Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel)

by Williams, R. A.

  “It’s more than just that,” she said, her voice rising in anger.

  “What else is there? Why are you making such a—”

  “Because it’s a lie!” she yelled and slammed her fist into the table. Papers and books jumped from the shock. “And I hate lies!”

  Pete held up his hands. “Hey, now, calm down.”

  “Why couldn’t you just tell the truth?” Her eyes were wet over blazing cheeks and her lip quivered. “You always told me to tell the truth. And yet when we asked you about it, you looked us in the face and lied. And I believed you!”

  He hunched his shoulders and dropped his chin to his chest. Bitter remorse clawed at him when he saw his baby’s angry, accusing eyes. How could he ever get her to trust him again? “Amari, your mother was sick. It was just a one-time thing. You know your mother and I hadn’t been getting along for years. We were just too different. I know that doesn’t make what I did right, but I’m sorry. I was afraid if I told her the truth, it would just make her condition worse. The doctors told us we needed to keep her emotionally strong. The last thing she needed was to hear her husband cheated. I lied because I thought it was in her best interest.”

  “And look what happened,” she shot back. “Was that in her best interest?”

  “She got better. She went into remission.”

  “Better enough to kick you out of the house and serve you divorce papers.”

  “That she did. I had that coming. But why does that mean I have to lose my daughter too?”

  “Because you lied to me,” she said, her tone softening. “That’s why. And I’m still mad at you.”

  She sat on the bed, elbows resting on her thighs. He sat next to her and started to put his arm around her, but thought better of it. “I know you are. I’m mad at myself too. I’ll never forgive myself. I only hope you will.”

  That said, he picked up his tools and went to the doorway. “Next time you have a problem, with the house, or anything, call me, okay? I’m your dad. That’s what I’m here for.”

  He waited for her to respond, but she didn’t look up. He knew her well enough to know he could only make matters worse if he kept prodding her. He would just have to try again later.

  “It’s all fixed,” he said to Jenny and walked out the front door.

  “It doesn’t sound fixed to me,” she said as the door closed behind him.

  Chapter 12

  Friday, November 4, 1988

  Amari sat on the floor and worked the thread into her mother’s rug. Knowing this rug was her mother’s last project frequently brought to mind her mother’s last words.

  The hospice service had provided a hospital bed for home use. They came and went on a daily basis, providing drugs and basic medical needs. The Catholic Church granted Jason leave so he could help Mother while Amari was in school. Her dad had come around occasionally, but it was always awkward and unnecessary, so he eventually got the hint and stopped trying to help.

  She remembered walking into her mother’s room with a fresh pitcher of water. The head of her bed was inclined because it was less painful that way. Mother’s hair was black, streaked with gray. Much of it had returned from the last round of chemo, but it was still short and thin, and her chest was flat after the double mastectomy. When the cancer returned, it had invaded her liver and there was no point continuing the treatment, no point in prolonging her suffering.

  Mother was gaunt and her eyes were glassy, glazed over by narcotics to numb the pain from the cancer pressing against her spine, brain, and now, liver. But her words were alive with hope and that’s what Amari chose to relish.

  Amari knelt by her bed, holding her cold, weakened fingers inside her own.

  Mother startled awake. Her eyes probed the dim light until they found her daughter. “Amari. Is that you?”

  “Yes, Shimi. I’m here.” Amari gently caressed her mother’s hand.

  “Before I go to heaven, I want to know something.”

  “Yes, Mother. What is it?”

  “Tell me your dreams, Shiyazhi,” she said, which meant my child in the Navajo language. “I cannot be here to see them come true, but at least tell me what they are.”

  Amari forced an upbeat, happy reply. “I’m going to be an artist, just like you.”

  “An artist?” She strained to make a puzzled expression. “Shiyazhi, that was my dream for you. Your dream is to be like your father. Tell me, what do you really want to do?”

  “I honestly don’t know anymore, Shimi. I just don’t want to be like him.”

