Double Helix (9 page)

I remember my dad looking at me. “Okay,” he said. I had been prepared for him to ask questions, or to protest, but he - hadn't. “If that's what you want,” he said.

Of course, after my mother became symptomatic, there - wasn't time for organized sports. At school, I hung out with nerdy unathletic types like Viv. And after a while, despite my size, nobody thought about me as a potential jock anymore. And except when something like this pickup game happened, I rarely thought about it myself.

It wasn't like I didn't get any exercise. I ran a few times a week, and in the summer, I liked to kayak. I played the occasional, slightly careful game of tennis on the courts at the Y in the summer, when they had open sign-up for games. It was enough. It was okay.

Inevitably, my thoughts drifted back to my visit with my mother—and the testing thoughts that seeing her always stirred up. My eighteenth birthday had been back in March. Of course, that was before I'd found the HD-negative letter addressed to my father, before I knew that he, too, had been at risk.

Things had been tense between us, anyway, about other things. I'd made sure I was busy with Viv on my birthday, but afterward I'd come home and my father had laid out all the genetic testing information on the kitchen table.

Just as I'd known he would.

The first step: the phone number to call to schedule the psychological counseling that they wanted you to have before you were tested, to make sure you could handle the results, either way.

I'd felt my father come up behind me. I hadn't turned around. My voice was steady.

—
Dad, listen. I don't think I want to know. I'm not ready. At least not now, and maybe not ever.

—You mean put
your
mind at rest.

—But you can't be sure, Dad. It's fifty-fifty. That's a scientific fact
.

Unbelievably, after that, the conversation had degenerated into a childish bout of “I do know!” “You can't!” “I do! I sense it!” until finally we'd both stomped away, angry and frustrated. It had become yet another area of silence between us, but the phone number was tacked up on the bulletin board in the kitchen. I never looked at it, but I knew it was there.

Making that appointment was more than I could bear to do. More than I could risk. How could my father not even try to understand that? I couldn't understand his attitude, especially now that I knew he'd gone through the same thing himself.

Although . . . maybe that was why.

Thinking about it now, feeling my muscles tighten even more, I realized that despite the pickup game, I was still full of adrenaline. I needed Viv, and would see her tonight—we were going out for dinner—but today she was at her summer job, doing gardening for a local landscaper. I hoped she wasn't going to be working every Saturday this summer. Even if we made plans every Saturday night, that would be a little tough.

I needed Viv. I needed someone today. Someone. Right now. Someone . . .

I had reached Central Square. I was only a few blocks from home, and the remainder of the afternoon stretched before me. I wondered if my father was home, or if he had scheduled clients this afternoon at his office. If he were home, I could at least try to talk to him. I could, very delicately, just begin talking about my week at Wyatt Transgenics and see what developed.

I knew this was a bad idea. But I also knew that at some point, I'd need—I'd be unable to stop myself from trying to find out what my father had against Dr. Wyatt.

Why not do it today? Didn't it concern me, too? In fact, this morning at the nursing home, I had actually wondered what would happen if I showed my mother a picture of Dr. Wyatt. What if, next week—

No.

I took a deep breath. Okay, Viv wasn't around. My father was out of the question. More exercise was probably my best choice. I could go running for real, ten miles or more, as fast as I could. I could take a kayak out on the river. I could go to the YMCA and do a weight circuit.

Instead I sat down abruptly on a bench at a Central Square bus stop, pulled out my cell phone, and called information. And I should have been surprised, but somehow I wasn't, when I discovered that Dr. Quincy Wyatt had a listed Cambridge phone number.

The phone company was already connecting me. If I was going to hang up, now was the time—now, before it rang.

I didn't hang up. I felt my sweaty fingers clutching the phone as it rang once. Twice.

He answered.

“It's Eli Samuels, Dr. Wyatt,” I blurted. “I'm wondering if you're available—that is, if you'd like to meet me this afternoon to talk? Maybe in Harvard Square? We could have coffee or something.”

