Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page A

as we walked back to our car.
    “Under the sink,” Mom said. “Look, Tru, that’s a fleur-de-lis on the top. A sign of royalty. I bet it belonged to Louis XIV.”
    She started to tell us a story about the key, but Truman made her stop. “It’s not a pretend thing, Mom. It’s real,” he said. When we got home, he polished it until it gleamed.
    “It’s beautiful!” Mom said when it was all shiny. “Look, there’s an L engraved on it. I was right! It’s for Louis, don’t you think?”
    Truman didn’t answer. He put it in his pocket and we didn’t see it again until two days later. It was a Tuesday night. We were all in the parlor—me and Truman doing our homework, Mom painting. And suddenly we heard the front door open. It was Dad. We looked up at each other, surprised.
    He walked in carrying a bouquet of flowers. Awkwardly. As if he were a miller’s son courting a princess, expecting to get laughed out of the palace. The princess didn’t laugh, though. She smiled and went to the kitchen to find a vase. While she was gone, Dad looked over Truman’s fractions and my algorithms. For something to do. So he didn’t have to make conversation with us. Then he sat down on the sofa and rubbed his face with his hands.
    “Tired, Dad?” Truman asked him.
    Dad lowered his hands and nodded.
    “Too much T and A?”
    Dad laughed. When Truman was a baby, he heard Dad talking about DNA, but when Tru tried to pronounce it, it came out “T and A.” He called it that ever since.
    “Way too much, Tru. But we’re close. So close.”
    “To what?”
    “To cracking the genome. To finding the answers. The key.”
    “But you don’t have to anymore.”
    “Don’t have to what?”
    Truman reached into his pants pocket, pulled his little silver key out, and placed it in our father’s hand. Dad stared at it.
    “It’s a key,” Truman said.
    “I see that.”
    “It’s a special key.”
    “How so?”
    “It has an L on it. L for love . See? It’s the key to the universe, Dad. You said you were looking for it. You told Mom you were. I found it for you so you won’t have to look anymore. So you can come home at night.”
    Dad was holding the key in his palm. He closed his fingers around it and squeezed it tight. “Thanks, Tru,” he said, his voice husky. And then he pulled my brother to him and hugged him.
    “I love you. Both of you. You know that, don’t you?” he said, holding Truman and looking at me.
    There was a muffled yes from Truman. I nodded, kind of embarrassed. It felt weird, like getting too-nice a present from a relative you barely know. I heard a sniffle. Mom was standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wet.
    It was good. For a month or two. And then he did it—cracked the genome. He got the Nobel and then he was barely home at all. There were trips to Stockholm, Paris, London, and Moscow. Even when he was in New York, he wouldn’t get in until after we’d gone to bed, and he’d be gone again before we even got up. There were more fights. And then, one night, after we hadn’t seen him for two weeks, Truman went into Dad’s study and took the key back. I saw him out in the backyard, clutching it in his hand and looking up at the first star of the evening. He didn’t have to tell me what he was wishing for. I knew. I also knew it would never come true. Genius isn’t a team sport.
    It was on him when he died, the key. I went through his clothes after a guy from the medical examiner’s office brought them back. It was in the front pocket of his jeans. I washed the blood off, put it on a ribbon, and tied it around my neck. I’ve never taken it off.
    I take my meds now. One 25-milligram pill of Qwellify twice a day. That’s what the bottle says. I say 50 milligrams twice a day. And sometimes 75. Because 25 isn’t Qwelling anything anymore—not the anger or the sadness or the overwhelming impulse to step out in front of moving cars. It’s tricky, though. Not enough and I can’t get out of bed, too