my question."
Burble-rumble. "No, there is no food here."
"Will I starve?"
"No."
"I don't need to eat?"
"No."
"Or sleep, or drink?"
"No."
The hair on my arms prickled. "Am I dead?"
"No, you are very much alive."
"That's a relief."
He nodded. "I'm glad I could ease a little of your disquiet."
We were quiet again until we came to the foyer.
"Eloy, do you like that stupid game effect?" I tried to imagine weeks, months, years, all alone with only artificial emotions for company. The thought was unbearably depressing.
"It depends on the room. It is good to share in another's joy, sometimes."
"A fan of comedies, huh?" I sidled close and twined my arm through his. "Me too. So, can you recommend a room to play next?"
He stiffened when I touched him, but then he covered my hand with his own -- not to restrain me, but to let me know I was welcome. "I believe I can."
It was actually fun, playing the room games with Eloy. He translated for me, and occasionally made wry comments about the people onscreen. The scenes he chose were often comical, and I found myself chortling with the heroines and protagonists.
When I tired of the rooms, we rode the elevator up and down, and I invented another game, where I made him close his eyes and guess what color or pattern the walls would be when the doors opened. I smirked when he got one wrong. He missed several in a row after that, I bet on purpose. He never laughed, though. I said the most outrageous things I could think of, but he would only smile, and occasionally give his rumbling chuckle.
At one floor, Eloy fell silent, refusing to guess before the doors parted.
The corridor was white.
"Let us return to the lavender floor," he said. "I know of a room where a lady refuses to open her house in the season of heat, for fear her neighbors will realize she cannot afford --"
I brushed past, leaving him to trail after me.
None of the doors were numbered. Still, I knew the way. Room 417 had changed into a blank wall with a chair, but it was the right one. The chair was a recliner like we'd had in Father's den in our old house. When I was little, I'd loved to sneak in and sit in that recliner. It had made me feel big and grown-up.
"Do not stay here," Eloy said. "Come away with me."
I clambered onto the recliner. The wall showed me the tiny apartment I'd shared with my family. The yellow rosebush was still in the window. It had grown, and someone, probably Luella, had transplanted it into a larger pot.
Father was in the kitchen, talking to someone on the phone. The lines in his face were deeper, and his hair had turned from streaky-gray to all white.
"She's still not responding, doctor? . . . No, we don't have any supplementary insurance."
There was a long pause, and I watched Father grow agitated. "I will not send my daughter to that institution. If our insurance will not pay for her hospital stay, she will come home."
"Are they talking about me?" I pivoted the chair so I could face Eloy. "Is this place a hallucination? Are you a delusion?"
Eloy whuffled at my distress. "No, no. They speak of your sister, Luella. Her mind was always fragile, a weakness she inherited from your father. Your absence was the final blow to sunder an already fractured psyche."
"But Daddy's better."
"Yes. I did my best to ensure that."
I stood and the wall switched off. "That needs an explanation."
Burble-rumble. "Before I sent him home, I fixed the rifts in his self-esteem, giving him the perspective he needed to heal. In time, he recovered."
"You can do that? Wait, how much time? How long has it been?" Without sleep or meals to mark the days and only the constant lighting that never dimmed or brightened, I'd stopped thinking in hours and minutes. Surely, only a couple days, maybe a week had passed in these strange halls, but the white of Father's hair suggested much longer.
"The instrument you saw me with," Eloy said in a rush, "you called it a recorder. It is a tool I use to assist me with
Burble-rumble. "No, there is no food here."
"Will I starve?"
"No."
"I don't need to eat?"
"No."
"Or sleep, or drink?"
"No."
The hair on my arms prickled. "Am I dead?"
"No, you are very much alive."
"That's a relief."
He nodded. "I'm glad I could ease a little of your disquiet."
We were quiet again until we came to the foyer.
"Eloy, do you like that stupid game effect?" I tried to imagine weeks, months, years, all alone with only artificial emotions for company. The thought was unbearably depressing.
"It depends on the room. It is good to share in another's joy, sometimes."
"A fan of comedies, huh?" I sidled close and twined my arm through his. "Me too. So, can you recommend a room to play next?"
He stiffened when I touched him, but then he covered my hand with his own -- not to restrain me, but to let me know I was welcome. "I believe I can."
It was actually fun, playing the room games with Eloy. He translated for me, and occasionally made wry comments about the people onscreen. The scenes he chose were often comical, and I found myself chortling with the heroines and protagonists.
When I tired of the rooms, we rode the elevator up and down, and I invented another game, where I made him close his eyes and guess what color or pattern the walls would be when the doors opened. I smirked when he got one wrong. He missed several in a row after that, I bet on purpose. He never laughed, though. I said the most outrageous things I could think of, but he would only smile, and occasionally give his rumbling chuckle.
At one floor, Eloy fell silent, refusing to guess before the doors parted.
The corridor was white.
"Let us return to the lavender floor," he said. "I know of a room where a lady refuses to open her house in the season of heat, for fear her neighbors will realize she cannot afford --"
I brushed past, leaving him to trail after me.
None of the doors were numbered. Still, I knew the way. Room 417 had changed into a blank wall with a chair, but it was the right one. The chair was a recliner like we'd had in Father's den in our old house. When I was little, I'd loved to sneak in and sit in that recliner. It had made me feel big and grown-up.
"Do not stay here," Eloy said. "Come away with me."
I clambered onto the recliner. The wall showed me the tiny apartment I'd shared with my family. The yellow rosebush was still in the window. It had grown, and someone, probably Luella, had transplanted it into a larger pot.
Father was in the kitchen, talking to someone on the phone. The lines in his face were deeper, and his hair had turned from streaky-gray to all white.
"She's still not responding, doctor? . . . No, we don't have any supplementary insurance."
There was a long pause, and I watched Father grow agitated. "I will not send my daughter to that institution. If our insurance will not pay for her hospital stay, she will come home."
"Are they talking about me?" I pivoted the chair so I could face Eloy. "Is this place a hallucination? Are you a delusion?"
Eloy whuffled at my distress. "No, no. They speak of your sister, Luella. Her mind was always fragile, a weakness she inherited from your father. Your absence was the final blow to sunder an already fractured psyche."
"But Daddy's better."
"Yes. I did my best to ensure that."
I stood and the wall switched off. "That needs an explanation."
Burble-rumble. "Before I sent him home, I fixed the rifts in his self-esteem, giving him the perspective he needed to heal. In time, he recovered."
"You can do that? Wait, how much time? How long has it been?" Without sleep or meals to mark the days and only the constant lighting that never dimmed or brightened, I'd stopped thinking in hours and minutes. Surely, only a couple days, maybe a week had passed in these strange halls, but the white of Father's hair suggested much longer.
"The instrument you saw me with," Eloy said in a rush, "you called it a recorder. It is a tool I use to assist me with
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