The Pace (16 page)

He nodded in understanding as he closed the book.

“Sophie?” he called. I turned around. “No one else knows what I have told you, so please, if you don’t mind…”

“Oh Wes,” I said in defeat. “You don’t have to worry. Even if I did tell someone this, they would never believe me.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” he corrected. “There are people out there trying to uncover the mystery my uncle left. If they knew I existed…”

“Okay. I get it. I won’t tell anyone.” And with that promise, I accepted that I might actually believe him. The only question that remained was what I was going to do about it. All I knew at that moment was that I couldn’t figure it out there. I needed time alone.

B
y about 10:00 p.m., I decided I wanted to see Wes again. I had been thinking about what he’d said all day. Basically, the world as I knew it no longer existed if what he said was true. I had to make a decision as to what I believed.

Everything leading up to our move to California had been for my mother's purpose, and I always felt lost. But somehow, this last place, this last move, felt right to me. For the first time ever, I felt like I belonged somewhere. I was convinced that the comfort California brought me was happiness, but it wasn't until I met Wes that I realized it was something else.

For me, happiness had always been feeling content. Feeling good, having no complaints. But when I met Wes, I realized that happiness could be more—something that elevates from the inside. Butterflies in the stomach, a smile that won't go away, and it's like an addiction that makes a person yearn for more. It’s not something one thinks about, it’s something that’s felt, involuntarily.

I had always been a thinker, trying to find happiness and comfort in thoughts and ideas. It was only now that I realized happiness begins in the heart, and on that evening, my heart was speaking to me and yearning for how I felt when I was with Wes.

Sure, what I’d learned was outrageous, and sure, I had questions that were still unanswered, but when it came down to it, this was someone who had never been anything less than kind, giving, and understanding. And in addition, simply stated, I yearned for him. Every single ounce of me, whether it made sense or not, yearned for him. So, on that evening, I dialed his number, without reserve. I knew I had made the right decision the moment I heard his voice.

“You called,” he said softly, without the normal hello.

“Wes, I don’t really want to talk about this over the phone. I think we should talk about this in person, but I can’t come out. It’s a school day tomorrow, and my mom will have a conniption if I go somewhere now.”

“I’ll come to you then,” he offered earnestly.

“What about your car?”

“I had Curtis take me to get it this afternoon. I have it.”

“Okay, well then you can come over now if you want.”

Without delay, he replied, “I’m on my way.” His voice was still soft, but more eager than I was used to. I gave him instructions to come around to the back deck, so he could enter through my terrace, and once we hung up, I simply started freaking. Suddenly, I grew self-conscious of my décor and neatness.

I assessed my room and decided upon straightening up around my desk area and smoothing out my comforter to make my room look neater. I also shoved my old Raggedy Ann doll under my bed and made sure I didn’t have any clothes lying around. Once I felt satisfied, I sat nervously in my corner chair waiting for my visitor to arrive.

Quicker than I expected, I heard a rapping at my door. It startled me.

As casually as I could, I opened the door.

“You’re nervous,” he observed.

“A little,” I admitted.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered.

“I don’t think that.” I shook my head to reassure him.

He reached out slowly and placed his hand over my heart. I could feel the pounding ricochet off of his palm.

“Then why?” he inquired.

“I’m just nervous. I’ve never had anyone in my room before.”

He smiled slightly. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, of course not.” I looked around. “You can just sit there.” I pointed to the chair. He obliged soundlessly, and I sat on the edge of my bed with my legs crossed. We sat in silence for several moments. He was absolute perfection sitting there in the dim light, and his presence was inexplicably soothing. Eventually my heart rate slowed, and my nerves relaxed as I allowed myself to absorb the gladness I felt with having him there.

“You're better now,” he observed.

I blushed. “Yes.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. I guess I like having you here,” I admitted. It was easier to say than I thought. For a moment, it seemed like he was contemplating the words I’d spoken when, unexpectedly, he stood and took two slow steps in my direction. He leaned down just shy of my face. Although my heart fluttered, I sat completely still as he paused for a reaction. When he was sure I wasn’t going to shy away, he touched his lips to mine. He was gentle, but his kiss was compelling. I placed my hands on both sides of his face and pulled him closer to me. The force caused us to fall backward on my bed. He held his weight off of me effortlessly, but his kiss grew more intense. Like our first kiss, I was surprised by my own aggressiveness. Whatever he was didn’t seem to matter to me. All I knew was that I wanted him in any way I could have him.

After several moments of our lips mingling in complete unison, he turned his face away to regulate his audible breathing. It gave me a chance to catch my own breath. After a few seconds, he shifted to the side and offered an unexpected apology.

“What for?” I asked, sitting up.

He was contemplating heavily. “I’m not sure what came over me,” he said.

I sat quietly, unsure how to respond. I didn’t want him feeling as if his advance hadn’t been wanted. “What is it?” I asked.

After a moment of intense deliberation, he confided in me. “I was just so relieved that you wanted to see me again. I don’t think I realized how
much
I wanted that.”

He had always seemed so collected, and for the first time, he actually looked emotionally vulnerable. I sympathized, because I was feeling that way, too.

“I know exactly how you feel.”

He studied my face for a few moments and then whispered, “You are truly amazing.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I assured him. I was a lot of things: different, private, creative, independent, inquisitive, but amazing, no. Certainly not.

“You are,” he insisted.

“You don’t know me very well,” I pointed out.

“I know you better than you think, and I can affirm that amazing is an accurate description.”

I studied his expression. “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you’ve told me the most outlandish thing in the world and for some reason, I can’t stay away?”

He let out a chuckle. “Yes, that’s a big reason.”

