Set Me Free (44 page)

“I have a life back there, with you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “We have a friendship. But we don’t make a home for each other. I’ve heard it in your voice, ever
since you got out there. You’ve finally found your home, haven’t you?”

She shook her head as though he could see her. “I’m coming to visit.” She heard a car pull up, and as Ferdinand began to bark,
she guiltily asked Michael to hang on a minute. She shouldn’t be jamming up the phone line. What if something had happened
to Elliot or Amelia? She ran to Amelia’s room, and, peering down at the driveway, she saw Victor’s truck. She ran back to
the phone, breathless. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve got to go. Someone’s here.”

To which Michael Reid responded, “Good girl. Back to life.”

W
ILLA

Day Seven
Bend, Oregon
Tuesday, May 13, 1997

I
t was when they were parked across the street from the hospital that Nat said, “I’m sorry about the art show, kiddo. We’re
three days and three thousand miles away.”

Willa shrugged. “I’ve shot, like, fifteen rolls of film. And if even one picture is better than the
Scars
crap, it was worth it.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wish we hadn’t had to choose. I promised you four normal high school years. And then—”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Willa said solemnly. “I had a good time with you. And you let me decide this time. I liked that.”

Nat nodded and looked out his window at the hospital. He didn’t want Willa to see him like this. But he’d invited her along.

“Well?” she said after a minute or two.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t we going to go in?”

“Yup,” he said. “Except for the part where
I’m
the one going in. You’re keeping Ariel company.”

“Dad.”

“No buts.”

“Haven’t I been responsible?”

“More than I could have imagined.”

“Then it totally isn’t fair. I can’t believe you’d bring me all this way and make me sit here, waiting for you. You haven’t
even told me
why
you have to see him. All I know is that Caroline wanted you to pass something along. But he’s in a fucking coma! So whatever
you tell him, he’s not even going to hear you. And here I am, your poor daughter who’s driven three thousand miles with you,
and you won’t even tell me
why.”

“I
can’t
tell you why.”

“Fine. Whatever. The point is—”

“It’s not fine. I
should
have told you why. But I couldn’t.”

Willa was baffled. She’d been drawing a perfectly fine argumental line, and now he was interrupting her with a grammar lesson.
“The point is,” she said, “that I need to go into that hospital with you. It’s gonna kill me to sit out here with the dumb
cat.”

“I know,” Nat said. “But you’re going to do it. Not because I’m telling you to. Because I’m asking you to. I’m asking you
to do me a favor. It would mean the world to me if I could have a little time…just to think. Just to be alone with him.”

Willa scrunched herself down against her legs and looked at her father from below. “Did you know him? I didn’t think you knew
him until now. You seem… sad.”

“Yeah,” Nat said, “I feel sad.”

“But we made it! All the way across the country!”

Nat took his wallet from the dashboard, removed five hundred-dollar bills, and placed them in Willa’s hand. “I want you to
hold on to this,” he said.

“What is this?”

“Just in case.”

“In case of what?” A knot rose in Willa’s throat. She sat up. This was happening too quickly. She had thought they were done
with all this. She thought they had arrived.

“In case…” Nat smiled, and Willa realized he was smiling to keep himself from crying.

“In case what?” she asked.

“I’m supposed to tell you something now.”

“Okay.”

“Something big.”

“Okay, Dad. Okay. You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

“Not this.” He shook his head, once, twice, and then he brought it down to rest against the steering wheel.

Willa waited. At any moment, Nat was going to sit upright and he would be her capable, strong father and he would tell her
he had changed his mind and that they were going to go inside together. Then they would go find Elliot Barrow, and she would
sit in the waiting room and let Nat have his privacy, and she would give Nat back his five hundred dollars and then he would
explain that there had never been anything terrible to tell her. Because that was what she feared. His face told her everything.
Whatever the secret he was going to spill, it contained terrible things.

“Dad.” She touched his leg. He barely moved. “Dad,” she said again, more powerfully. “Listen. You don’t have to explain anything.
Okay?” As she spoke, she realized she didn’t want this secret, whatever it was, to be loosed upon her. Not yet. It was the
first time in her life that Willa didn’t want to know a secret. She didn’t want to have to know another awful thing.

She spoke with confidence. “You can do this. It’s easy. You’re going to go in there and do whatever you have to do with Elliot
Barrow, and then, afterward, if you still want to tell me this… thing… you can, okay? But not now. Let’s make a deal. Not
now.”

Nat shook his head. “I have to.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said with finality. “I don’t think I can stand to hear something else.”

“I’ve been terrible,” Nat said.

“No,” Willa said. “No. You’ve been wonderful.” She didn’t know what they were talking about anymore. But she knew that he
was wonderful and that she didn’t want to hear otherwise.

She tapped him on the leg. “You better change your shirt,” she
said. “That’s the one you’ve been wearing since Utah. Anyway,” she added, “I’ve got to help Ariel stretch her legs.”

“Stay in the car,” Nat said, alert in an instant.

Willa leaned back against the window. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

After that, Nat was all business. He changed his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair. He took a mint from the glove
compartment and looked straight at Willa. “Stay in the car,” he said.

