The Phantom Limb (6 page)

As he left Vera's room, one of the twins appeared. “How's your mom doing?” she asked.

It was DCynthia—the one who had looked at him earlier, when Destiny was mocking him. He was surprised at her caring tone, but it was also confusing. Either she was setting him up for a joke or she was genuinely concerned. Was it possible that the twins weren't so mean when they weren't together?

“Not great, but thanks for asking,” he said shyly.

Isaac wondered if he could ask DCynthia for help. Since she was only a volunteer and not a hospital employee, she might be willing to bend the rules if he asked her nicely. “Um … would you … do you think … could you maybe help me with something?” he forced himself to say.

She shrugged. “It depends,” she said, looking over her shoulder to make sure her sister wasn't watching. “Why? What's up?”

“I need to get some information—about the people who lived in my house before us. Is there any way that you can look them up on the computer?”

DCynthia raised her left eyebrow. “Really?” she said slowly. “Well … I've watched the nurses use it. I know the password.” Isaac knew that the twins liked being mischievous and breaking rules. She looked
around. The nurses all seemed to be somewhere else. “Just keep an eye out for staff,” she said as she hurried to the computer. Isaac heard her whisper the word “Orwell” under her breath. “What's your address?”

“77 North Union Street,” Isaac said.

“Damn! The people who lived at this address before you were at County, not City, Hospital. But it still shows up on our network,” DCynthia said. Luckily, she knew how to access the network.

She worked quickly, but it still took her a while. Finally, she grabbed a piece of paper, wrote something on it, and turned off the computer. She handed the paper to Isaac. “Here's their name, their new address, and their phone number.”

Isaac looked at her. “Wow, thanks,” he said. He carefully folded the paper and put it in his wallet.

“You're welcome,” she said. “But this is between you and me.”

Isaac was grateful that she hadn't asked him any questions. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel angry.

Just then Destiny appeared. “What are you doing talking to this freak?” she said.

“I—I wasn't,” DCynthia said. “He was talking to me about something stupid, just asking me why we
volunteered here. I told him we had to. Community service for—you know. Forget it. He is seriously disturbed. Let's go.”

As soon as he was outside, Isaac took out his phone and dialed the number. The name DCynthia had written down was “Haynes.” After a few rings, a man answered. He sounded old, even older than Grandpa.

“Hi, uh … is this … um … Mr. Haynes?” Isaac asked.

“Yeah. Who's this?” the man answered gruffly.

“My name is Isaac. I know this is random, but I was wondering if you might be able to help me. I'm living in the house you used to be at—77 North Union Street. And … in the storage room I found this mirror box …”

“Yeah, so?” The man didn't sound at all interested.

“Well, I've been doing some research, and I know what the mirror box is for, and … Listen, could we talk in person? I was wondering about who it used to belong to and where it came from. You see, my mother, who's in City Hospital right now, is … um … having some problems there. Her doctor is strange and stuff, and if you could answer some of my questions, it might help me figure out …” Isaac
trailed off. He couldn't gather his thoughts. He felt completely flustered.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” the man said sternly.

“Please, if we could just meet for a minute, I could explain what I mean …”

“I don't have time for this,” the man said, and hung up.

Embarrassed but undeterred, Isaac waited a few minutes and then called again. He was determined to get some answers.

This time a woman answered. “You want to know about Joey?” she asked, so softly that Isaac could barely hear her.

Isaac grabbed at the chance. “Yes!” he said. “Because whoever the mirror box belonged to, I'm curious about him.”

“My husband is going out in half an hour,” the woman whispered. “Come over then.”

“But where?”

“I'll meet you in front of the building,” she whispered.

Then the line went dead.

 

HE GIRL'S BROTHER WAS THIN AND SICKLY, yet he was devoted to practicing the piano as much as possible. He liked to compare himself to Frédéric Chopin, the famous composer and pianist who lived from 1810 to 1849. Chopin, who was also thin and sickly, died young.

When her brother was sick, as he often was, the girl took care of him.

She
liked
taking care of him. It made her feel needed and important, qualities she never felt when she was around kids her own age, or her teachers, or her mother.

She knew that he looked forward to her visits to his
sickroom, when she'd bring him a tray with a bowl of chicken noodle soup or a cup of hot chocolate. Plus she always added special treats. Then, while he slowly ate or drank—he was never that hungry—she would tell him stories about school. Mostly they were made up. Her brother had already finished high school; he was waiting until he was well enough to attend the prestigious music conservatory that had given him a full scholarship.

