Part 11 (1/2)
”What is that?” Abbey said.
Caleb smoothed out the wrinkles. ”It's a brochure from Livingstone Labs. I grabbed it while we were in the waiting room. I'd forgotten I had it. Look.” Abbey and Simon peered at the brochure. Underneath the Livingstone Labs tree insignia, in fancy green script, the brochure read: Perfecting Techniques in Holding the Light.
Abbey s.n.a.t.c.hed the brochure and opened it. The brochure outlined how Livingstone Labs had pioneered the creation of the membrane from the Madrona tree. The membrane made life possible in the bubble by filtering the damaging rays of the sun but allowing in enough light for the plants to grow. Madrona, Mother, life-giver, Abbey said to herself.
”Whoa. That changes things. What if Abbey's the target?” said Simon. ”The email messages only say Sinclair. Then again, the Greenhill kid was in my future.”
Or it could be Caleb. Caleb, the Light, Abbey thought miserably. She watched as Wallace hopped around on the cedar chips on the floor of his cage in front of the window, the darkness of the night sky an eerie backdrop to his playful leaps. Abbey quickly pulled her blinds down, imagining all sorts of rifles trained on them from outside. Two days. What if she only had two days to live? What if Caleb or Simon only had two days to live? She swallowed against the solid lump that had lodged itself in her throat. Nowhere had this possibility factored into her career planning, life planning, or anything.
”What do we do then?” Caleb asked.
Simon pushed his toque back further on his head, his pupils almost indistinguishable from his irises. ”We skip school tomorrow and go to Granton to find Salvador Systems.”
Abbey suppressed a quiver of dismay. She didn't want to see Mantis again. But she couldn't see any alternative. ”The stones are dangerous.” Caleb's words echoed in her mind as if on an infinite loop.
”Maybe this has gone far enough. Maybe we need to tell Mom and Dad,” she said. But even if they could get their parents to believe them, which was unlikely, their parents would insist on handling it themselves, and Abbey and her brothers wouldn't be allowed to go anywhere near the stones ever again, which meant she'd have no chance to save Caleb. And, realistically, telling their parents would lead to months of psychiatric treatment.
”Hey, is there a party going on in here? Isn't it bedtime?” Their father's voice floated in through the open door. The voice was immediately followed by the appearance of Peter Sinclair, his red-checked tie loosened and askew over his creased white s.h.i.+rt. His eyes had tired lines around them, and the gray hairs at his temples had strayed from their usual tidy script. He looked, Abbey realized with a start, much like Caleb would look in thirty years in the shadows of the teepee-without the scars and animal skins. But his eyes had that same furtive sadness in them. How long had her father's eyes looked like that? Why had she never noticed it before? Caleb thrust the email and brochure behind him. Abbey prayed her father couldn't smell the alcohol in the test tubes.
”Just discussing homework,” said Caleb.
Their father's eyebrows arched. ”Since when do you three work together?”
”We're working together on a directed studies computer science project,” said Simon. ”We have to go to Granton tomorrow to visit Salvador Systems to get some information.”
”Hmm. Interesting. Just make sure you're home for dinner. Tomorrow night's the party, remember. You need to be here looking presentable by six.”
”Yup, we know,” said Caleb.
”All right. Your mother and I are going to bed soon. Make sure you're quiet. And I don't know which one of you did it, but the bas.e.m.e.nt door was wide open when I went down there. I know this isn't a high crime area, but you have to remember to close and lock that door.”
Abbey darted a look at her brothers. She had closed that door. She was sure of it. And the lock was always on. Circles of sweat the size of quarters formed on her palms. Simon shook his head at her so fractionally it could have been mistaken for a twitch. They all nodded gravely at their father, who nodded back and departed in the direction of the master bedroom.
”Someone broke in,” Caleb whispered, echoing Abbey's thoughts.
Abbey padded out of her room a few minutes later to distract her mother while Simon and Caleb snuck down to the crypt to see if anything was missing-or worse, to see if anyone was still there. Her mother lay on the couch in the dim light of the living room lamp, her eyes closed. Abbey paused in front of the family photo taken at Great Sand Dunes National Park last summer. Abbey, Caleb, and their father lit up the foreground of the photo with their fiery hair and goofy grins, their faces freckled from the sun. Her mother and Simon, already a half a head taller than his father, loomed more darkly in the back with serious expressions, secretive smiles, and shadowy eyes. They'd also gone hiking in Moab on that trip. Her mother had spent the day making wild gestures and calling family conferences regarding safety, as Caleb had run full tilt from the edge of one canyon wall to another to peer into the depths below.
