The Despairing Tribulations of a Doomed Boy

Chapter 11

Wednesday

Otto stood sweating in a new suit Ellsworth had bought for him that morning. He shifted his weight back and forth from his left to his right foot, and stared at his door waiting for it to open. He had cleaned his room for the occasion and strategically placed a very pleasant picture of himself with the Monets on the coffee table. He wasn't entirely sure if that was the smartest idea. But the picture seemed like a good indication that he had been well treated and brought up by his foster parents.

After a few minutes of standing in the living room area, the latch clicked, and the door opened slowly. Standing in the hallway were people that looked remarkably like him. Apart from the father who had brown, wavy hair, they each had sandy colored hair that fell flat like his. The mother's pale hazel eyes matched her skin and hair just like his did.

There were four of them—the woman was purple nosed, the father gray nosed, the daughter red nosed (a medic button), and the son a golden-yellow hue. Both siblings looked younger than Otto by a few years. If he had to guess, he'd say the girl was younger than the boy, but not by much. Not only was he now a brother, he was the oldest brother.

The mother was holding a box neatly wrapped in gold paper. For a moment no one spoke. Otto stood frozen in his spot and his family in theirs.

"Mr. and Mrs. Warhol, this is your son," Detective Koi ushered them inside. "He goes by Otto. Otto, this is Andrew Warhol and his wife, Julia; their son, Edvard; and daughter, Vicente." She stepped out of the way and quietly made her exit without anyone noticing.

The family was fully in the room now, weakly offering their hands to shake in a formal sort of greeting. They tried not to stare at his nose casing. They examined him up and down and gazed about the room. But their eyes couldn't help but wander back to the unnatural plastic covering over his anomaly white nose.

"Otto?" Mrs. Warhol repeated softly. "I had named you L'incompris. We were going to call you Pris for short."

Otto didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth and closed it again without a sound.

"Here," she continued, "This is for you." She smiled wistfully and held the box out as if afraid she'd scare him if she moved too fast. The box trembled in her hands. In fact, her whole body was trembling. In joy or pain, it was hard to tell.

Otto took the present absently. He was still turning the name L'incompris over in his head and wondering if he had ever really wanted to know his family. He had never thought about what to say to them. He had only imagined seeing them from a distance and being comforted by the fact that there were other potato sack people out there. But now he had to talk to them. They had a new name for him. They were giving him presents. What was he supposed to do with this? Did they want him to open it right then and there?

He found himself thinking of Mrs. Monet. Her uplifting smile always made him feel lighter. Her words of encouragement always helped him move forward in difficult times. Like the time he--

"Open it!" Mrs. Warhol urged gently.

Otto looked up at his family staring back and smiling small, hopeful smiles. He tried to return the smile, but his facial muscles were failing him and his smile slumped into an uneasy gape. He sat down on the couch and carefully undid the wrapping.

Inside the box was a card and a gold picture frame with a picture of the Warhols in it. Otto picked up the card gingerly. It had a colorful design on the front, but no words. The card was as speechless on the outside as everyone else. The inside of the card was filled with four separate notes scrawled in different corners and moving in different directions. Each one reiterated the same sentiment in different words. The sentiment of finally finding the the missing piece; of relief and joy and the end of grief. The family held their breath as Otto perused each note taking in the handwriting, the tone, and the word choice.