God. “What are you going to do? He’s the only one of his kind, isn’t he?”
“That is correct.” Dr. Andrews rubbed a hand over his face. “Ms. Winter, meet Zeph.” He motioned her to the window.
The little boy sat on the floor of a large room with colorful paintings on the walls. His chequered shirt was wrinkled and clashed with his plain brown shorts.
She blinked, her body paralyzed. His hair was a pure white, cut short and spiky. He held a small book in one hand, and rubbed his hip with the other as he knelt in the middle of the room. The harsh light of overhead lamps cast his small face in serious lines, and his lashes cast long shadows on his rounded cheeks.
Six. He was as old as Sam would be. As young as Sam was.
Damn her curiosity, damn her for staying. She knew she had to get out of there before she began to weep. She trailed her fingers on the glass.
The boy raised his head and looked straight at her. His eyes were dark and intense, his mouth a small, soft circle. God, he looked so much like Sam — his eyes, the dimples in his cheeks, the straight brows. “He’s just —” Her voice cracked. “Just a normal kid.”
“With all due respect, Ms. Winter,” Dr. Andrews shoved his hands into his pockets, and chewed on his lower lip, “he surely isn’t. Appearances can be deceiving.”
She leaned her forehead on the cool glass, feeling the floor tilt. The boy never moved. “Can he see us through the glass?”
“No.”
She swallowed hard, licked her lips, tasted her waxy lipstick. “What makes him different?”
“Many of his major bones are hollow with criss-crossing trusses. It gives him a light skeleton, like that of gliding birds.” He raised one hand to rub his forehead. “More fragile, true, but lightweight. And he has air sacs.”
“Like a bird?” She wanted to laugh but the boy’s strangely serious gaze sent chills down her back.
“Yes. Air sacs,” he made a circular gesture, “in his chest. Makes for very effective breathing. They function like bellows, and they store air as well. Birds have them as well.”
Mind going in circles, she returned her gaze to the glass, and gasped. She took a wobbly step back. The boy stood so close to her, only the glass pane separating them. When had he risen and walked there? That had been damn fast. She lowered herself, sitting on her heels. His rapid breathing fogged a perfect circle between them. “What is he doing?”
“He has probably sensed us.”
She took a deep breath. “Isn’t the room sealed?”
“Yes, it is. Yet he always knows when someone is watching him.”
She shivered and pressed her hand against the glass. “So these traits he has, these bird features, serve some purpose?”
“Well, we think that his race lived in an isolated community up on Mount Sahand of Iran, one of the highest places in the world. Their light skeletons and augmented lungs allowed them to run upslope when hunting, in the thin air, and, using mantles fitted with the wing bones of black vultures, to air glide from slope to slope. They must have been revered like gods.”
She shook her head. “You’re just speculating.”
“We found such wings in the tombs. Feathers of silver were sewn on some of them, probably for ceremonial purposes. It’s possible.”
She thought about the image. “From afar, high up on the mountain slopes, dressed in these silver wings, they must have been blinding.”
“Indeed.”
Angels. The rise of a legend. Lucia shivered, bowed her head, and glanced up again.
The boy stood in the room, looking up, face intense as if listening.
An angel. A messenger, so the name went.
“What will you do with him?” she whispered.
“Examine him more. He’s got some interesting abilities. His clavicles have dorsal protrusions, which have been developing. The possibility of growing real wings, even if they’re vestigial, is ever present. And some of the samples have shown promising implications for the cure of a number of immunity-related diseases.”
Wings. Samples. Needles and pain.
“In any case,” she swallowed hard, remembering how it hurt to have Sam undergo any painful treatment, “this is no life for a child.”
His face darkened, his fingers scrabbled against the glass. “It’s not up to me. He has no rights. Technically he isn’t human. We’re still fighting this out in court. Ms. Winter, we did our best to give him a family here, at the institute. But he doesn’t seem to pay us any attention.”