A pause. I could visualize Judith Ryan's sneer, and was filled with shame at my presumption. I was asking Dr. Wyatt to hang out with me as if he were a kid like me.

But then he replied, warmly, “Hello, Eli. What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you. In fact, would you like to come over for dinner tonight? I have a young friend visiting whom I think you should meet.”

I almost dropped my phone. I was astonished—and incredibly pleased. And sorry. “Oh, no, I can't. I have a date with my girlfriend tonight. Viv, you know. But maybe another time—”

Dr. Wyatt interrupted. “All right, then why don't you come on over to my house now? It's a few streets north of Harvard Square. Let me give you directions.”

DR. WYATT'S DIRECTIONS took me to a large, meticulously restored yellow-and-green wooden Victorian house on Avon Hill—one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Cambridge. Even in the days when my mother was earning a full salary as an economics professor at the Harvard Business School, we - couldn't have afforded to live in a place like this.

Well, few could. The house was the kind of gracious, enormous old building that, all over the city, had been gutted and renovated into four or five separate condominiums. Buying an apartment in such a house would cost six or seven hundred thousand dollars. A whole house—I couldn't imagine. Millions?

It was the kind of thing Viv might know. I would describe the house to her tonight.

I shouldn't have been so shocked. Dr. Wyatt was world-famous ; he ran a large, profitable corporation. And for all I knew, he might have a private fortune besides; there was something so sophisticated about him, he probably had a wealthy background. It was just—I groped—the contrast to Dr. Wyatt's small cramped office at work. I'd assumed that he wouldn't care about his surroundings. That he'd live in some apartment more or less like ours, regardless of what he could afford.

The house even had grounds, sort of: a large, lush green lawn and flower beds, surrounded by a decorative iron fence. Land surrounding a residence was scarce in Cambridge; most houses were lucky to have handkerchief-size yards. This, by contrast, was the kind of place that Viv's employers at the garden center got seasonal contracts to keep beautiful.

My initial shame at having telephoned Dr. Wyatt today came back even more strongly. He wasn't some teenager to hang out with to stave off boredom! I stood on the sidewalk before the house and swallowed hard. It occurred to me that I didn't even know if Dr. Wyatt was married. I'd assumed he was not—something about him had made me assume that—but maybe he lived here with a wife and children, even grandchildren.

I hadn't even thought to shower and change before coming. Just because Dr. Wyatt had said “now” didn't mean I - couldn't have said I'd come in an hour. I was only wearing a plain T-shirt and shorts and sneakers—and, worse, anyone would be able to smell the dried sweat from my just having played basketball. I was tempted to pull out my cell phone again, call Dr. Wyatt, and make some excuse.

Just then, the front door of his house opened and a vision—a fairy princess in a white tennis dress—stepped firmly out onto the wraparound porch.

Long slender legs and arms extended smoothly from her minuscule dress. Silky brown hair cascaded gently to her waist. She reached up with one tanned bare arm and hand, pulled off a pair of sunglasses, and, cocking her head to the left, called to me. “Hey! We want to know if you're going to stand out there all day, or if you'll come in.”

I got the eeriest sense of familiarity from her—as if I had seen her before in some dream. Then Dr. Wyatt appeared behind her, waving me toward the porch.

I had no memory of unlatching the iron gate and moving up the walk. Suddenly I was simply on the porch with them, being introduced, hoping that the vision didn't notice that I had to surreptitiously wipe my palm on my shorts before I could shake hands with her.

“Kayla Matheson,” Dr. Wyatt was saying. “The young friend I mentioned on the phone. Her parents—old friends—have entrusted her to me for the summer while she does an internship at a Boston publisher.”

I'd always thought those photos of models in magazines were airbrushed, but Kayla was living proof that they weren't necessarily a lie. I thought dizzily of a fawn . . . of an Arabian pony . . . some beautiful animal of fragile appearance, yet strong, leggy, vibrantly alive. Up close, I could see that she had the most amazing eyes: wide set, almost amber in color.

