t tell them the truth about how he’d turned into some pretty, supermodel dude (he just knew this was how his average-looking friends would see it.) They wouldn’t believe him anyway, because, to the world, going into stasis inside a cocoon and hopping right out brand-spanking new wasn’t normal. It was creepy, like out of a horror or Sci-Fi movie.
Feeling glum, he turned on the water and splashed some on his face. His mental fog lifted slowly, which only caused his thoughts to multiply, rushing in like gasoline through a fuel injector. Suddenly, his new appearance was less important. The room revolved, and Greg gripped the sink, overpowered by an onslaught of weird, unfamiliar ideas. His mind was on fire.
-Get dressed!
He blinked, backed out of the bathroom and sat at the edge of his bed, breathing heavily.
-A map. Get a map.
“Greg?” Mom appeared and hesitated at the threshold.
His head still spinning, Greg lifted a pleading gaze toward her, silently asking: “What’s wrong with me?” She smiled back, obliviously proud of what she thought he’d become.
-On top of the fridge. Hurry!
Greg gripped the edge of the bed. Every new thought was more urgent and ardent than the last. He felt the urge to run downstairs and pull out the road atlas that rested on top of the refrigerator, but his body was stiff with opposition. It was like he now had two minds: the human mind Greg knew himself as; and the new, Morphid mind that was filling his head with strange thoughts and urges. His breathing grew ragged as the two natures battled inside him. His Morphid side’s commands were plain and simple, but Greg had no idea of their purpose.
“It will get clearer, son,” Mom said. “I’ll go fetch Dad. Don’t move.”
He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. The weight of his convoluted mind paralyzed him. Part of him wanted to run, but he remained perched on the bed, clutching the mattress with white-knuckle strength. More thoughts spurted out, setting his mind ablaze.
-C’mon. No time to waste. Move. Now!
He could hear his parents running up the stairs. Dad walked in first, dragging his wife by the hand. He smiled and echoed her words. “It’ll get clearer, Greg. Just try to calm down.”
-Calm down? I can’t calm down! I have to get dressed and find a map. His brand new self won this round. Greg said nothing and rushed to his dresser. Behind him, Mom gasped. He ignored her and yanked the top drawer open. Empty.
“Where are my clothes?” he demanded, looking back at his perplexed parents. “What? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Where are my clothes? I need to get dressed. Now!”
They didn’t respond. Instead, they stood there, speechless, looking as if they’d just found out a meteor was going to hit the earth in the next second. His mother clung to her husband as if searching for protection from the imminent cataclysm. Slowly, Dad pushed her aside and walked toward Greg.
“Would you let me . . . see your mark?” he asked gently.
Greg had forgotten all about the mark, but the look of uncertainty in Dad’s eyes brought it all home. An anxious panic seized him; once he knew his caste, there was no going back.
“No,” Greg said with sudden dread, taking a step back as tension tightened his entire body.
“Son, please.”
Greg’s gaze shifted from one apprehensive parent to another. It was stupid to refuse. Whether he showed them or not, the mark wasn’t going anywhere. It was there to stay, like the sharper blue of his eyes and the creepy length of his lashes. He unclenched his now-huge fists and allowed Dad to walk behind him. Greg waited with a lump in his throat for Dad to say something, but all he heard was a tremulous inhale.
“What . . . is it?” Mom asked, looking as if she’d rather let that meteor hit than hear the answer.
“It’s a . . . I don’t know. It looks like wings,” Dad murmured.
“What caste?” Greg asked, tasting his panic. His parents had never mentioned any castes marked by wings, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything bad. A least he wasn’t a Companion. He was glad he wasn’t a Companion.
“Wings? What kind of wings?” Mom asked in a shaky tone.
“Maybe . . . like angel wings,” Dad said doubtfully.
“Dad. What. Caste?” Greg repeated, punctuating each word.
“I—I don’t know.” Dad sounded at a loss. He walked around, faced Greg and put a hand on his shoulder. Greg blinked. Dad was now a few inches shorter than him. Looking down at him felt wrong and gave him a slight feeling of vertigo.
