by Dima Zales
She inputs her number and hands it back to me. “I put my name there, but you can write in a nickname, like you seem to do with everyone else.”
I take the phone back, vaguely embarrassed that she saw the nickname stuff. It’s this thing I do. I come up with ridiculous nicknames for everyone, and then have fun with voice dial. Her nickname is going to be Tinker Bell. Imagining saying the words ‘call Tinker Bell’s cell phone’ in a crowded bus is my kind of fun.
I look at the screen and see the words Hillary Taylor written there, along with the phone number. I decide that the nickname can be added later. For now, I dial her number, so that she has my contact info as well. It’s when the phone is dialing that it hits me.
Taylor.
Sarah told me that my mom’s maiden name was Margret Taylor.
No.
It can’t be.
Can it?
It is a small community. How many namesakes can there be?
“Are you an only child, Hillary?” I ask, not fully thinking of the consequences of this line of questioning.
She looks stunned by my question. “Yes. No. Sort of. I had an older sister a long time ago, but she’s dead. Why do you ask? And why do you look so shocked?”
Her sister.
Older . . . likely much older, given that Hillary looks to be only in her mid-twenties.
An older sister who’s dead.
It has to be.
I can’t believe it—but the resemblance is there.
With hindsight, that’s what’s been fascinating me about her face. We have the exact same shade of blue eyes. The same chin, similar cheekbones, and her nose is a miniature, feminine version of mine. Aside from the big height difference, we look like we could be related—and now I know why.
Because we are.
“I think you’re my aunt, Hillary,” I blurt out, unable to suppress my excitement.
Chapter 22
The look on Hillary’s face would be comical if it weren’t for the fact that I’m feeling exactly like she looks.
“I found out today that my biological mother’s name was Margret, and her last name was Taylor, like yours,” I explain, my heart pounding with excitement.
She looks me over, and I see the dawning recognition on her face. She must’ve noted the resemblance also.
“But—” she starts, then swallows, staring at me. “This is such a shock. You have to forgive me.”
“Yeah, I’m still kind of digesting it also.”
“Margie had a child?”
“She must have,” I say. “If I’m right, that is.”
“But that can’t be. Margie died more than twenty years ago. This has to be some kind of a mistake.”
I just sit there and let her ruminate on it.
“You do look like her,” she says after a pause. “And you look like our father . . . who’s your grandfather, I guess. But how is this possible?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, coming to a decision. “Before I tell you any more, you have to promise me that what I’m about to say will stay between us. Just us. Can you do that?”
I know it’s dangerous telling someone the whole truth, but all my instincts say that I can trust Hillary. She was not anti-Leacher even before she knew we were blood relatives. So she could’ve been okay with my ability to Read even before this. I was thinking of telling her eventually, when I got to know her better. This just expedites the whole thing. I could’ve enumerated the pros and cons for trusting her all night long, but it all comes down to a simple matter of being able to judge people—and I judge her trustworthy.
“This is very strange, but I know I’ll die of curiosity if you don’t tell me whatever it is you know. So yes, I swear on my sister’s grave that I will keep your secret,” she says in a hurried whisper. “Tell me everything.”
I tell her the whole story. I begin in Atlantic City, when I met Mira for the first time. I explain about how I learned to Read and then Guide, and how I discovered the truth about Liz. As I speak, Hillary listens with rapt attention, seemingly holding her breath in fascination.
“It all fits,” she says when I’m done, and I see a growing sadness in her eyes. “You couldn’t have known this, but your story fits exactly with what I know about my older sister.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about my mother?” I ask. “I mean, your sister? I only recently learned of her existence.”
Hillary nods. “I was little at the time, only about five or six,” she begins, “but I know she was a rebellious teen.”
I almost smile, listening. It must run in the family. I was definitely rebellious myself, and my moms would probably say I still am to some degree.
“She was not as bad as I later grew up to be,” Hillary continues, “at least according to my parents. Still, they said she was pretty bad. She was also very powerful, and from what you just told me, she might’ve had more Reach than me.”
“How do you figure that?” I ask, surprised.
“Don’t you see it? Your adoptive moms, how they said they couldn’t talk about your origins for years? How the subject almost became taboo?”
“Yeah . . .”
“That sounds like they were Guided not to talk about it by Margie,” she says.
“But that’s years.” Now that I understand the concept of Reach better, I realize how extraordinary my birth mother’s power must’ve been—and begin to feel better about Lucy and Sara keeping this important secret from me.
“Yes, amazing, I know. This Reach is exactly why my parents put extra pressure on her to marry and, more importantly, to breed with a person of their choosing—or rather that of the Elders’ choosing.” Hillary’s jaw flexes, and her expression darkens with anger. “Margie not only refused that, but she ran off with a non-Guide lover. That he was actually a Leacher isn’t something I knew, and I doubt our parents did either.”
“So what happened after?” I say, my chest tightening.
“They disowned her,” Hillary says through gritted teeth. “They tried to tell me I had no sister.”
“That’s horrible.” I feel anger rising within me, too. What kind of parents would do that?
