by C. P. James
Deep into a warm, ethereal sleep between impossibly luxurious bedsheets with a woman 19 years his junior, Erik’s phone rang. He would’ve ignored it, and was kicking himself for even leaving it on, but the tone indicated a GIG emergency. Next to him, Heidi groaned and rolled over, balling the comforter up over her head. Her ratted blond hair splayed out from under it like it had grown from a seed in the pillow. He smiled and picked up the phone.
“This is Erik.”
A calm voice said, “Dr. Erik Heiser?”
“Yes.”
“Please hold for the President of the United States.”
Fifteen minutes later, Erik’s car skidded to a halt in his driveway. One of GIG’s helicopters was being fueled; all he needed to do was grab a couple things, race up to the helipad and go. But for some reason, his circle drive wasn’t empty. One of GIG’s fleet vehicles was parked in it.
He found the front door open and, strode in a huff around the side of the kitchen to find Geller seated on the couch. Erik stood there for a moment, trying to look as incredulous and irritated as possible.
“I know what’s happened,” Geller said, standing. “And I know you need to leave right away.”
“So why are you here? How did you even get inside?”
Geller ignored the question. “There’s something you need to know about Lars.”
“I know he’s been brainwashed by that crazy bitch, so I have to go. We’ll talk later.”
Erik pivoted and started back down the hallway, only to hear Geller’s voice call after him.
“He’s not a PG.”
Erik stopped in his tracks and slowly turned. Geller had moved to the end of the hall.
“What did you say?”
“He never was.”
Erik stared dumbly at him.
“Lucy knew she carried the gene for Huntington’s. So did you, so did we, of course. The chances of her passing it on were small but I think deep down she just never drank the Kool-Aid. Whatever her reasons, at the last minute she changed her mind. I only know because you asked me to administer it personally. She made me promise never to tell anyone.”
Erik studied him for what seemed like a long time, trying to form words through his apoplexy. Geller had no problem with silence, and so he remained in it, staring back, hands in his pockets.
“You’re telling me this now?! He might be taking his own life as we speak and you drop this fucking bomb on me?! What the FUCK, Brent?!”
“You needed to know. He’s going to live a full life. Well, assuming he doesn’t—”
“Fuck this. I have to go right now.”
Erik wanted to tackle the old man, pin him down on the berber carpet and pummel his face into mush. His brain swam with questions—mostly ones he’d never be able to ask because Lucy was gone. But he pushed them and his homicidal thoughts aside and went into the bedroom to fetch his own med kit, a pair of boots, and a jacket. He also popped two motion-sickness pills for the helicopter. Moments later, he brushed past Geller on his way out.
“I’m very sorry,” Geller offered.
Erik whirled and thrust his face right up to Geller’s, fishing for some parting words to hiss, but settled for radiating pure rage. He about-faced and left, leaving Geller right where he was. He didn’t follow. Erik jumped in his car and pounded his foot down on the accelerator, rocketing him straight across his perfectly kept lawn. As he drove, his mind raced. Was Geller for real? If so, why had he kept it from him even after Lucy was gone?
It didn’t matter now. He couldn’t know where Lars was; he could only guess. If he was wrong, he might be too late. Of course, he might be too late anyway. All he knew was that he had to get to Teacup Lake.
47
From The Perfect Generation: A Memoir
by Dr. Brent A. Geller
Lucy Heiser wasn’t what you’d call likable. She was impossibly beautiful, one of those rare women who seemingly get better as they go. And her accent, from the upper crust of Adelaide, Australia, was the aural equivalent of Belgian chocolate melting on your tongue. I probably sound like a dirty old man saying that now.
Alas, she was decidedly less beautiful on the inside. She’d gotten more (or less, depending how you looked at it) than she bargained for with Erik. He was married first to the work and then her, and the arrangement was mutually unsatisfactory. I was shocked when Erik told me she was pregnant, but more so to learn that she agreed to the treatment. Frankly, validating Erik’s work seemed out of character.
As the day neared, Erik pulled me aside in the hall and told me, with some hesitation, that Lucy requested I do it personally. That seemed odd, since there wasn’t any logical or legal reason why Erik wouldn’t do it himself. But he gave me his blessing so I accepted. The following week I arrived at the onsite clinic, gave her charts a quick scan, and was informed that she was prepped and ready to go.
Giving a microinjection to a developing fetus is delicate work. Our method was robot-assisted but that didn’t make it easy. We used a local anesthetic and, once the patient was prepped and lightly sedated, it only took a few minutes. In fact, it took longer to explain the risks and the mechanics of the procedure than to actually do it. Among the thoroughly communicated risks were the unknown long-term effects of genetic manipulation. We made certain everyone understood what they were signing up for, including Lucy.
A few minutes before we started, Lucy asked to speak with me privately. I sent the nurse and an intern away, at which time Lucy told me that she didn’t want it anymore, if she ever did. That happened sometimes; about 1 in every 200 patients changed their minds at the last minute.
