by Cat Patrick
“It’s how I keep track of my findings,” Mom says quietly.
When she sees my horrified expression, she clarifies. “You three are my children, but you’re also my job. When I took you from the clients all those years ago, it was maternal, yes—I wanted to protect you—but it was also a professional decision. The money you mentioned comes from a trust Dr. Jovovich set up to fund a lifetime of research. I am still and will probably forever be a geneticist.”
“Were you ever a doctor?” Ella asks, letting the lies soak in. Mom shakes her head no, then pulls a chair from the table to the middle of the floor and sits down awkwardly.
“I want you to know that I care deeply for the three of you—I love you all,” Mom says. “But I am also being paid to document your lives.”
“Still?” I ask, focusing on facts instead of the fissure in my heart. “Dr. Jovovich is in jail.”
“He is,” Mom says, “but he set up the trust long before all that. I used to send him monthly reports on the three of you. The fact that he’s in jail now makes this research even more important. Our agreement was to publish our manuscript when you turned eighteen—when you were through adolescence.” She looks at me hard. “When you were adults.”
“You’re writing a paper on us?” I ask in disbelief.
“I’m writing the paper that will revolutionize science, Lizzie,” Mom says, raising her chin a bit. “Everyone else is still cloning animals, too paralyzed by fear of the government to pursue human cloning. But we’ve succeeded. You’re a success.”
“Funny, I don’t feel like much of one,” I snap.
Just then Sean walks through the door carrying pizza. He stops, clearly shocked to see Mom. “Is everything okay?” he asks, looking at me and fishing for his cell phone. His distrust of her is obvious.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Come in. I’m starving.” Then I look at my mother. “Besides, she was just leaving.”
“Lizzie, let me explain. We need to talk about this, as a family.” She glances at Sean.
I stand from the bed, then step closer to my mother and look her right in the eyes. In a measured tone, I say what needs saying: “We’re not your family. That’s the point. Please just leave us alone.”
“Lizzie, I think you’re being unreasonable,” Mom says. “If you’d just—”
“I’m being unreasonable?” I shout, then compose myself before going on. “Mom, you forced us to live like one person for years, when, as far as I can tell, we didn’t need to. You used us as guinea pigs in your little science project, lying to us the whole time. And god knows what you’re going to say about two of us being abducted!”
“Lizzie, you’re being dramatic,” Mom says, holding up her hands. “Take a breath. What Maggie did was wrong, but she didn’t exactly take them at gunpoint. And that’s all over now; I solved the problem.”
“I’m not dramatic!” I shout at her, disgusted that she’d help someone who kidnapped two of her children. “I’m awake! My eyes are finally open to this sham of a life you’ve created for us. I finally see how completely messed up it is… how messed up you are. You’re positively delusional if you think I’m going to let you dictate one more minute of my life, do you understand?”
I stand up a straighter.
“My life, Mom,” I say quietly. “Did you hear that part? I said my life.”
“That’s what we want,” Betsey says from behind me. “We want our own lives back.”
“And we’re not taking no for an answer,” Ella says.
I think of all of Mom’s papers that I stole, of how I could blackmail her just like Maggie did. But in the end, I don’t need to.
Knowing she’s defeated—for now, at least—Mom stands and leaves the motel room. The four of us stare at one another in silence for a long time after she leaves. Then, Ella speaks.
“What just happened?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, “but it’s possible that from here on out, we’re on our own.”
Late that night, I’m wide-awake, watching Sean’s sleeping body on the floor at the foot of Ella’s bed. Betsey whispers something from the other side of the one we’re sharing.
“What?” I whisper, turning over to face her.
“I said: It’s either Mom or Maggie.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Are you asleep?” I sit up a little and squint into the darkness to see if her eyes are open. Eyes like mine stare back at me.
“If we want our own identities, we either have to make up with Mom or go back to Maggie,” she explains. “Those are our two options, and both of them suck.”
I think about this for a moment, then something hits me. “Maybe not,” I say. “I might have a third option.”
