Charisma (15 page)

Mom puts down the towel. “Honey, I know the doctor's death was very upsetting. But we can't dwell on it. And no one should evaluate a grieving mother's words.”

Well, I will. Because I know those words are BS. But I can't admit that because I haven't disclosed my newfound face-reading talent to anyone but Shane. Why freak out the people we love with one more thing, or, worse, make them feel self-conscious around us? I wring my hands. “I just want to make sure no one overlooks anything.”

Mom says, “We all want that, sweetie. The researchers at Nova Genetics and the CDC are working tirelessly on a cure. That's where we have to put our faith.”

I pick up on Mom's emotions. She's desperate to believe in the science that might cure me. And she needs to deal with the rage she feels against Dr. Sternfield.

For Mom's sake, I say, “Okay.”

But my rage has only been relit. As I hack apart the bell peppers, I'm surer than anything I need to talk to Dr. Sternfield's mother, and uncover whatever she hiding. Is it possible Dr. Sternfield left behind crucial data that her mother's sitting on to prevent further trashing of her daughter's memory? Or maybe it's data that's being secretly auctioned to the highest bidder, like a news organization or pharmaceutical company. Okay, this is far-fetched, but finding out any detail I can about the woman who ruined so many lives is a mystery that must be solved.

There's no time to do anything about this now. Mom's admitted that she asked Evie to bring “guests.” Jack,
Sammy, and
I set out plates, cups, and napkins as the doorbell rings.

Mom lets in Abby and a few girls from swim team. Evie's right behind them with Rafe. It's far fewer than were invited, yet far more than I expected. My guests bring flowers, food, and faces that twitch with anxiety.

I don't want to test their friendship by trying to hug them, the only exception being Evie, who hugs me first, while the others watch bug-eyed. Thank God for Evie.

We cluster in my living room, soon chatting and joking as if I didn't have a potentially fatal disease. In fact, they have a million questions about my stay in the hospital and
the other kids
who've been profiled on the news, especially Shane. Yeah, everyone stays two arm-lengths away, but they're drawn to what I have to say. It's bizarre. Well, bizarre is an appropriate way to describe my life these days.

I settle into my sofa like a queen, telling my story. They hang on to my every word. That part's still a rush at least.

Mom makes herself busy in the kitchen, waving off anyone who tries to help her. “You kids just have fun.” Every time I glance her way, she's smiling big. Sadly, I realize this is the type of event she always hoped to host for me, under much different circumstances. And there's a pulling at her eyes that tells me her worries over my health are simmering nonstop. I want to kick myself for giving her another kid with a life-threatening condition.

The doorbell rings again. I jump to answer it before Mom. On the porch hovers a skinny guy wearing a black hoodie with a skeleton on the sleeve. He smiles crookedly. “We heard this is where the fun is.” Unlike my friends, he leans in like he wants to get up close and personal.

I wedge my body behind the door. “Actually, it's private.”

He grins in a way that makes me want to shower, and holds up a six-pack of beer. “We brought provisions.”

“Maybe some other time?” Some other lifetime.

He winks. “I'll hold you to that, precious.”

I slam the door and bolt it. Eww, weird.

“Hey, let's go out back,” Abby hollers.

Fresh air sounds great even if it comes with reporters. Well, maybe if we show them that life goes on as usual, they'll get bored and leave me alone. Maybe.

We gather on the patio and try to ignore the cameras and faces that immediately pop over the shrubbery. Since I live on the corner, the reporters have an expanded view.

Evie's unfazed. She takes off her shirt to reveal a
cherry-red
bikini top. “You all brought swimsuits, like I told you to, right? Time for Sammy's super slide.”

Sammy, who's still in his swim trunks from our failed pool attempt, hoots as he unrolls a huge plastic mat and hooks it up to the hose. Well, if the pool won't let us in, it doesn't mean we can't have fun in the water. More evidence for the reporters of Aislyn living normally.

Within minutes, everyone's ready to slide, but they seem to be waiting for me to go first. Starting at the far end of the yard, I jog and, with a prayer to the water-toy gods, plop onto the mat in a sideways slide. Whooshing to the end, I get up, laughing.

I stand there waiting for the next person to go, but no one makes a move. Are they afraid I contaminated the slide somehow? A sinking feeling fills my gut.

