by Joe Hart
A second later, Sadie, the girl from next door, rushed over to meet her, their voices high with excitement as they walked to Carrie’s play set in the farthest corner. Gillian had been reluctant to let her play outside after the incident at day care, but when Carrie had asked, there had been genuine excitement in her voice, and it was one of the few things able to lift Gillian’s spirits. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted Carrie to hear the conversation that was about to take place.
She watched the two girls for another moment before moving back through the house. She paused in the doorway to the kitchen, gathering herself and fighting the urge to turn down the hall to the left to grab a pill first. Instead, she moved forward past the man seated in the chair at the table.
“Thanks for letting me in,” Carson LeCroix said.
Gillian stopped at the sink, picking up the clean coffeepot before turning to face him.
Carson was much the same as the last time she’d seen him: hair still dark and curly without so much as a hint of gray, a few more lines around his mouth, and he’d maintained the swimmer’s physique he’d had in college. If anything the years had given him a distinguished appearance, as if age and experience had only enhanced who he truly was. Unbidden, the image of him nude in her dorm-room bed came even as she brushed it away, but not before she recalled the sensation of him inside her.
“It’s the polite thing to do, right?” she said, busying herself with fixing coffee. “Was I supposed to chase you off the porch with a broom?”
“Guess I wouldn’t have blamed you. We didn’t exactly part on the best terms. It was my fault how everything turned out.”
Gillian hesitated as she set the pot percolating. Finally she turned to him again, leaning back against the counter. “That was a long time ago.”
“Still, it’s bothered me all these years. I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t know ‘sorry’ was in your vocabulary.”
He looked down at the table and half smiled, not in the cocksure way she remembered from college when he knew he was the smartest person in the room. No, now the smile looked genuine, and a little sad. They were silent for a moment before he tipped his head in the direction of the backyard. “She’s a beautiful little girl.”
“Light of my life.”
“What grade is she in?”
“Second. But I’m homeschooling her with the help of a private tutor. Her condition makes school hard.”
“Must be tough.”
Gillian sighed. “Carson, what are you doing here?”
He paused, shifting in his chair. “I’ve been following your work ever since your accident. The change of focus and the progress you’ve made—it’s brilliant.”
“I can’t say I’ve been oblivious to your career either. You’re still at NASA?”
“I am.”
“So again, what interest does an astronaut have in a neural radiologist?”
He gazed at her in the same unflinching way he had when they were together, radiating a confidence she later learned was rooted in selfishness. “Tell me a little about your research.”
“You said you were following my work.”
“Still would like to hear it from the source.”
The coffeepot chirped, and she poured a cup for each of them. Carson held his palms to the mug as she settled into the chair across the table. “With Losian’s disease the central cause is neurofibrillary tangles, basically clumped proteins within a brain cell. The tangles in turn cause neuron loss. Most of the neurons affected are in the hippocampal region of the brain, which consolidates spatial navigation, converts short-term memories to long-term, deals with emotion, that type of thing.”
“So it basically makes you who you are.”
“Yes.”
“You said in one article you think the increase in pollution could be the cause of the tangles?”
“Along with genetic factors. Like diabetes, some people are genetically predisposed, and some develop it due to a variety of factors. With Losian’s the exact toxins or chemicals are still a mystery, but we think it could trigger a genetic variant that’s passed down through generations.” She stopped, her eyes flicking to the backyard where Carrie played.
“So your goal is to . . .”
“Fire every neuron in the human brain at once. The substrates we use react and trigger neural activity. With the imaging we’d then be able to pinpoint exactly which neurons are damaged. It’s the first step in fixing the problem.”
“And you’re close.”
Gillian fidgeted with her mug. “Yes. Yes, we are.”
“But not close enough for Congress.”
She huffed a laugh. “Until you have a solution wrapped up in a bow and delivered on a platter, it’s never close enough for politicians. I’m guessing you saw the last address?”
“I did. You really think Losian’s will eventually overshadow Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes. The models we’re using are . . . they’re frightening. If the rise in cases continues, Losian’s will be by far the most prominent dementia in the world. But it won’t matter until one of them or a member of their family gets it. Then, suddenly, it’ll be a concern.” She turned her mug around on the table. It had been Kent’s favorite.
“I’m sorry about your husband. And your daughter. I can’t imagine—”
“No offense, Carson, but I’m tired of hearing people tell me they ‘can’t imagine’ what we’ve gone through. You may as well say, ‘I’m glad I don’t know what it’s like.’ Spare me the sympathy, I know that’s not why you’re here.”
If her outburst unsettled him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took a long drink from his coffee before saying, “I know you lost your funding.”
Gillian flinched. “How—”
“I work with people who hear about things before they happen.”
She shook her head, took a deep breath.
“Look, before you go off half-cocked like you always did, hear me out,” Carson said.
“Such flattery. How can I resist?”
