Charisma (13 page)

“Huh?” Shane asks.

“Dr. Sternfield isn't mentioned at all on the Nova Genetics website. I want to broadcast her picture. Hunt her down.”

He types. “She can't hide from all the search engines.” He clicks a bit. “Hmmm, nothing since med school. It's like she knew she'd have to go into hiding one day.”

And she recruited us anyway. The iciness in my veins turns to heat.

Seething, I broadcast the med school photo along with a plea for anyone with info to contact the hospital. My legs bounce relentlessly. Actively hunting the doctor gives me unexpected energy.

But throughout the day I only get a bunch of messages from people who sound more and more unhinged. I go to sleep that night without any progress.

• • •

In the morning, I awake to Shane saying loudly, “Jesse, you okay?”

Jesse lies on his bed with a dazed expression and his hands to his ears. “I'm fine,” he mumbles, looking anything but.

“You better tell us if you're not, dude.” Shane grabs the remote.

On TV, a flurry of experts speculate upon the extent of the outbreak and whether this is the result of terrorism or a mad scientist. I ask Shane to turn it off, but an anchorwoman's porcelain features come to life with the announcement of “news just in.”

Despite the terror in my gut that we'll learn of more victims, more deaths, I lean toward the TV. A picture of Dr. Sternfield snaps up. Somewhat blurry, but more recent than the one I posted. The anchorwoman says, “In a bizarre twist, the Nova Genetics researcher who allegedly provided an unsanctioned, lethal gene treatment to at least two dozen people across the Northwest, has been discovered in a disturbing video sent to our station. We warn you that the following images may not be suitable for young viewers.”

What on earth? Has someone tracked down the doctor?

A solemn-faced Dr. Sternfield stares into the camera, her eyes and lips set in hard lines. Wind whips her auburn hair against a grainy, gray sky.

She says in a shaky voice, “I'm sorry. For everything.” The camera shot pulls back a few feet to reveal her hovering atop the side rail of a bridge.

My blood, or what's left of it, drains to my feet. I will her to get down from the rail, to come back from wherever she is and develop a cure for us.

One bed over, Shane growls. “Do not do this. Do not do this.”

Time seems to stop as the camera wavers. Dr. Sternfield looks to the sky as if seeking an answer. The she squares her shoulders and nods.

I pull the quilt to my chin, praying she'll come to her senses.

Dr. Sternfield takes a deep breath. Then, with a kiss on her fingers and a wave, she turns away and jumps.

No.

No.

No.

I lurch forward as if to dive into the TV after her. The camera follows the doctor's descent to the water far below, which she hits with a soundless splash that swallows her whole. For a long moment, the water remains unchanged, and then the video cuts out.

Shane and I turn toward each other. His features are rigid with shock.

The newscaster returns. “Our sources are trying to identify where this bridge is, but the video appears genuine. We're working to uncover whoever sent it.”

Shane explodes. “That's bullshit!”

I can't stop holding my stomach. “Why would she do this? It doesn't make sense.”

Shane aims the remote, firing up one station after the next. He throws the remote onto his bed. “If she isn't dead, I'll kill the bitch.”

I stare numbly at the TV. Rosa's death killed my joy. Dr. Sternfield's death has killed my hope.

I scan the room. Jesse's awfully still. I stumble over to nudge his shoulder. His breathing is so shallow, and he won't respond when I tug at his arm. “Wake up!”

Shane buzzes a nurse and puts on a mask. Within minutes a medical team arrives in a flurry of activity along with another gurney. Two large women load Jesse on and roll him out. Just like that.

And now there are two of us left. With no researcher who'll swoop in and announce she's developed a cure.

Shane's face is pale. “Damn. This is scary.”

I clamp my eyes shut, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay. I'm not even seventeen. This can't be it. I should be home, with Mom and Sammy, doing normal stuff, working at the pool, hanging out with Evie, telling my family how much I love them. I can't let them not know that.

I wipe my cheeks. “Maybe we should do those good-bye videos you talked about.”

Shane breathes deeply. “You want me to go into the bathroom so you can have some privacy?” Oh, God, if Shane's respecting boundaries, our hours are truly numbered.

I take deep breaths to fight off the panic. “I don't know what to say.”

He sits next to me on my bed. To think that at home, no guy my age has ever been inside my room. When Shane takes my hand, it's comforting, not like he's hitting on me. “You tell each person how much they mean to you. Maybe talk about your best times together. And what you wish for them in the future.”

His suggestions sound so final. Yet that's what these videos might be, dammit.

