And it felt important that he knew these fun facts about his parents. Or at least that somebody knew it. And that somebody would go on knowing it after they were… gone.
But that somebody wouldn't be him. The days were clicking by-three of them already-and he could feel his body changing. And the chances of finding the ship weren't looking too good for patient X.
What was it doctors said? You should think about making arrangements. Yeah, that was it. Max had the feeling that old patient X should be making his arrangements.
And that included talking to Michael and Isabel and the others. He would have to do that. He really couldn't wait much longer.
The only good prognosis for patient X was that he was feeling less scared, less angry, just less of everything. Patient X had become a bubble boy. The moment Ray had told Max about the akino, it felt like a thin layer of plastic had formed around him. And every day the plastic got thicker, creating a barrier between him and everyone and everything else, even his feelings.
Maybe the oxygen in the bubble had some kind of anesthesia mixed in with it, too. Because Max or patient X or whoever didn't care that he was a bubble boy. He didn't care that he and his mom were talking through a wall of plastic. He was having trouble caring about anything.
Strangely, though, he did sort of care about the parent information files in his head. He would like somebody to remember that his mother could recite that whole turnip speech from Gone With the Wind. That seemed important.
Max pushed himself to his feet and paced around the kitchen table, sat down, and immediately stood back up, even though his body felt like it weighed about three times as much as usual.
"How about if I make a salad?" he asked. He didn't feel like salad, but he felt like staying in the kitchen, and he might as well do something useful. He jerked open the refrigerator door and checked the vegetable crisper. There was one head of lettuce, slick with mold, and a couple of sad-looking carrots.
"I ordered us salads, too," his mother said. "So we have time for you to sit down and tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to make a salad, that's all." He shut the crisper drawer with his foot and closed the fridge door.
"I'm less worried about the salad than the bags under your eyes. They're big enough for a two-week vacation. I've never seen you like this," she answered. She sat down at the table and patted the chair next to hers.
Max reluctantly sat down. He knew there was no escaping his mother when she thought they needed to talk. And it often helped. It's not that she told him what to do. It's just that a lot of times when he'd gotten through explaining whatever the deal was to her, he'd sort of figured out a solution for himself.
But there was no way that would happen this time. A long time ago he and Isabel had promised each other that they would never tell their parents the truth about their origins.
Max was going to keep that promise. If he told his parents the truth, they'd be in danger. Just like Liz, and like anyone else who got too close to him. As long as Valenti's Project Clean Slate people were hunting for aliens, everyone who knew Max, Michael, and Isabel was in danger. And that was unacceptable.
Patient X was going to die. Fine. Well, not fine, but probably inevitable. Isabel was going to die. Michael was going to die. Also probably inevitable.
But his parents didn't have to die, not for a long, long time. And he wanted to keep it that way. He wasn't going to shorten their life expectancies by telling them his secret and putting them in danger.
"So do I need to cross-examine you?" his mother asked. "Or can you bring yourself to tell me what's going on?"
He had to come up with something. His gaze drifted to the left, and he noticed one thread of gray at her temple. He reached over, plucked the hair, then held it up in front of her.
"Ow! Be kind. It will happen to you someday, too," she warned.
Actually, no, Mom, it won't, he answered silently.
He slid the gray hair into his pocket. "I think I see another one," he announced. He reached for it, but his mom slapped his hand away.
"Stop stalling," she ordered.
"Okay, here's the deal," Max said. He needed a good lie, but nothing was coming to him. "Um, there's this girl at school who's totally smart and beautiful and everything. But the problem is, she keeps telling me she only wants to be friends."
Actually, he had been the one who kept telling Liz they couldn't be more than friends. It had turned out to be a good thing, too. When he died, at least she'd only have a dead friend, not a dead boyfriend.
"This makes me feel way older than the gray hair," his mother complained. "My son talking to me about relationship problems."
The doorbell rang. Max shoved himself up from the table. "I'll get it."
"Ask your dad for some money," his mom said. Then she winked at him. "You can ask him something else, too. Ask him how many times I told him I thought it would be better for us to be just friends before I finally went out with him."
Max forced himself to smile so she would think she'd made him feel better, then he headed to the front door. "Dad, I need money for the pizza guy," he yelled.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," his father called from the living room. "But couldn't we have ordered something besides pizza? I'd rather eat the box."
This might be the very last time I hear him say that, Max realized.
Michael wandered into the living room, holding a piece of cold pizza and a glass of milk.
Isabel's heart gave a hard thump, and she sloshed some of her soda onto the front of her shirt. She grabbed a napkin and blotted the spot.
"Did I scare you?" Michael asked. He flopped down on the couch next to her.
"I didn't hear you come in," she answered. He never rang the doorbell. Isabel's parents called him their third child, and he treated their home like his own.
It's true that she hadn't heard him arrive. But that's not why her heart had practically slammed a hole through her ribs. When she saw Michael, the image from his dream orb instantly flashed through her mind. And her heart had responded.
Michael stuck his feet on the coffee table, folded his pizza in half, and took a big bite. He was definitely not acting like a guy who had been dreaming about having his arms around her. In another second he'd be burping or scratching his butt.
That was a relief. It would be too weird for big brother Michael to have any kind of romantic feelings about her. Her brain knew that even if her body seemed to have temporarily forgotten.
Isabel raised her eyebrows. "Are you sure you have everything you need?" she asked him with mock sweetness. "You want me to run upstairs and get you a few pillows or anything?"
"How nice of you to ask," Michael replied, his voice as syrupy as hers had been. "But I think I'm all set. Unless you want to take off my shoes and give me a foot rub."
"Yeah, I've really been longing to get my hands on your big, stinky feet," she answered. There was a time when she would have done it-eagerly. Back when she was, like, twelve. She'd had this major, major crush on Michael. She had an entire notebook filled with info like his favorite band and his favorite food. That notebook got fed to the garbage disposal page by page when Isabel hit thirteen and found the entries intensely humiliating.
"So, where is everyone?" Michael asked.
"My parents went back to their office. They have some humongous case. And Max is in his room. At least I think it's Max," she said. "It might be his evil twin. The one we fondly call The Mute."