Sammy yells, “Chickens!” He dives onto the slide and whips across.

That seems to loosen something, because Evie and Jack follow him, and then the other kids do too. We take turns trying out every position and war call we can dream up. Yeah, I'll be bruised tomorrow, but there are worse ways to get hurt.

I let a burst of warmth flow through me, thankful to enjoy the sun again. If only Chloe and the others in the hospital could wake up and join us.

We slide until our sunscreen is gone, and then slide some more. Every time Jack gets near enough to slip past me, his skin feels hotter and slicker. Oh, man.

Just when I fear I'll pass out from the pheromone rush, Mom hollers that the burgers are ready. We towel dry and grab plates of food. Mom's outdone herself. I try not to dwell on how much this cost and how many real estate opportunities she missed while I was in the hospital.

When the sun sinks to the horizon, my friends begin to leave, as if this were a normal cookout on a normal day with a normal girl. Except for the reporters questioning each
party-goer
on the way out. The kids smile and chat into the microphones, hopefully sticking up for me on camera.

Evie hugs me on her way out the door. She raises an eyebrow in Jack's direction. “Don't keep him up too late.”

I slap her arm. “If only.”

Giggling, she leaves with Rafe.

Jack and I help Mom clean up and then we say good night to a coughing Sammy before Mom urges him upstairs. Finally, we settle onto the sofa. As much as I ache to be with Jack, it's unbearable watching his lips as he smiles, knowing I can't kiss them. I cross and re-cross my legs until I'm sure they'll chafe.

I try to think of an unromantic topic to decrease the frustration. “You know that interview we saw of Dr. Sternfield's mom, where she was lying?”

He thumps my knee with his. “Where you think she was lying, you mean?”

“No, I know she was. Her emotions were totally clear.”

“Really?” He leans back and folds his arms behind his head. “Can you tell me what I'm thinking now?”

“Probably the same frustrating thoughts I've been thinking for the past few hours.” All I want to do is launch myself onto him.

“Okay, too easy. But even if that woman was lying, so what?”

“So, I need to find out why. It could be important.”

He takes my hand. “You just got out. Let's spend our time being happy, not chasing down a woman who can't help you.”

“You don't know that. Maybe we could find out her address and visit if she's in the area?”

He gives me a puzzled look tinged with pity. “I have a better idea. After I get off work tomorrow, let's hang out, maybe see a movie, something to take your mind off of all the crazy.”

I swallow. “I just want to do something useful, not feel so helpless.”

“You're doing something every day, by staying healthy. So keep doing that. Got it?” He takes me into his arms.

“I'll try.”

He whispers into my ear, “I wish . . .” He sighs. “Well, you know what I wish.”

“Yeah, me too.” This sucks, sucks, sucks.

Minutes later, Mom comes back downstairs on the pretext of getting a glass of water, which is a comic tragedy given that the CZ88 is a far stricter hookup deterrent than she could ever be. Still, Jack rises to leave.

His skin feels cool and dry as we hug and agree to get together tomorrow evening. I shut the door and take a long breath. With a hand to my forehead, I assure myself I'm okay. I'm okay.

But that could change in an instant. I run upstairs to get busy. With a FindAnyone app to the rescue, I locate an address and phone number for Sheyla Sternfield in Cle Elum, a rural town in the middle of the Cascades, a couple hours east of here. Hmm, no way Mom will let me head there so soon after she got me home.

Yet Mrs. Sternfield might be the only one who could give me answers. Answers that'll prove to everyone I'm right about her. Besides, it's not as if driving out there would be any more dangerous than sitting around and waiting for the gene therapy's side effects to take over. In the long run, interviewing Mrs. Sternfield would do more good than harm. I know it.

If only Jack didn't have to work tomorrow. We could drive out together like some kind of detective duo. I'd show him that my intuition about Mrs. Sternfield isn't wrong. But I can't wait until he has a free day, which won't be until the weekend at least, assuming I could convince him.

I stew over my dilemma as I get ready for bed. Settled on my bed with my phone, I hit Shane's number.

“Hey, Blondie. Enjoying your newfound freedom with loverboy?”

“If only I could.”

I feel his smirk over the phone. “Told you it would be frustrating.”

