Double Helix (17 page)

I remembered vomiting behind a bush around the corner from Dr. Wyatt's house. I could see that little boy's face again.
After you puke, you feel better
.

“Eli?”

Genetics enforces one's destiny. One cannot escape
.

“She was my age? That's weird to think about. I don't remember seeing this picture before.” I tried to make my face and voice ordinary.

“Wasn't she beautiful?” he said again, but I felt sure he was asking me something else. He'd seen Kayla at the memorial service. Or hadn't he? I couldn't remember now. I could ask—except I didn't want to.

I got up. I felt almost feverish; the walls of the room seemed far away and unfocused. “Excuse me,” I said. I walked as steadily as possible into the bathroom. I closed the door behind me, marched to the sink, and turned the cold water on full-force. I bent down and splashed my face. Did it again. Again. Again.

Something I had forgotten came back to me. When I was a small child, often when people saw me with my mother, they would remark on our resemblance.
No doubt whose kid that is,
they'd say, smiling.

Nothing odd in a child resembling his mother. Right? But . . . but . . .

I lifted my dripping face and looked into the not-so-clean mirror above the sink. Male and female features seemed to transmute, to melt into each other. My mother—Kayla—me. I lifted my fist to smash the mirror and barely caught myself in time, knuckles half an inch from its surface.

I pulled in a breath. Let it out. Another.

“Eli?” My father was outside the bathroom door. “You've been in there awhile. Is everything okay?”

Another breath. I lowered my fist from the mirror and with both hands, gripped the sink. Then: “Yes,” I called above the noise of the running water. “Fine. I'll be in here a few more minutes, though. Okay?” The sink was full now. I turned off the water.

“Okay.” I heard his footsteps as he moved away.

I lowered my head back to the sink. Cold water.

Thought, analysis, were still impossible. I decided not to try, just yet.

Cold water.

Eventually, I toweled my face and head dry. Then, without making any conscious decision, I groped for my cell phone. With some difficulty, I made my fingers work well enough to call Viv at home. The line rang once. Twice. Then Viv picked up, and at the sound of her voice, I felt the ground beneath me steady.

I didn't say hello or my name or anything polite. I didn't have the ability to say anything but what was most important. “Viv. Can I come see you now?”

There was a moment of complete silence. Then: “Yes.” Viv said it as if we were still together, as if it were perfectly ordinary for me to call. Another moment of silence in which I simply breathed, groping for the words that I knew must be necessary, but not finding any. Then Viv added calmly, “Mom's at Bill's. I'm alone here,” and I knew that she was allowing me not to have to say anything else. Not to have to explain.

Or beg.

“I'll be there in ten minutes,” I said. I hung up. I clutched the sink for a moment longer and just breathed. Then I left the apartment like a heat-seeking missile, taking only the time to call over my shoulder, “Gotta go feed the rabbits again.”

And when I got to Viv's and she let me in, and she took one look at my face and then simply opened her arms, at that moment I understood what she'd been trying to say all along about trust. I saw that underneath everything, she had had it for me. And that—at that moment—finally, shakily, so did I, for her.

“I had no right to come here like this,” I said to her, later. We had been silent together a long time. “I want you to know that I know that.”

“Shh.” Viv's eyes were so clear. “You do have the right, Eli. I give it to you.”

We were in her bed in her room. We were mostly naked. I curled my body entirely around hers and held her. I felt her move her head so that her cheek brushed my arm. I could still feel the fear in me, and the bewilderment, but it was at a distance. I was safe, for now. And, slowly, an idea came to me.

“Could you do something for me tomorrow morning?” I asked Viv.

“If it's before noon. After that I have to go to work.”

“Could you go to city hall and look up some building plans?”

“That's it? All right. For what building? And what do you want me to look for?”

“The building's Wyatt Transgenics.” I hesitated, because part of me knew that if I did this myself, it would be easier and cleaner. Would Viv be able to read a blueprint for a building she'd never been in? But Viv had turned in my arms and was looking at me with interest and—yes—pleasure at being asked. She could tell I was about to open up. It was what she'd wanted all along, and it was something I could give her now. A little bit, anyway.

“I need you to count the number of subterranean levels in the building plan,” I said. “Look through every page of the plan. It might be that one section of the building has more basement levels than another section. I just want to know what the plans actually call for.”

“Okay,” Viv said. She was regarding me thoughtfully. “I can do that.”

“You're wondering why I want to know,” I said.

She nodded. “Yes, but—”

“Well, it's that—”

“Wait,” Viv cut in. She had a very determined look on her face. “It's okay, Eli. You don't have to tell me. I can just go and get the information for you. I don't need to know why. You'll tell me when you're ready. Or not.”

“But—”

“I was thinking about what you said. Before, you know.” She ducked her head, then raised it to look at me straight on. “I've realized that I was wrong and you were right. About respecting privacy, I mean. I don't expect you to tell me everything you think and feel.”

“Oh,” I said. I took her hand. “And here I'd just about decided you were right and I was wrong.”

She frowned. “Really?”

“Well,” I said. “There might always be things I need to keep to myself. But I want you to understand that it won't be because I don't trust you. And—and love you. I do—I love you, Vivian Fadiman. And I trust you.”

Viv's hand turned in mine. She gripped it hard. Then she smiled. “I know,” she said. “I know that now.”

THE NEXT MORNING, early, while my father's exhausted snores resonated through the apartment, I returned home to the apartment, stepping over and around the piles of things in the living room until I'd made my way to the photograph album. I located the picture of my mother, the picture that so closely resembled Kayla Matheson. I looked at it for an entire minute, just to be sure I hadn't imagined their resemblance.