In the morning, when Betsey’s showering, Sean’s foraging, and Ella’s drying her hair, I open Mom’s laptop and log on. In thirty seconds, I confirm that, yes, I have a third option.
That is, if that option will cooperate.
twenty-nine
Four five-hour shifts later, we’re in Northern California.
Nearing the end of the ride, Sean’s at the wheel and we’re listening to the kind of slow, heartstrings music that could put you to sleep if you weren’t anxious about being minutes away from potential freedom. Well, hours.
“Tell me again why you think he’s going to help us,” Sean says quietly. I like that he uses the word us even though this isn’t really his problem.
“He’s helped us before,” I say. “At least I think he did.”
“What do you mean?”
“A guy helped us when we relocated—he got us the new ID for Elizabeth Best and helped Mom set up her corporation and stuff,” I say slowly. “He works for the government or something, but he and my mom met in school. She never told us his name, but we used to call him the Wizard because he could conjure up identities out of thin air. Or at least he did that one time.”
“And this is him? The guy we’re going to see is the Wizard?”
I turn around to make sure Ella and Bet are still asleep. “I think so.”
“You don’t know for sure?” Sean asks, looking at me, surprised.
“He was the only person in my mom’s address book that I didn’t recognize.”
“Are you being serious right now?” Sean asks quietly. “We’ve driven all this way to see someone who could be anyone?” He doesn’t sound mad, just tired.
“Yeah, but when I saw his name, I just knew it was him.” I look at Sean, and he glances at me, then back at the road. “I know it’s him.”
“I guess we’ll find out soon,” he says with a small smile. “But you have good instincts: I’m sure you’re right. At least, I hope you are.”
“I’m right,” I say, hoping that I am, too. Then I yawn. “Hey, we have to stop somewhere until morning. It’s the middle of the night; we can’t show up now.”
“Good call,” Sean says, yawning too. Which makes me yawn again.
We start through a tunnel originating in Oakland and dumping us out in a town called Alameda. It looks cute, but it’s dark and my eyes are fuzzy from trying to read using a convenience-store flashlight, so I’m withholding judgment until the morning. Sean finds us a hotel, where we sleep for not enough hours. Then by the light of the too-bright California sun, we pull into a driveway in front of a massive Victorian; we’re filled with a lot of nervousness but also, though this part goes unspoken, high hopes.
The four of us get out and walk up the steps. The day assaults my sleepy eyes; I squint as I reach over and ring the bell. It’s one of those doorbells you expect to be answered by a butler. Instead, a man about Mom’s age opens the door. Not to be gross, but he’s kind of hot.
“Hi,” I say nervously, thinking maybe we should’ve called first like Bet suggested. I force myself to speak. “Are you Mr. Weller?”
“I am,” the man says. The sun is right behind us; he’s squinting at me sideways. “How can I help you?”
For a split second, I thin
k we’ve driven all this way for nothing. That I’m standing in front of one of Mom’s former coworkers or her high school sweetheart. But then a cloud blocks the sun and I see the look in his eyes: It’s recognition. I was right.
“We’re here to find out whether you can get us new identities,” I say bluntly. I hear Ella suck in her breath a little; it’s probably not how she’d have done it.
“That’s quite a request,” he says warmly. “Come on in and we can talk about it.” He holds the door open, welcoming us into his home like we’re long-lost relatives. His face is friendly, but I don’t miss his deadpan glance down the street before he closes the door.
Who or what is he looking for?
“I’m Lizzie,” I say as I step inside. “That’s Ella and that’s Betsey.”
“And I’m the driver,” Sean says, extending a hand.
“Sorry,” I say, “I’m tired. That’s my boyfriend, Sean.” Sean laughs quietly when we catch glances.
“Nice to finally meet you all,” the man says with a smile. He shuts the front door; it’s cool and quiet inside the large house. “Your mom’s an old friend; that makes us friends, too.
“Please… call me Mason.”