Bowing his head slightly, Dad said, “It’s a mark I’ve . . . never seen or heard of before.”
Mom put a hand on her mouth as a single sob escaped her lips. A strange heaviness and dread settled in Greg’s gut. Right away, he felt the fear of what he had become, fear of what the mark meant, of the erratic thoughts and urges filling his head. After all that, he still had no idea what his destiny was. A rapid pounding filled his chest. The room spun. Greg put a hand on Dad’s arm. Just as the panic almost drove him to his knees, it abruptly stopped.
“I have no time for this,” he blurted out, the words taking shape before he realized they were coming out. His Morphid side was back in action. “I need my clothes.”
“They’re too small now,” Dad said. “We thought we would take you shopping for some new ones.” He smiled sadly, watching the future he’d imagined for his son disintegrate. “You can go in my closet and find what you need,” he finished, in complete understanding of his son’s urgency.
Greg lumbered out of his bedroom, clumsy and unaccustomed to his oversized limbs. He found his way to his parents’ closet, feeling disoriented. Clothes hung from white plastic hangers in neat, color coordinated rows. Greg dropped the sheet he wore around his waist and snatched what was closest at hand: A pair of khaki pants and a white, button-up shirt. They were pressed and starched, just back from the cleaners.
He threw the shirt on and stuffed his bulging arms through the long sleeves. After pulling on the slacks, he buttoned and zipped everything. Standing in the closet, he gaped at himself in the body-length mirror. Everything was tight and a couple inches too short. Part of his mind rebelled at the sight. He looked dorky as hell.
-It doesn’t matter, the new part of him said.
Yeah, not important, he answered himself. Greg shook his head.
Shoes, he needed shoes. He found a pair of leather loafers, but after trying and failing to stuff his feet inside of them, he settled for a pair of sandals.
Now I really look retarded. Dress pants and sandals?
With one sandal on his foot and another in his hand, he walked past his wide-eyed parents, and staggered downstairs to the kitchen. Going straight for the tall fridge, he easily reached out and retrieved the road atlas that sat on top of it. He threw the old, dusty thing on the kitchen table and stared at it, bewildered. After a long moment, he scratched his head. He started to open it, but . . . to where? The force that had driven him to find the atlas was gone. Hopping on one foot, he slipped the other sandal on. He squinted at the atlas as if it held the key to a door he never wanted to open. He took a step back.
“It’ll come to you,” Dad said from behind, startling Greg. He whirled and faced his parents. They looked wary, especially Mom, who tightly held a fistful of her t-shirt.
“What’s happening to me?” Greg asked, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples. “I’m going crazy.”
“Don’t fight it, son,” Dad said.
“Maybe he should,” Mom blurted out.
“Erica!” The shock and reproach in Dad’s voice was close to outrage.
“We don’t know where this is going to take him, Nick!” She seemed on the verge of tears. “His caste . . . we don’t—”
“You know he can’t fight it.”
“He sure looks like he’s trying,” she said, pointing at Greg.
Shaking on the spot, Greg felt the renewed urge to open the road atlas to look for . . . for who knows what? He had no idea.
“If he fights it, he may go mad,” Dad argued. “Is that what you want?”
“It would be better than losing him. We don’t even know what he is.”
“How can you say that? He’s our son!”
His parents continued their argument, completely ignoring him. Greg caught their words like random flashes of light that both enlightened and blinded him. What they said made sense for one instant and the next, it sounded as convoluted as the theory of relativity.
“What would you have him do, then?”
“Why couldn’t he just be one of us?”
“It wouldn’t be much different. He would still have to leave to find his Integral.”
“But for what? Danger? Slavery? What?!” His mom sounded almost hysterical.
“There are other—”
Why didn’t they just . . . “Shut up!” Greg screamed, falling to his knees and covering his ears as if to crush the madness raving inside his head.