“Please. Five minutes.”
She brought the cup to her mouth and tried to keep her hand steady. “Go ahead.”
Carson leaned forward, the familiar intensity in his face unchanged by the passage of years. “NASA is working on something big. Very big. It will have major ramifications not only globally, but eventually within your field.”
Despite her irritation, her interest spiked. “What is it?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it. You need to see it yourself. All I can say is, it will be revolutionary in terms of travel.”
“Very dramatic.”
“Trust me.”
“So how does this relate to my funding?”
Carson’s jaw worked from side to side as he settled back in his chair, a tic she recalled from college when something perturbed him. “There’s been some unpleasant incidences—neurological side effects, I’d guess you’d call them—that are bogging down the project. These issues are directly in your area of expertise. We want you to come work for us. It would require some . . . training.”
“Training? As in?”
“Space. You’d be going to space for six months.”
Gillian smiled and rose from the table, then dumped the rest of her coffee in the sink. “You’re kidding.”
“Absolutely serious.”
“You want me to go to space.”
“Yes.”
“For six months.”
“Give or take.”
“That’s ludicrous. I’m not an astronaut.”
“That’s where the training comes in. You’d be given a fast-track overview and be added to the mission as a consultant. We do our thing and fly the shuttle, you do yours and help us iron out these kinks.”
“I appreciate the job offer, but I have more important and pressing matters to attend to at the moment.”
“Like finding new funding?”
She glared at him. “Among other th
ings, yes. Besides, there’s no way I could leave Carrie for that long.”
“What would you say if I told you in your downtime you could continue your research?”
“Tempting, but not tempting enough to blast off into space and leave my daughter here. Come on, Carson, what did you expect me to say?”
“What if I told you I could guarantee funding if you accepted?”
She watched him, waited for a tell that would reveal his true intentions. “For how long?”
“Indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely,” she repeated, the word feeling foreign on her tongue.
“Yes. That’s how important this is.”
Gillian shifted in place. “But why me? There’s got to be a dozen other specialists that are more qualified.”
“Now you’re being humble, and it doesn’t become you. Be honest, there’s no one in neural radiology that’s made the progress you have. Your development of the imaging and neuron analysis technique was a major breakthrough.”
“The technology was already there, I just made some observations.”
“That led to what almost every neurological institute is utilizing today.”
“A lot of good it did me.”
“But you said yourself, if it wasn’t for the lower occurrence percentages of Losian’s, you’d have all the funding you need. If this was an epidemic, you’d be the number-one resource of the medical community.”
“But it’s not yet!” She stepped away from the counter, every nerve in her body hot with anger. “It’s rare and it comes out of nowhere and destroys who you are.” She opened her mouth to continue but caught movement past Carson’s shoulder.
Carrie stood on the back stoop. The door was cracked open an inch, and as Gillian watched, Carrie stepped back, pulling it shut, and gestured to Sadie, who shrugged as they walked away from the house.
She felt the anger die out at once, a flame dipped in water.
Gillian sighed, running a hand across her forehead and into her hair. “Listen, this isn’t a good time. I’m sorry your project’s having issues, but I’m not your solution. I can’t be.”
“I know you’re tired of sympathy, but what I’m saying is this: you’ve seen hell, and you’re not out of it yet. You need what I can give you, and I need the most brilliant person in the field, bottom line.” He stood and crossed the kitchen, placing his empty cup on the counter along with a business card. “Do me a favor and consider it for her.”
She tried to say something to his back as he left the room, tried to ask if he really thought she was doing any of this for herself. But her energy was gone, sapped by the day’s failings to the point that all she wanted to do was lie down in a dark room and weep.
The front door snapped shut, and she listened to Carson’s rental pull away down the street. As the sound faded, another took its place, like a tornado siren slowly winding up to full volume. It was coming from their backyard.
Screaming.
Carrie was screaming.
EIGHT
A light rain had started falling.
It wet her skin as Gillian sprinted across the yard to where Carrie was standing, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, another throat-tearing scream coming from her open mouth.
Sadie was crouched several feet away, hands clamped over her ears, twin trails of tears running down her red face.
Then Gillian was holding Carrie, pulling her close as she thrashed against her.
“Stop, honey. It’s okay, you’re okay.”
Carrie shrieked again, and it was like trying to hold on to a wildcat. Gillian eased them both to the ground, getting a better grip around her daughter’s waist as a small fist struck the side of her chin.
“Shhhh, shhhh, it’s okay. You’re all right, honey. Calm down.”
Carrie’s entire body flexed, seizurelike, before gradually relaxing.
Sadie’s back door opened and closed as her father stepped outside, his hand shielding his eyes as he hurried toward them.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, scooping his crying daughter into his arms. “Should I call someone?”
“No, no, we’re fine, Dan,” Gillian managed, rocking Carrie gently in her lap. The girl’s gaze was unfocused, and a small string of saliva hung from her lower lip.
