Authors: Kathleen Van Cleve
Drizzle (26 page)
“But what about other diseases?” I say.
Owen knows why I’m asking. “Diabetes? Genetic component. Bad heart? Genetic component.” Owen chews on the end of a pencil. “We can work on those because we’ve figured how to manipulate the mutation.”
There’s a sad look in his eyes as he continues. “But there are some genetic diseases that we haven’t figured out at all. All we know is that the mutation exists. Without a remedy, no matter what we do, we cannot change it. No matter how well we eat, or how much we exercise, the mutation will not change. Hardwired.”
“Can someone figure out the bad genes, the ones screwing it all up?” I hear the change in my voice; it’s shaky and scared. Everyone’s staring at me, including Basford.
Owen sits back in his chair, placing the pencil slowly on the desktop. “I’m sorry, Pol. I wish I could tell you something different. But there is no exact date. Scientists are working on this kind of stuff—people like your dad try to figure out the gene sequences, or else find some kind of remedy that relieves the symptoms, but there’s no exact date.”
He looks up to the class. “Here’s something to think about, all you future politicians and scientists. It becomes a question of priorities, and funding, and general interest. Science, as a rule, is never as interesting as, say, gossip. People think that there’s no room for humor, for accessibility, for magic.We’re to blame for it—scientists, I mean. We like to be the king of the mountain, taking credit, assigning blame, not sharing.” He pauses, cracking a small smile. “Not me, of course. I’m here with you. But the good news is that there are a lot of people working really hard, every day, to solve these genetic puzzles. They’ve made a lot of progress, and there’s no reason to think they won’t continue to do so.”
“Soon?” I can’t help it, even though I know the answer.
“No one knows,” Owen says. “Like anything, you’ve gotta go one day at a time.”
That’s not good enough. I don’t think Freddy has much time.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
Ask for Help
When we get home from school, Beatrice tells us that we can’t go to the hospital.
“Why not?” Patricia asks.
“Your brother needs to sleep,” Beatrice says. “He’s been in tests all morning. You can go tomorrow.”
“Why don’t they give him something? What about Dad’s medicine? Maybe that would work?” I ask Beatrice.
“I have no idea, and don’t you go mentioning it to them,” she warns me. “They’re already going out of their minds.” She stretches her arms wide and herds us over to the castle. “Once you’ve done your homework, go and visit your Mom, Polly.” Beatrice puts her hand on my shoulder. “She’s a wreck.”
Then Beatrice turns to Basford, who’s leaning against the wall. “I made some strawberry rhubarb soup,” she says. “Come have some.”
Basford’s eyes flicker around the room, briefly stopping at both Beatrice and me. He shakes his head so that his hair flops over his eyes, and leaves the room without even answering her.
“He’s in a bad mood,” I tell Beatrice.
“I got that,” she says. “Everybody needs to sort this out themselves, I guess.”
I walk down the hallway to Freddy’s room, the one with the platform leading to the rope bridge. But I shudder as I push open the door; it’s the first time I’ve even come near here since I fell last Friday. I try to remind myself that it wasn’t the rope bridge’s fault we fell. Freddy’s foot slipped.
Outside, the rope bridge seems as sturdy as it’s ever been. There is no wind at all. But as I take my first step, the hair on my arm rises so high I feel like I’m going to transmit sound waves.
I turn back and walk to Basford’s room. I want him to help me across.
He’s in Freddy’s other room, at Freddy’s computer.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
Basford turns around, hair flopping over his eyes. On the screen, behind him, is an image of Freddy’s team in the middle of a soccer practice.
“I’m livestreaming his practices and editing them together. Then I’m going to burn it all on a disc.” He’s speaking so low I can barely hear him.
“What for?”
“So he doesn’t miss anything.”
He turns around and focuses again on the monitor. His hand is on the computer mouse, but it doesn’t seem as if he has anything to do.
“Basford,” I say.
He ignores me, pressing on the mouse a few times.
“Basford.”
I watch his hand freeze. Slowly he wheels the chair around to face me. I can’t see him behind his bangs.
I reach out then and push his hair away from his face. His eyes are red-rimmed. He’s crying.
Basford’s
crying
.
crying
.
I let go of his hair and let it fall back in front of his eyes. He turns the chair around.
“That’s a good idea,” I say softly. “Freddy will like that.”
Basford’s hand is on the mouse again, as if he’s about to go back to work. But I see his shoulders shake, and I know he’s still upset.
“Thanks.” Basford’s voice is muffled.
“Sure,” I say. I’m ready to walk out of the room when I glimpse a duffel bag leaning against the wall. It’s filled up and zippered, and there’s a nametag hanging over the dark green canvas.
VON TRAMMEL.
“What’s that?”
Basford doesn’t turn around. “What?”
“That duffel bag.”
It’s one of those moments when your sense of sound goes into overdrive. This is why when I hear Basford tell me he’s going back to Bermuda, I have to cover my ears, close them to the echo chamber of words I don’t want to hear.
“I’m the bad omen,” Basford says, pushing out his chair from the desk, spinning it around. “Just like you said. I’m the reason all the bad things happened.” He speaks like what he’s saying is the most obvious thing in the world. “Ever since I came here, your farm started to die. If I go home, it will live.”
I grab on to the foot of Freddy’s bed, swinging myself around so that I can sit down.
“I never said you were a bad omen.”
“Yes, you did.You said it to me. ‘
The person is the bad omen
.’”
The person is the bad omen
.’”
He’s getting everything so wrong. “No! I was talking about—”
Do I want to tell him about Aunt Edith? I can’t. Family secrets.
I try to straighten out the crooked words in my head. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about someone else, someone who
isn’t
an omen. Just someone who’s—someone who is deliberately trying to mess everything up around here. Not you.”
isn’t
an omen. Just someone who’s—someone who is deliberately trying to mess everything up around here. Not you.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“It isn’t you, Basford.”