Because they spent so much time together, they became very close. Now, whenever their mother got mad at her, her brother would defend her.

One day, while their mother was out, the girl explored her bureau and found her prescription pills. She experimented using them on her brother. He just got sicker and sicker. She kept giving him the pills.

Although his health rapidly deteriorated, he still managed to hobble down the stairs to the piano. But his playing was different now because he was so weak. He fumbled and made more mistakes than he had before.

Eventually, he couldn't even make it downstairs. All he could do was listen to music in bed, music he wished he was creating.

When her brother died, the doctors didn't understand why. They couldn't figure out what caused him to become so sick.

After her brother's death, she began reading medical books, studying whatever she could get her hands on.

She knew what she wanted to do.

She wanted to become a doctor.

 

FTER HE HUNG UP, ISAAC HOPPED ON HIS bike and rode off to meet the woman he had just spoken to.

Now he had a name to associate with the mirror box: Joey. But why was the man unwilling to tell him anything? And why did the woman have to keep it a secret from her husband? Most important of all, how could he persuade the woman to tell him what he needed to know?

By the time he found the address, he was panting and sweaty from the bike ride. It turned out to be a brick apartment house. With its large glass double doors, it looked like some kind of institution. An
old lady who was wearing a baggy brown dress and holding a cane was standing on the sidewalk. She almost seemed to be hiding behind a tree.

He hopped off his bike and walked over to her, wheeling the bike beside him. “Mrs. Haynes?” he said. “I'm Isaac.”

“You're the boy who called?” she asked. “The boy with Joey's mirror box?”

“That's me. So it
was
Joey's box?”

“We can't talk here,” she said, pulling at Isaac's arm. “If anybody sees me with you, they'll tell Harry. Come on. This way.” She started off down the street, back in the direction Isaac had come from. There were storefronts along the block. “Here,” she said, pointing to a parking lot behind a drugstore.

The old woman was breathing heavily by now and looked as if she needed to sit down. But of course there was no place to sit, so they just stood.

“When you called,” she said, “what did you mean about your mother being in the hospital and having problems with the doctor? What does that have to do with my grandson Joey?”

Isaac realized that she must have been listening in on his conversation with the old man. She was
clearly rushed, and she seemed so terrified of being seen that he didn't know how to explain everything. He figured he might as well get right to the point. “Was Joey ever in City Hospital? Did he have a doctor named Ciano?”

“Joey was in County Hospital, not City. And I forget the doctor's name.”

“Oh,” Isaac said, surprised and disappointed. Then he quickly continued. “I've been using the mirror box, just fooling around. And then I began to see that the hand in the mirror was different from my hand, doing different things.”

The old woman's mouth dropped open. She put her hand to her chest and looked at him sharply. “Is this some kind of cruel joke?” she said, her voice rising.

“No, it's not a joke,” Isaac said. “I know it sounds absurd, but it's true. I think he's been … well, trying to communicate with me.”

“That's—that's not possible. How could he do that?”

“What if … what if he's trying to tell me something? Something about my mother? Listen,” Isaac said, knowing how crazy he sounded. “Something weird
is going on at that hospital. My mother keeps getting worse, not better. What if Joey somehow knows something about that?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Joey had a wonderful experience at his hospital. That's where he was given the mirror box. It was the only thing that could stop his pain after he had to have his arm amputated. We were so grateful.”

“Why was his arm amputated?” Isaac asked.

“They said it was bone cancer,” Mrs. Haynes replied, but Isaac could hear doubt and uncertainty in her voice. “They ran a lot of tests … But it just seemed so strange. How could a young boy like him get bone cancer?”

“Did you get a second opinion?” Isaac asked.

“No. The hospital staff all said they were positive it was bone cancer, and that they needed to act quickly. We had no choice but to let them operate. The doctor told us it was the only hope for him. But that doesn't take away from how tragic it all was. You see, Joey was a pianist—a wonderful one—but you can't really play with only one hand, now can you? One of the staff members managed to find a piece of music for him, though—Ravel's Piano Concerto for the Left Hand. Joey worked so hard at that difficult music, and we
just loved to listen to him play. Then his wound got infected, and it spread …” Tears were welling up in the woman's eyes. “I have to go now. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help to you.”