by L. C. Shaw
They arrived in Vegas late Friday night and Jack wasted no time in teaching Dakota blackjack. The party for her family wasn’t until Saturday, so they had the first night to themselves. As the chips accumulated and the liquor flowed, a pervasive euphoria filled Jack. He looked at Dakota and his heart swelled.
Dakota’s uncle Marcel walked over, clapped Jack on the shoulder, and gave him a broad smile.
“How’re you kids doing?” He glanced at the pile of chips in front of Jack. “Looks like you’re in the winner’s circle. We’re turning in for the night. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Marcel.”
Dakota got off her stool and, swaying, put an arm on Jack to steady herself. “Hey, handsome. Ready to call it a night?”
They walked arm in arm from the casino to the elevator.
She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
She pointed to the sign by the elevator.
“The chapel of love. I was picturing us standing in front of an Elvis look-alike getting married.” She doubled over, laughing.
Jack chuckled and they both began to sing: “Going to the chapel and I’m going to get married. Going to the chapel and I’m gonna get maaaarried . . .”
They both stopped and looked at each other.
“Would it be too crazy?” he asked.
Dakota bit her lip. “Nothing seems less crazy.”
He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more. The truth was she owned him already.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
The rest was a blur. Say this. Sign here. Kiss the bride. And then it was done. They were married. They left the chapel and walked into the cool evening air. Suddenly he was sober. What in God’s name had he done?
He looked over at Taylor again, who had shifted and was facing the window. “I won’t let you down again,” he whispered even though she couldn’t hear him.
Chapter Fifteen
THE INSTITUTE, JULY 1975
AMELIA IS GONE AND DESPITE THE COLD SHOULDER SHE gave me, I feel a little bad for her. To get thrown out on day one is humiliating. She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stomach Strombill’s stance on euthanasia. Three others left later that same day. I see now that they intentionally presented the more radical ideas in the beginning of the program as a way to weed out the students who lack the ability to expand their thinking. It’s not as though the idea of euthanasia doesn’t give me pause. As a woman of science, I have left behind my childhood fancies about God and angels and saints. I leave that magical thinking to my mother. But while I have no religious ground to base my objection on, I do believe in the sanctity of life. The question is, what constitutes life? A pain-filled existence with no chance of recovery? I think what Dr. Strombill is trying to teach us is that we have to keep an open mind if we are to learn anything; otherwise, what is the point of being here?
It’s been over a month now. I see my own exhaustion mirrored in the eyes of others. We are pushed beyond our limits each day, but not one of us complains. No one wants to look weak. Every month, we are sorted into three groups of thirty, rotating at the end of the month so that we have the chance to work with everyone. We are given a survey at the end of each day where we write two names—the person we feel has worked the hardest that day, and the person we believe cut a corner or didn’t push him- or herself hard enough. To make sure we don’t vote for ourselves, each survey has a number that corresponds to our name that they check later. When we finish our time here, the votes will be tallied and will factor into who makes it to the next stage.
It is the sixth and final lecture of the day. I am in the front row, where I always sit, waiting for him to take notice of me. I must be chosen for phase two. The desire to beat them all out consumes me. My identity has always been rooted in my accomplishments. A good strong work ethic has been drilled into me since birth. Both my sister and I are going to be doctors, and unlike with many siblings there is no competition between us. Although she never played favorites, my mother did sometimes tell me that she wished I would try to be a little more relaxed like my sister. She’s the more balanced of the two of us. She wants work and family and I’m glad for that. She’ll be the one to give my parents grandchildren. She’s content to be good in what she does, but she doesn’t have to be the best. But for me, being the best is the only thing.
Today Dr. Strombill leans on the desk and tosses a ball back and forth between his hands as he speaks.
“What if I were to tell you that we are making strides in gene therapy? That we are working to isolate the genes that cause diseases and replace them with healthy ones?”
There is a murmur of approval throughout the classroom. I lean forward in my seat, my body quivering with excitement. This is exactly the type of research project I’m dying to be a part of.
He looks up at the ceiling as he talks and spreads his fingers wide as he gesticulates. “Imagine. One day a world with no disease, no suffering.” His face darkens. “But there are those who warn of abuses, of playing God. Why should we not play God? If we can improve on his flawed design, should we not?”
I raise my hand. He nods in my direction.
“They are afraid.” My voice falters, and I clear my throat, trying again. “Of progress. There will always be those who stand in the way of progress.”
He smiles. “Yes, Maya! And do we let these naysayers, these cowards, stop our progress?” He answers his own question. “Of course not. But how? How do we stop them?” He walks toward me, puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Maya?”
“We become more than scientists. We become persuaders, convince others who can help us—lobbyists, politicians. Find those who hope to gain from our research and use it to our advantage.”
He claps his hands together and laughs. “Very good, Maya. You are learning fast.”
His comment garners looks of jealousy in my direction. I smile at him, unfazed by the reaction of my classmates. The only opinion that matters to me is Dr. Strombill’s.
