A Trip to the Stars by Nicholas Christopher Read Free Book Online

NEVADA ; mother: BEL SAMAX ; father: UNKNOWN . The birth date, DECEMBER 16, 1955, leapt out at me, for it was my own. And I knew that was my blood type because Milo—who, in all ways disorganized, was oddly and ironically obsessed with what he called “accident preparation”—had made me memorize it along with the fact that I was allergic to penicillin. I also knew that I had been adopted in Reno, Nevada.
    The old man snapped his fingers, and the young man with the crewcut materialized with a glass of water for me. I saw that his roll of blue paper was an architectural blueprint. The white in his tie was clouds. I wished that like a cloud I could float away at that moment, far away from that place, and touch down somewhere where these people could never find me again. I sipped a little water and told myself: if they don’t really let you go, they still won’t be able to hold you forever. When they let down their guard, you’ll bolt, and this time you’ll pick your spot better, and once you’re out, it won’t be so easy for them to snatch you up again. Rather than convince me of anything, that piece of paper made me step back and take a deep breath and reconnoiter, as Milo used to put it. Then the young man patted my arm, and his black eyes were friendly.
    “I’m sorry,” the old man said, and he sounded sorry. “I know this is a shock, but when the subject is difficult I like to be as direct as possible. Double-O-negative is one of the rarest blood types: I have it, my brother had it, and you have it. That’s significant. But this is about more than blood types. I have put myself in a position to live my life exactly as I please. I have only a handful of living relatives,” he said, glancing at the woman, who was pacing up and down out of earshot, her arms crossed on her chest. “It’s no secret to them that your mother was my favorite. I would like to share with you what I would have shared with her.” He paused. “I’m being as frank with you as I can. There is much I would like to give you—a life filled with things I can’t give to anyone else. Things you can’t even imagine now. But I know full well that it will also be rewarding for me. It will fill a great void in my life, for there is much I know you will give to me, should things proceed as I am hoping. And should you decide you want what I am offering you.” He patted my shoulder. “Now, take a moment, and then I’ll tell you more of the story. Your story. Afterward, you can tell me your decision.”
    He told me a good deal—at least it seemed so at the time. In fact, it was just a sliver off a far greater story than I could ever have imagined. Thirty minutes later, however, I was ready to see the letter the old man had written to Alma. The young man put a small table before me and laid down a sheet of yellow paper and a yellow fountain pen. Typed on the paper was the letter.
    “As you can see,” the old man said, “I have not signed the letter or used any of the names you have heard, but I have not once lied to herand I have told as much of the truth as I could without jeopardizing my position. Primarily I want to reassure her as best I can.”
    The letter was short and direct, and I read it carefully.
    “If you would like to add anything,” he said, “you may.”
    “I can write whatever I want?”
    “Except my name, of course,” he replied.
    In the center of that silent enormous room with the craters, beneath the ceiling that stretched away in all directions like a sky, I thought about it for a long time and then wrote a single line to Alma at the bottom of the page, and then slowly added my signature.
    The old man handed me a yellow envelope, already stamped and with Alma’s name and address printed neatly in red ink. “Fold the letter and seal the envelope,” he said.
    “Don’t you want to read what I put in?”
    He shook his head. “I trust you.”
    He took the sealed envelope from me and beckoned to the woman. “Ivy,