The sadness pulsing in his voice touched her. He wanted Zeph to be happy, and she liked him for it. And yet — “You brought Zeph to this world. And you can’t protect him. Can’t save him from pain and depression.”
“Can parents always save their children, Ms. Winter?”
She flinched. “That was low.”
But it was the ugly truth. She’d been unable to protect, to save, Sam.
Dr. Andrews looked away.
The nurse appeared, coming toward them. “The papers, Ms. Winter.”
Lucia took the papers and the pen. As the nurse turned to go, she started after her, but the boy’s face drew her back to the glass. She shifted on her high heels to better watch the serious, boyish face, upturned, eyes closed, as though listening to music.
She had failed Sam. Could she help Zeph? Fred thought she might be able to.
She knew she should just walk away, call Freddy to send him to hell, and go home.
But, instead, she handed the papers to Dr. Andrews, and said, “Could you hold them for me? I would like to meet Zeph.”
Dr. Andrews tucked the papers under an armpit, gave a faint smile, and entered a code on the panel. The door slid open with a hiss. Lucia stepped inside, heart racing.
~~~
“Zeph?” Her pulse roared in her ears and her palms sweated as though she were facing a monster or a wild animal, someone dangerous, about to hurt her or eat her up. Ridiculous. He was just a little boy. She wet her lips. “Hi, Zeph. I’m Lucia.”
He cocked his face sideways, like a bird, regarding her with his dark eyes. The movement unsettled her more, thinking of what Dr. Andrews had said about the hollow bones and the air sacs.
His chubby hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, pale against the khaki shorts. His legs were strong for a child his age, muscles showing in his calves. He didn’t move when she took a few steps toward him, only lifted his head to look up at her, to keep the eye contact.
A brave kid.
She knelt before him. His pale skin looked marshmallow soft, his cheeks still plump like a baby’s, his white hair silken and shiny, curling a little at the temples. He was so little. His size made her eyes sting. He could fit perfectly in the circle of her arms, against her breast, as if he belonged there. Sam, Sam. Her heart lurched. Sam, is it you?
She squared her shoulders. Not Sam. A strange, mutant being.
Lucia swallowed hard. “So, Zeph. What do you do in here all day?” She glanced around. A few toys were strewn on the carpet: a toy railway with a red train and a stuffed teddy. “Playing, right?” A green stain marred the wet-looking wall. Hadn’t the nurse said something about that? About Zeph throwing his food against the wall? “Do you like games?”
He shook his head, dark gaze fixed on her, mouth pressed small. Suspicious of me, huh? His large eyes never left hers. Could he tell she was upset? She tried to relax, and laid her hands palms down on the floor.
“Do you play with toy cars? Most boys like cars. Race cars.” Though you aren’t most boys, are you? “Where are your cars?”
He reached into his pocket, took out a tiny wooden object, shaped like a race car, painted green. He hesitated, raised his chin, and offered it to her on the rounded palm of his hand.
The corners of her mouth tugged, and she smiled. Her gaze cleared, and the grey, gloomy veil lifted for a moment, leaving it its wake bright colors and possibilities, laid out before her like the map of a world without end.
She picked up the toy car, placed it on the floor and rolled it back to him.
He watched it pass, body still, only his eyes moving. His gaze flicked to her and back to the toy.
“Roll it back to me.” She beckoned. “Come on, Zeph.”
He sat on his heels, picked the toy car up, eyes on her face — a deep, knowing gaze.
“Come here, Zeph.”
Again he shook his head. His breathing changed, coming faster, like he was afraid. Afraid of her?
“What’s wrong, baby?” Like she had called Sam. God. Stop it. She shook. Still, she couldn’t leave, not yet. “Come here. I won’t hurt you.”
“Yes,” he said.
“What?” She wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined the tiny voice. “What did you just say?”
“Yes, you will.” His voice rasped like small pebbles rattling down a slope.
Hadn’t Dr. Andrews said that Zeph refused to talk?