* * *
We have just finished lunch and before I can return to the classroom, Evelyn approaches our table. Everyone goes quiet, and all eyes are on her. She looks at me.
“Maya, you’re excused from the rest of your classes today. You’ve been chosen for a special project.” I blush with pleasure at being singled out. My unwavering attention is paying off. I follow her from the lunchroom, down a long hallway I’ve never traveled before. She stops before a closed door and smiles at me. “You can wait here.” She opens the door and I walk inside the room—a small space with only a sofa and a coffee table.
“What’s the project?” I ask.
“I haven’t been told anything. Only to fetch you.” She turns and leaves before I can ask anything else.
My belongings are already here, so I take a seat on the sofa and wait, my stomach fluttering with butterflies. A few minutes later, the same driver who first brought us here escorts me out of the building and into an idling limousine.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“To another building on campus.”
I lean back and look out the window, intrigued. We drive for over fifteen minutes, each mile seeming to take us deeper and deeper into uncivilized terrain, trees and branches obscuring the view of everything but the road in front of us. At last, we stop, and I gasp as I open the door and step outside. I am standing in front of a castle. A real castle! I crane my neck to look at the top where I count at least eleven turrets. It is something out of a fairy tale, and I hug my arms around myself, too enchanted to speak at first. Finally, I manage.
“What is this place?” I ask. The neo-Gothic architecture looks familiar to me. I’ve seen it somewhere, in a picture or postcard.
“It is a replica of Hohenzollern Castle,” he replies.
“In Germany, right?”
He nods with a bored expression, as if we’re discussing the weather. “Of course, on a much smaller scale.”
I wonder agai
n what I’m doing here and what in the world this has to do with my research fellowship.
“Follow me,” he says, and I walk behind him up a steep hill that leads to an entrance and stop in front of the tremendous iron door, feeling as though I’ve traveled through time and am about to encounter knights in all their splendor waiting on the other side.
When we enter the cavernous hallway, there are indeed suits of armor, but they are empty, their owners long departed. My heart is pounding as I try to take it all in, when I am whisked down the hall by a woman in a nurse’s uniform. She leads me into a room that has a doctor’s examining table in the center and a counter littered with medical supplies. I am directed to sit on a table, which is covered with a paper sheet.
“What’s going on? Where am I?”
She hands me a robe. “Congratulations. You’ve graduated to the next phase.”
I look at her, dubious, wondering if I’m dreaming this. “I still have two months to finish my fellowship. This doesn’t make sense.”
She ignores my objections. “Everyone has to undergo a physical before moving on to phase two,” she states.
I take a deep breath. This feels wrong, but I’m afraid to jeopardize my chances.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get undressed and put this on.” She hands me a paper gown and sits down in a chair by the door, and thumbs through a magazine. It becomes obvious that she expects me to change while she’s still in the room. I sigh loudly but she doesn’t look up. I quickly change and sit on the examining table, covered only by the thin paper. She continues reading her magazine, ignoring me. After a few more minutes, I can no longer contain my curiosity and clear my throat in an effort to gain her attention.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes?” she says, not bothering to look up.
“Can you tell me why I need to be seen by a doctor?”
“It’s just a standard physical.”
I look up at the ceiling and try to distract myself while I wait. What is taking so long? My face grows warm as impatience gets the better of me. I am about to jump down from the table and put my clothes back on when the door opens. I smile at the man in the white coat, hoping to connect with him.
He doesn’t smile back but simply moves his hand in a shuffling manner to indicate I should lie back. He holds a syringe in the other hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Relax. It’s something to calm you.”
I inch away from him. “Stay away from me.”
The woman is by my side in an instant. She takes my hand in hers. “It’s okay, Maya.” Her voice is sugar all of a sudden. “Look at me.”
The distraction is enough. I feel the sting of the needle, and the next thing I know I am lying down with a pillow under my hips.
She is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room again.
I rub my eyes. “What happened?”
She pushes a button on the counter.
The doctor returns.
“What did you do?” I manage to croak out.
He looks at the woman.
“Make sure she doesn’t move. He will be in to talk to her later.”
I try to sit up but before I can, a strong arm comes down on my arms and holds me still.
“You heard what the doctor said. Do I need to strap you down or are you going to be a good girl and stay still?” There is no compassion in her eyes.
I drop my head back onto the table. What have I gotten myself into? All of a sudden, my ears are wet, and I realize I’m crying. I make no move to wipe away the tears. I won’t give her the satisfaction. I lie still, staring straight ahead, and make my mind blank.
Chapter Sixteen
SENATOR HAMILTON PLAYED SOLITAIRE ON HIS PHONE while the clerk continued with the roll call vote. Knowing the outcome tended to make these bill votes even more tedious. Three more yeses and he could get out of here and enjoy the steak he had been thinking about all morning.
“How do you vote, Mr. Marin?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Marin, aye.”