  “Your father is not perfect, but he is a good man. Don’t involve him in your decision. Tell me your dreams for your life?”

  “I don’t know, Shimi.” Her voice cracked as she strained to hold back the tears. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “When the time is right, you will know, Shiyazhi. Trust in God. He will show you his purpose. Be open to his will. That is all you have to do.”

  “But God doesn’t listen anymore. If he did, you wouldn’t be dying. Dad wouldn’t have done this to you.” She fell against her mother’s hollow chest and she wept.

  Her mother stroked her hair as she spoke, her voice strained, but alive with emotion. “Diyin Ayóí Átʼéii,” Shiyazhi. Trust in the Great Spirit. Don’t you give up on him. He will show you his will. One day, you will join me again and then you will tell me all about it. Jesus will bring us together again, Shiyazhi. Someday, you will tell me all about it.” Then her mother faded into sleep. The next day, she ascended into heaven. Amari would not speak to her again.

  She let go of the loom’s yarn and returned to her feet. Moisture had built in her eyes as she remembered that day, but the hope of her mother’s final words kept the tears in place. The day of mourning had passed, and now it was time for action, to build upon the story she would someday tell, the lives she’d changed for good. Someday in heaven, she would tell her mother all about it.

  Chapter 13

  Amari parked in the student garage and made her way towards University of Arizona’s Weiss Mass Spectrometer Laboratory—WMS for short. She passed in front of the Old Main building, which was at the head of the university’s long, green, palm tree-lined lawn. It was like a small version of the lawn in Washington DC, only with the library, gym, and classrooms instead of Smithsonian museums. She made her way past the College of Agriculture and approached the rectangular, red brick building that housed the WMS lab. It was four stories tall with four long rows of windows running down its side, windows with white shades jutting out from them to block the brutal Arizona sun. Date palms with their arched, hanging branches provided shade for bicycles chained to steel racks.

  She found an entrance and paused before she pushed through the door. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She could just turn around and walk back to her car. But she thought of her mother again, about the stories she would tell in heaven. She knew she couldn’t stop now. Besides, her name meant never gives up. She had to live up to that name.

  She drew a deep breath and pushed through the door. In the corner of the foyer, an elderly woman sat at a desk reading a romance novel through reading glasses.

  She stepped over to the desk. “My name’s Amari Johnston. I have an appointment to meet with Dr. Brenner.”

  The receptionist picked up a clipboard, tilted her head back, and crinkled her nose as she read the names of daily appointments. “What was your name again?”

  “Amari Johnston.”

  “How do you spell that? Oh, hold on, here it is. Johnston. You have an appointment with Dr. Brenner at 3:00 p.m.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The lady lowered her glasses and peered up at a wall clock. “You’re very punctual. Follow me. It’s just down the hall.”

  Amari followed her down the long, painted cinder block hallway. The farther she went, the more the apprehension built. According to Jenny, Dr. Brenner had graduated high school at sixteen. He graduated college with a double major of physics and mechanical engin
eering at twenty. He finished a master’s degree at twenty-one and a Ph.D. in physics at Boston’s prestigious MIT at twenty-three. He was currently doing his post-doctoral work at the WMS laboratory. Along the way, he’d won several awards and accolades. He was an intellectual rock star. Could she match wits with a guy like this? The butterflies in her gut turned to hornets and she started to feel nauseated.

  The receptionist stopped at the door and punched a code into a keypad. The door made a click and she pushed it open.

  “That’s him in that ugly orange cap,” she said as she pointed.

  “Thank you,” Amari said and the door closed behind her, cutting off her escape.

  A steady, pervasive hum saturated the air. Long, thick metal pipes were bolted together and snaked through the room, entering square mechanical modules, then exiting these same modules on the other end, only to enter another contraption. A fat pipe which looked more like a tank connected other pipes. Meters and gauges were fixed to the pipe’s path in strategic places. Other gizmos and gadgets were scattered on tables and shelves throughout the lab.