His admission reminded me that we did have a few very large, unresolved matters to discuss. It was hard to remember them with him sitting in my room.

“That reminds me, there
are
things I want to know.”

“I’m sure there are. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

I knew I didn’t want to keep questioning him. I had questioned his intentions and even existence since the day I’d met him. I wanted answers without any prodding.

“I don’t want to ask you questions. I want
you
to tell me.”

He turned toward me. “Starting where?”

“I want you to tell me about your family and how you ended up like you are.”

I scooted myself all the way to the head of the bed and lay on my pillow, signaling to him that I was planning to listen for a while. He took the cue, and although he remained closer to the foot of the bed, he extended himself so that he was lying across the bed as well. He propped himself up on one elbow and studied me intensely. I made sure that my expression was soft and inviting. He began his recollection as if it was a recent memory.

“I was born in London, January 12, 1900,” he revealed.

I tried my best not to flinch or appear uncomfortable.

“I was my parents’ second son. A couple of years before I was born, my parents lost my brother. He was two years old, and he was hemophilic. My parents didn’t know until he fell down and hit his head pretty hard. It shook my mother up really bad, and she rarely ever talked about it. They traced the condition back to my mother’s family, so when I was born, they expected me to carry the disease as well.”

I could tell that the memory was extraordinarily painful for him.

“For as good of care as she took of me, no one would have ever suspected that my case was as severe as it was. Most kids with my condition would not have lived past their toddler years. She was an amazing woman. Only now do I realize how great of a job she did.”

“What about your father?” I interjected.

“I don’t remember my father much, but he was
not
Weston the second.” He briefly glanced at me to be sure I’d heard. “His name was Charles Wilson. He mostly traveled, and he died when I was three. He left my mother a substantial amount of money, and she used some of it to buy a bookstore and a brownstone near the medical district in London, in case something happened to me.”

I studied his face closely as he spoke, and before long, I could actually picture him in London. I could see him wearing the clothes similar to the ones in the photograph I had seen. He looked just as perfect then as he did now.

“So what happened to you?” I asked, refocusing.

“When I was about to be sixteen, I had an accident that should have killed me. As my mother planned, I was close enough to be taken to a nearby doctor, which happened to be Dr. Thomas. I was dying, and he administered an experimental serum mixed with cold-blood, and here I am.”

“So how does something like that work?” I had positioned myself closer to him so that I could take in everything he was saying. He seemed undistracted by my closeness.

“Well,” he said, “he was working on ways to cure sickness and prolong life. No human blood transfusion appeared to alter people’s ability to fight illness at the time, in a way that was beneficial at least, so he came up with the idea of using cold-blood. He had acquired different samples and one worked on me.”

“Were you the first?”

“No, he tried it on several people, and they all died. He had actually given up when I came in. My mother begged him to try anything to save me, and he did.”

“So why did it work on you?”

“He believed it worked because I was hemophilic and my own blood wouldn’t clot against it.”

“So why do you not age normally, and why can’t you regulate your body temperature?” I caught myself. I said I didn’t want to be asking questions, but I couldn’t help it. I was intrigued.

“Well I’m not exactly sure why I age so slowly. Dr. Thomas believed that the cold-blood transformed all of my cells and my metabolism. Everything is working slowly for me, and it seems that it causes my natural aging process to progress at a much slower pace. I can’t regulate my temperature because of the cold-blood. It is a part of me now.”

“So what exactly is in your blood?”

“I don’t know—various mixes. All I know about for sure is the gator blood. It was what he found to fight against infections, but he destroyed any other notes he had. He wouldn’t even tell me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he didn’t want anyone else to be able to replicate it.”

I didn’t understand. “But if it cured you, why wouldn’t he want others to know about it?”

“Because I wasn’t
just
cured. My transformation was not something I would wish on anyone. It took me years to recover.
Years
. He didn’t want to put anyone else through that again, and plus he wasn’t even sure if it would work a second time.”

“So, you are the only one?”

“As far as I know.”

“So you think there could be others?”

He shook his head quickly. “No. Dr. Thomas made certain that no one knew about me or the particular serum he used, but there have been other doctors who studied his work. They knew he was close to finding a cure for sickness and that he hoped to prolong people’s lives. Many others have tried to replicate previous experiments he did, but none of them have been successful, that I know of.”

“So people are looking to replicate it?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think they would do? What if they just want to find a cure, too?”

“What I have is not a cure.” He dropped his eyes.

“Why? You have been the perfect age forever. Why wouldn’t you be glad?”

He smiled lightly. “Didn’t you notice what happened to me at the pier?”

Somehow, I’d almost forgotten the look of death he’d worn in my car that evening. I shuddered at the memory.

“Sorry,” I said, frowning. “But, other than needing to stay warm all the time, what else is so bad?”

His mood shifted dolefully. “Well, it gets very lonely for one, and for another, it is
very
difficult for me to keep track of time.”

I pondered that idea and couldn’t see the downfall.

“What is so bad about managing your time?” I asked naively.

“Well, for me, time moves differently. I’m progressing slowly while everyone around me is progressing quickly. A year for you and a year for me are not the same. We figured out that I age one year for every thirty, and if I let it, thirty years will feel like a year to me.

“What do you mean, if you let it?”

“I have to concentrate very hard to slow down what is happening around me in my mind, so that it doesn’t seem like a blur.”

“A blur?”

“Yes, that is what it feels like. If you can imagine the headache that would give you, then you can have a pretty good idea of how I felt for a long time. It took me about two years to figure out how to manage it. If I don’t force my mind to stay on pace with real time, then everything around me goes by too fast for me to focus.”

“Is that why you were mumbling things about time and seeing me when you were passing out?”