“Mr. Plomkin?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Plomkin, aye.”
Hamilton didn’t look up from his phone.
“Ms. Linway?”
Finally, last one.
“No.”
Hamilton’s head snapped up. He must have heard wrong. He turned around to look at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. The bill was dead.
He strode from the room and rushed to his office. Within minutes, four senators arrived.
Hamilton picked up the phone.
“Hold my calls.”
Wheezing from the exertion, he took a long sip of water and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. He looked at the man sitting across for him.
“Would you mind telling me what just happened? We engineered this to be a close vote. How did we lose Linway?” He was livid. First Phillips and now this—the second time in the past month that two of his bills had fallen apart at the last minute.
The only woman in the room, Senator Marcus from Connecticut, cleared her throat. All eyes turned to the young woman.
“She’s pregnant.”
“So?” Hamilton’s eyes narrowed.
“I think it colored her perception. She just got the news yesterday.”
Hamilton glared at her. “When did you find this out?”
She gulped, her face red. “This morning.”
His voice rose. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have found someone else for the swing vote.”
“She’s my friend, and she asked me to keep it quiet. Besides, she promised it wouldn’t change her vote.”
Hamilton wanted to strangle her. “And you believed her?”
A man on his left interrupted. “It’s a minor setback. There is more than one way to achieve our goals. Remember how long it took to make prescreening mandatory? The rest of the bills have passed quickly and mostly unnoticed. The bioethicists have done their jobs well. Everyone wants healthy children. We’ll make some minor modifications to mollify our constituents and get them on our side.”
Hamilton exhaled and leaned back. Maybe he was right. On its surface, the bill was a win-win. It covered a wide spectrum of birth defects and chronic illnesses that were detectable in the first trimester of pregnancy. Any of the conditions included would qualify as a preexisting condition that would be excluded from coverage, thereby, in practical terms, mandating the termination of the pregnancy. Since prescreening had become mandatory, these birth defects had been reduced by 40 percent. The senators who had put forth the bill had garnered widespread support from special interest groups whose mission it was to optimize health care. It was the fervent belief of those supporting the bill that this was the path to eliminating diseases and freeing up resources to work on curing other diseases that were not yet preventable. They were on the forefront of a better, more perfect world. Hamilton didn’t care a whit about any of that. His name was on the bill, and he’d be damned if some uterus with legs was going to be his undoing.
He pulled out his phone, clicked the Twitter app and typed:
Thanks to all who supported Senate Bill #healthy #children #bill. Unfortunately, no win this time. #HCB
Chapter Seventeen
THE INSTITUTE, JULY 1975
IT FEELS LIKE I’VE BEEN ON THIS HARD, COLD TABLE FOR hours, but when I look at the clock on the wall I see it’s been less than thirty minutes. The door opens, and the woman gets up from her chair and withdraws from the room without a word. When a man comes in right after, I feel a momentary flicker of hope. Surely someone this beautiful is not to be feared. His face is almost perfect, marred only by a small, round scar on one cheek. Otherwise, it is a face to rival any movie star’s: chiseled cheekbones, straight Roman nose, full lips. My gaze moves to meet his and then my hope crashes.
I have never before seen what I see in those eyes. They are predatory and penetrating. Something intangible terrifi
es me when I look into them. There is a heaviness in the air, an invisible darkness that threatens to invade me, and I want to cover my own eyes like a child and pretend I am invisible. He looks at me as if we know each other.
I take a deep breath, affect a bravado I don’t feel, and swing my legs off the bed, ready to stand.
“Don’t get up.” His voice is deep, pleasant.
“Who are you?”
His lips curl in a smile. “All in good time, my dear.” His tone is mocking.
I take a deep breath and stare at him.
He pulls a chair next to my bed and sits. “You are a brilliant young woman. It’s why I chose you.”
“What have you done? Why am I here?”
He arches one eyebrow. “You have been chosen to bear my child.”
His child? My stomach tightens, and I feel sick. I glare at him. “Did you rape me?”
A look of repulsion transforms his face, and the corners of his mouth point to the floor.
“Please, Maya. I am not an animal. There are other ways to impregnate someone.”
“Why? Why would you hope to impregnate me?”
“We do not hope. We plan. I have your entire medical history; you have been monitored for the past month. I’m fairly certain that you are pregnant.”
I jump off the bed and began to pace. “Why in God’s name?” I scream. I don’t understand.
“God has nothing to do with it. For now, you need know nothing but this: you have been chosen from thousands. You should be pleased. You have not only made it to the top of the class, you have made it to the top of the world.”
“I don’t understand. I came here to learn medicine. Who are you?”
“Damon Crosse. I am the one in charge here. You were selected from a great many to come here—but not for the medical internship.” He stands and walks to the corner of the room, picks up a folder, and opens it. After reading something inside, he closes it and returns to the chair.
“It was very close. I almost chose someone else. But your pedigree was better.”