  Dr. Brenner pointed at one of the gizmos as he talked to another colleague dressed in a white lab coat. They continued to talk and point, saying something that looked important, so she waited her turn as she sized him up.

  Snug on top of his head was a dirty, obnoxious orange baseball cap with a big white letter T on its front. His long brown hair fell a good two inches below the back collar of his shirt. Under the brim of the cap were friendly, brown eyes that left no hint of the genius brain behind them. He wasn’t anything liked Jenny had described. Maybe it was her genetic blindness because they were cousins, but she thought he was really cute, not the dorky, bow-tie-wearing dweeb she’d expected.

  Finally, Dr. Brenner patted his coworker on his back and glanced her way. He walked over and his coworker followed close behind. “You must be Amari. Jenny said you’d be coming by. I’m Kevin. This here’s Jerry.”

  “It’s Jeremy, actually,” the colleague said. Jeremy was about Amari’s height. Black bangs fell to his eyebrows, just over eyes that were blue like a swimming pool. His demeanor seemed that of a bullied kid, the kind Amari used to defend on the school bus.

  She shook Dr. Brenner’s hand. “Amari Johnston. Nice to meet you,” she said, holding her grip for an awkwardly long moment. He wasn’t like she’d imagined—not at all.

  She let go and turned to shake Jeremy’s hand, but they were jammed into his front pockets and he simply nodded his approval.

  “Jerry’s grandfather practically built this place,” Dr. Brenner said. “It’s why they named it after him. Ol’ Jerry here’s thinking of majoring in physics. Probably run the place himself someday.”

  Jeremy just stood there, expressionless.

  “Hey, Jerry, keep working on that thing,” Dr. Brenner said. “Miss Johnston just has a few questions. We’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  She followed him to his office. He sure didn’t look like a future Nobel Prize winner. He dressed more like a hobo. Didn’t they have dress codes in places like this? He wore faded, stone-washed jeans, and a rustic, worn leather belt kept his baggy pants from falling to his ankles. His shirt was a plaid flannel button-up that looked like it had come from a thrift store.

  He stopped at the door and opened it. “Sorry, ma’am, office is a mess,” he said and ushered her in. His desk was cluttered with papers and manuals. More manuals and notebooks lined a shelf against the wall.

  Dr. Brenner slid a fold-up chair beside his desk next to his chair. “Have a seat. Can I get you something? I’ve got Mountain Dew,” he said and pointed to a small, brown refrigerator. He had a southern accent, a little stronger than Jenny’s, but nothing like she had described. Apparently, Jenny had a knack for exaggeration.

  Amari sat and smoothed out her skirt. “No, thank you, Dr. Brenner. I won’t be long. You know, you’re not the way Jenny described you.”

  “Oh, man, I’d hate to hear how she described me.”

  “She didn’t say anything bad. She just described you in terms of, you know, accolades and achievements.”

  “You were expecting that guy from Revenge of the Nerds. The guy with tape on his glasses.”

  She threw out a laugh. “Something like that. So did you really get your Ph.D. from MIT when you were twenty-three? I’m twenty-two and haven’t even finished my bachelor’s yet. You must be really smart.”

  “Nahh, I’m not that smart. Just impatient. Norbert Weiner got his Ph.D. from Harvard in mathematical logic when he was seventeen. By that standard, I’m a real slacker.”

  She giggled and gazed at him for a moment. He was so easy going, humble, and self-deprecating. Any anxiety she had left seemed to dissipate. Suddenly, she’d forgotten why she came. She fumbled for words. “Uh, so, what was your degree in again?”

  “Experimental physics. They hired me for that carbon date contraption you saw outside. I’m also tweaking the design a bit. I’m working on a new time of flight detector. Ion source needs some improvement too.”

  “That sounds impressive. So are you done with school or are you going to keep going?”

  “I’m doing my post-doc work right now. I just want to settle down and work for a while, you know, live a little.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “You know, Jenny thinks the world of you.”