“Yes, it is,” Hillary says furiously. “But I knew, of course, that I had a sister, and that she was my favorite person in the whole world. I’ve never forgiven my parents for that. Never.”
Her blue eyes fill with moisture, and I have no idea what to do. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. So I just put my hand on hers on the table and give it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” she says, blinking rapidly to contain her tears. “As you can see, this is still very painful for me. But I shouldn’t cry. This is a happy moment. Meeting you. Her son. My nephew.”
“And to think, we almost ended up flirting with each other,” I say in an effort to amuse her.
“Almost? Darren, darling, I’ve been flirting with you all evening,” she says, a hint of a smile appearing on her features. “But I quickly saw that you weren’t interested in me in that way, so I settled for making an awesome new friend.”
The idea that my newfound aunt had been interested in me would’ve been funny, in a Jerry Springer sort of way, if it weren’t for the fact that I had also been drawn to her. But she’s right—the attraction hadn’t been of the kind I feel for Mira. Still, I’m glad we found out the real situation before the night was over.
“So do I call you Aunty?” I ask, making another attempt to cheer her up.
It seems to work. She smiles, her infectious grin back in full force. I recognize this smile. On several occasions, I saw it on my own frozen face when I was in the Quiet. Would Liz say that our initial attraction, if that’s what it was, was some kind of narcissism? Or would she bring up some Freudian crap to explain it? I’m not sure, nor do I know why I so often wonder what Liz would say.
“No way,” Hillary says in response to my question. “No Aunty, please.”
“Aunt Hillary, then?” I say, trying to sound in
nocent.
She rolls her eyes. “Please. I’m twenty-seven—way too young to be an aunt to someone your age.”
“Fine, Hillary it is,” I concede. We share a smile, and then I say, “So I have a grandmother and a grandfather? But they would hate me?”
“I’m afraid they likely would,” she says. “If you’re right about having a Leacher—or Reader—father. I should get used to saying this more PC term, I guess. I’m sorry, Darren, but as soon as I was old enough, I left Florida behind—mainly to get away from your grandparents.”
“I see,” I say, but I’m not overly upset. A few minutes ago, I didn’t have an aunt, and now I do. That my biological grandparents are assholes is something I can deal with. Maybe the ones on my father’s side are better? Unlike Hillary, I have two sets of much less fucked-up grandparents from my adoptive moms.
“How much do you know about what happened to my mother?” I ask, wondering if Hillary can shed some light on my parents’ murder.
“Not much,” she replies. “I tried to find out what happened with Margret in New York. What I learned was all public information. She got married and was murdered with her husband shortly thereafter for some unknown reason.” Hillary looks thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I just realized that if your father had really been a Reader, that could’ve been why they were killed.”
I nod. “Right. I’m beginning to suspect the same thing.”
“If so, it had to have been the Traditionalists,” she says, and I see angry color blooming on her face. “Not the ones connected to my parents, but probably some other group. As crazy as my parents are, they wouldn’t kill their own daughter. At least I hope not.”
“That’s a redeeming quality for sure,” I say drily.
We sit there silently. She’s deep in thought.
“It has to be the Traditionalists,” she says again, as though she just had an epiphany. “Your existence goes against everything those fuckers stand for.”
“You mean the whole mixing of the blood taboo?” I say, surprised by how detached I feel about the whole thing. It’s as though we’re talking about someone else, not me.
“Yes. In fact, I can hardly believe you even happened. That a child that’s both us and them could even exist,” she says wonderingly.
“Why not?” Readers seemed to believe such a thing possible, though highly undesirable.
“We have something like an urban myth that says that nature wouldn’t allow such an abomination to even exist,” she says, making a point to do air quotes around the word abomination and looking at me apologetically. “Mainly, this comes from these legends of Leachers raping Guide women. According to these myths, there have never been any children in such cases.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You guys think the two groups are sexually incompatible?”
“Yes, but I take those stories with a big grain of salt. I believe that a lot of Leachers happen to be exactly like our Traditionalists in their attitude—the ancient Leachers, especially. This means they wouldn’t have had sex with their enemy, under any circumstances, even to rape them.”
“Yeah, given what I heard from my Reader friend Eugene, you might be right. He couldn’t believe a Reader would ever donate to a sperm bank out of risk of this ‘horrible’ occurrence,” I say, surprised by the bitterness in my voice. It sucks to think you’re forbidden to exist.
“Exactly. Those ancient Leachers would’ve killed the prisoner women instead. I’m sure of it,” she says. “All this just makes your existence that much more revolutionary.”
“What’s so revolutionary about it?”
“Oh, come on. Just think about it. What’s the best way to mend centuries-old feuds?”
“I know the answer you’re looking for is to intermarry, but I’m not sure it’s that simple—”
“It is,” she says confidently. “This was the reason why kings of warring nations sometimes married into each other’s families. It’s also why Americans—products of the melting pot—have forgotten many, if not all, of the prejudices of their European ancestors, who hated each other’s guts.”