What didn’t happen very often was that the patient not only changed their minds at the last minute, but asked for our complicity in hiding that fact. That was more difficult than it sounded. With 3-6 people in the room, it wasn’t ethical to ask anyone to claim they assisted with a procedure that didn’t happen. We’d discussed this very scenario during clinical trials and had an unofficial policy that we would not lie on any patient’s behalf. Whether she told her friends and family, or even her child, about the procedure was up to her. None of our business. Our records would truthfully indicate whether the procedure was completed or not, and if someone with a legal reason to see their medical records examined them, they would know the truth. This was the only ethical thing to do, and the only way to indemnify GIG.
Unfortunately, most patients weren’t married to one of our senior researchers. Erik knew everyone who would be in the room and vice-versa. They needed plausible deniability. I didn’t care what Lucy’s reasons were, but I respected them. At the time, their marriage was already showing signs of cracking, and I knew how Erik could be about the work because he was just like me. He wouldn’t have taken it well. I told her I would neither volunteer the truth nor hide it. That was good enough for her.
While prepping for the procedure, I swapped out the cartridge of Cure for a saline one, and we went through all the motions. The money shot, if you will, was just a series of harmless squirts of saltwater in the amniotic sac. Lucy’s child would not be joining the Perfect Generation.
Only he did. One morning several years later, Erik confided that he had “the talk” with Lars where he explained what would happen to him, and how the world worked. Lucy never told him the truth and I felt bound by my word to her, loathsome though she was. He fell into a deep depression and I made him take time away, hoping that having him around all the time would practically force the truth out of Lucy, but it never did.
You might think it unconscionable that I wouldn’t betray Lucy’s confidence for Erik’s sake, sparing him so much anguish even if it cost him his marriage. Goodness knows I held him in far greater esteem than her. But it was a family secret. Lucy’s decision to forgo the treatment was easy to respect, whatever her state of mind at the time, but to leave Lars with the impression he was doomed and subject Erik to the same belief was cruel, even for her. I became convinced that there was something I didn’t know ab
out their dynamic, their history—something. I couldn’t justify betraying her trust without knowing why, but the why was none of my business. So, I kept my mouth shut.
Hard as it might seem to understand, Lars’ welfare was my chief concern in the matter. Let me explain.
By the time the Exception Act passed, childhood and young adulthood were virtually the same. Parents felt the need to protect their kids from the world for an unnaturally long time, and the kids didn’t know any better. Not many young people even started their fully independent lives until they were in their mid-late twenties. Eventually Lars would learn the truth. He would turn 25, then 26, then 27 and realize that his fate wasn’t sealed, for whatever reason. He could come looking for answers when he was ready to learn them, and only then would I explain the circumstances of his survival, if I was still around. I’d see that he understood. But by then he would have lived life so thoroughly that every extra day would feel like gravy and the truth wouldn’t matter anymore. Though I can never know Lucy’s reasons, I think she felt her life was on rails. She wanted Lars to feel free.
I knew Erik would suffer more than just about anyone at GIG, and he did. He bore not only the anguish of any PG father, but also, like Baz, the knowledge that he had played a role in it. I knew he would blame me most of all. I also knew that he would practically kill himself trying to avert that fate.
As he grew up, Lucy became less and less a factor in Lars’ life and Erik more so. Lars was 9 when she died, by which point the two of them had a strong bond. Her death was ostensibly an accident, which I don’t believe for a second. She was less capable of being a good mother than Erik was of being a good father, and I think she knew it. Whether she took her own life, was intentionally careless, or simply faked the whole thing, I’m convinced she did what she did for selfless reasons, and that both Erik and Lars were better for it.
48
It pleased Lars to be there for Jayla at such a vulnerable time in her life, and there was a frail beauty in her pathos that coaxed out something like love in him. He supposed he was falling for her a little. Yes, what happened at Red Rocks had pulled a shade over her, and six days at the lake hadn’t made much of a dent. He’d expected it would take two or three nights for her to come to terms with what happened, but she still bore the haunted look of someone who had experienced something too terrible to process.
They’d eaten, drank, swam, smoked weed, talked, laid in the sun and fucked—all at altitude, mind you—pretty much since arriving. He was spent. He’d asked her what was in the letter he mailed, but she only reiterated that it was to let her mother know she was okay. That would’ve satisfied him were it not for Jayla’s fraught relationship with her mother. Something about that letter didn’t sit right with him.
Though they talked for hours at a time, neither brought up Marius. It really had been awful, contrasted as it was with the joy and energy that surrounded it. It also had been more tortured an exit than others he’d seen, except for maybe poor Bobby Hardwicke in his tent—but that was more pathetic than tragic, given that Bobby was hardly a messianic figure. During the long silences, and as he drifted off to sleep, he thought about what he’d say when it finally came up. He’d tried to understand what she was thinking and feeling, and why her light had died. In the process her melancholy was slowly becoming his.
On the morning of their seventh day at the lake, he woke to see her sitting cross-legged on her sleeping bag with a warm smile. The luster of her sumptuous, dark skin had returned to pre-Red Rocks levels, and she looked utterly at peace with the world. They’d need a supply run if they were staying longer, which he would try to avoid, but something about the way she looked that morning made him think she’d come to terms with whatever she was going through.
