Contact (24 page)

A
fter spending the night in
the ER where I got eight stitches in my leg and a breathing treatment, Papa and I head for home. It is early morning when we arrive. The sun hasn’t even come up yet. I’m exhausted, so I make a beeline to my room and crawl into bed. I don’t even bother taking off my clothes. I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.

My dreams are jagged slices of memory, flames and explosions peppered with disjointed images from Jordan and Papa’s lives. At times, I see myself falling from that stairwell platform instead of Jordan. I hear screams and gunshots. And then there’s Dr. Walsh’s lifeless body lying on the floor in front of me. I reach out with my hand to roll her over, but it’s my face I see instead of hers—my lifeless eyes staring back at me.

Then I wake up.

I gasp and blink against the sliver of sunlight escaping from between the curtains.

I’m alive. Thank God I’m alive.

Getting up, I stumble into my bathroom. I discover my cell phone on the vanity, right where I left it. The power’s about gone, but I check my messages and find a text from David. He sent it just after midnight:

R U OK?

I text him back. 

Im Fine. U?

I don’t know how long it will be before he gets it. He might still be asleep. There’s so much I want to tell him, but I want to say it person. I send one more text before plugging my phone into the charger:

Heading 2 the park

The delicious fragrance of maple hotlinks and poached eggs wafts into my room. I am fully awake now and starving. The pain in my thigh throbs something awful. It’s wrapped in a swath of white gauze, and I’m extra careful as I change into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I reach for my hoodie, but instead of wearing it, I drape it over the back of my desk chair.

After putting on my sneakers, I make my way downstairs to the dining room. The table is set for a feast. Papa rises from the table when he sees me. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me lightly on the top of my head, his lips just brushing my hair.

“How did you sleep?” he asks, pulling out a chair for me.

The TV’s on in the other room and the sound of a reporter’s voice draws me in. Papa follows me to the living room and we both watch as images from yesterday’s near disaster are replayed.

“An explosion rocked the Memorial Hospital yesterday, igniting a fire on the ground floor of the new Rawley Wing, still under construction. Alberto Ortiz, candidate for governor, was giving a press conference at the time. Some believe the blast may have been a failed assassination attempt. Our field reporter caught footage of a dramatic rescue from an upper floor. Speculation has it that one of the rescued may have been the Ortiz’s daughter. More than two dozen people were taken to other local hospitals with minor to moderate burns, and two bodies were recovered from the wreckage. One was identified as 32-year-old Emma Walsh, a local psychologist. The other is Gerald Haight, a reporter from local radio station K-JKR.”

“What?” I pick up the remote and turn up the volume, but the news anchor has already moved on to another story. “They didn’t find Jordan’s body?”

Papa turns off the TV. “No, not yet.”

“You did tell the authorities about him falling down the stairwell.”

Last night in the ER, I told Papa where and how Jordan had died, but I didn’t tell him everything. I tried, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Yes, Mira, they searched the stairwell, just like you said.” He looks at me hesitantly, but then resigns himself to continue. “There was nothing there.”

I want to say that’s impossible. Jordan was shot. He was dying. I saw him fall…didn’t I?

“Don’t worry. They’ll find him,” Papa assures me.

“What about the babies?”

A deep crease appears between his eyebrows. “Yes, the babies. I’ve been up all night dealing with that. Rescuers managed to get the fire under control and called in a science team from Rawley headquarters. They determined that it was safer to keep the younger fetuses where they are to allow them the best chance at reaching viability. Those already viable were transported to the ICU at Children’s Hospital.”

“What will happen to them?”

“I was told that suitable adoptive parents will be located. And since I know you’re concerned about this, you should know that none of them had been given Gaudium. We accessed their records and learned the trials weren’t set to begin until everything had been moved into the new lab. In other words, they’re normal.”

Normal.

The word makes me cringe, but thankfully Papa isn’t looking at me just now. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “I just can’t believe this sort of thing could ever be approved at all. You have to believe me, Mira, I knew nothing about this. Nothing.”

“I know, Papa.”

“And I swear that the first thing I’ll do when I’m elected is to push for legislation to prevent this from ever happening again. In the meantime,” he adds with a tremor in his voice, “there are other things I do want to discuss with you—things I never told you that you deserve to know.”

He glances down for a second. “Your mother—” The words catch in his throat and his eyes well up. “I miss her.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to Jackie Beitner or Mama, but it doesn’t matter. I feel myself getting choked up, but I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now. The next few days will be filled with making arrangements for Mama’s funeral. It could be a huge media event, but Papa wants something more private. I’m sure we’ll work it out after we’ve had a little time to recover from the blow of losing her.

But right now, I want—I need—something else.

“Papa, would you mind if I went out for a while? Just for a walk. Then we’ll talk over breakfast. Okay?”

He nods and smiles weakly. “Okay,” he says. “But are you sure you can walk? Your leg, I mean.”

“I’ll take a painkiller first, and I’ll go slow.”

“All right,” he agrees. “But please take your cell phone with you in case you need me to come pick you up.”

“I’ve got it,” I tell him, holding it up as proof.

I turn to go, but then Papa says, “Maybe later we could go out for ice cream or something.”

He gazes at me in a way he never has before, as though he wants to say something so important it just can’t be put into words. He starts to reach for me, but hesitates. Instead, he cautiously touches a strand of hair near my face, his fingers gently sliding down the length of it. I close my eyes for just a moment, remembering how Mama would touch me that way.

“Ice cream,” I repeat softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

T
he walk to the park
takes longer than I expected, but I use the time to enjoy the fresh air and the beautiful weather.