Her heart lurched. “Have the people here hurt you?” As she asked, she knew what a stupid question it was. He was a new specimen. They must have taken samples from him from all over, from every organ, every bone, every stretch of skin. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
He reached out, grabbed her hand. His small, chubby fingers curled around hers with remarkable force. “Lucia.”
She scooted closer, to touch him, feel him. “Baby.” His skin was warm. He smelled like warm milk and baby talcum. She caressed his soft hair, and he giggled.
No. She pulled back reluctantly, yet firmly.
His eyes sobered, not a child’s eyes, more serious, more grown-up than they ought to be. He held onto her hand. “Mama?”
The word tore through her like a knife, left her gasping.
“No.” She pried his fingers off her hand and stood, shaking her head over and over, trying to control the urge to run. “No, please, don’t.” To hell with the job and Freddy and everything. She couldn’t, shouldn’t stay longer. It was too much. “I’m sorry, Zeph. I have to go now.”
“Will you be back?” he asked and she thought she might weep.
She staggered away, and shoved past Dr. Andrews on her way out.
“He spoke to you!” He grabbed her arm, but she twisted out of his bruising grip. “I heard him. Ms. Winter, please. We hoped for that.”
“You set this up?” Hot tears pricked her eyes. “How could you? Why did you think he would talk to me?”
“Because,” he sounded tired, “we used one of your ova. But that isn’t all. He’s got some of your DNA, and I think he can sense it.”
Frozen, she stared at him. “What did you say?”
“He isn’t a true clone.” Dr Andrews scratched his cheek. “His DNA was well-preserved in the dry, cold, high-altitude air, but there were gaps in the sequencing of the genome. Your DNA was tested and found highly compatible. We think that perhaps you have distant relatives from that area. In any case,” he looked up, straight into her eyes, “we filled those gaps with your DNA. Zeph is a hybrid. And part of him comes from you.”
Her stomach cramped. Cold sweat rolled down her back. He did look a little like her, didn’t he? This boy — this child — carried some of her DNA. When had she agreed to that?
The donor card. Freddy had asked her, back then, when they had been trying to have a baby, if she might think about donating the remaining collected eggs for research. She’d signed a paper. Ecstatic to be finally pregnant, she hadn’t given it a second thought. Fred.
Fred had done it, without asking her first. He’d okayed the process of using her eggs for this, testing her DNA for compatibility, running all the tests.
He’d pay.
In a blur of faces, voices, and noises, she strode down the corridor, pushed past the other representatives, and left the building.
~~~
The ringing finally broke through the dream. Groggy, she picked up her cell phone. “Yes?”
“Lucia! I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Damn it, Fred. What do you want?”
Images from the dream replayed behind her closed eyes: Sam playing in his room, Sam running in the playground, Sam eating his oatmeal.
Why was his hair white in the dream?
She rubbed her eyes.
“You can’t just walk away from everything that scares you, Lucy.”
“Shut up, Fred.” Her head felt stuffed with cotton. “What do you want?”
“You sound strange. Have you been drinking?”
“You know I don’t.” Though as memory returned, she decided she could use a stiff drink. Zeph. With frightening clarity she’d seen what must have gone before. Fred was behind all this mess.
He sighed. “Lucy. Look, I’m sorry I asked you to meet the boy. I thought, you know, he’s your son, you—”
“No, he’s not my son, Fred! Why didn’t you ask me before doing this?” Fury hazed her vision. She fought the urge to throw the phone across the room. “Only Sam, do you understand? Only Sam is my son. I’m only Sam’s mother.” And she’d been stripped of motherhood. Her only son was dead and buried.
A pause. “Yes. I’m sorry.” A cough. “Listen, Lucy, I just thought you might want to know. Zeph asked for you.”
“Really?” She clutched the covers at her lap with her free hand. Sweat trickled down the side of her face.
Zeph wasn’t her son. He could never replace Sam, DNA be damned.
“Dr. Andrews called me. He insisted you go back there.”
