Chapter 5
5
I sleep through the entire next morning and part of the afternoon. It feels so good to wake up in my own bed. Ever since elementary school, when my parents split, Mom and I have lived with my grandfather in his old Bronx mansion. Any luxury it may have once had faded away long ago, but I love it here.
I’m so grateful to be back home that I can almost forget I might be about to leave it all behind, or that unicorns might exist, or that I’m possibly being pursued by a billionaire kidnapper.
I groggily make my way through the wallpapered hallways in search of caffeine, but I halt when I pass my mother’s room and hear her voice raised. She never loses her cool, unless she’s talking to my dad. But if he’s anywhere near a working phone line, he would have called me.
After my parents split, my dad had some kind of early midlife crisis and decided to backpack around the world. He spends a lot of time working on permaculture farms in the middle of nowhere with no phone service. Or at least that’s what I think he does. I’m pretty sure he’s currently in Central America. The last time I heard from him was in the fall, right before the Jewish New Year. The call had been about ten seconds long; I can remember the whole thing.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, Sprout. Just calling to wish you a shana tova.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Awkward pause.
“I might be off the grid for longer than usual starting next week.”
“Okay.”
“But I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”
“That would be nice.”
“Bye, Sprout, I love you.”
“Love you too, Dad, and I miss—”
Click.
We had so much to say to each other when I was young, but these days talking to him feels like talking to a stranger. When we talk at all. His prediction that he’d be gone longer than usual has proven more than accurate.
Mom’s voice rises again. “Can’t they at least first try the standard treatment, even if it’s unlikely to change the prognosis?”
That doesn’t sound good. I tiptoe closer to listen at the door.
I’ve seen the creases between Mom’s eyes deepening over the past few months (as much as the Botox will allow), and I’ve heard her whispered conversations with Dr. Ambrose. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve walked in on her talking with Grandfather and they both become silent the moment they see me… I’m not an idiot; I know Grandfather is sick, and I know it must be something serious. He’s lost a ton of weight over the past few months, and he barely eats. But I’ve never heard scary words like “treatment” and “prognosis” bandied about until now. I wish they would just tell me what’s going on instead of keeping me in the dark about everything, as usual.
Mom’s voice rises as she exclaims, “No, you cannot test Ada’s blood. Leave her out of this.”
What? Does Grandfather need a blood transfusion or a donor for something? Why wouldn’t she let them test my blood? I would gladly give my blood to help him. I try to hear more, but Mom has calmed down, and I can only make out broken mutterings, something about stem cell transplants and then the two-syllable word I was dreading. Cancer.
I blink away tears, my fists clenched so tight that my nails dig painfully into my palms. I knew Grandfather hadn’t been well, but I’d been assuring myself it was just regular old-person stuff. Not something serious.
Mom’s footsteps grow louder, and I scurry away before I’m caught eavesdropping. I immediately head to the sunroom, where I know Grandfather will be. He likes when I join him there; he says his plants are fond of me and that they grow better when I’m around.
The sunroom is bright with afternoon sunlight streaming in through the glass walls. The air is fresh and tangy, and I breathe in the smell of all the memories made in this room. I developed my interest in plants from gardening with Grandfather here. Repotting aloe vera plants, trying to coax blooms from the orchids, trimming the rosebush that had been my grandmother’s favorite.
Grandfather sits reading a newspaper in his favorite chair, tendrils of vines creeping up the upholstery. A few months ago, if I’d come in at this time of day, I would have found him wrist deep in soil instead of looking so weary. He definitely looks sick. Worse than before I left for my trip.
“Good morning, mi reinita,” he says when he sees me approaching.
“Hi, Grandfather.” I kiss his cheek, then sit next to him on a cushioned stool and grasp his leathery hand. His bones are so light. His eyes twinkle, and his crepey skin wrinkles as he smiles. He’s thinner, gaunter, less vibrant. He seems to be… wilting.
“Something is troubling you.”
“Just your health, Grandfather.”
“My health? Don’t fuss over me, or I’ll feel my age.”
What am I supposed to say to that? Ask him if he’s dying?
“Your mother tells me that you may be leaving for university sooner than we expected. Are you excited?”
It’s hard for me to care about Genesis or anything to do with the Families after what I’ve just learned. “I’m not so sure,” I say.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for the program.”
“Nonsense. My granddaughter?” He boops my nose. “In this family, we know how to fight our way to the top and become exactly who we are meant to be.”
Despite what I’m used to from everyone else, Grandfather has always had unwavering confidence in me.
I smile weakly, not wanting to disappoint him with my own, less-flattering assessment of myself.
“Your mother was also unsure of herself when she was your age,” Grandfather says.
“Really?” Unsure is the last way I’d describe my laser-focused mother.
“Oh yes, she agonized for months before deciding to go to business school.”
“How did she decide?”
He chuckles. “I believe she chose whatever was the most different from anything me or your grandmother did.” I can’t tell if he’s joking.
We are connected to the order through my grandmother’s side of the family, and it was extremely important to my grandmother that her daughter be an active member of the Inner Chamber. But I’d always had the impression that’s what Mom wanted too.
When I’m being generous, I can feel bad for Mom having to live up to even higher standards than I do. I never knew my grandmother well, as she died very soon after I was born, but she was a senior policy adviser for the United Nations, and she had also played for the New York Philharmonic when she was in her teens. And Grandfather has an MD-PhD and was a world-renowned epidemiologist until he retired. Apparently, he traveled a lot for his job, so he wasn’t part of all the Families-related activities that dominated my mother’s life, and the two of them were never close the way he is with me.