“How are you dealing with it?”

He howls with laughter. “Do you really want to know?”

“Um, no thanks.”

I quickly change the subject to my conviction that Mrs. Sternfield's mom is lying about something. Unlike everyone else, he believes me immediately.

I ask, “So you want to come with me tomorrow and talk to her?”

“Aw, here I thought you called because you miss me so much.”

I sigh. “You helping me or not?”

“Count me in.”

Yes. I've got my freedom. And I've got a plan. Now, if I can just keep my health.

Local CZ88 Patient Missing from Hospital Found in Coma

by Ruthie Mansfield,
The Sound Sentinel

Sophia Washington, who was infected with an illegal gene therapy and went missing a week ago from Seattle General, was found late yesterday, alive but in a coma, on the beach at Carkeek Park. Ms. Washington and one hundred thirty-nine others contracted a dangerous virus as a result of a clandestine trial of a DNA-altering treatment. In most cases, the treatment has resulted in a coma, and twenty-five victims have died so far.

Ms. Washington does not appear to have been seriously harmed; however, extensive bruising on her arms and blood loss have the authorities investigating the possibility of foul play. Had she not been found before the tide came in, she almost certainly would have drowned. Anyone with information on her disappearance is asked to contact the Seattle Police Department immediately.

In the morning, I take a deep breath and head downstairs. The wary, fragile look from Mom warns me we still can't have a reasonable discussion about Sammy's trial, so I launch into my other plan.

“I'm hanging out at Evie's today.” It's like swallowing acid to lie to Mom, but I know in my heart I have to track down Dr. Sternfield's mother.

Mom wrinkles her brow. “I thought Evie mentioned having to work in her parents' shop this week.”

“She got out of it so we could catch up.” Another lie, another gulp of bile.

Mom seems to calculate as she sips her coffee. “I suppose Sammy can tag along with me on my appointments, or spend the day at Aunt Emily's.”

Aunt Emily's family lives an hour away. But since the neighbors refuse to take care of Sammy anymore, thanks to me, the boy-sitting options are limited. It's almost enough to make me abandon my plan.

Self-doubt weighing every step, I sneak upstairs to make arrangements with Shane. I also text Evie to cover for me.

She responds:
YOUR MOM DESERVES A HELL OF A LOT BETTER.

Tell me about it. But it's not fair for Evie to scold me when she still gets to live a normal life, with a boy she can kiss. I type:
I NEED TO KNOW THE TRUTH. HOPE YOU CAN UNDERSTAND SOMEDAY.

YEAH, ME TOO.

I'll just have to show her along with everyone else. A few minutes after Mom and Sammy leave, I head out the door.

The first reporter yells, “Aislyn! You're allowed out in public? Where are you going?”

Of course, I don't comment.

Another reporter holds out a microphone as I rush past. “What do you think about the Charisma victims in LA who were beaten up when they went to a club last night?”

I halt. “What?”

“They're calling it a hate crime. You sure you want to go out alone, without protection?”

I fumble with the keys as I unlock my car. “This isn't LA. But thanks for the warning.” Inside my car, I chew my lip, and would love to take a moment, but the reporters hover outside my window. Thankfully, no one follows me when I drive off.

Shane lives on the west end of Tacoma, near the water. The sunshine's brought out the locals and the traffic. But it's a day for open windows and loud car songs, so I try to enjoy it. I pull up to a yellow bungalow-style cottage with only a couple of reporters milling around. I smile, ignoring their questions about my lacking love life.

Shane answers the door, waving at the guys behind me. “Want the tour?”

I know exactly where the tour would end up. “We've got a long way to go and I have to be home by five for Jack.”

His eyelid tremors. “Aw, the lovebirds are intent on death by frustration.” He points to a black compact on the street. “My car's over there.”

Wanting to make sure things go according to plan, my plan, I say, “I'll drive.”

He drops his keys into his pocket. “I like a girl who takes control.”

Good Lord, being released from captivity hasn't calmed him down a bit. Well, maybe that's a healthy sign. Ignoring the reporters calling our names, we head off. Unfortunately, this time one of the guys hops into his car and trails us.