“I’m going
to.”

“You remember when I told you—that we’ve been hiding? Well, they may well be looking for me here. I’m a fugitive.”

Willa started giggling when she heard that word. Her laughter was incredibly inappropriate, but she couldn’t stop.

Nat went on. “There’s a distinct possibility that the FBI is waiting for me in that building.”

“Then clearly you can’t go in,” Willa said, her anxiety still laughing through her.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes you do. We can wait out here, see if we notice anything. And then tomorrow—”

“He’ll be dead tomorrow.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“They don’t have a burn unit at this hospital. What does that say to you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about burn units, Dad.”

“It says they’re not trying to fix him. It says they’re just trying to keep him comfortable.”

“Oh.” The money was damp in her hand. She didn’t like the smell of it.

“It can’t be helped, Willa. It’s too late,” Nat said, but he seemed suddenly cheerful. Optimistic. As if announcing the word
“fugitive” into the conversation had been the best decision he’d ever made.

“Don’t go in there. You don’t
have
to.”

“Oh, but I do.”

Later, Willa would replay this scene, wondering what she could have said to stop her father from going, but every time she
replayed it, her father was too fast for her, all words and purpose. In the memory, Nat didn’t feel like a person to Willa,
he felt like water. Flowing-away water.

Before he left the car, he turned in his seat and looked Willa squarely in the eye. He was completely lucid, in control. “This
won’t happen. But if. If they take me… if I’m identified, arrested, I will send someone to come and get you. To take you somewhere
safe.”

“This is insane.” Willa’s whole body was vibrating, the way it did when she’d had too much caffeine. She felt as if she were
outside herself, and that a part of her was laughing at how strange this was. But only she could hear the laugh.

“It sounds insane, yes, it does. But promise me. Promise me that if someone I’ve sent comes to get you, you’ll go with them.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll figure something out.”

“How will I know who they are? How will I know you sent them?”

Nat nodded at her sensibility. “You’ll know. It will be someone you can trust. They’ll tell you they’re taking you somewhere
safe. Just to be sure, when they come to get you, don’t say a word. Wait to speak until you see where they take you. If they
don’t handcuff you, then you can trust them.”

“They’re going to use handcuffs?”

“No, of course they aren’t. Only the police would. But if the police get me, I’m not saying a word about you. I promise. They
won’t know you’re here.”

“But who—”

“Just promise me.”

Willa bit her lip. “I promise.” There was a secret world of people waiting to rescue people like her from the police, the
FBI, whoever they were. She wanted to ask, “If you are a fugitive, does
that make me a fugitive, too? Will going with someone you send make me a fugitive if I’m not one right now?”

“I love you, Willa,” Nat said. “I want you to remember, no matter what happens, how much I love you.” He grabbed her in a
hug, squeezing all her air out. She wanted to hold on to him, but he slipped through her fingers. “I’ll be back,” he said.
And then he was gone.

As she watched Nat disappear into the hospital, Willa tried to calm her heart. No undercover agents in trench coats followed
him in. No police cars careened into the parking lot, lights and sirens blaring. Nothing unusual happened at all, and Willa
told herself that everything was going to be fine. He was going to reemerge from that hospital in twenty minutes, and they
were going to drive to a hotel with a swimming pool. There, the terrible secret would not be so terrible. He would tell her
whatever it was, and she would wave her hand and say, “No biggie.” Things would be back to normal. They had driven across
and through and over all this country—all this vast strange country packed with a zillion Denny’s and Wal-Marts, cheap motels
and bad coffee—and if they’d made it this far, there was no way they could lose each other now.

Willa believed this wholeheartedly until the Indian man knocked on her window.

“Your dad wants you to come with me,” he said. “He wants you safe.” The Indian put his hand on the door handle. “Come on.
Come with me. You don’t have to say a word.”

C
AL

Bend, Oregon
Tuesday, May 13, 1997

When I wasn’t out looking for Amelia, I was sitting at the hospital, waiting for Elliot to wake up. I’m no fool. I knew the
chances were slim. But at first his waking up seemed possible. Miraculously, he’d avoided breathing in too much hot air, so
his lungs weren’t
fried; his heart was strong. I took those for good signs. Everything had happened too fast, and it seemed that all I could
do was sit down to try to gather the bits of truth I knew and to catch up to reality.

The hospital was a good place to do this. Otherwise, it looked like I wasn’t doing anything. Otherwise, everyone kept asking
me if I was all right. When I say “everyone,” I mean people like those from Benson Country Day, who seemed to be mighty relieved
when I told them no charges would be pressed against Wesley Hazzard. People like the Neige Courante elders and their children,
who kept showing up on campus even though I had canceled classes for the time being. People like Helen, although, to her credit,
she asked only twice, and the second time she saw I could not stand the question, and after that I knew she would not ask
again. I restrained myself from talking harshly to Helen, because I didn’t want her to consider me, in this moment of crisis,
as impossible as I actually am. I did not want Helen—who was cooking, and fielding calls, and beating herself up about not
keeping a closer eye on Amelia, who’d run off—to hate me or to leave. Helen had postponed her trip to see Michael Reid. That
was encouraging.