This is what it feels like to be possessed, he thought. Maybe what they needed was a priest. Holy water would fix him, a crucifix and maybe some incense, too. Whatever had taken hold of his mind was fierce. He needed it out. His eyes squinted shut and tears rolled down the sides of his face as he fought the intruder chattering in his mind. A hand grasped his shoulder. He recoiled.
“Honey,” Mom said, a new, gentle tone in her voice. “Don’t fight it. It’s okay. It’s who you are.”
Greg looked up. Mom looked pained, but weary acceptance filled her eyes. She hugged him, and his resolve melted away. It was too much. He was too weak to fight the call in his mind. He stood shakily, took a deep breath, and just listened. Like a bolt of lightning, it hit him.
-Turn the pages.
He flipped the atlas open.
-Keep going.
Greg obeyed and turned the pages until he knew to stop.
There: Indiana. He leaned forward and waited for the next command. Nothing else came. He looked to his parents, confused. His impulses had been so clear and demanding just a second ago, and now he felt as empty as a bubble floating in midair.
“Give it time,” Dad said. “It takes practice, and it’s never really perfect or foolproof.”
“Indiana,” Mom said, peering over Greg’s shoulder to look at the map. The name sounded hopeful on her lips. At least Indiana was in the States, not across the world. “Do you think his Integral is in Indiana?” she asked Dad.
“I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe it’s something else. We don’t even know what his caste would have him do.”
“But what else could it be?”
Silence.
Greg pulled out a chair and sat, feeling as if he’d just hiked Mount Everest. His hands shook, and his breathing was ragged. He felt completely sapped of energy. Suddenly, he realized he hadn’t eaten in nine days. Greg gave his parents a dramatic look, and took a deep breath.
“I’m hungry.” His stomach growled in agreement. He gave Mom his practiced starving puppy look. The tension in the room dissolved, and they all laughed, even if a little hysterically.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” Mom said, glad to have something to do.
Four slices of toast, three eggs, six pieces of bacon, and a tall glass of OJ later, Greg felt almost like his old self. There were no crazy ideas firing inside his head, and his hands were steady. Maybe food was all he needed to keep the Jekyll and Hyde turmoil at bay.
“Feel better?” Dad asked.
Greg nodded. They sat across from him at the small kitchen table.
“Any idea what’s in Indiana yet?” Dad asked.
Greg shook his head.
“It’ll come to yo
u when the time is right.”
“Is it always so confusing?”
“I wouldn’t call it confusing. I’d call it . . . incomplete,” Dad said.
Yes. That was it. The message wasn’t confusing. Just incomplete. He’d known exactly what he needed to do. The message was plain and strong. Get the road atlas. Flip the page. Stop. He just didn’t know the rest of the message, or why he must do these things.
“Was it the same for you guys?” Greg asked.
They nodded.
“Hard to think these messed up calls helped you find each other,” Greg said, unable to spare them his bitterness.
“The calls are foolproof,” Mom said.
“So if I’m not a Companion . . .” Greg said. He felt like he should be happy, but not knowing his own caste was spoiling it for him. “Any idea of what I am?”
His parents exchanged nervous glances.
“No, not really,” Dad said. “There are rare castes, ones that only come every few generations when there’s great need—sometimes new castes, to fulfill a need never seen before.”
Greg swallowed. “And you think that’s what this is?”
“Maybe, son. I—I really don’t know.” Dad shook his head.
“Great, just great!” Greg buried his face in his hands. If he knew his caste, he could at least guess what or who was in Indiana. But he had nothing to go by.
“I guess I have an Integral, after all.” Dread overtook him. What if his Integral turned out to be a mafia boss who was in need of a hired thug?
“We don’t know if you have an Integral or not, baby,” Mom said in a sad tone. “Anything could be in Indiana. Oh, I don’t like this. It isn’t fair for you to have a life without love.”
“We can’t judge his life based on our experience, Erica. Our purpose was to find and share love, but Greg’s isn’t. He won't have the same feelings and needs we do. The desire to love and be loved aren’t in his nature. There’s no reason to worry about him suffering over that.”
Keeper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 1) Page 6