by Andrea Ring
“Do they…but they are still attached? One body?”
“Yes.”
“Then I believe that is the answer—they are sharing the soul.”
“So the separate brain creates a separate personality, but the life force they share is the same?”
“Indeed,” Dr. Rumson says. “I think it’s the only explanation.”
My mind reels as I try to process this. “But…they’re going to try to separate him. They’re going to try to create the rest of the body, then surgically separate.”
“It won’t work,” Dr. Rumson says firmly.
“Can…I mean, is it possible, that the soul could be divided?”
“I don’t see how. It’s not a physical thing, like this man is trying to create. There’s no way to divide it.”
“And if it works? What then?”
Dr. Rumson stands and turns his back on me to look out the window behind him. He has a stellar view of the parking lot.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Cloning has worked. And I don’t believe it’s incompatible with our religious beliefs. At the quickening of life, the soul is infused. Period. I believe that, whether a living thing is quickened in its mother’s womb or in a petri dish. But this? I just don’t know.” He finally turns back and resumes his seat.
“From a scientific perspective, Thomas, do you believe the two men can be separated and live?”
“Scientifically speaking, yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“God works in mysterious ways,” Dr. Rumson says with a laugh. “I can’t wait to hear about the outcome.”
I nod, but I don’t feel like laughing.
“There’s more?” he asks.
I frown, thinking about the more. “Dad wants me to lie about what I can do,” I say.
“He has good reason?”
“He doesn’t want the military or anyone else to conduct experiments on me.”
“That seems like a good reason. But you’re not comfortable with it.”
“No,” I say. “Plus, it will limit the things I can do. Plus…I know what to look out for. Dad didn’t have that luxury when he went in. He had no clue they’d do anything nefarious. I know what to expect.”
Dr. Rumson narrows his eyes at me. “Thomas, I love you. I want nothing but the best for you. God wants the same. But your arrogance will get you killed!”
I lean back in my seat, stunned by the vehemence in his voice.
“You know nothing! Your father is the one with the experience and the inside knowledge, and if your childhood has taught you anything, it’s that your dad withholds information. Now, I believe your father is looking out for you. He withholds only with a purpose. But do not for one minute think you know better. Your life depends on it.”
My eyes sting, and I blink hard to keep the tears from falling.
I cannot speak. So I nod.
***
Tessa comes over Sunday afternoon, and she goes in for a big kiss, but all I have in me is a peck.
She steps back, frowning. “Rough weekend?”
I flop into a chair at the kitchen table and sigh. “You could say that.”
Tessa doesn’t speak. She takes the chair opposite me and sits quietly.
God, I love her.
“Am I…do you think I’m arrogant?”
Tessa cracks a smile. “I prefer the term confident.”
I scowl. “So you do think I’m arrogant.”
She reaches out and grabs my hand across the table. “No more than you have a right to be. You can do extraordinary things, and you know it. So what?”
“So…does my arrogance blind me? Does it cause me to try things I wouldn’t normally try, or shouldn’t try?”
“Thomas, you are the least impulsive person I know. When you act, you think it through. I don’t think your arrogance drives you.”
“Maybe not drives me, but what if I have an overdeveloped sense of my own capabilities? What if I overestimate what I can do, and someone gets hurt?”
Tessa squeezes my hand. “A little self-doubt is not a bad thing. I mean, you don’t want to be paralyzed with fear when you have to make a decision, but I think it’s good you’re questioning yourself. Means you want to do the right thing.”
“But that’s the problem!” I say, voice rising. “I’m not questioning myself, not really. I believe in myself one hundred percent. I’m just irritated that two people this weekend called me arrogant, and I don’t see it.”
“That’s a little arrogant,” she says.
I give her a small smile. “I know.”
Tessa takes her hand back and props her chin on it. “So now you know. It’s highly possible that you’re blind to your own faults, so I think you need my help.”
“With what?”
“Remembering that you’re not perfect.” Tessa stands and leans back on the kitchen counter. She holds up the finger I healed on Friday. “One, you remember every conversation we’ve ever had, so when we have a fight, you can tick off the things I’ve said in the past and how they contradict what I’m saying today. That’s highly irritating. Two, you drink so much orange juice that sometimes you smell like oranges. Three, you have octopus arms whenever we watch a movie, and I can’t pay attention while I’m fighting you off. Four—”
“I get it.”
“I’m not finished,” she says. “Four, you’re often caught up in your own moods, and you forget that I have moods of my own. Five—”
“I do that?” I say, taken aback.
“Case in point—right now. I went to kiss you because I missed you this weekend and wanted to connect. You blew me off.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” I say.
Tessa smiles. “I know that. I love that I’m the one you dump on. But sometimes I need to dump, too.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “What’s five? I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Well, this may be hard for you to hear, but you’re weird.”
I laugh. “I already knew that.”
“And sometimes it’s tough to be in a relationship with you, because we’re at two completely different places. I mean, we’re at the same school and take a lot of the same classes, but you can take a nap and ace the tests while I struggle through every assignment.”