I had to say something to her or she'd think I was an idiot. “Publishing?” I asked. Why hadn't I showered before coming, why?

“I might want to be an editor,” she said. “It's a possibility. Right now, though, I'm just an English major. I'll do the internship this summer and see what I think. Also, I'm going to be helping Q with his new book manuscript.”

She called Dr. Wyatt Q? Weirdly, hearing that brought me back to myself a little. I turned to him. “You're working on a new book, Dr. Wyatt?”

“Yes. Not my usual university press sort of book. This is more popular science. I'm hoping to interest a wider audience, an intelligent educated readership—which is why Kayla will make the perfect assistant. She can tell me when I get too obscure or detailed. I wouldn't mind talking to you about it sometime, too, Eli. I think you'd be interested. The working title is
Genetics and Self-Control
. There are some relationships to the things we were discussing at dinner the other night.”

I nodded. “Sure. I'd be flattered.”

He smiled. “Good. That's a bonus. I have to admit that when you called a little while ago, my first thought was simply that you'd make good company for Kayla this summer. She only arrived a couple of days ago, and is already a little restless, I can tell.”

“I've been wishing for someone to play tennis with,” Kayla said. “Do you play?”

I had to look at her again, and the moment I did, I was lost. “Uh, yeah,” I managed.

“Do you run?” she demanded next.

“Yeah.”

“Excellent!” Kayla twirled toward Dr. Wyatt. “Q, you were right.”

I glanced at Dr. Wyatt and found him looking straight back at me, an expression of contentment and approval on his face. “Well, shall we go inside?” he said. “I believe I promised Eli some iced coffee.”

Just then, Kayla tossed her head and some delicious scent wafted toward me from her hair. Ice, I thought. Yes. Please.

The house's interior was everything its exterior had promised. Kayla showed me around while Dr. Wyatt talked to someone named Raquel about the coffee. As a way to combat the effect Kayla was having on me, I tried to focus on the details of the house. Large rooms, opening gracefully off a big central foyer with a staircase. Shining wood floors, even in the kitchen. Walls painted strong colors: navy blue, bloodred. Tall bookcases built in everywhere, and crammed with books. Big airy open windows that ran almost floor to ceiling. Heavy wide sofas and chairs that were slipcovered in cotton, and solid-looking tables of mahogany and oak. Oriental rugs.

Everything gleamed.

Kayla paused halfway up the wide staircase in the foyer. From where I stood at the bottom of the stairs, I could see a cushioned window seat beneath an oval abstract stained glass window on the landing above. “Don't you want to see Q's office and the bedrooms?” she asked.

I was curious to see if Dr. Wyatt's home office would be as messy as his one at work, or if it would be pristine, like this house. The two images, so different, still jarred me. But it was more important that I not see Kayla near any bed. “Not right now,” I said. “I need to duck into the bathroom here.” I turned my back to her. I felt huge relief the second I closed the door and was alone.

When I didn't have to look at Kayla, her effect lessened. I - could remember that fifteen minutes ago, she hadn't been in the world at all, as far as I was concerned. I reminded myself that I had a girlfriend, and that I preferred to run alone. And that I'd wanted to talk to Dr. Wyatt, to tell him about my week. That I'd wanted him to be my friend. How could I talk to Dr. Wyatt in front of her? It would be better, far better, if Kayla weren't here.

As I assembled this defensive edifice, I whipped off my T-shirt, grabbed the soap, and washed up in the sink as well and as quickly as I could. Only when I was done did I realize that the soap was scented and that I now smelled like a floral arrangement.

I stared into the mirror. Viv thought I was good-looking. Hot. Was I really?

There was a soft rap at the bathroom door. “Eli?” Kayla's voice. “We're in the sunporch. Just through the kitchen?”