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Leah continued to shake her head and Herman knew that he had come home too late. Something had happened to June. He tore across the living room and threw open the door to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn so tight, not a crack of light penetrated the space. Herman yanked the chain on the lamp near the door and the bed was empty.
‘Where is she?’ he roared at Leah from the bedroom. ‘Where’s June, God damn it?’
Leah crept toward the open bedroom door, tears streaming down her face as she clasped her hands tightly over her chest. ‘She’s gone. They put her in isolation when she got TB and the medicine they gave her . . .’ She covered her face and sobbed into her hands.
Herman grabbed her wrists. ‘What about the medicine? What happened?’
But Herman didn’t need to know anything more. June’s history with psychosis always put her at risk when she needed treatment for any type of illness. Anything could set her off.
‘She stole a needle from one of the nurses and stabbed herself in the neck so many times . . . in the middle of the night.’ Leah choked on her words. ‘By morning, she was gone.’
Herman shook his head in disbelief. Not his little girl. The same girl who filled his world with sunlight could not deliberately turn his world black.
He couldn’t voice this aloud. Herman knew Leah would not lie about something like this. She struggled with June’s psychosis more than anyone. For many years, she had been certain June’s condition was her fault; maybe she didn’t sing to her enough as a baby or maybe June had inherited the psychosis from Leah’s grandmother who died not knowing her own name. Just one look at Leah’s emaciated face and Herman knew she would blame herself for this for years to come.
He wanted to comfort Leah, but there was one more pressing matter to attend to first. He marched across the bedroom and yanked open the closet door to search for the black box. He shoved boxes of shoes and photographs off the shelf in the closet then dug through all the shoes and boxes on the floor and found nothing.
‘Where is it?’ Herman demanded and Leah pointed to the top drawer of the bedside table.
Herman yanked it open and retrieved the wooden box made out of solid walnut and finished to a mirror shine with black lacquer. He felt around the inside of the drawer for the key to open the box, but came up short.
‘And the key?’ he asked Leah.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve searched everywhere.’
And just like that, Herman lost his daughter twice in one day.
I set the book down in my lap to give Mikki some time to recover. She’s in the middle of the sofa with her legs folded under her, using a box of tissues she pilfered from the restroom to soak up her tears. The pile of crumpled tissues on the coffee table in front of us is stained with black mascara and violet eyeshadow. When she’s finally settled down enough for me to continue, I’m not surprised to find that most of her makeup is gone. Even the red lipstick she was wearing is now smudged across her mouth, as if she just kissed someone.
‘Why are you staring at my mouth?’ she asks in a small voice and I immediately look up to focus on her puffy eyes.
‘Your lipstick is gone.’
‘Oh.’
She stares off into space and my heart rate speeds up as she traces the pads of her fingers over her lips. I just want to shove her hand away and kiss her. Instead, I decide to test the waters by reaching for the damp tissue balled up in her fist. She flinches a little before she hands it over and I know I made the right decision. She’s not ready to be touched. Not the way I want to touch her.
‘So June was . . . your aunt?’ she asks, her eyes pleading with me, hoping I’ll tell her that nothing in Black Box is true.
I nod and reach for her hand. I trace my finger over the letter G tattooed on her right ring finger as I answer. ‘She was sick and they didn’t know how to deal with her in those days.’
The tears stream down her face again, though her gaze is glued to her finger. ‘Do you know where she’s buried?’
‘She was buried at St Joseph’s until my grandfather purchased the estate in Cambridge. She’s buried there now.’
‘The estate . . . I can’t believe this is the story of your grandfather. Herman – I mean, what’s your grandfather’s real name?’
‘Hugh.’
Her fingers close around mine as she continues, but I don’t know if she’s doing it consciously or subconsciously. ‘Hugh blamed himself for her death. He thought if he’d had enough money to get Leah and June that big house, he never would have had to go to Korea and June would still be alive. He never stopped blaming himself.’
‘Jane.’
‘What?’
‘My aunt. Her real name was Jane. And you’re right.
Grandpa Hugh never stopped blaming himself for what happened to her. And that’s why he bought that rundown hotel just a few months after her death and turned it into an empire.’
She wipes at the half-dried tear tracks on her face then looks me in the eyes. ‘What happened to the black box?’