“You don’t struggle,” I say, but she ignores me.
“It would be so much easier if I were dating a normal guy, who understood what I have to go through every day.”
“My day is the same as your day,” I say.
Tessa frowns. “And you’re proving my point right now. You could teach the classes, Thomas.”
I study my fingernails. “Are you saying you don’t want to be with me?”
Tessa sits back down. “Of course not. You couldn’t pry me off with a crow bar. Thomas, do you know what number six is?”
I shake my head.
“I don’t have a number six, and that’s number six: you are too freaking perfect. I can sit here and list fifty flaws of my own, but for you, I can barely come up with five.”
I have to smile at that. “My turn. So one. One, you are so beautiful that I worry all the time about all the guys at school drooling over you.” Tessa ducks her head, and I continue. “Two, you hug me so easily and so often that I’m addicted to it. If there’s a time when I don’t get a hug, I feel lost. Three, you’re such a good listener that I take you for granted. I just assume you’ll listen politely and thoughtfully whenever I need you to, because you always do. Four, you have such a great family, especially your mom, that it makes me jealous. It makes me miss my own mom. Five, you’re such a good person, deep down, that sometimes you shame me. I’m ashamed that I’m not as good as you.”
Tessa stands and pulls me out of my chair. We hug tight, and she strokes my hair, holding my head to her shoulder. “You’re right. I do love to hold you,” she whispers.
I sigh. “I’m a lucky guy.”
Chapter Six
That night, I kick back on my bed with my cell phone. I call Grandma’s apartme
nt, and she picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Grandma, how are you?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Thomas, your grandson.”
“Oh yes, Thomas. Is there something you need?”
“No, Grandma,” I say. “I call you almost every night. Just checking in, seeing how things are.”
“Oh, you…is this Michael?”
“This is Thomas, Michael’s son.”
There is a pause, and I can hear Grandma moving around. “Thomas? Thomas Van Zandt?”
“That’s me.”
“Oh, Thomas, how are you?”
“Good, I’m good. Tell me about you. What did you do today?”
“Oh, we went on a bus. Everyone here went on a bus to the Farmer’s Market. Except that old crankpot Donald Mills. He wouldn’t get on. Thought he might have to tinkle and have no place to go.”
I laugh. “So did you buy anything at the market?”
“What market?”
“The Farmer’s Market.”
“Oh, yes, we went there today. On a bus. It stunk of old people. Do you know every single person on that bus was old?”
“Really?” I say, just to keep the conversation going.
“Who is this?”
I sigh. “Thomas.”
“I have a grandson named Thomas.”
I close my eyes. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s about six years old now, growing right up. And he’s so bright. Just the brightest little thing. I miss him.”
“I’m right here,” I whisper.
“He doesn’t come to see me. His father’s in the Navy, and they don’t have much time for me.”
“Well, how about if I come visit you tomorrow? I’ll bring some Klondike bars.”
Grandma laughs. “Klondike bars! I love those! Tell me who I should thank for them.”
“Thomas,” I say. “You should thank Thomas.”
“Well, I’ll do that.” And Grandma hangs up.
I put my phone on my nightstand and put my arms behind my head.
“Hold on, Grandma,” I say. “Hold on. I’m coming.”
Chapter Seven
After school, I walk to the grocery store, buy a package of Klondike bars, and hustle two more blocks to Grandma’s place, an assisted care facility.
It’s not a bad place, actually. She has her own apartment, and it’s pretty tricked out. Above the toilet, a chain hangs that she can pull on to call for a nurse. On the wall next to her bed and in the kitchen are two buttons: one for 911, and one for a staff nurse. She has a TV that Dad and I hung on her wall, and a digital picture frame that I loaded with hundreds of photos. She even has a little patio of her own, where she likes to grow tomatoes and herbs. The only thing she lacks, really, is a stove. We had it removed two years ago when she set the kitchen on fire.
Grandma’s decline has been slow but steady. It started a few months after my mom died—little things at first. She forgot to turn off the stove after making tea. She couldn’t remember directions to places she’d been fifty times. She confused the remote control with the phone.
Dad and I tried to work around her forgetfulness. At one point, I printed out labels and stuck them to various things around the house—her keys, the phone, the can opener—but she ignored the labels, didn’t even realize they were there. One day she called us from the bank in tears, because she couldn’t find her car. Except she was sitting in it.
Six years ago, we placed her in this home. I hated to do it, felt like we were betraying her somehow, but our options were limited. We could have hired live-in help, but Dad said he wouldn’t be comfortable living with a stranger. In one of my snarkier moments, I asked him, “Why not? I’m living with you, aren’t I?”
We feared she had Alzheimer’s. Tests, though, showed nothing of the kind. Alzheimer’s patients develop holes in their brains, and Grandma’s brain is fine, at least when they look at her scans. Her brain is healthy. Her body’s healthy. Modern medicine has proved a dead end.
Which leaves me, and my unconventional brand of medicine, if Dad will ever let me use it.