My words come out in hiccups. “I don't want Mom and Sammy to see me crying.”

His voice is gentle. “Then you stop the video, wash your face, and try again.”

I nod.

“I'll leave now, but if you want me to come back, just holler.” He takes his laptop into the bathroom and I stare at mine, planning to do the video for Mom first. I inhale deeply. And then again.

Sniffling, I press
RECORD
. Then I tell Mom how sorry I am, and that she's the best parent anyone could hope for. I love how special she makes Sammy and me feel. The video takes several do-overs, but finally I get it all out in one take.

Then I do one for Evie. What do you say to your best friend in the universe? I try my hardest, which just starts me crying again, but I don't stop the video. I recount how at the beginning of every school year, we'd draw a map to maximize the number of times we'd run into each other between classes. Each time we did, I'd experience a moment of calm amid the chaos of the school day. She's always been my touchstone. I end her video with, “Cap'n Crunch, Cap'n Crunch, Cap'n Crunch.”

If only escape were that easy.

I blow my nose and take a few more breaths before I do Jack's. It's mostly about would'ves and should'ves. I finish his video overwhelmed by the feeling of being cheated out of something that hadn't truly been mine yet.

That leaves the most difficult video. But what to tell Sammy?

I click the
RECORD
button and clear my throat. “Hey buddy. Here I am in the boring hospital. Thought I'd send you a little video in case . . .” In case of what? No, I couldn't say that.

I erase the clip and start again.

And again.

Hell is trying to tell your little brother that things will be okay, when you know he'll be devastated. No way do I want Sammy's last impression of me to be as a liar.

Finally, I go with my heart. “Hey, Sammy. If you're seeing this, it means things didn't go so well. I know you're sad. I want you to know I love being your sister. You're the strongest person I know. And even if they didn't find a cure for me in time, I know they'll find one for you. They have to.”

I stop the video to wipe my eyes, then continue. “Anyway, now it's your job to keep Mom out of trouble. Don't let her play grunge songs too loud. And when she comes
home reall
y tired from work, let her take a nap. You can create a whole new cast of manga characters or a mural while you wait. I love you, Sammy.”

Click.

It's only then that I realize something about my brother. All these years, I've assumed his passion for art was a fun way to pass the time, maybe even an escape from his daily hassles. But now I understand that isn't the full story.
Sammy want
s to make a mark, to create something lasting during whatever lifespan he's been given. How could I not have seen that sooner?

Blinking rapidly, I save the videos in a folder named IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.

I hunker into my blanket and watch a show about
global warmin
g until Shane returns from the bathroom, his eyes puffy. Without asking, he tosses his laptop onto his bed and plops next to me so we sit shoulder to shoulder facing the TV. That's how we remain until Dr. Culdicott comes in, her own eyes full of confusion.

Shane grasps my hand tightly. “Tell us.”

She folds her arms and draws a long breath into her space suit. “There may be over a hundred victims across the West Coast. Apparently, Dr. Sternfield tapped into a network of people who make a living volunteering for clinical trials. Furthermore, Xavier's situation has become very tenuous. He had to be resuscitated twice in the past few hours.”

A sob flares up from my chest. That sweet guy, who deserves so much more time. With Sebastian.

Shane says, “Our odds pretty much suck, don't they?”

Dr. Culdicott shakes her head. “As soon as we figure anything out, we'll tell you. In the meantime . . .”

Shane's pulse is fast. “We've already made our good-bye videos.”

Dr. Culdicott's head jerks. But instead of scolding us for giving up, she nods. “The boys serving in Afghanistan would do that too.”

• • •

The next days are a fuzzy, frantic haze. I spend as much time as possible video-chatting, saying what needs to be said, even if it comes through tears. The doctors inject us with interferon, but our viral load doesn't budge.

A week into our stay, on the Fourth of July, Sammy waves a flag during our morning video chat. “Mom's taking me to see the fireworks and—” His plans are interrupted by fierce hacking from his chest.

Instinctively, I lunge for a tissue box. “Your AV719 trial can't start soon enough. Next week, right?”

His eyes are full of tears as he chokes out, “No trial.”

“They're not doing the trial?” Nova Genetics isn't even the lead researcher on it.

Sammy shakes his head. “They're still doing the trial, just not with me.”

I can barely breathe. Did they kick him out because of me? “I can fix this, Sammy. Let me call Dr. Gordon and he can call the university.”

Sammy stares into the camera, breathing heavily. “It wasn't their decision. Mom doesn't want to risk it, not after what happened to you.”