It’s nice to know that Mom hasn’t always had it all figured out. Maybe her rebellious phase was how she ended up marrying a directionless musician like my father.
“Come, read with me,” Grandfather says.
Reading with Grandfather is a daily ritual. My dad used to play music for me every night until I fell asleep, and when he left, I couldn’t sleep for a week. Grandfather started reading to me instead. Every single night, until I started reading to him. I miss my dad a lot, but it’s never hurt too much because Grandfather has always been there in his place. But now I might lose him, too.
If Grandfather sees my eyes filling with tears, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just passes me his newspaper.
Grandfather subscribes to at least ten different newspapers local and foreign, and he reads every single one. He says it’s important to be aware of what’s happening around the world. That generally means knowing about how bad things are and how helpless I am to change any of it, so I’d much rather ignore it all.
As predicted, the headlines are grim. An increase in deaths of homeless people over the winter months, refugees dying from a pandemic, a famous scientist gone missing and presumed dead.
As I read, Grandfather’s eyelids droop, and soon he’s asleep. At least he looks comfortable. I use my sleeve to wipe my cheeks as tear stains gather on the newsprint.
I hate feeling helpless.
Sal, Grandfather’s housekeeper who is basically part of the family, comes in holding a package. I discard the newspaper and get up to give her a hug.
“Welcome back,” she whispers so as not to wake Grandfather.
“Hi, Sal.” I hug her, breathing in her familiar scent of lavender and jasmine.
“This just arrived for you in the mail.” She presses the parcel into my hands. It’s wrapped in thick brown paper, and in loopy script it says, Application to the Genesis Institute .
As I take it, my heartbeat quickens.
Maybe I don’t have to be helpless anymore.
Michael told me I have healing abilities. The Makers have advanced medicine. Could their knowledge help Grandfather?
When Kor had said we could use Maker knowledge to help our world, that had been inspiring but theoretical.
This is personal.
Once Sal is out of the room and I see that Grandfather is still sleeping soundly, I tear open the package with trembling hands.
Inside is a cube. It’s about the same size as the music box my father gave me, which I’ve kept on my nightstand since I was a child. The music box turns out to be an apt comparison, because when I turn the cube in my hands, it plays a range of musical tones. Each wall of the cube is made of a different material. One side is clear like glass, one is wood, one is an ambery resin, one is clay-ish—similar to what Michael’s pigeon is made of—one is some kind of metal, and the last side is silk.
Each wall plays a different music note when pressed. I shake the box but don’t hear anything inside. I hold it up to the light and try to look through the glass-like wall but see nothing. I think it’s a puzzle.
Of course, a straightforward application would be too much to ask of this mystery school. Straightforward, like the city college applications burning a hole in my desk drawer upstairs.
I lift the cube, shake it, and press each side, creating a tune from the different sounds. Maybe there’s a musical code that needs to be played to unlock it? Nothing I try works. I don’t even know if opening the box is the goal.
I’ve had enough of everyone being cryptic. I’m overcome with the urge to just throw the thing out the window and see what happens when it crashes on the pavement, but I restrain myself.
I use a pen and try to wedge the tip between the walls of the cube, but it doesn’t fit. I look around the room for something else I can try. My grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine is in the corner, nothing more than decoration these days. I go to it and rifle through the drawers. There are spools of thread, thimbles, and countless loose buttons. There, in the back corner, I find what I’m looking for: a pincushion impaled with multiple pins and needles.
I sit in the window seat with a sewing needle and try to rip it through the silk side of the cube—which emits a loud, discordant note until I release it—but the fabric is surprisingly strong. I poke the needle into a crack where the walls of the box meet, and I’m able to insert the point in about a centimeter, but then it refuses to budge. I push against the needle, trying to pry the sides of the box apart, but the needle springs loose and stabs my thumb.
Ouch.
That was dumb. A single dot of blood wells up from the pinprick and drips onto the wood side of the box. I immediately try to wipe it away, but the wood wall pops open.
Did my blood just open the box?
I’m not sure it matters considering that, apparently, the box is empty. I look inside, examining the reverse sides of the six different walls. There’s nothing there. I try playing the music notes, but now that the box is open, they don’t work. Frustration bubbles up within me. If there’s another step to this puzzle, I will scream.
My brewing tantrum is interrupted as my phone buzzes, and my temper recedes, replaced by trepidation when I see that it’s an email from the Genesis Institute admissions office. I tap the message open to a letterhead with a logo of an androgynous figure, clearly based on the Vitruvian Man —da Vinci’s drawing of one human body superimposed on top of another, four arms, four legs, in supposedly perfect proportions. The email reads:
Dear Ada Castle,
We are pleased to notify you of your acceptance to the Genesis Institute. Tuition and room and board will be included as part of a full scholarship for the duration of your studies. We eagerly await your response.
Sincerely,
Master Michelangelo Loew, Community Liaison
I tap to their website. “The Genesis Institute: for exceptionally gifted pupils” is splashed across the page with the same logo. The site looks completely mundane, like a regular private school. But I know better.
For an instant I consider deleting the email and hiding the box at the bottom of the trash. No one needs to know I received an acceptance. I could go upstairs right now and fill out those college applications. A worthless liberal arts degree and a lifetime of student debt could still be mine.
And I wouldn’t have to think about stealing anything from anyone.
The memory of how I felt when I saw Michelangelo’s prisoner statues rises in me. I look at the newspaper on the coffee table, headlines full of calamity. I watch the steady rise and fall of Grandfather’s chest, knowing his health is declining by the day.
Or I could decide to stop being helpless.
A tingling warmth prickles the scars on my palms, and this time I don’t let myself suppress it.