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.The maid back in Boston—back home, Eliot thinks—Marcy, she helps around the house with domestic things like that.Usually Eliot’s mother uses her mind to speculate on how the mind works; not just her own mind—butthe mind—the idea of what a mind is.Now she finds herself using her mental prowess to tidy up a ramshackle cabin.Who would have guessed she’d be so capable? Sopractical? Not Eliot.Certainly not herself.The door to the cabin swings open, flooding the room with bright sunlight that makes Eliot squint.He shields his eyes with one hand, like an officer saluting, to witness the shadowy figure of his father’s body filling the doorframe, and his sister Dawn trailing behind.Dawn is more excited than usual, which has made this trip something less than a vacation.For Eliot’s father, Dr.Carroll, it was never a vacation; that was a well-known fact.For Dr.Carroll, this was an expedition, possibly his last chance to inscribe his name in History.But the rest of the family was supposed to “take things easy and enjoy themselves.” When Dr.Carroll said that, Eliot had snorted.Dr.Carroll had placed his hands on his hips and glowered.“Why the attitude, Eliot?” he’d asked.“Take iteasy?” Eliot repeated in a squeaky-scratchy voice that never failed to surface when he most needed to appear justified and righteous.“How can you expect us to do that with Dawn around?”Dr.Carroll had stalked away, not answering, which didn’t surprise Eliot at all.For most of his life, this is what Eliot has seen whenever he questions his father: his father’s back, walking away, leaving a room full of silence.Dawn pushes past Dr.Carroll and runs over to Eliot’s cot.She jumps on the mattress, which squeals on old coils, and throws her arms across the moth-eaten pink quilt.The quilt smells of mold and mildew and something a little like mothballs, as if it had been stored in a cedar chest for a long time.Dawn turns to Eliot, her wide blue eyes set in a face as white and smooth as porcelain, and smiles at him, her blonde hair fanning out on the pillow.Eliot considers her over the top of his comic book, pretending not to have noticed her.Dawn is autistic.She’s seventeen years old, three years older than Eliot.But when she’s around, Eliot feels as if he’s already an old man, forced into an early maturity, responsible for things no fourteen year old boy should have to think about.He blames this all on his parents, who often encourage him when he pays attention to Dawn, who often scold him when he wants something for himself.“Being selfish,” is what his mother calls that, leaving Eliot dashed to pieces on the rocks of guilt.He feels guilty even now, trying to read the last page of his comic book instead of paying attention to Dawn.“I’m leaving,” Dr.Carroll announces.He’s wearing khaki pants with pockets all over them, and a wide-brimmed hat with mosquito netting pulled down over his face.A backpack and sleeping bag are slung on his back.He lifts the mosquito netting and kisses Eliot’s mother on her cheek and calls her Dr.Carroll affectionately, then looks at Eliot and says, “You take care of Dawn while I’m away, Eliot.Stay out of trouble.”He walks outside, and all of them—Eliot, Dawn and their mother—move to the doorway.As if magnetized by Dr.Carroll’s absence, they try to fill the space he’s left.They watch him become smaller and smaller, a shadow, until he reaches the trail that will take him farther into the graying mountains, where his moth awaits.“Good luck,” Eliot’s mother whispers, waving goodbye to his back, his nets and pockets.She closes her eyes and says, “Please,” to something she cannot name, even though she no longer believes in higher powers, ghosts or gods of any sort.3.First WordsIt was strange for the girl in this place; she hadn’t been prepared for it.Suddenly the wagon had come to a stop and they all spilled out.The mother and the father, they seemed so excited.They smiled so hard, their faces split in half.The little old man kept scowling; he was so funny.She patted him on his shoulder and he opened his mouth to make room for one huge silver bubble to escape.She grabbed hold of its silky surface and almost left the ground as it floated upwards, towards the clouds.But it popped, and she rocked back on her heels, laughing.When the bubble popped, it shouted, “Get off!”The father left soon after.The girl was a little frightened at first.Like maybe the father would never come back? Did the father still love her? These thoughts frightened her more than anything else.But then she watched the little old man chop wood for the fire, his skinny arms struggling each time he lifted the axe above his head, which made her laugh, sweeping the fear out of her like the mother sweeping dirt off the front porch.Swish! Goodbye, fear! Good riddance! She forgot the father because the little old man made her laugh so much.There were so many trees here, the girl thought she’d break her neck from tilting her head back to see their swaying tops.Also, strange sounds burrowed into her skin, and she shivered a lot.Birds singing, crickets creeking.This little thing no bigger than the nail of her pinky—it had transparent wings and hovered by her ear, buzzing a nasty song.She swatted at it, but it kept returning.It followed her wherever she went.Finally the mother saw it and squashed it in a Kleenex.But as it died, it told the girl, “You’ve made a horrible mistake.I am not the enemy.” Then it coughed, sputtered, and was dead.The girl thought of the wagon.It was still one of her favorite things in the world.But now she was thinking she wasn’t so sure.Maybe there were other things just as special as riding in the wagon with the mother, the father and the little old man.She wished the mother wouldn’t have killed the winged creature so quick.She wanted it to tell her more things, but now it was dead and its last words still rang in her ears.When the winged creature spoke, no bubbles came out of its mouth.Words, pure and clear, like cold water, filled her up.The winged creature had more words for her, she just knew it.She knew this without knowing why, and she didn’t care
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