THE STARS ARE BEAUTIFUL - WATTYS AWARD NEW ADULT WINNER 2019

Callum | Chapter 13

A STURDY PILE of bricks. A proud American flag. Two stories of earned success. That was the greeting outside of the Brighton home.

The Saturday I knocked to ask Dr. Brighton the question that would lead to one of the most important adventures of my life, I found myself entering a whole new world as I stepped through the front door.

Their housekeeper led me into the foyer and told me to wait. As she disappeared up the staircase, I took one step that lead to three and then too many to keep myself out of trouble.

I searched to find a picture of Everly as a child, to see Brighton with his daughter, unmasked, but nothing. Every wall in the house was bare: not a single portrait, not even a piece of art. As I took it all in—the living room, the foyer, hallways in between rooms—I realized what I was seeing. This was not a home; this was a well-orchestrated production of how to keep someone alive.

Where most normal homes would showcase wood, carpet, or tile as flooring, Dr. Brighton's home had rubber. No rugs to trip over. No sharp edges on furniture.

Sterile.

A locked box around the thermostat.

Charts on the fridge keeping logs of Everly's eating times, what nurse was on duty, supplements to be given, appointments to be kept.

Not a single speck of dust or anything out of alignment.

And the oddest of all—sticker-like temperature gauges on nearly everything in the kitchen.

"Is there a reason why you're snooping through my house, Mr. Trovatto?" His voice surprised me from the doorway of the kitchen. In his hand he held a dark-green coffee mug. As I scrambled for words, he slurped a long sip.

"Just looking for Everly."

"Are your eyes working today?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you can see Everly is not in this room."

"I meant I wanted to see a picture of Everly as a child, so I went looking around as I waited for you. That's all, sir."

"And are you satisfied by what you've found?"

"I don't know what to make of it."

"It... or... her?" he asked.

"Both, if I can be honest with you, Dr. Brighton."

"For your sake—you better be." Dr. Brighton took a seat at the kitchen table and then nudged a chair for me with his foot.

"I need to ask you something," I said as I took my seat. "I want Everly to come to my family's house in Montauk for the Fourth of July."

He shook his head. "Out of the question."

"Actually, sir, with all due respect, I haven't asked one yet."

"The names Everly and/or Montauk better not be part of it."

And this was where having an actress for a mother paid off. "You know my father Andrew, right?"

"Yes," he said coolly. "We worked together several years ago."

"Then you know he's an excellent doctor."

He took another long sip, and I knew I was on to something. He was stalling. "With all due respect to you and your family, Callum, your father was an excellent doctor before he quit. I don't even believe he's licensed any longer."

"If you were dying and had to choose between a licensed doctor and my father, who would you pick? No wait—allow me to rephrase. If Everly was dying, who would you choose to save her life?"

He sat taller. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because you and I both know that a license is just a piece of paper, and my father is still one of the best doctors in the country. He has a drinking problem because he has a broken-heart problem, but that doesn't make him any less brilliant than he's always been."

Brighton leaned forward and the gloves came off. "If you have been discussing Everly's case with your father to form a diagnosis, I will have to fail you. That is absolutely forbidden. He has privileged information." His face filled with regret as he soon as he slipped.

I stayed cool.

"Why would he know anything about her?" I asked, as if he had just given me the answers Everly already had.

"Isn't that the point of your question? Lure me into thinking Andrew has come up with a miracle cure for my daughter so you can wiggle your way out of diagnosing her?"

"I didn't even know my father knew her until now. I was only trying to convince you that, if Everly came to Montauk with us for the holiday, she would be in great hands."

Brighton slammed his mug to the table. Splashes of coffee landed on the walnut-colored wood. "Game over. You spoke the two words I forbid."

"Dr. Brighton... please. You have to see that Everly is not happy living this way. She's only doing it because she feels guilty about her mother dying—she thinks it's all her fault. She wants to make you happy."

"Does she?"

"But at the cost of her own happiness." I sighed and then went for the jugular. "She told me that when you bought her Peter Pan as a child, it made her sad, because she believes her only joy will come after she dies. She doesn't even believe in the world she was born into. She doesn't think she has a place. I gave her a Bible just so she could see our Lord has a plan for her. I really want to help her find happiness before she dies. Maybe a weekend at the beach doesn't seem like much to you or me, but to Everly, it's a dream come true."

He watched for a lie, but it would never come. "She told me it was her favorite book."

"I'm sure she did."

He sat in his chair. It was quiet for a long while, the way the sky goes silent right before it turns gray and all hell breaks loose.

"She also told me," I added, "that she needs my help to thwart your conservatorship."

His gaze turned darker. "And you think that's possible? You and your adorable three years of medical school?"

"I think making Everly believe it's possible is a more prudent choice. Her hope rests on the possibility of freedom, so allow her to believe it's being offered in order to keep her from taking more drastic, dangerous measures. I can and will keep her safe."

"You don't even know what she has," he argued.

"Everly knows. She doesn't have a death wish. She has a freedom wish. Give her an inch so she won't want a mile. Appeasement is your only friend now."