Gritting my teeth, I speed through a yellow light, but the reporter sails behind me even after the light's already turned. We play a game of chase through the traffic while Shane keeps an eye out the back window. In the frenzy, I accidentally end up on a two-lane street that slows us both down. To make things worse, a garbage truck approaches, taking up most of both lanes. Great. But then I realize what looks like a delay is actually an opportunity.

“Hold on,” I say.

With a foot to the gas, I swerve around the truck, causing it to honk, but I lose the reporter's SUV in the process.

Shane laughs. “Damn.”

At least someone appreciates risk-taking. I drive east. The green of Tacoma grows greener as we travel toward the mountains. We spend the drive in cozy conversation, skimming past trees and hills, the stuff of life, which has never seemed more amazing. What I'd give for Chloe, Sebastian, and the others to get another chance at this. Mrs. Sternfield has to hold a clue. Her daughter could've left behind a treasure trove of research, or confided in her mother what she'd been up to. Anything's possible. I have to figure out what's behind the lie in Mrs. Sternfield's face.

Two hours later, we pull up to the secluded cul-de-sac where Mrs. Sternfield lives, not far from a resort that advertises a golf course and cross-country skiing.

I slap my forehead. “Oh, crap. What if this is just her vacation home?”

Shane blows pretend smoke from his finger-gun and drawls, “There's no way to know until we ring the bell, partner.”

I park on a gravel strip that fronts a yard bursting with flowers. They surround a tidy white house with frilly lavender curtains. Not what I expected, given the severe impression I've formed of Mrs. Sternfield. Was my reading of her emotions off too?

After a few deep breaths, I get out and march with Shane to the door. He grins and rings the bell. No sound of a dog barking or hurried footsteps. I peek into the large window to our right. No movement.

I raise my hand to give the bell one more try, when the door briskly opens. The lady whose face filled my TV with her chilly personality stands before us. Instead of a golf vest or preppy greens and pinks, she's dressed in jeans and hiking boots, and says, “You're a long way from home, aren't you, Miss Hollings and Mr. Elliott?” Although her voice is stern, her eyes flicker with fear.

I hiccup. “You know who we are?”

“I can't escape the news, no matter how I try. Now, what can I do for you?” Her furrowed brow emits a faint curiosity, but fear is the overriding vibe I pick up.

Shane's chest is wide, his hand relaxed on his hip like a sheriff. “First off, we're sorry about your daughter.” When did he become such a diplomat?

Mrs. Sternfield's eyelids flutter. “Thank you.”

As gently as possible, I say, “Your daughter kind of connects us all, don't you think?”

She raises an eyebrow.

Shane leans forward and places a hand to his heart. “We know this isn't the best timing, but it might be our only chance to speak with someone who was closer to Dr. Sternfield than anyone else. Could you tell us a little about her? Anything that might help us figure out what she gave us and why?”

Mrs. Sternfield's shoulders stiffen, and her squint becomes more pronounced. I expect sadness at the mention of her daughter. But there's only wariness. How odd. What is there left to be afraid of, her daughter's legacy? Too late.

With what seems like effort, she loosens her stance and her stare. “Charlotte could be obsessive about her work. I know she didn't mean to cause you and the others any harm. When she realized how much injury her research caused, and how the press would hound her forever, it became more than she could bear.” She wipes a dry cheek and lowers her gaze, breaking eye contact. “You know the rest. Now, I hope you will let me grieve in peace.”

I examine her. Everything about this speech seems too prepared. The emotions I read are anxiety and dishonesty, not sadness. And why hasn't she invited us in, the way a normal person would under such circumstances?

Although it feels intrusive, I step closer. “Maybe you could work through your grieving process by helping undo what she did.”

She crosses her arms. “I'm not a geneticist. I taught literature.”

“We just want to know if she left notes or a computer, anything that might provide info on a cure.”

Mrs. Sternfield shakes her head. “There's nothing
I haven't
already given to my ex-husband. I'm sorry.”

Sorry, my butt. And her features tightened when she referred to Dr. Gordon.

Shane and I use whatever charm we supposedly have to persuade her to say more, but she insists she has other commitments. When she closes the door, I hover next to Shane, unsure of what to try next.

I whisper, “You see her expression when she talked about Dr. Sternfield? I'm not imagining there's something off, am I?”

He nudges me toward the car. “No, there's something weird with her.”