I scream, scaring the hell out of Sammy, and Shane, who runs over to me. I shake him off and yell into the screen, “That's insane. Put Mom on.”

Sammy shakes his head. “Gene therapy isn't a miracle. You should know that.”

“This is totally different. I can't believe you guys didn't tell me. Put Mom on now!” When she shows up, I yell, “How could you take Sammy out of the trial?”

“Calm down. You're scaring him.”

My voice goes shriller. “Scaring him? What about curing him? You've seen the data on AV719. He needs it.”

“Not now, Aislyn. When you pull yourself together, we can discuss this like adults.” She cuts off our chat.

Oh, God, what have I done? Now my decision to accept CZ88 has life-and-death consequences for Sammy too. I rock on my bed, sobbing.

Shane pats my back and makes soothing sounds, but I ask him to leave me alone. I have to fix this, to make sure Sammy gets his chance. Jumping up, I grab the phone.

When Dr. Gordon answers, I try to control myself, but my words still blast out like an air horn. “How could you let my mom take Sammy out of the AV719 trial?”

His voice is subdued, reminding me he's still in mourning for his daughter. “Believe me, I tried to convince her otherwise. Give her time.”

I want to throw the phone against the wall. “Time? If we wait too long, Sammy's lung capacity might be too low to qualify for anything but a transplant.”

“She's had a bad scare, Aislyn.”

“Then you need to find a cure for me fast, and get her unscared.”

He sighs the sigh of someone who's suffered through many dark hours. “I'm trying.”

“Not hard enough. People are dying.”

Now his voice cracks. “I know, Aislyn, I know.”

After the call, I can't stop pacing. If I weren't stuck in here, I could convince Mom, face-to-face. I almost barrel into Dr. Culdicott when she arrives. “When my brother has his inpatient visits, there's a checklist of criteria he has to pass before they'll discharge him. What's the list for Shane and me? You can't keep us in here forever.”

She blinks rapidly and seems to catch her breath. “Your isolation has more to do with the possibility of infecting others than your symptoms at this point.”

Symptoms that they can't treat anyway. “But all the evidence shows this isn't airborne; we'd have to purposely transmit it.”

She shakes her head. “There's still so much that's unknown about gene therapy. And plenty of people are fighting against your release.”

I force myself to calm down and appear matter-of-fact. “How about if we're symptom-free for a certain number of days? And Shane signs an oath not to hook up with any girls?”

Dr. Culdicott's facemask seems to crease down the middle along with her forehead. “It's as much a political decision as a health one. The governor would have to sign off.”

I say, “Every day you keep us here is a day away from our families.”

She sighs. “I'll discuss it with the epidemiologists.”

As she leaves, I shout, “Happy Independence Day!”

That night, hours after the fireworks, I wake up in the dark, with Shane thrashing five feet away, and footsteps overhead from the night shift. A rising terror eats at me. All I can imagine is closing my eyes and succumbing to a void that never lets me wake up. Or worse, waking up to the awareness of being in a coma, my body a tomb encasing my mind.

I second-guess every conversation I've had recently. I should've convinced Mom to take more time for herself. I have to make Evie realize she has the courage I've always dreamed of. Sammy needs to understand he's already made an indelible mark, way beyond his artwork. Does Jack know how much I appreciate him looking past the incredibly awkward girl I'd been and wanting to hang out anyway? I mentally list the things I'll say tomorrow, which could be the last time I speak to the people I love if the CZ88 is lying in wait. It's an unnerving way to live. Or die.

But I wake up the next morning. Dr. Culdicott doesn't yield on the symptom-free threshold, but she doesn't deny it either. I chat with Sammy and Mom, who cuts me off whenever I mention the AV719 trial. The third time I bring it up, Sammy asks to chat with Shane. Fine. As long as Shane doesn't try to give him dating advice.

Speaking of dating, this is my chance for pseudo-privacy. I open a chat with Jack.

He greets me with pool-reddened eyes from his morning swim. I can almost smell the chlorine on him. God, I yearn to be close enough to smell him, period. And touch him. My skin tingles with the hope of feeling his fingers run along it again someday.

I twist the cover sheet into a rope as I update him. “Everyone we so much as sneezed on hasn't shown the virus in their bloodstream. As long as we don't share needles or anything, no one else will get this.” Saying the words, I wonder if he speculates upon the “or anything” part as much as I do.

His face gets closer, as if he can read my desire. “An ACLU lawyer talked about you guys on the radio's interview show yesterday. There are laws on your side. And this sounds like it might be a similar transmission to HIV.”

I hold my breath. “Does that scare you?”