Unlocked

I must have stared at the door to the doctor’s office for a good five minutes. It was made of wood, with the number 308 stenciled in black letters. Century Schoolbook font, I think. I’m a Times New Roman girl myself. Call me a traditionalist. I also noticed that the brass doorknob could use a good polishing. How many hands had to turn the knob to wear it down like that? Amazing where your mind wanders when you’re trying to avoid something unpleasant. Going through that door could change my life for the worse, and I didn’t know if I could handle it. 

I heard footsteps coming down the hall and panicked, my body opening the door and hurrying inside before my brain knew what was happening. I found myself in a small waiting room with bare white walls, grey tile carpeting a few plastic folding chairs pushed against the walls. I walked over to the reception area, where a heavyset middle-aged woman eyed me warily behind a thick plate of plexiglass. Before I could say anything, she slid a clipboard through the opening and ordered me to fill it out.

I hate filling out forms, they’re way too personal. I filled out as much as I felt they needed to know and handed it in. Heavyset middle-aged woman then informed me that she need a photo ID. “Is that really necessary?” I gulped.

“No ID, no test,” she growled. 

Reluctantly I gave her my University ID and sat back down. I think I waited for about ten minutes, but it felt like an eternity. There was nothing to keep me occupied. No mass produced artwork on the walls, no coffee table filled with magazines only people in waiting rooms read, and worst of all, no cell service. Maybe it was part of the “utmost discretion” this place was known for. They didn’t advertise their services, relying instead on a steady current of hushed whispers. If all this secrecy was supposed to be reassuring, it wasn’t working.

Finally the door to the back opened and a tall, thin man in glasses and a lab coat appeared. “Ms. Pearson? I’m Dr. Richards. Come with me,” he said. I jumped up and followed him to his office. 

“So, you think you might have a gift?” He asked as he slid behind his desk.

Great, he was one of those idiots. I wanted to scream at him that gifts aren’t supposed to ruin your life, but instead I muttered “yes.”

Dr. Richards picked up the form I filled out and stared at it intensely. “You wrote here that ‘keys talk to me.’ What does that mean, exactly?”

“Every time I touch a key, I get a picture in my head of the object it opens,” I replied. “Cars, houses, file cabinets, you name it.” 

“I see,” Dr. Richards said. He set down the paper and scribbled something in the margins. “And when did you first notice this ability?”

“When I was five years old. We were packing to move to a new house and mom emptied out her infamous junk drawer. There were about a dozen keys and no one knew what any of them were for. I picked one up and instantly knew it was for an old-fashioned lockbox that was sitting in the attic. One by one I picked up the other keys and told my family where they went.”

“And how did they react?”

“My brothers thought it was cool. My parents were amused at first, they thought I was just messing around. But then I started to talk about things I couldn’t have known, and they got uneasy. When I announced that one key was to an apartment mom had in college, and started describing it in detail, they freaked. They took the keys away and told me to knock it off. They were so upset I never did it in front of them again.” My heart felt like it was being poked with hot needles as the memory played in my head. 

“And do any other objects have this effect on you?”

“No, just keys,” I replied. “Any type of key. Even keycards and fobs. But nothing else.”

Dr. Richards made a few more notes, then reached into his desk and pulled out a set of keys. He removed a car key from the ring and held it out to me. “If you would be so kind,” he said. 

I hesitated. I could tell him I changed my mind and leave. I could go home right now and pretend I was never here. My life was fine the way it was. Why go looking for trouble?

“I’ve interviewed hundreds of young people like yourself and trust me, it’s always better to know the truth,” Dr. Richards said softly. “You won’t stop torturing yourself until you do. It’s the only way to make peace with who you are.”

Damn, he was good. I took the key and described the images flooding my mind. “2015 Honda Accord Hybrid. Red with white interior. Subway wrappers shoved under the seats.” Dr. Richards took that key back and handed me another one. “Three bedroom condo, 245 Saint Street,” I said. He handed me yet another one. “Wrought iron fence surrounding a backyard. Half an acre, with a kidney-shaped swimming pool.”

Dr. Richards had an excellent poker face. Was he impressed? Disgusted? Scared? I searched his face for any reaction but got zilch. “I think I’ve seen enough,” he said. “You definitely qualify for the blood test. It will let us know for sure if you’re gifted or just a really good guesser.” He smiled as if expecting a laugh, but all I could do was keep from rolling my eyes. He took a pink pad from his desk and scribbled on it. “Take this down to the lab, room 120.” He ripped off the top page and handed it to me. 

I thanked him with all the enthusiasm of a wooden doll and left. After collecting my ID at the front desk, I took the elevator to the first floor, walked right past room 120 and out the door. And I didn’t stop walking until I found the nearest bar and plopped my “gifted” ass onto a stool. 