“Good morning, sleepy boy,” she said.
“Hey,” he said, coming up on one elbow.
“I made tea,” she said, and placed a hot mug in his hands. He sipped from it, and the chill in the tent ebbed.
“Thanks. Someone’s happy today.”
“I am,” she said, and leaned in to plant a slow, tender kiss on his lips. “It’s a beautiful morning and I’m with a beautiful guy.”
He ran fingers through his mop of blond hair and shook his head. “I need a real shower.”
“I think you’re perfect,” she said.
They talked a little as he finished his tea, but mostly they just looked at each other—not just in the way that young lovers do, but as though they’d just been rescued. It felt strange, but nice. Really nice.
He dressed and they made breakfast together. He held the last of their eggs and toast over the burner with metal tongs, leaving a pale outline of the utensil on each side. They made more tea. When the sun got high enough, they swam. On the first day his watch fell off in the water and they had to swim around until they found it —not that hard with gin-clear water and a flat, rocky bottom, but it was actually kind of fun. That evolved into a game where they would turn their backs and he would throw it over his shoulder into the water. Then they’d count to three and jump in, each trying to find it first. Jayla was a faster swimmer and almost always won. They played this game several times throughout the day, pausing for lunch, and again later on.
In the heat of the afternoon, they made love right out in the open on a patch of moss that felt like carpet. Their exertions made Lars hot, so he waded naked into the water. When he turned, Jayla was hurrying back from the campsite but soon followed suit. She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him as he took in the scene, which never got any less spectacular.
“This was some day,” he said.
“Yes it was. And guess what?”
“What?”
“I have something for you. For us, really.”
“You just gave me something.”
She smiled. “No, something else.”
He turned and wrapped her up in his arms.
“Should I close my eyes?”
He did for a few playful seconds, but she said nothing and her arms left him. When he opened them and looked down, she was holding one of their folding knives.
“Um, wait,” he said. “That’s my present? It’s already mine.”
“I wanted this day to be perfect, and it was,” she said. “If we lived our whole lives, we’d have a bunch more just like it. But we won’t, and we can’t. We had this day.”
His arms fell from around her and he felt himself take a small step back.
“I’m not following you.”
“I know why you took us here. And I want you to know what a perfect thing it was to do. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would’ve happened. But you were, and now we’ve had something that few people ever have. Stories don’t need happy endings—just good ones. Proper ones. You gave us that.”
She unfolded the knife and flicked its edge with her thumb. In that moment, he realized what was happening.
“Jayla, how about you give me the knife? It’ll be dark soon, we’ll make a fire, and tomorrow we can get up early, pack all this in the car and have a real breakfast. We can find a good hotel and clean up, and we’ll figure things out from there.”
“After we do it I think we should just sit in the shallow part over there where it’s sandy and hold each other as the sun sets. We’ll probably get super cold, but I don’t think it’ll be as bad if we’re close.”
“Wait. Just wait, okay? Let’s talk this out. I don’t want this and neither do you. Lemme—“
He lunged for her arm but she turned away, like it was all some kind of tease.
“Oh no you don’t, mister!” she said, and swam quickly for the shallows. He followed as fast as he could, but she put 20 feet between them in just a few seconds and turned back toward him, now sitting with everything below her shoulders submerged.
“One of us has to be first,” she said, trembling. “Just don’t forget to hold me after, okay? I love you.”
“Jayla, don’t!”
With less t
han six feet between them, she drew the blade up one wrist to her elbow, then the other, as casually as opening an envelope. For a few seconds there was nothing, as though she’d pantomimed it, but then a dark red stripe appeared and her life started emptying out into the water. Lars drew in a sharp breath and stood there, aghast. She stared at her arms dumbly for a moment then smiled and let herself fall back into the water. She lifted the knife up out of the water, now stained deep red.
“Grab it,” she said. “It’s slippery.”
Her voice shook him from his stupor. He slid toward her in the water and took the knife, carefully. He switched hands and tossed it toward shore so she wouldn’t see, then collapsed in the water beside her and pulled her to him. The color was already going from her face, and she was trembling.
“Did you do it?” she said sleepily. “I couldn’t see …”
“Yeah,” he said, tears streaking his face. He plunged his arms in the water beside her. “It stings.”
“It doesn’t last long,” she said, and reached across his chest with her left arm, her head on his shoulder. He could feel the long gash on her forearm and the warmth flowing from it. His body shook.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “We’ll be okay. I love you.”
She groaned softly but said nothing. He knew the darkness was coming fast for her, and he knew what she wanted to hear. No harm in saying it now.
“I love you, too.”
He felt her fingertips move up and down his chest, just a little. Then, nothing.
49
The silver and blue GIG helicopter hummed over the mountains, its speed hampered by a building north wind. Bizarrely strong currents threw it around like a paper airplane, and had he skipped the motion sickness pill he would’ve coated the cabin with vomit. As it was, he was only mildly queasy.