  “Really? That’s surprising. I figured she’d classify me as a non-compliant patient.”

  “Oh, no. She would never tell me that. It would be a breach of patient-client confidentiality,” Dr. Brenner said with a smirk.

  “That’s Jenny, all right.”

  “Ain’t it, though? Are you sure I can’t get you a Coke or something?”

  “No thank you, Dr. Benner. I know you’re busy,” she said and held up her notepad. She needed to stop wasting this poor guy’s time and get on with it. “I just have a few questions for you.”

  “I’ll do my best to answer them, under one condition.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stop calling me Dr. Brenner. Just call me Kevin. It’s what my friends call me.”

  “Okay, Kevin. If you’ll stop calling me ma’am. Just call me Amari.”

  “Well, then, Amari, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s about the Shroud of Turin.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place. Jenny said this was for an art class?”

  “It started out that way. I mean, if it is a forgery, then it must be a work of art, right? But from what I’ve found so far, I can’t figure out how an artist could have pulled this off. Certainly not with medieval technology.”

  Kevin leaned back in his office chair. He laced his fingers and rested them on stomach. “I can’t help you much with the art angle, it’s not my thing,” he said as he tapped the tips of his thumbs together. “But if you’ve got science questions, I’d be glad to try.”

  “Okay,” she said and flipped a page in her notebook. “Carbon-14 dating. How does that work?”

  “That’s an easy one. It’s like this. All plants and animals have about the same amount of carbon-14 in them when they’re alive. Now, in the case of the Shroud of Turin, those linen fibers came from a flax plant. Linum usitatissimum, if you want the scientific term.”

  She jotted notes on her pad while he waited for her to catch up. She didn’t bother writing that last tongue twister.

  “Now, there’s three naturally occurring isotopes of carbon. There’s carbon-12, carbon-13, and carbon-14. Carbon-14 is a radioactive isotope. It forms in the upper atmosphere when cosmic rays knock a proton out of nitrogen-14. You follow me so far?”

  “Sort of.” She stopped writing and decided to listen and get the gist of it. “Keep going.”

  “Now, you know how when plants breathe in CO2 and let off oxygen, right?”

  “Right, I remember that from biology class.”

  “Okay, so the carbon from the CO2 stays with the plant, and some of that carbon is the radioactive
carbon-14. So all plants have about the same amount of carbon-14 when they die. But over time, carbon-14 begins to decay at a known rate. In other words, over time there is less and less carbon-14. What we do here is we turn the sample into graphite and shoot it through that big machine you saw out there. It’s got these detectors that count the carbon-14 that passes through it. The less carbon-14 there is, the older the sample is.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. So you turned the piece of the Shroud into graphite.”

  “Pure carbon.”

  “That’s right, and you shot it through this thing out there and you figured out that it dated to around 1300.”

  “1260-1390 if you take the average of all three labs.” Something in his subtle facial expressions and the tone of his voice suggested he didn’t believe the results either.

  “You don’t sound like you’re completely convinced.”

  He shrugged. “We feed in the sample and the machine spits out the numbers. The Shroud dated as medieval from 1260-1390, using information averaged from all three labs. Here at our lab, we got 646 years old, plus or minus thirty-one years. Oxford got 750 years old, plus or minus thirty years, and Zurich got 676 years old, plus or minus twenty-four years old.”

  “So if the average date was between 1260-1390, then you’re saying it had to be a forgery.”

  “That’s what this particular piece of evidence suggests.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  He puffed his cheeks and blew air. “I’m still pondering that one.”

  “Huh,” she said and studied his face. She wasn’t expecting that kind of answer. Scientists are supposed to be sure about things, not just pondering things. This seemed to be the perfect time to bring up her next question. She flipped to a dog-eared page in her notebook. “Some archeologists say carbon dating can be wildly inaccurate, even contradictory. I’ve read that some scientists say the fire in 1532 produced carbon that could easily skew the carbon date.”