My mom passed away in a car accident when I was six. I was just beginning to explore my abilities at the time, and I wanted to bring her back to life. As soon as I learned about the Attic, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I was sure that I could find a way to bring my inner abilities outside to help someone else.
It took me a while, but I did figure it out. I can attach myself to another person, hook up my nerves to theirs, and take control of their body. It works, like when I healed Tessa’s finger.
And when I saved Vivian.
Vivian had been in a coma for years. I went against my dad’s explicit instructions and hooked up to her when he wasn’t around. I healed a part of her brain that had been numbed, negating her own healing abilities. Vivian woke up.
And my heart stopped. Literally. My abilities don’t come for free, and I’d used up all my energy, strained my poor heart to the point that it couldn’t continue to beat. I was lucky. A nurse heard Vivian scream, she gave me CPR, and they kept me alive long enough that I could heal the damage I’d done. It was a delicate balance of giving me the proper nutrients and helping me with my breathing and other functions, to get me to that healed point. Even though I’m happy that Vivian is healed, almost dying is not something I want to experience ever again.
But how can avoid it if no one will let me experiment?
So I’ve been reading journal articles, keeping up on experiments conducted all over the world. And I’ve been planning my own experiments. But there’s only so much thinking a guy can do in his own head. Dad says I still won’t be involved directly in experiments at the Attic until I turn eighteen—I’ll just be donating Protein T and theorizing. My only other option to conduct research, short of drugging someone and strapping them to my bed, has been Dad (and Tessa the one time, but I’ve promised not to repeat that). He lets me heal injuries to his extremities, and I’ve gotten pretty good at it.
When Dad says I’m arrogant, that I don’t understand the ramifications of my experiments, I know he’s full of crap. I do get it. I understand that my body has limits.
But I don’t really care. And that’s not arrogance, it’s…I don’t know what that is. I want to help people. I want to heal Grandma, damn the costs. If I end up dying, well, we’re all gonna die someday. I’d rather die trying to help someone than die of boredom on my ass in front of the TV.
Is that so wrong?
***
Grandma’s door doesn’t have a lock, but I knock anyway. She opens it so fast that she must have been standing there waiting for someone to show up.
“Thomas!” she says.
I give her a big hug, relieved that she recognizes me, and wondering how long it will last.
We sit on the couch and I hand her the box of Klondikes.
“Oh, I love these,” she says, ripping off the cellophane and taking out two bars. “Plenty for each of us.”
We nibble on our ice cream, and Grandma chatters.
“They want to paint my apartment, but I told them the fumes make me sick. I just can’t stand that smell.”
“Maybe you can stay with us for a few days while they paint,” I say, licking some chocolate off my wrist.
“With us? You live with someone?”
“I live with Dad, Grandma. Your son, Michael.”
“Michael’s here?”
“Not here here,” I say, “but here in town. You just saw him yesterday. He brought you those flowers.” I point to the vase of lilies on her kitchen table.
She furrows her brow, trying to remember.
“Grandma, do you remember the time I tried my Frankenstein experiment?” She looks at me, but I can tell no one’s home. “I was trying to hide it from you, and I asked you to make me some beef stew so you’d leave me alone.”
Grandma has stopped eating her ice cream. A single stream of vanilla runs down her
fingers and drips onto her thigh.
“You caught me, though,” I say, chuckling. I get up and grab a paper towel from the kitchen. “You knew exactly what I was up to the whole time.” I take the ice cream from her hand, and she doesn’t fight me. I clean her fingers and her thigh gently.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” she whispers. I whip my eyes to her face, but she’s staring at her lap. “You can’t create life without God, without the soul.”
“You remember that?” I whisper back.
Grandma doesn’t reply.
I throw my trash away and put the rest of the softened ice cream bars in her freezer. I sit back down next to her and hug her.
“I love you, Grandma. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She suddenly shies away from me.
“Who are you? What are you doing?”
“I’m Thomas,” I say, trying to remain calm. “Your grandson. I’m just giving you a hug goodbye.”
“Don’t touch me!” she says, leaping to her feet. “Stay back!”
“It’s okay, Grandma. It’s me, Thomas. I’ll go now. I’ll leave you alone.” I back away to the door slowly.
“Don’t you move,” she says. “You’re not getting away with this.”
And before I can respond, Grandma lunges for the wall and presses the button for 911.
Chapter Eight
“You okay?” Dad asks as he drives me home.
“Yeah, fine,” I say, staring out the window, away from him.
He sighs. “It’s such a screwed-up situation. Maybe we should only visit her together.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s hard for me to see her like this, too.”
“Then why don’t you want to do anything about it?” I mumble.
“I do, of course I do. One step at a time.”
“One step?” I say, voice rising. “We’re crawling. No, not even crawling. We’re standing still. I can do it, you know I can do it—”
“But that doesn’t mean you should!” he says, exploding. “I want…what you and I want doesn’t matter. What you can do doesn’t matter. Grandma wouldn’t want you to risk your life for her!”
“You don’t even know if I’d be risking my life,” I say. “I can just explore her body, find the problem, and who knows? Maybe it’s something conventional medicine can fix.”