Marian Beckham had always seemed to Abbey to be magically charismatic and beautiful. At almost six feet tall-Abbey could only think of distance in metric, Abbey's mother towered over other women and could look her husband directly in the eye. She was brilliant and sure of herself almost to the point of belligerence, and generally put even the most determined of opponents in their place on the playground, in social settings, in the boardroom, and, Abbey suspected, in City Hall. But this evening, her mother looked smaller than usual and more vulnerable. A single streak of white carved through her glossy brown hair, and faint pinkish bruises seemed to mark her eyelids. Abbey suppressed a pang of worry. It was probably just weariness. Her mother would rise in the morning and be as stunning and invincible as ever. She always did.
Abbey sat on the couch next to her mother's hip. Her mother's eyelids flickered and her hand came up automatically to ruffle Abbey's hair.
”How's my favorite Abbey?” she said, her voice wan and drowsy.
”Fine, Mom. How are you?”
”So tired. I'm so glad this is almost over. Two more weeks of campaigning. It's such a slog. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I can even make it. I promise, as soon as the election is over we'll take that trip to New York to go to the Museum of Natural History like I promised. Are you feeling neglected?”
Abbey paused. Her mother always felt guilty. She should tell her mother everything. Her mother would take control and Abbey would be safe and protected. But tonight, oddly, her mother looked like the one who needed to be protected. Abbey would find a better time to tell her. ”No, not at all, Mom.” She patted her mom's arm.
Caleb drifted past with his finger pressed to the side of his nose-their agreed-upon signal that all was fine in the crypt-before heading to his room. Another late-night conference in Abbey's room would alert their parents that something was up. She must've left the bas.e.m.e.nt door open when she ran out.
She was just quite sure that she hadn't.
The phone rang while Abbey was still at the breakfast table spooning oatmeal into her mouth. The caller ID said Greenhill Regional Hospital. Abbey s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone up. Their parents had left for work a couple of minutes before. They couldn't have gone far enough to have been in an accident and already transported to the hospital.
”h.e.l.lo?”
”Is this the Sinclair residence?”
”It is.” Abbey's heart began to pound.
”This is Shannon Danes at the Regional Hospital. We have a stroke victim here. A Francis Forrester. We've asked her about next of kin, and she opened the phone book to your number and keeps pointing at it. Do you know her?”
Abbey tried to imitate her mother's patterns of speech. ”Why, yes, she's our neighbor.”
”Oh, okay. Not a relative then?”
”No. But we're very close. Can you tell me, is she going to be okay? Where's Mark?”
The nurse's voice became hesitant, but she continued. ”Mark has been taken to a group home. Mrs. Forrester will likely be okay. But if you're not a relative, I can't tell you much more. She's been pretty insistent we call you. I think she's worried about Mark. Do you know of any relatives we can contact?”
”I'm afraid I don't.”
”Okay, thanks.”
Abbey hung up the phone and provided a quick summary to Simon and Caleb.
”Why would she be calling for Mom? They know each other but they aren't friends,” Abbey said. ”We have to go see her.”
”I thought we were going to Granton,” Simon said.
Abbey grabbed her backpack. ”I think we should go to the hospital first. Mrs. Forrester knows something. Then we can go to Granton and then back to school for the game. I promised I'd meet Becca's new boyfriend.”
Caleb rolled his eyes. ”Is that really important?”
”Yes,” Abbey retorted. ”It's the game against Greenhill you wanted to go to, remember?” Her despair from the night before had been replaced by a kind of manic determination to save Caleb's life. Or Simon's. Or her own. Or prove that this whole thing was just a farcical dream.
The bus doors closed behind them with a whoosh of warm air as they stepped out at the Greenhill Regional Hospital. The hushed chatter and constant hum of the bus s.h.i.+fted to the whir of the hospital fans as the hooded windows of the cement edifice loomed above them. They walked slowly into the busy lobby. Hospital staff in scrubs rushed past with charts and pushed carts with food and vials back and forth. Men, women and children lined benches along the walls in the waiting area, wearing sullen and tired looks. Every surface seemed like it could be teeming with germs. A woman with stray bits of blond hair escaping a ponytail chased a toddler who followed the inst.i.tutional bright green arrow that led to radiology.
The smell and heat of the hospital flooded over Abbey.
An older woman with a ma.s.s of frazzled, unnaturally blond hair, gla.s.ses, and a cheery set of blue scrubs adorned with large yellow daisies sat at the reception desk.
”Visiting, emergency, or admissions?” she asked.