THE MINUTE THEY drop me home, I head over to the Silverbergs’ and ring the bell. I can’t wait to see Liberty’s face when I give her the VIP pass. And I want to make sure her mom has calmed down, that whatever happened is over and all is good. I want to tell her how I solved the Superman clue, then got on the wrong bus, but Natasha/Olga saved me, but then I lost the token, but then Joon came through for me. . . . So much happened after her mom swooped in and grabbed her.
It takes a long time before I hear footsteps inside the house. Then Dr. Silverberg opens the door. His red hair is sticking up around his bald spot, and his eyes are puffy behind his glasses, like he’d been sleeping.
“Hey, Dr. Silverberg. Could I talk to Liberty? Are she and her mom back yet?”
He frowns and scratches his forehead. “Her mom?” Then he opens the door wider to let me in the entry hall. I see books and half-empty moving boxes, the contents still piled all around, even though they moved in over a month ago. “What are you talking about, Stanley?” He looks puzzled. “Isn’t she with you?”
We stare at each other for a minute. “No, sir. Her mom came to the Quest and got her about two hours ago, when we were on the next-to-last clue.”
Dr. Silverberg’s eyes come suddenly into focus. He rushes into the kitchen and picks up his phone.
I tiptoe in behind him. Their kitchen is on the left; ours is on the right. Their house is the exact reverse layout of ours, just like their family. Her folks are the opposite of my parents. And Liberty is the opposite of me.
“Where are you?” Dr. Silverberg shouts into the phone. “But don’t you see, you can’t just pick her up without telling me—and you just left Stanley there?—I have to be told first—don’t you see? That’s so impulsive!
“But she’s fine! You knew she was doing fine here. You need to—”
He listens some more, saying “uh-huh, uh-huh.” Finally, Dr. Silverberg hangs up. He rubs his hands over his eyes.
I stand there and wait.
“Well, Stanley, it looks like Liberty is on her way up to LA to stay with her mother for a while.”
“What? But—why?”
My whole body goes rigid as I try to process what he said.
“Liberty’s mom got worried that she might be feeling sick again. She wanted to be with her.”
I think about Liberty’s transparent skin, watery eyes. “But she wasn’t sick. She just drank too much coffee.”
He smiles sadly. “I don’t know if Liberty talked to you about her cancer.”
A heavy weight of realization starts slowly spreading through my chest. So that’s what it was. “Nope,” I whisper.
He goes over to his kitchen sink, takes down two glasses from the cupboard, and fills them with water. He hands me one, and we sit at the table.
“About two years ago, she had horrible stomachaches. Her mom thought it was nothing, and didn’t bother much with it. They ignored it. Then, when Liberty came to stay with me for a while, I got concerned. We ran tests. It turned out she had a very rare cancer called appendiceal carcinoid. It affected her digestion and hormones.”
“Whoa,” I say. Which is stupid. I mean, what do you say to something like that?
I sip my water so I don’t say anything else stupid.
“We caught it very early. She had the proper surgery and the very best care. She’s lucky. I firmly believe that Liberty is going to be one hundred percent fine,” Dr. Silverberg says. “Still, as you can imagine, it was a very rotten, horrible couple of years. She’s still trying to gain back her weight and strength.”
“Wow,” I say. “So . . . what about her mom?”
He grimaces. “She feels guilty for missing those early symptoms. So now she thinks Liberty needs to be kept safe all the time, kept where she can watch over her.”
He sighs, plays with his water glass. “People deal with stress and worry and love and concern in very different ways, Stanley. . . . But keeping Liberty holed away in her room isn’t going to keep her safe. I’m not sure that’s the right answer for Liberty.”
Wow.
As for me, I love to hole away in a quiet room. It’s pretty much one of my favorite things.
But I don’t tell that to Dr. Silverberg.
That night, I can’t sleep, so I knock on Mom’s door.
She’s in her huge pink bathrobe, her hair and face all messy from sleep. “It’s midnight, honey. What’s up?”
“Mom. Did you know Liberty had cancer?”
Mom’s sleepiness clears from her face in an instant. She nods to herself. “So that’s it.”
“Why didn’t Liberty tell me? It wasn’t right that she didn’t tell me.”
Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Well . . . think of this: Why don’t you like the other kids to know why you get so overwhelmed? What’s the reason you don’t like to talk about your sensory processing disorder?”
I swallow hard.
Mom gives me a hug. “Do you think if people knew, they would look at you differently? Or maybe it just feels private. And that’s okay.”
I don’t say anything, but I get it.
“I think Liberty just wanted you to see her first,” Mom says. “There’s no right or wrong here, Stanley. It’s a personal choice, whether to talk about these things, and with whom, and when. There’s no right or wrong to it.”
I think about that as I head back to bed.