After a lot of explaining on our part, we wait in the comfortable living room while Mason calls Mom from the kitchen. He says he wants to tell her we’re all right, but I think he’s also asking permission to help us.
“Your mother said to call her later,” Mason says, returning from the kitchen with a bowl of pretzels in one hand and a tray of sodas in the other. “Here, I thought you might be hungry.”
Sean wastes no time digging in, but Betsey, Ella, and I look at Mason expectantly.
“And?” I ask when I can’t take it any longer.
“And it’s fine,” he says, half smiling. “I’ll do it.” He pauses, then stands up. “It’ll take about a day, so you’re welcome to stay here tonight. In fact, I insist that you do.”
“Thank you,” Ella and I say in unison. He laughs a little.
“Let’s start with pictures—for your driver’s licenses and passports.”
Ella frowns. “Can I brush my hair and teeth first?” she asks. “I mean, I’ll be carrying those things around forever.” Mason nods.
“Of course,” he says. “The bathroom’s upstairs at the end of the hall. You girls can drop your bags in the green room or the disaster with the chalkboard paint.” He looks at Sean. “You can bunk in the blue room.”
I stop in the doorway of a room so cool I want to steal it and take it home with me. There’s funky vintage furniture mixed with clean lines, and girls’ clothes strewn here and there. I smile at the quotes chalked over the bed and the mismatched but harmonious posters on the walls. I notice more than a few photos of a guy who’s not quite as hot as Sean but still double take–worthy. The room is organized chaos.
“I want to sleep in here,” I say to Ella when she walks up behind me.
“Be my guest,” she says. “I’ll take the nice, neat guest room across the hall over this any day, even if I have to share the bed with Betsey. Who could live in here?”
“Me,” I say quietly, but Ella’s already moved on.
I go in and drop my bag on a floral chair, then take a closer look at the photos on the massive corkboard. It’s easy to tell which smiling face is the owner of this room: Pretty, with enviable blond hair and really light blue eyes, she’s the common denominator in the pictures. There she is with the cute guy; there she is with a bunch of girls at an amusement park, caught mid laugh. There she is with a girl with super cool two-toned blond-and-black hair. My eyes linger on the other girl’s hair for a moment, and suddenly, inspiration strikes.
“You guys!” I shout, rushing out of the room and across the hall to the guest bedroom.
“What’s up?” Ella says, turning to face me. She’s got her toothbrush sticking out of her mouth, so it sounds like wus-ah.
“Yeah, where’s the fire?” Betsey asks. She seems more herself now that we’re far away from Colorado, and far away from Mom.
“I have the best idea ever,” I say confidently. “We just need to stall Mason for a few hours. And find a drugstore, stat.”
After we attack the beauty aisle of the local drugstore and the teen section of the discount clothing store, Sean and I hang back at a coffee shop while Betsey and Ella check one more place. We’re just sitting down at a table when his cell rings; he frowns and answers it. I listen to his side of the conversation; when he hangs up, he doesn’t look happy.
“My mom wants me to come home,” he says.
“Today?” I ask, feeling my heart sink.
“Yeah,” he says. “She’s been cool up to this point, but now that you’re safe…”
“I get it,” I say. “I’m surprised she didn’t make you turn around and come home two days ago.”
“She knew you needed me, and she trusts me,” he says. “But I missed Thanksgiving and… you know. Moms.” I don’t really know, but I don’t say that.
“You should drop us off at Mason’s and get on the road,” I say, every part of me wanting to inhale those words back into my mouth.
“How will you get home?” he asks. I consider it for a moment.
“I guess we’ll fly,” I say. “We’ll have to get our mom to buy the tickets, but I’m sure she’ll have no problem doing that if it means we’re coming back to San Diego.” I take a sip of my latte. “I mean, we’ll have our own IDs; we might as well test them out.”
My stomach flips over at the thought.
Sean and I don’t make a big thing of saying goodbye—everyone is watching—but I feel the tug of him when his car rounds the corner and disappears. I can’t help it: I text him.