As one might suspect, the folks who hang out at a bar in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday aren’t a cheerful bunch. Most of the patrons were there alone, hunched over their beers or moderately priced pub grub as if they were trying to make themselves invisible. Now that would be a useful superpower, but I had yet to her about anyone actually having it. I snorted at how “superpower” was used to describe the things those people could do. Instead of cool powers like flight, telepathy and super strength, real life superpowers were dumb things like being able to recite the ingredients for any dish you tasted right down to the measurements, making hair and fingernails grow at will, and putting together puzzles blindfolded. Superpowers were hardly a threat to anyone, yet the people who had them were hated just the same. Just last week my company fired the cleaning lady for levitating office furniture six inches off the ground so she could vacuum under them. They didn’t even have to make up a reason because it’s still legal to discriminate against people like her. Like us.

“Are you okay?” A voice to the right of me asked. I looked over and saw a woman around my age sitting two stools down from me. Short and a bit chunky, with long dark hair tied back with a bandana, she was halfway through a beer and a shepherd’s pie. Her dust-covered jeans and sweatshirt suggested she was taking a break from some kind of manual labor. Her cheeks were slightly pink but her eyes were clear, so her inquiry seemed to come from genuine concern instead of drunk talk.

“I’m okay,” I sighed as I sipped my wine. “I’m just having a bad day.”

“Join the club,” she said with a sad smile. “My grandma died and I’ve been helping to clean and organize her house.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry for your loss,” I replied.

“It’s been a nightmare,” she continued. “We can’t find grandma’s will. My two crazy aunts and their terrible husbands are accusing my mom of hiding it because they claim grandma wrote her out of the will, which is a total lie. They’re threatening to sue her!”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, but I don’t know if she heard me. The words were spilling out of her like she was trying to physically expel the pain tearing through her like a virus. 

“Do you know when my grandma got sick, my aunts didn’t lift a finger to help? My mom did everything. Hired a full-time nurse, drove grandma to all her appointments, managed her medication. I was away at school. I offered to take time off to help but she said my education was too important. She raised me herself, working two jobs to make sure I had everything I needed. My aunts haven’t worked in decades, not since they married their jerk husbands.” The tears were flowing freely now. She picked up her napkin and patted her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump all this on you. Feel free to tell me to shut up.”

“No, it’s fine, really,” I said. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Actually, maybe you can,” she said. Picking up her purse, she rummaged through it and pulled out a ring with a plastic tab and two keys on it. “I found these keys in grandma’s safe. I think she hid the will someplace where my aunts wouldn’t ‘accidentally’ stumble across it. I think if I find whatever it is these keys open, I’ll find the will.” She set them down in front of me. “Any ideas?”

“No!” I cried, surprising us both. “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” I quickly added. 

Her startled face quickly melted into disappointment. “No worries, it was a long shot anyway,” she said, managing a weak smile. I could see the corners of her eyes start to glisten again.

“Wait, let me take a closer look,” I said. I picked up the keys and pretended to study them. “This one is from Safe Haven Self Storage on Main Street, unit 221. The other one is a key to a leather briefcase.”

Her eyes widened. “Wow, really? Are you sure?”

“Well, I…I recognize the storage key because I once had a unit there, and the other key…looks like a briefcase key,” I sputtered. I wish I was a better liar. That would be way more useful that any superpower. 

“Great! Let’s check it out!” She said. 

“You want me to come with you?” I asked incredulously as I watched her throw money on the bar and stand up.

“Sure! Don’t you want top see if you’re right?” She asked. Her face was so bright with excitement and hope that I could feel my own spirits lifting. Suddenly I knew I had to be there when she found out I was right.

We took a Lyft to the storage facility and were soon standing in front of the unit. She slipped the first key in the lock and let out a little squeal when it clicked. I helped her throw up the door and we stepped inside.

Thankfully, there wasn’t a whole lot of stuff in there. A few cardboard boxes, two red ten speed bikes, some framed movie posters, and a china hutch partially covered in a drop cloth. I pretended to be surprised when we found the briefcase. I pretended to hold my breath in suspense when she put they key in the lock and turned it. But when the briefcase opened to reveal the will, I stopped pretending. We screamed with joy, we cried, we hugged. She couldn’t stop thanking me, though I kept insisting it was just dumb luck. Finally, our adrenalin spent, we stood catching our breath. 

I could feel the awkward silence of ‘what now?’ settling over us. I figured that was my cue to exit. “Well, I’m sure you’ll want to get this to your mom so I’m going to take off. Congratulations and good luck!” I said, turning to leave.

“Wait,” she called after me. I turned back around and cringed inwardly at the odd look she was giving me. I braced for a battery of uncomfortable questions, but instead she walked over to one of the bikes and grabbed the handlebar. My jaw dropped as the bike slowly turned from red to green. Then she touched the second bike and it turned blue. She let go of it and turned to face me. For a long moment we just stood there staring at each other as if a we were seeing each other for the first time, and it was beautiful.

“You know,” I said slowly, “I just realized I never got your name.” 

“It’s Lucy,” she replied.

“I’m Eve,” I said. “You have no idea how great it is to meet you.”