“She's hiding something. What if Dr. Sternfield left a lab behind, complete with chimps?”

“Somehow I doubt her mom would take care of monkeys. Maybe she's hiding something totally unrelated, like a moonshine still. She was dressed for backpacking.”

I yank open my door. “Moonshine? Really?”

Shane shrugs. “Why not? People'll surprise you all the time. No one would've guessed you'd agree to CZ88. Or spend the day with me.”

We get into the car, but instead of starting the engine, I stare at the gabled house. “Think she'd notice if we sprinted around and peeked in the windows?”

Shane hoots. “Hell yeah, she'd notice. And what would you expect to find?”

“I don't know, I just don't want to give up this easily.”

“I get that, Wondergirl, but we should leave, before she calls the police.”

Reluctantly, I start the engine and drive out of the cul-de-sac. But I don't go far.

A half mile down the road, I take an unpaved turn-off for a trailhead. Shielded from the street by a cluster of trees, the tiny parking lot holds a few cars, mostly Subarus bearing bike racks that scream
Outdoorsy Northwesterner
. I pull into a spot and shut off the engine.

Shane grins. “Okay, Detective Hollings, what's your next move? Or did you bring me here for nefarious purposes?” He leans his seat back a few inches.

“We should wait until she leaves and then get into her house somehow.”

He turns to me, suddenly serious. “Blondie. I came to keep you company, but I doubt Dr. Charlotte left behind a cure. If she had, there'd be no reason for her mom not to share it and make her daughter a hero.”

“Then what's she lying about?”

“I don't know. But I don't think it's worth us spending more time on. Not when we might not have much time left.”

We stare at each other for a bleak moment.

I hug myself. “So, what should we spend our time on? Making more When-I'm-Gone videos? I want to help find a cure.”

“I do too. That means giving Nova Genetics all the info we can. It might also mean giving info to other researchers who could help us.”

“Like who?”

He stretches an arm out his window. A tiny moth lands on it. “Someone from VidaLexor contacted me.”

“VidaLexor? But they're against gene therapy.”

“They're against
irresponsible
gene therapy. They want to work with us to reverse the CZ88. Everything on the up-and-up.”

“Why?”

He twists his arm, but the moth stays on it. “To be the good guys? Great PR for them to save the day.”

“I'm not interested in making them the hero.”

“Yeah.
You
want to be the hero.”

I rear back. “That's not fair.” Okay, maybe a small part of me wants to send a message to folks like Heath Roberts or those science fair judges who humiliated me, but my quest is mostly about surviving.

“You should at least talk to the guy. I'm meeting him at five.”

“That's when I'm meeting Jack.”

He rolls his eyes. “Seriously? Isn't the possibility of finding a cure more important than clawing the upholstery with loverboy?”

I peer between the trees and down toward Mrs. Sternfield's cul-de-sac. How hard would it be to break in? This feels an awful lot like a crime show, but that's pretty much what my life has morphed into.

Shane caresses the spot on his arm from where the moth finally took flight. “Blondie, we are not going to break and enter. Not before we've tried something that makes sense. Come with me later. We can use our super senses to see if the guy's legit. You've got to admit, it's worth a shot.”

It's hard to argue with his logic, especially when I picture Chloe lying so still with all those tubes in her, or, worse, Rosa. “Fine.”

My stomach rumbles, reminding me it's past lunchtime. We cruise into the nearest small town and park in front of a café that sells breakfast all day. Over a heaping plate of French toast covered in maple-bacon syrup, I text Jack about getting together a bit later, explaining I have to meet with a doctor.

Shane offers to drive to VidaLexor. The drowsiness brought on by too many carbs convinces me to accept his offer. I lean the car seat all the way back, ignore the comment it prompts from Shane, and curl up into a sleep that hits a minute after we get onto the freeway.

When I wake up, it's to the sensation of a car no longer running. Shane leans against the driver's-side window softly snoring. I check my phone. Five ten.

I hit his arm. “We're late for your appointment.”

He mumbles and rubs his eyes. “Damn, that lunch did me in.”

I rummage through my purse for mints and dole out a couple. We're in a mainly residential neighborhood, parked in front of a four-story beige building with signage for various medical specialties. I say, “I thought VidaLexor had a fancy building up in Seattle.”