When I arrive, I see two little girls chase each other down the slide. Their giggles fill the park. Their mother sits on a nearby bench engrossed in a paperback novel. I keep my distance, leaning against the trunk of a tree. A warm breeze brushes against my skin. I close my eyes and savor the feeling. Leaning my head back, I breathe in the smell of fresh cut grass and pine. I sense a change in the air around me, a slight shift in space, and I know I’m not alone.

I open my eyes. David stands in front of me, his face relaxed and smiling, his dark eyes gazing into mine.

“I got your message,” he says. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, pointing at my leg. “Nothing too serious.”

He points at the new bandage on his own leg. “We match.”

The red splotches have already faded a bit, but there is a square of gauze taped to the side of his jaw. I gently touch it, but he flinches. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, withdrawing my hand.

He looks suddenly concerned and apologetic. “No, it wasn’t you—your touch. It just hurts a little.”

“Oh. Of course.”

He continues gazing at me in a curious way that draws me to him so that I can’t look away.

“I wanted to thank you for coming for me,” I begin, gazing right back into his warm, brown eyes. “I don’t know what would have happened if—” I can’t bring myself to finish the thought.  The tears I fought to keep at bay earlier now spill down my cheeks. It hits me all at once, losing Mama and Dr. Walsh, discovering the truth about Jordan.

“Hey, it’s all right,” he says, gathering me in his arms. “You’re safe now.”

I lay my face against his chest. Feeling him so close somehow calms me. When I’ve stopped crying, he pulls back a little to look at me. David’s eyes are soft and sensitive. We’re so close that I can see the specks of gold and brown dancing in them. One corner of his mouth lifts slightly in an enticing grin, and my heart beats madly in response.

The attraction between us grows stronger. The spicy smell of his cologne tugs at my senses. He leans toward me, hesitant, waiting for me to meet him halfway. I want to kiss him—badly, but I take a step back instead.

“David, I can’t—” I tell him. “My condition, reading your mind—whatever the heck you want to call it—I won’t do
that
to you again.”

He doesn’t move; his smile widens. “I know you won’t,” he says. “But I’ve actually been doing some thinking about
that
.”

He leans in closer.

“And?” 

And closer still.

“And,” he repeats, “I’ve got nothing to hide from you, Mira Ortiz.”

His kiss is long and gentle. His fingers slide around the back of my neck up into my hair, and his other hand reaches around my waist and presses me against him. To my surprise, our connection causes less discomfort than the first time. He just feels too good. Time seems to stop altogether while the whole world melts away. I don’t want it to end, but it does all too soon.

From across the park, I hear loud giggling. The two little girls watch us from behind the slide. They point and then run to hide.

“We have an audience,” David says, laughing.

I slip my chin onto David’s shoulder and wrap my arms around him. I want to tell him that I know him, I know everything about him. I’ve seen it all, felt it all. I want to tell him that I understand him, that he can trust me with his secrets and his hurts. I want to tell him most of all that I believe in him.

Instead, I brush my lips against his ear. “I love you, too.”

Mama’s funeral is held on
a bright, sunny Tuesday. The clouds from the previous week skitter away like frightened cats, and in my mind I curse them for their cowardice. It should have rained today. The sky should have opened up like they did for Noah and drowned the whole world. That might have made me feel a little better. Instead, I stand between my father and a white-haired priest, baking in a black crepe dress and high heels that keep punching holes in the grass.

Mama’s high heels. And they’re still too big.

Papa managed to keep the service private, which means that the crowds and the cameras are outside the locked mammoth gate gawking at our small, solemn gathering of close friends and family. I don’t really care anymore. When you have a condition like mine, privacy is irrelevant.

The priest ends the service by reading a passage from the Bible: “‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’”

I remember all the moments Mama and I had together, some of which she captured on film, and others I captured on contact. I am deeply grateful to have those memories now, to feel what she felt, to love how she loved. In a way, I am comforted by them, though nothing will ever dull the ache of her physical absence.

When the service ends Papa puts his arm around my shoulders. We’ve had plenty of time to talk during the past few days. We talked about Jackie Beitner and Mama and Jordan. We spent an afternoon with Robert and Marie Beitner where we looked through photo albums and drank our fill of lemonade. I told him about my feelings for David, and he told me about his plans for the future. But mostly we just made time to be together.

The other guests are dissipating, much like those rotten clouds. So eager to move on, to move away. They walk slowly toward their cars, hugging each other and speaking in soft, low tones. They will drive home and forget. But I can never forget.

“Mira, would you like a moment alone?” Papa asks.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” I answer.

He gives me a gentle squeeze. “I’ll wait for you by the car.”

I watch him as he joins the other mourners, then I turn to face Mama’s grave. Her glossy rose-colored casket is draped in white and pink carnations. I pluck one from the arrangement and hold it against my breast. Slowly, I draw the now creased photo of Papa and Jackie Beitner from where I’ve kept it tucked in my sleeve. I think of everything that has happened these past few weeks and what I might have done to prevent it, but it was really out of my hands from the very beginning. I couldn’t save Jackie, and I couldn’t save Mama. Jordan’s psyche showed me more than I ever wanted to know. I was an experiment to him, nothing more. And I
can
do something about that. I’ll call Dr. Felton. Maybe he can help me, maybe not, but I have to start somewhere.

I toss the carnation into the grave. I look at the photo for a moment and then tear one end of it off and toss it in too. I tuck the remaining piece adorned with my father and real mother’s faces back into my sleeve.

There are some things I wish I’d never known. I would love nothing more than to erase Jordan’s memories, to somehow untangle them from my own and permanently delete them. But to do that would mean abandoning those who need me the most. The babies from the lab. David. Papa. But what I haven’t told my father, or anyone else, is Jordan’s deepest, darkest secret—Jackie Beitner wasn’t the only test subject who was pregnant, and I wasn’t the only child born to one. There are others out there like me.

I have to find them.