“She was like a statue and then started screaming,” Sadie said into her father’s shoulder. “For no reason.”
“Shush, Sadie,” Dan said, frowning, turning away.
Gillian brushed Carrie’s hair back from her brow, the rain starting to soak through both their clothes as the girl’s eyelids fluttered.
“Momma?”
“I’m here, baby.”
“What happened?”
“You’re okay. Let’s get you inside.”
She got them both to their feet, one arm holding Carrie tightly to keep her from falling. They were almost to their back steps when Gillian heard Sadie say, “I don’t want to play with her anymore,” in a muffled voice. Gillian resisted looking at them as they disappeared into their home, Dan hushing his daughter again.
Inside she stripped Carrie out of her wet clothes and wrapped her in a blanket before settling her into the couch. Already the girl’s eyes were closing, completely exhausted from the episode.
“The fuzzies,” Carrie said in almost a whisper.
“Yeah. It was. You rest now, okay?”
Carrie nodded, snuggling farther into the cushions. “Forever?” she asked.
Gillian struggled, making sure her voice wouldn’t break when she spoke. “Forever.”
The exchange had begun when Carrie asked Gillian how long forever was. She had responded with “That’s how long I’ll love you.” And over the years, it had been whittled down to the two words, call and response, question and answer, their weight far beyond their few syllables.
Gillian watched the slow rise and fall of Carrie’s chest, and within a minute her breathing was steady and deep.
She reached out and brushed her fingertips down her daughter’s cheek, overwhelmed by a mixture of love and terror. It was so powerful, it felt like the wind had been struck from her, and her eyes began to burn. Two lapses in one day. This was the first time that had ever happened. She was getting worse.
Blinking, Gillian spread another light blanket over Carrie’s sleeping form and glanced out at their backyard. The spring rain continued to fall, and already the sprouting grass looked greener, more alive. Nature moving forward, always onward, the natural order of things. She turned back to gaze at Carrie again.
Except my little girl is going in reverse. Losing more and more of herself each day.
Gillian drew in a shaking breath and headed for the bathroom, her fingers already feeling the safety cap of the pill bottle, but halfway down the hall, she stopped.
Kent’s office door was open, just a little.
She reached out and grasped the knob, meaning to pull it shut, but instead stepped inside.
It was an average-size office with a desk in one corner beside the only window. It was also basically unchanged from when he had spent his hours here running the small IT business he had built from the ground up. There were still pictures on the desk of herself and Carrie, covered in dust and slightly faded. And she knew somewhere on the laptop beside them was a novel Kent had been working on for some time. It was half-finished like so many things he’d left behind: several IT contracts, the landscaping along the front of the house, the Sheetrock in the basement.
And their life together.
She gazed at the objects in the room. Everything from before his death looked different now. It was one of the many oddities of losing someone that close. The most mundane things became hypnotizing. A notepad transformed into a well of memories. A lamp now something that brought tears to her eyes. Losing someone didn’t mean they really went away. His ghost was everywhere she looked.
Without meaning to, she propelled herself down the hall and into the bathroom, where she flung open the medicine cabin
et. She fumbled for the pill bottle and dropped it twice before getting it open.
One. No, two. Two pills on her tongue and pounded down by a glass of water before she leaned into the wall to steady herself. Sometimes she wondered if the hydrocodone was the only thing that kept her going. And to think she’d refused anything more potent than acetaminophen while she was recovering from the crash in fear it would affect the baby.
The pain she’d endured. It was almost too much for her to think about.
But after she’d given birth, it had been a different story. Back then her leg had hurt all the time, so she’d given in to taking the narcotics. A little over a year after the accident, on the day Carrie turned six months old, she had buried Kent. Losian’s had finished its work with him, and she’d watched the man she’d built her life with lowered into the ground and covered up as if he’d never been. After that she’d begun prescribing the medication to herself as chronic-pain management, which was partially true, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the gaping hole in her life. Afterward, the struggle to get clean had taken every ounce of her will. But her sobriety had fallen apart like a sandcastle at high tide with Carrie’s diagnosis.
Now she couldn’t go a day without at least one pill.
She gave herself a glance in the mirror but looked away almost at once. All she saw anymore were the scars, inside and out. She took several deep breaths and made a list of people she needed to call. There were a few sources she could tap for potential extension of funds.
She would push through this. It was a molehill compared with the mountain she was attempting to move.
But what about Carson and the offer? Indefinite funding.
Carson came here for Carson, no matter what he said. He’s always looked out for himself first, and this time’s no different.
But indefinite funding.
No.
She straightened. There had to be some other option. The thought of leaving Carrie for even a week sent a roiling wave of sickness through her. She’d find someone who would say yes, and she wouldn’t stop until she did.
Gillian made herself look at the mirror. “There’s always another way.”