I gaze into her eyes a bit longer, savoring the softness of her skin against mine. ‘It’s here with me.’
‘Here? Like, in this hotel room?’
‘Yes. My grandfather left it to me in his will when I was ten, but he didn’t leave me the key. He left me a note telling me that when I was eighteen I could go to Boston Public Library where they have the books he donated on display in an exhibit dedicated to Jane. He said I’d find the key there, but I never went.’
‘What? Why? How could you not go?’
I glance at the book where it rests in my lap and she does the same. ‘I didn’t go because I gave you the book when I was seventeen. I felt like whatever was inside that box didn’t belong to me anymore.’
She pulls her hand away suddenly and I feel a flash of pain throughout my entire body, as if part of my body has been cut off.
‘We have to go to the library.’
‘We?’
The look on Crush’s face, that crazy hope in his eyes, scares me. He still doesn’t know why I’m trying to avoid being seen in public. I need to tell him something, even if it’s not the truth, so he understands that we can’t indiscreetly wander the streets of Boston. Maybe I should tell him I’m a fugitive. Technically, he did kill someone. Even if it was to protect me, that makes him a fugitive.
‘But first, I have to tell you something,’ I begin, wishing he were still holding my hand.
His skin on mine felt so comforting and natural. It actually put me at ease. I know Crush would never do anything to hurt me. Though I hardly know him, I’m pretty sure he’s the only person I can say that about, other than Meaghan.
Meaghan. I hope she hasn’t found the note yet. It’s been twenty-four hours since I left for the airport. By now, they’ll have called Rina to ask her if she knows where I might be. With my history of attempted suicide, they’ll search my room for a note or anything that might suggest where I’d go after the flight was canceled. I don’t like to worry my family, especially Meaghan, but the reasons I have for taking my life are still valid.
Crush grabs my hand and tilts his head as he waits for me to spill. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to lie to you.’
‘Then don’t.’
I look up at him and, for the first time, I allow myself to take in his features: the vibrant green irises of his eyes, the long eyelashes, his chiseled cheekbones, the perfect slope of his nose, the symmetrical peaks of his top lip. It dawns on me that, except for the slope of my nose, which is still a bit crooked from the attack, all of those features are mirrored in me. My green eyes, long eyelashes, strong cheekbones, and the symmetrical bow of my lips. But looking like someone on the outside doesn’t mean you look like them on the inside.
If I tell Crush I’m going to L.A. to kill myself, he’ll probably take me to the nearest hospital. That’s what the average person thinks is the responsible thing to do. They have no idea what it’s like to be committed. They don’t know that my desperate desire not to be committed again is one of the things propelling me toward suicide.
‘First, let me tell you the small stuff.’ I pull his hand into my lap so I can stare at our hands clasped together as I speak. ‘I told you that I’m bipolar, but that pill you saw me taking yesterday wasn’t my medication. I’ve been off my meds for a couple of weeks now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to be free,’ I reply defensively. ‘I don’t want to just exist. Existing is not enough. I want to feel everything. I want to live my life my way, not the way everyone else thinks I should, suffocating in a cloud of psych meds. I want to breathe and not wonder if it’s my last breath of freedom. Is that too much to ask?’
He’s silent as he reaches for my face. The backs of his fingers are warm against my skin as he pushes a piece of hair out of my eyes. ‘You’re so afraid.’ He grabs my chin and gently turns my face toward him. ‘But I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not going to force you to take your meds or go home or anything like that. I’d never force you to do anything you don’t want to do. You believe me, don’t you?’ I nod and he flashes me a warm smile. ‘Then, can you tell me the real reason you’re going to L.A.?’
‘To kill myself,’ I say, holding my breath as I look into his eyes, awaiting his reaction.
His gaze falls. ‘I was afraid of that.’
‘I don’t want to lie to you.’ He lets go of my face and stands suddenly, leaving me with the painful ache of rejection. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To get the black box. We have to go to the library. I want to know what’s inside that box. I just . . . I have a feeling it will change everything.’ His gaze burns into me. ‘I hope it will change everything.’
*****
Though Crush called concierge and asked them to have a cab ready for us, I still pull my hood tightly over my head to cover as much of my face as possible. I decide not to reapply my makeup. After getting rid of all of my old pictures, I made sure to never again take a picture looking all fresh-faced and innocent.