The moment stretched. “I don’t want to talk to you again, Fred. All this—”
“I never thought you’d mind. You believed in cloning back then, in helping science.”
“You planned this since Sam’s birth, didn’t you? Zeph is six, just a few months younger than Sam would have been. All these years you never said anything. You thought that losing Sam would mean I’d accept Zeph as replacement?”
“No. Yes. Lucy, you wanted more children. I thought that you’d like this.”
“This?” She thumped her fist on the mattress. “What, you thought you could bring Zeph home, and we’d live all together like one happy family?”
He said nothing.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“We still could, Lucy. He could—”
“No.” She thought of the boy’s soft face and felt empty. “No, he can’t. We can’t.”
He sighed. “For God’s sake, he’s got your eyes. You can pretend you felt nothing when you saw him, but it’s Zeph now, isn’t it? Not just a creature with no name.”
That stopped her cold. Don’t panic. “I can’t see him again.”
“Lucy.” He sounded cautious. He was about to try the rational approach. “He doesn’t bite, you know.”
“No. You’re right. It’s worse than that. He looks like Sam.” He looks like me. “He’s—” She had to swallow. “I can’t.”
“Please think about it.”
The pain in his voice matched her own. But she couldn’t go back now, not to Fred, not to being a mother, not to the past. She had to move on, or go mad. “No. Goodbye, Fred.”
She hung up. All the pain she’d manage to bury since the accident tore her up. Images, sounds, Sam’s face crowded her thoughts.
But time and again Zeph’s face replaced Sam’s. God, how small Zeph was, how frightened, how alone. She thought of the secret, windowless room where he was kept, about the doctors and nurses, about the smell of his skin and the feel of his soft hair against her hand.
About that dark brown gaze that resembled Sam’s, and that was her own.
Getting out of bed in jerky motions, she tried to erase that gaze from her memory. She pulled on a robe and unlocked Sam’s room. Everything was as he left it. She pressed her hands to her mouth, feeling her eyes ache, and entered. She caressed his photos on the dresser, his favorite teddy, his toys. She was looking for a sign, she knew, to help make up her mind.
Damn it, Sam, Sammy, talk to me. Say something. Is it all right if I go? Would you mind?
But the roo
m was silent and still, and she found nothing she could interpret as a sign.
Lucia sat on Sam’s bed, on the light blue covers, and knew that it was up to her to decide.
Some time later she took her broom and mop and began cleaning. She aired the house, scrubbed the floors, threw out old clothes and old magazines. Spring cleaning in autumn. She thought maybe she was putting off her decision, but maybe she wasn’t. She was making room, changing things, preparing. Maybe she had already made up her mind. She could swear she heard Sam’s laughter in the rooms.
In her mind she could see the fear in Zeph’s dark eyes.
She called Dr. Andrews.
“Ms. Winter.” He sounded relieved. “I am so glad you called. I don’t mean to pressure you, but Zeph has asked for you repeatedly. It’s a remarkable change, and it’s undeniable that he feels a connection to you. I had my doubts about this working out so well, but here you have it. Would you accept to meet him again? Maybe you could be friends. Zeph could use a friend, Ms. Winter.”
That was good. She wasn’t required to be his mother. Friends. She could be friends with Zeph. “Yes,” she said, “okay, when do you want me to come over?”
Lucia didn’t believe in angels, or fate. But as she stepped out of the house, a golden wind rushed through her. Lighter, she strode to her car and she thought that, maybe, she could believe in Zeph.
~~~
Greek Cypriot with a penchant for dark myths and good food, CHRYSTALLA THOMA likes to write about fantastical creatures, crazy adventures, and family bonds. She lives in Cyprus with her husband Carlos and enjoys wandering the countryside sampling local food and wine. She writes mainly fantasy and science fiction, primarily for a young adult audience, and her stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. Her latest dystopian YA novel, Rex Rising, is available on Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005GZPOQE.
Blog: http://chrystallathoma.wordpress.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/Chrystallathoma
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