He turns away from me, walking over to the window. “I still think I should go.You asked me if I noticed all the bad things that happened. Well, I have. Starting with that dragonfly who flew around me on the porch.”
“That dragonfly is my friend!”
Basford lifts his eyes to mine for a second, curious.
“His name is Spark, and he’s a
good
omen, not a bad one. Not one of those devil’s needles, or whatever you said.”
good
omen, not a bad one. Not one of those devil’s needles, or whatever you said.”
“Fine. So it isn’t the dragonfly. It’s just me.”
“That makes no sense!”
“Why is that you’re the only one who makes sense? The one who knows what to do?”
“Me? I never know what to do. I’m a big coward.”
He turns to me, his cheeks bright red, his eyes blazing. “YOU ARE NOT A COWARD. Stop saying that.”
“But—”
“No.” He cuts me off. He’s all worked up—his face is red and he’s sputtering words. “No, you just pretend you’re a coward.You stuck your hand in a motor, Polly. You’re not a coward. You just say that when you want to give up.”
“I don’t give up!”
“Yes, you do! You always give up when you have to deal with people who make you confused or upset. Think about Jongy. She’s a jerk. Anyone with a brain can see it a mile away. You act like she’s a queen or something. Like you’re her slave. You just do it so you don’t have to deal with her. Plus you act like all the other kids are mean, just like her, which they’re not, if you’d give them a chance, which you don’t.”
He’s breathing very hard, his face flushed.
“I do give them a chance.”
“No, you don’t.You act like you have no friends, but you do.”
“I know I do,” I say softly.
“Yes. Margaret and Billy and Christopher—”
“No. You. You’re my friend.” I turn to look out the window, at the dying fields. “You’re my friend. That’s why you can’t leave. I won’t let you leave.”
He sits down on the bed, wiping his eyes with his hand. Neither of us speaks for a long time. Finally, he says something, while staring at the wall.
“Are you sure you were talking about someone else?”
“Yes.” I sit down next to him. “Do you really think that I say I’m a coward so I don’t have to deal with things?”
“Yes.”
We both just sit there for a while, hanging our heads. Eventually, I stand up and walk to the door.
“You can’t leave,” I say. “Promise me you won’t leave.”
Basford flicks his eyes up at me. “Okay.” “Promise.”
“I promise.”
“Good,” I tell him. “Freddy would have been so mad.”
Then I take a deep breath and climb back up the stairs to the rope bridge. Now I feel braver.
I open the platform door and boldly—or as boldly as I can—stride across. The sun has almost set, and the air is a bright navy blue. I hold on to the rope railing and place my feet steadily, soundly on the planks. I don’t look down the entire way.
When I reach the cube, I pull open the sleek black door and run inside, down the white-walled hallway, and over to Mom and Dad’s room. I don’t knock. I just run inside.
Mom is awake, sitting in front of the window seat, staring at the lake.
“Polly?” Her voice is low and sad. “I’ve been sitting here thinking of you.”
“You have?”
“I miss you, sweetheart. And Patricia. I haven’t seen much of any of you these past days.” She’s curled up by the window, her arms around her knees, her chin tucked down.
“How’s Freddy?” I ask.
“The same,” she says. “They don’t know.” She turns to me. “They think his body is failing.”
All the words I want to say dissolve as they get near my mouth. I sit down next to her.
“I need you to do something for me, okay? I need you to contact your aunt Edith and tell her to do anything she can to help Freddy,” Mom whispers. “You have her number, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Tell her we will do anything she says. Anything.” Mom blinks, her eyes dry.
“But—”
“Listen to me, Polly. I know that your aunt loves you three so much, and I know she’ll do anything for you.” She pauses, and I can hear her breathing. “I need her help. We need her help.”
She looks down then, to her knees, and as she does, I stretch out my skinny arms around her and hold my mother as tightly as I can, just like she did for me four years ago. I haven’t even been thinking about how this affects Mom, how real this all is to her. She doesn’t have a crooked finger, after all. All she has is a son who is very, very sick.
“I’ll call her tonight, Mom. I promise.”
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
A Kiss for Lester
I cannot form a cloud. I try, and I try, and I try, but each time, the stream of vapor is thin and scrawny, disappearing within minutes. I feel pressure every time I step out from the castle onto the farm: Every second that passes without rain means that the sun is destroying our farm, killing my genie.
There is no part of the farm that is unaffected. The PEACE maze now barely reads PACE. The
E
is completely dead, flattened on the ground. All the plants around Harry are basically dead, their wide, flat leaves sluggish and limp, like a rag doll. I still pour the lake water on Harry’s spot and I still make the sign of the cross. But nothing has changed. My cherry blossom tree cries every day. Sometimes I think she hangs over the lake, weeping, just to replenish the lake herself. It doesn’t work, but it is a nice idea.
E
is completely dead, flattened on the ground. All the plants around Harry are basically dead, their wide, flat leaves sluggish and limp, like a rag doll. I still pour the lake water on Harry’s spot and I still make the sign of the cross. But nothing has changed. My cherry blossom tree cries every day. Sometimes I think she hangs over the lake, weeping, just to replenish the lake herself. It doesn’t work, but it is a nice idea.
There is no good news from the hospital either. In fact, at the hospital there is only bad, terrible, awful news. No one has a clue what to do, so they all watch, every day, as Freddy gets worse and worse and worse.
Tonight I’m trying something different. I’m in the playroom, in front of the fireplace, spreading out all of my clues on the coffee table. The necklace. The emerald ring. Just as I place the skeleton key on the coffee table, Lester, the Monster cricket, springs up out of nowhere, landing right near my crooked finger.
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