My skepticism must be showing on my face because she continues, “I’ve thought about this a lot, Darren. There are examples all over the place—I’m an anthropologist, after all. If you have two groups who hate each other, you need to break the group identity that results in the whole ‘us versus them’ setup we talked about earlier. And what better way to break such identity than having children around that are representatives of both groups? Especially when they are as charming as you.” She winks at me playfully.
“As flattered as I am to be the future and all that, allow me to play the devil’s advocate for a moment and take your idea to its logical extreme. It wouldn’t be just Readers and Guides who would need to intermarry. You’re saying the human race should do so also?”
“Right,” she says.
“But don’t you think something would be lost if everyone assimilated into one giant human race? All those cute little cultural diversity things would go away, for example. Like ethnic foods, different languages, even ethnic music or mythologies.” I’m not necessarily convinced that she’s wrong, but I want to hear her counterpoints.
“I’m not sure you’re right about that.” She downs her glass of coconut water in a big gulp. “Certain things would stay. Take holidays such as Easter that stem from ancient pagan holidays. They’re still around—colored eggs and the bunny and all. But even if we did lose some of this cultural heritage, it would be worth it if it meant world peace.”
“But why stop at someone like me?” I ask. “That logic can be used to say that both Guides and Readers should intermarry with regular people.”
“That’s right,” she says.
“But that would essentially wipe out our abilities. You’d get the same genocide sort of situation that Readers were trying to perpetrate on Guides—only in this case, it will be voluntary.”
“That’s not true. We’d have less divisiveness. And who said our abilities would go away? They might spread. In any case, once Guides and Readers accept you for what you are, I believe it will open a new dialogue between the groups.”
“Or I would get killed to maintain the status quo.” I’m no longer arguing for the sake of argument, but with a growing sense of peril.
“I won’t let that happen,” my aunt says seriously, and despite her size, she seems astonishingly formidable all of a sudden.
Chapter 23
After Hillary and I spend half the night talking, I wake up late—but thankfully, not too late for lunch. I text Mira to confirm our plans, and she gives me the address where I’m to pick her up.
This time, when I go to a car rental agency, I get a much nicer car. I also wholeheartedly agree to buy the insurance, in case I end up in another high-speed chase with Russian mobsters.
After a frantic drive to make sure I’m not late, I park my shiny black Lexus near the lobby of Mira and Eugene’s hotel.
Once I notify Mira of my arrival, I finally take a moment to check the emails on my phone. And there it is, the email from Bert I have been waiting for:
Dude,
I was able to find a good location where you can look at Arkady Bogomolov. It was an ingenious hack, if I do say so myself. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you next. If I see you, that is, because this guy is bad news, and you best stay away from him. Your best course of action is to delete this email right now and go hang out with Mira.
Oh well, you have always been stubborn, so I guess you’re still reading. The guy will be at a Russian banya called Mermaid. It’s in Brooklyn, and the address is 3703 Mermaid Avenue. Hence the name, I take it. In their system, he’s listed as getting a massage at 4:00 pm today. From a guy named Lyova—yuck.
Your mom’s murder case files are attached.
You owe me.
Bert.
I quickly write a response:
Thanks, I owe you big.
Bert really outdid himself th
is time. I should take the time and figure out a way to help his girl troubles, as he requested. If the subject comes up, I will ask Mira if she has any girlfriends. I suspect she might not. There is something of a loner vibe about her. Also, the person for Bert would need to be pretty short, unless the girl wasn’t into traditional gender binary.
Aware that I have little time, I quickly research the place Bert wrote about. As I learned from reading that gangster’s mind the other day, banya is a kind of spa. I now confirm and expand on that memory online. Apparently, it’s not the kind of place where girls get their manicures and pedicures. Instead, Russians go there to sit in extremely hot saunas and—I kid you not—to get spanked by brooms made out of birch tree branches. Yeah. It’s essentially a public bathhouse with some weird S&M spin. Sign me up. Not.
This specific place is located not far from Coney Island Park, according to the map in the phone.
I guess I should tell Mira about this development. Maybe after we eat something, though—I’m starving. And, while I’m at it, I need to talk to her about meeting the Pusher community. This one is trickier. But then again, she’ll be away from her gun, so it might be the perfect opportunity. Yes, she might freak—likely will freak—and I might ruin the date, if this is a date, but holding out on her might lead to an even bigger disaster.
And then I see her.
She walks out of the hotel lobby wearing tight Capri pants, sandals, and a strappy tank top. Her hair is done in a simple tight ponytail. This look is pretty casual, compared to her usual high heels, war-paint makeup, and skimpy cocktail dresses. I’m not sure what this dressing-down act means, but I think it’s a good sign. After all, she usually dresses to kill when she’s out looking for revenge.
I get out of the car and wave. She smiles and approaches. With a strange impulse of chivalry, I walk over and open the car door for her. She kisses me on my cheek—a surprise. Either based on my reaction to the smooch or because of my opening the door for her, I get rewarded with an even bigger smile and a thank-you.