I’LL SEE YOU IN THREE DAYS, TOPS.
He writes back,
HOPING 4 2
Knowing he’s driving, I don’t respond.
A few hours later, an unruffled Mason takes our pictures, calls Mom about the plane tickets, and leaves us in the living room with the remote and a free pass to eat anything in the fridge while he goes to work on the business of fabricating our identities. Ella, Betsey, and I don’t talk much that afternoon or evening—we just sit together, show-hopping and being. We go to bed early, and in the morning, we pack up and wait for the cab that Mason prepaid to take us to the Oakland airport.
In the entryway, Mason hands each of us a yellow envelope with a clasp on the top. I peer into mine and find my new driver’s license, passport, birth certificate, transcripts, medical history, and Social Security card. Like a true wizard, Mason basically just handed me a new life.
“Thank you,” I say, looking at him sincerely.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “And don’t forget to hold on to my number.”
“We won’t,” I say.
Ella echoes my thank-you, but Betsey actually hugs Mason, which seems to surprise but not repel him. He half smiles when he realizes what’s happening, then hugs her back. The others step onto the porch when the cab pulls up, but I claim to have forgotten something upstairs. I run up to the girl’s room and grab the chalk from a tray on her nightstand. In small print near the edge of the space, I write a short note.
I love your room. Hope to meet you someday.—Lizzie Best
I’m not sure why, but I feel a connection with the girl. Maybe it’s as simple as liking her stuff and wanting to make a new friend now that I can. Or maybe it’s the fact that we both have totally weird parents: We’re the same, in a way.
I join the others in the cab, and in less than twenty minutes, we’re standing in the airport security line. It moves quicker than I’m ready for, but when the agent checks my ID against my boarding pass, then glances at my face, all he does is stamp the document and hand everything back to me.
Mom’s waiting for us at baggage claim. I hold my chin high as we approach, hyperaware of what we look like and Mom’s face as she notices the differences.
Betsey’s long dress flows behind her in the breeze from
moving, as does her newly dyed fire-red mane. Ella is preppy chic in a cardigan with a cute collar underneath, skinnies, and flats; the way Bet cut Ella’s naturally curly bob shows off her defined cheekbones. As for me, I walk tall in a short skirt, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and lace-up boots with thick, patterned tights. Bet really showed off her hairstyling skills when she chemically stick-straightened my hair, then made it perfect with a royal-blue stripe down the front.
We walk across the expanse, feeling as different on the outsides as we are on the insides. I can see in Mom’s eyes that she gets it: That she finally sees us. I can see in her eyes that she knows we’ll never be the same. That she knows that no matter how much she may want to try to brush things under the rug and make us live like we were, no amount of coaxing or forcing will help.
Permanent dye is our insurance policy.
thirty
Though it feels like we’ve been gone months, we return to our house on the hill five days after we left it. We’ve missed no school; everyone’s still on Thanksgiving break. Nothing has changed, and yet, to me, the world is in color for the first time. I keep checking my driver’s license to make sure it’s real.
I text Sean as Mom pulls the car through the gate:
WE’RE BACK
He responds:
WHEN CAN I SEE YOU?
Smiling, I glance up at my mom in the mirror, at her determined face.
SHE WANTS TO TALK TO US. NOT SURE HOW THIS IS GOING TO GO. WILL CALL YOU AFTER.
Sean texts back:
GOOD LUCK.
“Go drop your stuff in your rooms and meet me in the living room,” Mom says when we’re all inside. “I think it’s time the four of us had a good, long chat.”
Ella, Betsey, and I do as she says. Upstairs, my room looks too boring, too bland. I wish I could go to the mall and buy some more posters, but instead, I have a tongue-lashing to look forward to. I head back downstairs, bracing myself for trouble. But when I step into the living room, there’s a pint of ice cream on the coffee table—not even on a coaster—and bowls and spoons stacked to the side.