I hadn't, though on close examination Kayla and my mother were not as similar as I had at first thought. It wasn't just that Kayla was more beautiful, more perfect. Her eyes were a little different—narrower. And their noses were quite dissimilar. For a second I was filled with relief. But then my unease returned. There was still something here that was worrisome. These were two girls that you'd instantly know—
know!
—were closely related. I did not believe it was a coincidence. I could not.

And whatever this resemblance was, whatever it meant, I was involved in it somehow. Finding out about it would not just mean finding out some things about Kayla and/or my mother that I didn't really want to know. It would mean finding out some truth about me. Some secret knowledge waited within me like a shark lurks in the darkest, uncharted depths of the sea, and it had been with me, on some level, always. Always.

I acknowledged it now. I said it aloud, softly. “Something is strange about you, Eli Samuels. Something is very strange.” And as I heard the words, I could feel their truth.

Something was strange within me. Yes. But . . .

But it wasn't Huntington's disease.

My mother had had HD, but I didn't. I suddenly knew that, knew it with a sureness and ferocity that needed no confirming genetic tests. I
knew
it—and I knew why I knew it.

I put a hand against the wall to support myself as memory rose in me.

 

I am seven.

We are seated at the kitchen table; my mother, my father, and me. The silence around us is thick as smoke, and I sense that I should be quiet. My parents are each looking at sections of the newspaper, and I have a book in front of me, but none of us are reading. We are waiting, though I don't know what for.

Then the phone rings.

My father leaps frantically to answer it, nearly overturning his chair, and my mother grabs me from my own chair and up in her arms. My book falls open onto the floor. We ignore it. She holds me tightly. We watch my father on the telephone.

“Mrs. Emerson. I've been waiting for your call.” He is quiet, listening intently. “You're sure?” he says. “You're absolutely sure?”

A moment later, his face is alight with joy. Transcendence. He whirls and yells to my mother, “It's no! Ava, it's no! They'll send a letter as well . . .”

He says a few more words into the phone, but I don't hear them. I feel my mother bury her face in my hair. I feel her heart pounding hard against my cheek.

Then my father hangs up the phone and comes over. He puts his arms around us both. “Eli is okay,” he says. “Ava, our little boy tested negative. Thank God.”

My mother exhales, hard. She says, “I told you. I told you to believe in him.”

My father is silent a moment. Then he says, “Yes. You did tell me. You did tell me he was honorable. I guess you were right. About this, anyway. Thank God.”

“Stop thanking God.” There is an edge to her voice. “He got us into this mess. Thank Dr. Wyatt.”

There is a long moment of silence. For some reason I feel that I can't, shouldn't, move, or the world will shatter around us.

Then my father says, “I suppose.”

“We couldn't have done it without him,” my mother insists. “It was the only way. And now Eli is negative. No matter what happens to me—our son will be fine. That's all that matters.”

“I love you, Ava,” my father says.

“I know,” whispers my mother. But I can tell she is not looking at him. Her head is still turned down, and her lips are still pressed against the top of my head. “I know. I thank you for letting me do what I had to do. Maybe now you can let go of the rest.”

My father does not reply directly. He simply says, again, “I love you.” And then he adds, “And I love our son. No matter what, that wasn't a mistake. Since the moment we knew you were pregnant—Ava, I've always known that couldn't be wrong . . . no matter how it came about.”

“I know,” whispers my mother again.

 

Still holding the photograph of my mother, I got up from the floor. I went over to the hall table, where I'd replaced the HD-NEGATIVE letter, burying it under the mound of old mail that filled the drawer. I had a clear photographic memory of the letter—it had seared itself into my brain on the day I'd read it—but I wanted to look at it again. I needed to be completely sure that I had not made all of this up.

It took me a few minutes to find the letter, but I did, and I opened it. My eyes went directly to its signature.

Harriet Emerson, MSW. Genetic Counselor.

Mrs. Emerson. I've been waiting for your call
.

Next, the date:
July, 1993
. When I was seven. When testing for Huntington's first became available to anyone who wanted it—any adult, that is.

Finally, the key sentence:
As per Dr. Wyatt's request and referral, we have tested your blood sample and can confirm that you are negative for Huntington's disease
.

It had not been my father's blood sample that had been sent in—by Dr. Wyatt—for testing. It had been mine. I had been tested as soon as the procedure was available, even though it was not legal to test a child. I had been tested, I supposed, because my parents had needed to know, for sure.

And Dr. Wyatt had helped them. He had sent my blood sample in, claiming that it was from my father.

THE CONNECTION BETWEEN my parents, Dr. Wyatt, and me was now clear. Well . . . clearer. Something illegal had been done. I should not have been tested as a child.

But that didn't strike me as being such a big deal. I could easily understand why my parents had done it. The early, secretive, illegal test didn't begin to explain my father's hostility toward Dr. Wyatt, though. Wouldn't he have simply been grateful for Dr. Wyatt's assistance?

I looked at the photograph of my mother, which I had placed on the hall table. Kayla's resemblance to my mother was not explained, either. For a second I thought of my very first theory: that my mother had had an affair with Dr. Wyatt. I was surprised at the rush of hope this thought now gave me. It was so . . . so ordinary.

But I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe it. And the reason I couldn't was because of the other thing that was not explained. My niggling knowledge, my bone-deep awareness that—even though it wasn't HD—there was still something very peculiar about me. Something very peculiar that had always been there.

Turns out Swampy isn't a man who's turned into a plant. Swampy's a plant that tried to become a man
.

Of course I didn't think I was a plant. But—for the first time I allowed a question about my origins to arise fully in my conscious mind from where it had lurked inside me . . . well, forever.