Page 135 of Switch!
“Same,” Trixie says, casual as ever as she crams a few bites into her mouth. “These are some seriously good eats!”
“Thank you,” Ruth says. I can tell that she’s struggling to be polite. Not because she thinks poorly of Trixie. She missed her son. Her eyes water up when she addresses me again. “Tell us what you’ve been up to, Patrick.”
I try my best while avoiding the more awkward facts. I mention being hospitalized and how much it helped, which is sort of true. Making sure that Patrick went to the ER instead of a morguedidhelp him get better. Physically at least. I’m still disappointed that the real Patrick hasn’t responded to being here. Maybe that’s okay. If this doesn’t work—if he still wants to inhabit a land of illusion for the rest of his life—then at least his parents will worry less for having seen him. This trip won’t be a complete waste, no matter what.
I tell them that I’m earning money again, which is also true, even if the job I make up isn’t. Then I ask them for an update, which carries us through the rest of the meal. Afterwards, once Trixie and I have helped clear the table, we reconvene in the living room to watch home movies. I’m interested in these, since Patrick’s memories are always from his perspective. I only get to see him from the outside in when looking in the mirror. Now, on the television screen, I witness him growing up. A toddler teeters through the yard while gurgling, a bashful young boy shows off his latest invention, and an awkward teenager can’t make eye contact while dressed in a rented tuxedo. The trip down memory lane ends before he meets Laura. I know his parents have other home movies they could show us, including many that feature Serena. Terrence made sure to film her at every opportunity. I wonder if they’re sparing my feelings, or if her death still hurts too much for them.
“You must be tired,” Terrence says when noticing me yawn. “How early was your flight?”
“Eight,” I answer, stifling another yawn. “We had to be at the airport at seven, which meant waking up even earlier to get ready.”
“We were up at five,” Trixie says with a groan. “I hate waking up before the sun rises.”
“Me too,” I agree, fighting off another yawn.
“Let’s get you settled into your rooms,” Ruth says. “How’s that sound?”
Heavenly. Half an hour later, I’m alone in Patrick’s old bedroom and about to undress so I can slip beneath the sheets. Before I can, I hear a light rap on the door. I open it, not surprised to find Ruth standing there.
“Do you have a moment?” she asks.
“Of course!” I stand aside so she can enter.
When she turns around to face me, she’s wringing her hands. “Turning in already?”
“Yeah. I’m pooped.”
Ruth nods, but her worried expression remains. “Do you not go outside before bed anymore?”
Another memory surfaces that would have been useful, had I thought to search for it. Patrick liked to step outside at night and stargaze while imagining what was out there. As he grew older, this routine became more meditative, a chance for him to clear his thoughts before going to sleep.
“Even the rain wouldn’t stop you,” Ruth says warmly. “I think of that before I turn in for the night. I’ve even done it a few times myself, to try and reconnect with you. I know how foolish that sounds but…” She’s watching me carefully. “Are you okay? You’re not yourself.”
Boy, she’s got that right! “What do you mean?”
Ruth shakes her head like she’s being foolish, but answers regardless. “Ever since you were a little boy, you were always up early. Five o’clock is normal for you. Isn’t it?”
“Oh. My hours have been off lately.”
She barely seems to hear me. “I can’t remember a single time that you didn’t ask what I put in my pot roast. You were convinced there was a secret ingredient, and I always said—”
“A pinch of mama’s love.”
This exchange happened enough to become a tradition. This is what Trixie warned me about. I might look like Ruth’s son, but I don’t behave like him.
She isn’t finished. “I’m worried you’ve lost touch with yourself, or that Serena’s death changed you. What am I saying? How could it not? You’re with that girl though and… I like Trixie, but she’s so young. Is this all part of a mid-life crisis or… I’m worried that I don’t know you anymore. We have to stay in touch, honey. For both our sakes. Mine especially. I’m your mother. I want to know who you are, even if you’ve changed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, kissing her on the tip of her nose. That’s something else Patrick used to do, ever since he was little. “Being back here again is complicated. So yeah, I might seem a little off, but I promise that the Patrick you know is still inside of me.”
Ruth nods. “Good. Hearing that makes me feel better. Get some sleep. We can talk again in the morning. Sweet dreams, darling boy.”
“Sweet dreams,” I respond.
I wait until the door closes behind her before I get into bed, but not to sleep. I can’t do this on my own. I need to talk to Patrick.
Once I’m comfortable, I delve into my consciousness. Or does it belong to him? That seems to be the case, because when I reach the black box, I’m unable to get inside. I can visualize myself standing outside the perfectly black cube, but I can’t get my hand to pass through the surface like I normally do. I knock, call his name, and attempt to manifest a door, but nothing happens. Walking the perimeter reveals nothing but smooth obsidian walls. I’m locked out.
I stand there in frustration, wishing that Trixie was with me, since she’s always so clever in these situations. Trying to think like her, I come up with a weird idea and conjure up my own black box. Success! Obsidian walls form around me, and I make sure one of them is pressed up against Patrick’s box. Like a pirate ship preparing to board another vessel, or a spacecraft docking with a station.
